"I'm afraid it won't do, Mr. Street," the editor of _Man's True Space_
said across his desk. "It's fiction. There can be only one Baker and
tens of thousands would read the story in my magazine."
"You are missing the point, Mr. Trent," Street said. "There is only one
manuscript and it is in your hands. _You_ are Baker."
"No," Trent said. "No."
"Yes," Street said relentlessly. "Just as the director realized that
_he_ was not Baker, you must realize _you_ are."
Trent lay back in his swivel, gasping. "All right, all right, I admit
it. I am Baker."
"But you aren't really, Mr. Trent," Street said calmly. "I know you
thought at one time you were Baker and then repressed the idea. But I
knew at some future time the delusion might return and you would begin
claiming to be Baker once more. As you said, there can only be one
Baker. _I_ am Baker."
"You lie," Trent snarled. "I know the truth now. I am Baker, and there
_can_ only be one."
The editor jerked the gun up from his desk drawer. The shots crashed at
the same instant. Trent ran the letter spindle through his chest as he
fell across the desk. Street settled back into his chair comfortably,
death in his lungs from the gas bullet that had exploded against his
armor.