The director of Extraterrestrial Investigations opened the closet door
and stepped into the office. "The fools," Baker said to himself.
He had no doubt that _he_ was the true, the original Baker. He
remembered clearly that he had stepped out of the left cabinet of
Gentle's transmatter, the one which he had first entered. (He did
remember that, didn't he? Yes! Doubting himself was the first stride
down the road these two had taken.) His act to shock "Street" into
realizing they were _both_ Baker had been elaborate, but "Street" had
gone schizoid.
He was no copy, but there were copies of Baker, dozens of them, all
helping the downtrodden aliens from terrestrial exploitation and making
fortunes for themselves. There were fat ones, thin ones, tall ones,
short ones, all kinds of Bakers, thanks to the refinement of Gentle's
distortion factors in matter-duplicating to an exact science, a desired
result, not an accident like the duplication itself. Unfortunately, in
a few, physical distortion meant mental disorientation. These no longer
had to merely pretend to be other people than Baker.
It was too bad about them--and about all the other Bakers who had
died. He really had died in all those ways on all those worlds in all
those bodies, despite "Street's" clever excuses. Still it wasn't a bad
life--helping the helpless and himself to all they could get.
Yes, Baker decided, dying was a good way to make a living.