After a short stop at a nearby hotel, they quickly unpacked and were all soon trudging in bare feet and swimsuits across the hot sand. He and Pamela went right to work laying out their towels and setting up their big umbrella. Each took turns keeping an eye on the children, who were allowed to play as long as they didn't wander off too far.

Pamela had just collapsed on her beach towel with a satisfied sigh, when she propped herself back on her elbows and said, "Oh, for heaven's sakes. Look at what they're up to now. They're tormenting that poor old man."

Elliot's hand was in the cooler, but the enticing thought of grabbing a cold one vanished as he turned to follow her gaze.

The man in question lay on a lounge chair just out of shouting distance. At the moment he was being circled by a young boy and girl, clearly whooping and jumping about ecstatically. Elliot wasn't too surprised their children had targeted him, as he was especially pale and fat. Since he was also wearing bright red trunks, Elliot knew that as far as his little angels were concerned, the man might as well have been lying under a flashing neon arrow.

"I'll get them," he said dutifully, getting to his feet. He trudged toward the unlikely trio, grateful the unsettling impression the man gave him of a beached whale gradually diminished as he neared them. "Bobby...Susan," he called out, "stop that now."

The reclining man held a reflecting panel under his chin with his eyes closed and seemed oblivious to the hoopla the children were making.

His youngest was the first to respond, hopping up to him and dancing about. "Daddy, it's Santa Claus," she said, giggling.

He glanced at the man again. Actually, with his curly white hair and big, round belly, Elliot could see the resemblance. He knelt and tried to calm her. "Now honey, you know we don't see Santa until Christmas. You shouldn't be bothering this nice gentleman."

"But it is Santa," Bobby chimed in, doing his best impression of a cartwheel and almost knocking over his sister.

At that moment the man sat up and looked at them, a wide smile forming easily on his ruddy-cheeked face. As he lowered the panel and put it aside, Elliot was surprised to see a lengthy snow-white beard appear.

"See," the young boy said.

Knowing it would now only be a losing battle trying to explain away the similarity, Elliot put his hands on their shoulders. "Okay you two, your mother wants to see the both of you, pronto."

"Awww," Bobby said, kicking at the sand. This was followed closely by an exact imitation from his sister.

"On the double."

After some mumbling and shuffling of feet the two were on their way and Elliot stood, gesturing apologetically. "Sorry about that. I hope they weren't disturbing you."

"Not at all," the man said, laughing heartily, the vibrations rippling up and down his rotund body. "Truth is, if I wasn't on my vacation, I'd probably be gallivanting right along with them. But I promised the Missus I would try to relax and get some sun this year."

Feeling he owed the man some courtesy for his trouble, Elliot reached out a hand. "We're on vacation, too. I'm Elliot."

"I go by many different names myself," he said, taking Elliot's hand with a surprisingly firm grip, "but it's all right to call me Santa, if you like."

Elliot stopped mid-shake and then laughed. "Good one. But you know I have to admit the resemblance is remarkable. I suppose you get taken for him all the time by the little ones."

The man smiled at Elliot knowingly. "Grownups don't usually see me for who I am, but I can never fool children--even when I try to disguise myself. Which is hard to do anyway when the elves insist on making all my clothes." He looked down at his trunks doubtfully.

Elliot was about to laugh again, when it dawned on him the man seemed completely sincere. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you...I mean...do you really think you're Santa Claus?"

Lying back, the man readjusted the reflecting panel under his chin. "Santa Claus, Kris Kringle, Pere Noel, and dozens more. That's me."

Elliot stared at him. He had heard of things like this. It was like those people who had messiah complexes. Although he knew it probably wasn't a good idea to encourage him, Elliot found he couldn't resist having a little fun with the fat man's neurosis.

"Uhm, Okay," he said, "but you understand it's hard for me to believe that. I am a grownup, after all. Maybe you could help me out by telling me something that would prove you're him. I mean it's not everyday I meet someone who tells me he's Santa Claus."

"You want me to prove I'm Santa?" The man considered. "What would you like to know?"

Elliot thought quickly. A question came to him that he'd often wondered about as a child. "Okay for starters, how are you able to deliver all the presents around the world in just one night?"

The man's eyes twinkled. "Seems impossible doesn't it? But then you don't know a certain thing about the elves."

Elliot sighed in disappointment. "I suppose you're going to tell me it has something to do with elfin magic."

"It's magic of a sort, but not the kind you're thinking of. Let me ask you this first: does the description of elves as strange little men with pointy ears and big slanty eyes, remind you of anything?"

Elliot looked confused.

The man motioned for him to come closer. "Aliens," he said in a whisper almost too low to hear.

"Aliens?"

"Shush," the man said, putting a finger to his lips and then nodding his head solemnly. "They've been living up at the North Pole for thousands of years now. Geniuses, every one of them. But a playful bunch." He grinned as if reliving some memories of their antics. "And the things they can do with their machines...you know, they have a machine for just about everything." He slapped his belly "Look at me. That's why I never change. They used one of them machines on me and my Missus and we never age anymore."

Realizing he was becoming too exuberant, he lowered his voice again. "But to answer your question, they have this one particular machine that will put you anywhere in the world at any time, but only in the last year. They use it to send me and the flying reindeer back to one particular day."

"Let me guess," Elliot said. "Christmas day."

"Right," the man answered, pointing his finger for emphasis. "The way the elves have it planned, I can get all the presents delivered in one year. So every day except one from January to December, I dress up, put together my sack of presents, and the machine sends me and the reindeer back to Christmas day. You could say I'm pretty much everywhere in the world that day in just a few hours."

"And the reindeer really do fly?"

"With a little help from some of that "elfin magic" they do."

Elliot had to admit the explanation seemed logical enough, if you bought the elves being aliens, but he was sure he could find some holes in the man's delusion. Playing along, he said, "And I suppose there's another machine that helps get you into houses without chimneys."

"Well, of course larger openings are better, so I don't have to be squeezed down so much. But you're right that they've got a gadget that it'll squirt me through just about any size hole or crack. I've never come across a house yet I couldn't get into."

Good thing the elves aren't criminally minded, Elliot thought with a grin. "Okay, how about this: If there's so many of you messing about on Christmas day, why doesn't anybody ever see you?"

"Ah, now that's one of the best gadgets the elves have. It's the same thing they use with their flying saucers, but it's particularly useful on Christmas. You see, it sort of fiddles with people's memories. It makes most of the people who see me forget they did, but not all, mind you. I always let a few remember to keep the tradition alive. That's the way the elves want it. They like their privacy and don't want too many people getting close to the truth." Then he gave Elliot a wink. "But nobody ever believes a few people."

Okay, Elliot mused, he's obviously put a lot of thought into this. But could he really have an explanation for everything? Then it came to him, the thing that would clearly disprove the old man's delusions.

"All right, what about all those presents you say you deliver? Pam and I know exactly where all of Bobby and Susan's presents come from--most we buy ourselves. Or maybe our children are just too naughty every year to receive presents from Santa Claus?"

"Oh no," the man said, glancing over fondly where Pamela was busy settling the children. " I'm certain your children would be on the 'nice' list. But are you really sure you know where all the presents under your Christmas tree came from?"

"I certainly remember buying them, and we have the receipts and our bank account statements to prove it."

The man looked at Elliot kindly. "I bet if you look at those receipts you won't find every present on them. You just think you have memories of buying them because the elves' device put them in your head. It can also make you think you had more money in your account than you really did. Check your statements, you'll see."

Now this seemed too far fetched, but Elliot wasn't completely sure anymore. Some of his recollections of the previous year's gift purchases did seem kind of hazy.

The man continued, "The elves make their toys exactly like the commercial ones except better. In fact, Singapore and China are getting undeserved credit for the quality of some our toys. And because the presents I deliver are just what the children want and last so much longer then the real ones, there usually isn't any need to use the receipt, and so nobody's the wiser."

The explanations were incredible, but the man seemed so sure. Elliot wondered, could he really be Santa, or did he just have a very convincing complex? If he really were Santa, each day of the year would be Christmas for him all over again. Elliot tried to imagine what that would be like.

"If what you're telling me is true, I guess what I really don't understand is why the aliens--I mean elves, go to so much trouble?"

The man spent a little more time considering this question before answering. "No reason I suppose except that they love it and never grow tired of making toys all year long. They don't age, you know, so I suppose a part of the reason is they've got nothing better to do. It keeps them busy."

"I wonder . . ." Elliot said, as a thought struck him. "Doesn't it ever bother you that you're always giving presents and never receiving any?"

"Of course there's the reward in knowing the happiness I bring to children," the man offered. But the truth is, the elves, the Missus and I do exchange gifts, the same as everyone else. In fact, I get one day of vacation every year as a special present from the elves.

Elliot frowned. "That doesn't seem like much."

"Well, I can't say delivering presents is hard work. I mostly have fun the whole year, but for my vacation the elves let me use that time-hopping machine just for myself."

"If you're on your vacation," Elliot said, suddenly realizing what he meant, "you've used that machine and your today isn't really my today, is it? Just out of curiosity, what day is it in your time?"

The man grinned and his eyes twinkled once again. "The one day of the year I don't deliver presents: the twenty-fifth of December, of course."