The patient was obviously deranged, but Dr. Janishefsky had to make sure first. So he sat back in his chair and began to question—

The Man Who Made The World

By Richard Matheson

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy February 1954 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Doctor Janishefsky sat in his office. Leaning back in a great leather chair, hands folded. He had a reflective air and a well-trimmed goatee. He hummed a few bars of—"It Ain't Whatcha Do, It's The Way Thatcha Do It." He broke off and looked up with a kindly smile as the nurse entered. Her name was Mudde.

NURSE MUDDE. Doctor, there is a man in the waiting room who says he made the world.

DOCTOR J. Oh?

NURSE MUDDE. Shall I let him in?

DOCTOR J. By all means, Nurse Mudde. Show the man in.

Nurse Mudde left. A small man entered. He was five foot five wearing a suit made for a man six foot five. His hands were near-hidden by the sleeve ends, his trouser leg bottoms creased sharply at the shoe tops, assuming the function of unattached spats. The shoes were virtually invisible. As was the gentleman's mouth lurking behind a mustache of mouselike proportions.

DOCTOR J. Won't you have a seat Mr....

SMITH. Smith. (He sits)

DOCTOR J. Now.

(They regard each other)

DOCTOR J. My nurse tells me you made the world.

SMITH. Yes. (In a confessional tone) I did.

DOCTOR J. (Settling back in his chair) All of it?

SMITH. Yes.

DOCTOR J. And everything in it?

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