Since there were no fellow passengers in the car to gawk at or stare back at me, I grabbed the wrinkled newspaper to see how it had evolved.
It was about forty pages long. It now had color pictures. It had mostly unreadable articles about things that I don't suppose even homeless people were interested in. It had some advertising. And it had a short story just inside the front cover by Robert Sheckley.
That can't be "the" Robert Sheckley, I thought. Or they are reprinting old stories. I read the story, and it was pretty good. Must be an old story, I thought, and kept thumbing through the paper.
But there on the last page was a two sentence biography with an e-mail address. There was no question. It was THE Robert Sheckley, I thought, and he lives in Portland, Oregon.