Three big men lumbered into the room, each one large enough to give
a Centaurian marsupial a good tumble. Four-foot tall George followed
them. George was from Deneb, complete with spacesuit.
"I had a plan, too," the copy reminded Channing. "You forced my hand,
as they say."
Channing dropped his magazine and stood up. One of the giants palmed
him back into his chair.
"Sit still," said George.
"Now, see here...."
"Sit still. Be quiet."
"If you disappear, they'll call the experiment off. Qui Dor will say he
already destroyed you. He'll apologize about copying me in the first
place."
Channing's heart was thumping in his temples. "You're going to have me
murdered," he said. He wished he could come to some other conclusion.
"And have the body found when you're supposed to be non-existent? _Esse
es percipi_, don't forget. A dead Channing would embarrass us as much
as a live one. You'll be taken far away instead."
"And then murdered. You can't chance my coming back."
"You seem hell-bent on your own demise."
"I'm just projecting, as you once said. I should have done it sooner."
They had him, Channing knew. The three men had spread out about the
room, a swift, athletic strength in their every motion. The Denebian
barred the door, balanced forward on heavy-thewed legs, the tail
unencumbered by weight and ready to lash out.
Abruptly, Channing leaped for the telio. The largest of the three
big men let him reach it, then slammed the edge of his hand down as
Channing clawed for the receiver. Channing nursed a numb wrist and
stared hopefully at his one remaining avenue of escape. The Denebian
twitched his tail, making thumping noises on the floor.
Channing launched himself at the door, but the Denebian pivoted and
brought his tail around in a rising arc. Channing met it head-first
and collapsed on the floor.
* * * * *
It took some time for Channing to realize that he was in a trunk or box
of some kind. The darkness was absolute. He was so stiff he wondered
with a growing sense of horror if he had been embalmed. He seemed to
be sitting upright, head thrust forward and down, knees drawn up. Only
his arms had comparative freedom. Since there was absolute darkness all
around him, he wondered how they managed to bring fresh air into his
box. Unless it were dark outside, too. Unless they didn't try.
He tried to rock forward experimentally and found that he could not.
His feet were wedged tightly, his back was against a wall. He could
only lift his arms half overhead, at which point his groping hands
encountered an unyielding surface.
The inside of the box, which could barely accommodate Channing, was
hot--hot as a copter left too long in the summer sun, its windows
shut. He was acutely conscious of the sweat streaming down his face,
drenching his clothing, burning his eyes. His head ached and he felt
weak. He needed salt. He was trembling and nauseous from lack of it.
He lifted his arms again and struck the surface above his head with his
knuckles. He struck it again. The noise sounded like sudden, angry
thunder in his ears, but the blows had been feeble and he did not
believe the sound carried very far. In the first few moments he rapped
with his knuckles continually, until he could hardly hold his hands
over his head. After that he paced the blows and sweated and thought.
Was this tomorrow? Had Nick done his job on schedule? A fat lot of good
it would do if Channing remained where he was. He was in no position
to make book, but the baggage compartment of a spaceship seemed a good
bet. Outward bound, said spaceship, with a slowly suffocating Channing
to be disposed of at someone's leisure. The second Channing was just
brazen enough to pull it off. Since Channing had disappeared utterly,
it would be assumed he was the copy and had gone to collect whatever
reward copies collect after they no longer are wanted.
His raw knuckles brought no response, but after a time he found he
could rock the box from side to side by bracing his elbows against
its sides and shifting his weight first in one direction, then the
other. Rocking intervals became longer as the box leaned further,
first to left then to right. In what seemed a short time, Channing
was exhausted. It was too warm, too wet, too stuffy. It was utterly,
completely, despairingly useless. If he could have stretched out in
quiet repose with a cool breeze wafting him, he might have given up at
that point. Instead, he summoned all his remaining energy and channeled
it in a final lunging effort.
He felt himself tumbling, over and over. His head and arms took a
merciless battering which made him wish, suddenly, the box had been
even smaller and more constricting.
He came to rest. A scratching noise bothered him. Damn vermin, go away.
But the scratching was outside.
Light blinded him.
"... some kind of animal, instead of declaring it. How cheap can people
be when they're willing to spend ... it's a man!"
A face swam down at Channing, who blinked his eyes and squinted and
could see.
"Are we in space yet?" he cried, struggling to get up. "Are we in
space?"
* * * * *
"I'll say this for you, Channing," State admitted. "You never come up
with the same old song and dance."
"Don't you see?" the copy asked. "My double has been eliminated by Qui
Dor already. Right, Qui Dor?"
"Right. There was some misunderstanding about the time, and I merely
willed the double out of existence."
"Well, I don't know...."
"I do," said Mrs. Delacourt. "This doesn't solve anything as far as I'm
concerned. We still have all the same problems."
"You're so right," said Channing, entering the room on the double.
"Sorry I'm late, everyone."