‘Five foot four, brown hair - uh-huh -’ he said, mostly to himself, and then added in a louder voice:
‘Marty, I’ve got something for you.’
He reached inside his trenchcoat. Marty took a step back. Did the guy have a gun after all?
He pulled out a long thin envelope.
‘A letter,’ Trenchcoat announced.
‘A letter?’ Marty asked, taking a closer look at what the other held in his hand. It was an old, yellowed envelope, with a red wax seal holding it closed.
The man reached back inside his trenchcoat again and pulled out a small clipboard.
‘You’ll have to sign for it first’ - he paused, reaching again inside his coat to search around in some inner pocket - ‘if I can find a pen.’
Marty couldn’t believe this.
‘You’ve got a letter for me?’ he asked incredulously.
‘That’s impossible! Who are you, anyway?’
Trenchcoat stepped behind the billboard to get out of the rain.
‘I’m from Western Union,’ he explained, still searching his pockets, ‘and actually, a bunch of us in the office were hoping you could shed some light on the subject.’
He smiled at Marty. Actually, the guy didn’t look at all threatening, now that he was out of the headlights’ glare - just an average guy, really, around Marty’s father’s age.
‘You see,’ the guy from Western Union went on, ‘this envelope’s been in our company’s possession for seventy years. It was given to us with explicit instructions that it be delivered to a young man with your description answering to the name of Marty at this exact location and at this exact minute on November 12 1955.’
The guy grinned as he pulled a pen from his pocket at last.
‘We had a bet going,’ he continued, ‘as to whether this “Marty” would actually be here.’ Trenchcoat sighed. ‘Looks like I lost.’
Marty looked back at the letter in the guy’s hand. This was still pretty incredible.
‘Did you say - seventy years?’
‘That’s right.’
He handed Marty the clipboard and the pen. ‘Sign on line six, please.’
Marty signed, and the other man handed him the letter.
Marty broke open the seal.
He pulled out the yellowed sheets and carefully unfolded them. It was quite a letter, handwritten, a good four pages long. Marty turned to the last page. There, at the bottom, was the signature:
Your friend in time,
‘Doc’ Emmett L. Brown
And - if there was any doubt that this really was written by Doc Brown, below that was that ridiculously stylised ‘E - L - B’ that Doc always liked to sign all his memos and notes with.
‘Doc!’ Marty said aloud.
He turned to the beginning of the letter and started
‘Dear Marty: