Part 3

"Bryan Channing! If you're joking, I don't find it so funny."

"Neither do I. I'm not joking."

"I--I hate you...."

"One of us had better see the doctor," said Channing, placing his hands on Ellen's shoulders and bending forward to kiss the whisps of hair at the nape of her neck. "Maybe you'd like to go away to the country for a while."

"Don't you kiss me."

"What's the matter now?"

"You changed your mind. You're trying to lie your way out of it."

"I'll call Dr. Flint."

"You'll go out someplace and eat supper, you mean." Off the range came the pot of chicken cacciatore, its delightful contents landed into the garbage disposal unit.

"Ellen!"

But only a stiff back answered him, and presently even that disappeared when a sudden wail from the direction of the nursery summoned it, armed with bottle and burp-rag.

* * * * *

Nicholson met him in the waiting room of his office. "You sure went and put your foot in it," the explorer said.

"When did I do what?"

"Telling the Denebian Ambassador how Qui Dor was snafuing everything and why we couldn't do a thing about it. If they don't take away your explorer's papers too, you're always welcome on my ship, Bryan."

"I didn't even see the Denebian Ambassador."

"That's not what Julie says."

Julie looked up from her desk in exasperation. "You're still the boss, so maybe I shouldn't talk like this, but honestly chief, how could you?"

"Damnit! How could I what?"

"I almost fainted when that, that monster from Deneb walked in here. You always tell me to keep the intercom open when you have an important visitor and take everything down in shorthand. So I did. Then you walked out of your office with the Denebian Ambassador, smiling and practically holding hands--if you call what he's got a hand."

"I went home around midday. I never saw the gentleman from Deneb."

"You use the word gentleman loosely," said Nicholson. "And unadvisedly."

It was then that State stormed in, his face almost mauve. "Channing, pack your junk. You're fired."

"Now, wait a minute--"

"Miss Marshall here had the good sense to send me a transcript of your little meeting. Of all the achesonian gall...."

"Who, me?"

"Fired. Out. Now."

"But what am I supposed to have done?"

State pulled some papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Here, you rat. Try page three."

Channing took the papers and turned to the third page. He read:

CHANNING: Exactly what I was saying.

DENEBIAN AMBASSADOR: Then we ought to bide our time?

CHAN: Sure. Right now, Earth's becoming the laughingstock of the galaxy. And later on it will be worse.

D. A.: That's only conjecture, of course.

CHAN: But it makes sense. Not tomorrow or the day after that, but, say, in a hundred years, Earth will be finished. For one thing, the birth rate will drop off tremendously. People will stop working, because Qui Dor can give them anything they want.

D. A.: Then we'll make threatening gestures.

CHAN: Right. And Qui Dor will supply Earth with armaments.

D. A.: At the last moment, the armaments will vanish. Earth, committed to war with us, will be helpless.

CHAN: It's my understanding that not _all_ of Qui Dor's creations will vanish when that happens.

D. A.: That is correct.

CHAN: Are we talking about the same thing?

D. A.: I think so. Would you like some lunch, Channing?

CHAN: Yes, but first I believe we ought to take a look at--

"Hold it!" Channing cried as State took the papers from him. "Let me see the rest of it."

"You've seen enough. Hell, you were right there. I thought I ought to tell you we're going to see the Attorney General about possible prosecution for espionage. Now get out of here."

State was still mauve when Channing left. Nick was shaking his head. Julie clucked her tongue, trying to dilute outrage with sympathy.

For Channing, it was all some senseless nightmare. First Ellen, then State, Julie and Nick. He took the slidestair down to the street and the brisk autumn air cleared the confusion from his head so that he knew; for the first time clearly, that he was out of a job and--temporarily at best--out of a wife. If Qui Dor had seen all this coming, Qui Dor had not mentioned it. But Channing suspected Qui Dor's ability to read minds depended on close range perception. Besides, Qui Dor had made it plain he would tell Channing nothing more than he had disclosed at their original interview.

Which left Channing one remaining avenue of information.

* * * * *

"Is the spacesuit adjusted satisfactory, sir?" The Denebian lacky said un-gramatically, his stentorian voice booming above the static of his own spacesuit radio.

"Yes," Channing told him.

The small saurian creature stood on a platform and dropped a plexi-glass helmet in place over Channing's head. Air hissed in and Channing asked: "Can you hear me?"

"Most assured, sir. The radio is fine."

Denebians breathed a mixture of methane and ammonia and looked enough like pint-sized dragons to make Channing wonder if there had even been some contact between the races in the obscure pages of pre-history.

"Sarchix will see you now."

Channing was led into an airlock in what had been the old Crowell-Collier building and was now the Denebian Embassy, a hermetically sealed skyscrapper in which most of the rooms and corridors reproduced the environmental conditions of the Denebian planet. Air was pumped from the little chamber; methane and ammonia took its place. When a light flashed red over a bolted door at the far end of the chamber, Channing opened it and walked through.

"Is anything wrong?" Sarchix demanded. The Denebian Ambassador was barely four feet tall, a chunky, fore-shortened dragon with diminutive arms, an outthrust snout, legs like thick, armor-plated columns and a balancing tail which trailed and tapered behind and was, Channing knew, a potent weapon. A dragon on Chinese New Year's Day or Tyrannosaurus Rex in miniature.

"Why should something be wrong?" Channing said as the Denebian waved an almost-atrophied forearm at a couch. At least, the arm looked atrophied. It wasn't. Channing had seen how dexterously the Denebian lacky had fastened the spacesuit helmet.

"Well, you visit me so soon after our meeting."

It was no conspiracy. Channing breathed a sigh of relief, reclined on the couch as was the Denebian custom, and said: "I merely want to go over some of our plans." The Denebian Ambassador and the Department of State could not be working together to drive Channing insane. And Ellen did not fit into the picture at all.

Somewhere, there was a _second_ Bryan Channing.

"But we hardly have any plans, Channing. All we have to do is wait. You said so yourself. Your job is only to keep us informed."

"I have some bad news, then. I was fired."

"Eh?"

"That is, Bryan Channing was fired from his job today. His secretary overheard our conversation and sent a transcript of it to the Secretary of State."

"That is too bad," Sarchix admitted. "We could use a man in your position. Tell me, Channing, are you prepared to play the Channing role completely?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"Then we still have a chance. Let the secret out. There is a real Channing and an _es percipi_ Channing. You have his appearance, his fingerprints, his memories. Reveal him as a traitor, a Qui Dor creation. Then you can have the game as well as the name."

"In other words--"

"In other words, two Bryan Channings are a nuisance, anyway. You would undoubtedly make a blunder sooner or later, or Channing himself will discover the fact. Beat him to the punch, find him in some awkward situation and prove your point. Of course he'll claim he's the real Channing. Naturally, he'll have Channing's memory and Channing's fingerprints, as you have. But if you can accuse him and prove your point, I daresay you'll find your job waiting for you again. Keep me abreast of all developments, Channing." Sarchix spoke English with hardly a trace of accent but with all the banal idiomatic expressions. "Say, it's a pretty good deal for you, anyway. I hear Channing's wife--your wife--is quite a looker by human standards."

"She is," said Channing, glowering. The _es percipi_ Channing had been contrite with Ellen. Regarding Stephanie, he had surrendered unconditionally. The dirty so-and-so might even have explored the art of love-making with her, especially if he knew all the little secrets Channing knew--which he did--and wanted to employ them to convince his brand new wife of his old status.

"Well, good luck to you, Channing," said the Denebian Ambassador. "By the way, you left your briefcase here after lunch."

Channing spotted a duplicate of his own briefcase on the floor near Sarchix's couch. He was about to retrieve it when a buzzer sounded and the Denebian Ambassador spoke into a microphone in the wall.

Channing could not understand the language and waited politely until the conversation had ended. He stooped for the briefcase.

"Wait a moment, if you please," Sarchix told him. "Bryan Channing has returned to get his briefcase."

* * * * *

"Oh," said Channing in desperation. "Oh."

"I was thinking precisely the same thing. If the second Channing has returned for his briefcase, then he was the Channing who visited me before. You see, he knew about the missing briefcase. You did not."

"That's ridiculous," Channing blurted. "I know who I am."

"Who are you?"

"I'm not Bryan Channing. I'm the copy. And I can prove it."

"Yes? How?"

"By telling you what's inside the briefcase." It was a gamble, Channing knew. But in all probability, the interior as well as the exterior of the case had been duplicated.

"But he knew, Channing. He knew. Well, we shall see. By now the airlock should have been adjusted for our atmosphere. There...."

The door opened. In walked Bryan Channing, face clearly visible in the plexi-glass of the helmet.

The two Channings stared at each other.

"My Lord!" cried the newcomer. "Have they made _another_ copy?"

"I'm the only copy," Channing said. "You're a fake. That is, you're real."

"He's lying," said the bona fide copy. "He must be Channing himself."

"Sure," said Channing. "So I barged in here to let Sarchix know I was aware of the copy. That doesn't make sense and you know it."

"_I_ know who _I_ am, Channing. Therefore I know you're the real thing."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"One moment, please," the Denebian Ambassador said. "I think we can settle this."

"How?" said Channing.

"I will call Qui Dor."

"Since I'm a perfect copy," Channing pointed out glibly, "he won't be able to tell."

"Who's a perfect copy? I'm a perfect copy."

"True enough," said Sarchix. "He won't be able to tell by any examination. But he can will the copy out of existence, leaving the real Channing. Then he can make a new copy."

"He can do what?" the copy cried. "Nothing doing. If he wills me out of existence and makes a new one, it won't be the same thing. I won't be me. I'll cease to exist. I don't care about any new copy. I care about myself."

"You see," Channing said, "he's looking for excuses."

"It's all well and good for you to say that," the copy told Channing. "You have nothing to lose."

"Unfortunately," Sarchix explained, "you both stand to lose. The original copy will cease to be, as the Channing on my left has pointed out. But after the little experiment, Channing himself will have to be eliminated. Now, if the two of you will wait inside while I call Qui Dor...?"

* * * * *

They went into another room and paced together, five steps up and five back. They glared at each other. They made threatening gestures. Channing's brain was awhirl with ideas, all of them bad. The copy would cease to be. Channing would be destroyed. A new copy would take both their places. This was impossible. First he had to prove himself not himself. He had neither succeeded nor failed. Now he stood to lose, as the Denebian Ambassador had said, no matter which Channing he was.

"Hey, you," he said finally.

"Me?"

"There's no one else here."

"What do you want?"

"Let's say, hypothetically of course, that you're the copy and I'm the real Channing."

"Hypothetically," said the copy. "Hypothetically, he says."

"Let's say Qui Dor gets here and wills you out of existence. Then Sarchix has me killed and a new Channing is made. What happens to you?"

"Nothing, thanks to you. I just don't exist any longer."

"What happens to me?"

"At least you get what's coming to you. You're killed."

"Right. If we stay here, we've both had it, and you know it."

"Umm, yes. So?"

"So let's get the hell out of here."

"But if I leave I admit I'm not the copy. I _am_ the copy."

"If you stay and Qui Dor proves you are the copy, you'll be destroyed in the process. If he proves you're not, they'll kill you. Go ahead and stay."

"At least why can't you admit it to me now?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Channing said. "I figured you were still making believe you're the copy in case Sarchix had a microphone in this room."

"So that's it."

"I guess that's it. Want to come?"

"Where do we go? This is a crazy situation. We can't work together."

"I know that. I have in mind a temporary truce, just until we can get out of here. After that, the fake Channing better get off Earth and get off fast. If they find him he'll be eliminated. But it seems to me he ought to do the real Channing a favor."

"What do you want me to do?"

"No, friend, it's what I want to do for you."

"I'm the copy!"

"Never mind," said Channing. "It seems to me the fake Channing, whichever one of us is the fake Channing, ought to visit a few people with the real Channing and straighten things out for him. Agreed?"

"Let me think about it," said the copy. It was inevitable that he would come to approximately the same conclusion. They had identical minds. But, Channing thought vaguely, if he wanted to use the copy to help him out of a couple of man-sized jams, he had to assume the copy would be quite willing and eager to use him in the same way. He'd have to watch himself.

"All right," the copy finally said. "We'd better get out of here, Channing."

Sarchix met them at the door. A Channing on either side of him, they grasped the diminutive arms firmly and carried him back into his own office. The ponderous tail lashed out to left and right. Channings fell like tenpins. But before Sarchix could reach his microphone for help, the two Channings were up again and at him, avoiding the wild-swinging tail, circling him warily for position and never once getting in each other's way.

Denebian draperies bound the arms and legs. They let the tail thump the floor resoundingly. The stentorian voice thundered, but the hermetically sealed room was also quite sound-proof.

The two Channings chucked their spacesuits in the ante-room and took the elevator marked FOR HUMANS ONLY--DENEBIANS MUST USE SPACESUITS. On the street, people stopped to stare at the identical twins, who even dressed alike, and at their age.

* * * * *

"Don't be alarmed, Ellen. Turn around."

"Go away from me, Bryan Channing. I don't want to--Bryan! Bryan! Who's Bryan?"

"I'm Bryan, of course," said the copy, advancing with a sincere smile and adding, "How's our little Stephanie?"

"Just a minute!" Channing roared. "I'm me. He's--"

"I see it now," Ellen mumbled. "I see it. I do. One of you, one is a ... a creation. One of Qui Dor's creations." Her face was drawn and white. "How long has this been going on?" She backed away from the second Channing, who was trying to oust the first from her arms. She backed away from both of them.

"So that's your plan," Channing said. "If only one of us could stay you figured it might as well be you."

"Stop projecting."

Full circle, thought Channing in despair. Now they both wanted to prove they were real.

"Nuts to both of you," Ellen said. "The way you've been acting lately, how do I know you're both not fake?"

They looked at each other, the two Channings. They looked at her. They smiled.

"Go ahead and laugh. Go ahead and.... Bryan, Bryan, why did this have to happen to us?"

"That's all right now, dear," the copy said.

"You take your hands off her."

"You mind your own bushiness."

"Listen," Channing said to his wife. "Do you think I'd want you to keep that--that girl inside?"

"You said--"

"He wouldn't want you to keep Stephanie," the copy said. "He'd be jealous of any other copy or any other person, not really knowing how deep your affection is. I want to keep Stephanie, however. You decide, dear."

"I didn't want to keep her all along," Channing shouted. "At least that should prove I'm me. Maybe you don't like it, but that's me, that's the man you married."

"Listen to that, will you?" the copy said scornfully. "Not two weeks old yet, and already he's getting presumptuous."

"There!" cried Channing. "How would he know the copy's age, unless he's it?"

"From when all the complications started," the copy told him blandly.

"Leave me out of this," Ellen pleaded. "I'm all confused. I don't want both of you, I want my husband. I don't even care if he's angry about Stephanie, I just want him."

"I'm not angry--" began the copy.

"That's enough, you." Channing grabbed his arm firmly and steered him from the house. "There are other ways to settle this."

"Like what?"

"Like you'll see. First of all, we'd better get our job back. Then, I'm beginning to get an idea."

"I don't think I'd like it."

"You wouldn't."

"I'm beginning to get an idea too."

"I guess I wouldn't like that, either."

"You'd hate it."

"At least everything's frank and above board."

"For the time being."

"Even that's frank."

"Well, here's my copter."

"I'm going to poke you in the nose. It's _my_ copter."

But two identical copters were parked side by side on the landing strip. They both had been using copter-cabs all day.

"Suppose we just use one."

"Climb in."

"Where to?"

"You said you had an idea."

"I said we'd better get our job back," Channing told his copy. "The idea can wait."

"So can mine."

They took off, rose into the traffic lane and headed for New York. It was, Channing was the first to admit, one heck of a complicated situation.

The robot pilot settled their argument about which Channing should do the driving.

* * * * *

"All right, all right," State said, mopping his brow. "One of you is Channing and one of you isn't. We can't seem to get at the truth right now, however. I take it you want your job back."

"Yes," said the copy.

"Yes," said Channing.

"Do I give it to both of you? Is your salary doubled?"

"Pretend there is only one," suggested the copy. "Give us one salary. We'll work out our own problem."

"I can't do that, either. One of you is a traitor."

"I've got an idea for you, chief," Channing said. "To your way of thinking, what's a pretty good definition of intelligence?"

"Intelligence? I don't see ... well, it's an ability--yes, an ability to adjust yourself in a rational way to adverse environmental conditions. How's that?"

"That's fine," Channing smiled. "You now have the opportunity to do that, to meet the situation rationally. It will be quite a feather in your cap, chief. What are the adverse conditions? Well, first there's the Targoffian Ambassador and what he's doing. Second, there are the two Bryan Channings. Stop me if I'm wrong: the combination threatens the security of Earth--and threatens your job. That is, you've got to come up with a solution which will satisfy everyone including Health and P. W., and the President is not going to sit on his hands forever."

"I'm listening."

"Doesn't it strike you as odd that Qui Dor should bother to create a second Bryan Channing?"

"Why odd?"

"If Qui Dor were going about his business in an objective way, interested only in carrying the fruits of his own culture to Earth, why would he need a spy? And here's something you don't know: when the Denebian Ambassador was confronted with two of us, he immediately contacted Qui Dor. They know each other, chief. It proves they're working together."

State glowed. "If we can substantiate that, we'll have Sarchix just where we want him. We'd also have an excuse to break off diplomatic relations with Targoff. But can you prove it, Channing? That is, if you're Channing."

"We can try. I think my double will verify this: the Denebian Ambassador claimed Qui Dor could tell us apart by willing the copy out of existence."

State looked at the copy for confirmation.

"Yes, that's true. But I don't think I like what's on your mind."

State nodded. "All right, I'll buy that. But what did you mean when you said Qui Dor could will the copy out of existence?"

"The Targoffians maintain that the real world isn't--real. It seems to work for them, so we can let it go at that. Apparently their creations are mental projections, akin to extra sensory perception, perhaps--although this is creation, not perception. If Qui Dor thinks a copy doesn't exist, it doesn't."

"Wait a minute," protested the copy. "They were going to will the copy out of existence, then destroy the real Channing, then create a third one."

"Not if we conduct the experiment on our own terms," Channing explained. "We'll be able to protect the real Channing. You see, whichever one of us is real has nothing to worry about."

The copy stared mute murder at Channing, then wilted almost visibly when State decided: "That sounds fair enough to me. How soon would you like us to contact Qui Dor, Channing?"

"Not for a while yet, please. I have to see a man about a little job."

"Well, I'll meet you home," said the copy.

"The hell you will. We're going to share a hotel room until all this is over. If you think I want you giving my wife ideas about that little monster...."

"_Your_ wife? Monster?"

"A hotel," Channing insisted. "Get us a double room at the Waldorf Towers. I'll see you later."

Half an hour's time saw Channing in conference with Nicholson over a couple of steins of ale. "Well, Nick," he said finally, ordering one more round, "how soon can you get started?"

"As soon as I can get a crew together. Tonight, for sure. Let me tell you this, Bryan: after the crazy stuff which has been going on around here, it will be a pleasure to get into space again."

"I'm depending on you, Nick."

"It's a cinch."

"Speed is everything, don't forget." Channing sipped the foamy head and amber liquid. "How long will it take you?"

"Three days out to Targoff in sub-space, a day on Targoff. Three to reach Deneb. A week, Bryan."

"That's a long time. Well, I guess that's it. And Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't find any more planets on the way."

Channing called State and arranged the appointment with Qui Dor exactly seven days hence, suggesting that Sarchix of Deneb also be invited. Mrs. Delacourt, too. Might as well make everyone happy.

* * * * *

"So tomorrow your plan goes into effect," the copy told Channing in their hotel room.

Channing looked up from his magazine in surprise. "How did you know that?"

"I called State to verify the appointment. You realize that it can have only one outcome for me."

Channing shrugged. "I can't help that. Look, I have nothing against you. You can still get off Earth if you want to."

"What would happen to your plan then?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't know. I still think it looks good."

"Thanks for offering me my life, anyway. I'm not going anywhere, though."

"Suit yourself."

"You are."

"How's that, again?"

For answer, the copy shouted, "Hey, George!"

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...."