Part 2

* * * * *

The man with Horning's face laughed again. "That comes later, my friend. After you've admired the present I brought you."

Horning eyed the bundle. Limp and bulky, it was nearly six feet long and wrapped loosely in a covering of some greenish plastic.

"Go ahead. Look it over," his visitor invited, gesturing with the gun. "It's all yours."

New uneasiness crept through Horning. Slowly, he came forward and, kneeling, started to untie the cords that held the bundle closed.

"You're too slow," the man said. "Here. Let me do it."

He tugged at one corner of the covering. The plastic tore away.

Feminine hair came into view. A head lolled over, exposed.

Horning found himself staring down into a nightmarish, waxen face. A thin breath bubbled the lips. He leaped back, choking.

"Myrtle--!"

"Correct," his counterpart chuckled. "Or perhaps I should say--_my_ Myrtle."

"_Your_ Myrtle--?" A convulsive tremor shook Horning. "But I thought...."

"You thought I had a charming wife who held a fortune in her own name," the other retorted coolly. "The part about the fortune was true. As for the rest"--he shrugged--"well, you can see that I, too, married a wasp-tongued shrew named Myrtle--the coexisting counterpart of your own trouble."

With an effort, Horning stilled his trembling. "Then why lie to me?" he demanded in sudden, flaring anger. "What possible reason--"

"I was afraid to let you know. And ... I needed time to work out a plan." The sardonic lines about his alter ego's mouth etched deeper. "I've taken care of that detail now."

Horning drew back another step. "I don't think I care to hear about it," he clipped tightly.

"Oh, but you must!" his counterpart retorted. "You see, you're vital to it."

"I don't care for that, either."

The other's deep-set eyes glinted. "Not even if it would enable you to get rid of your own wife in perfect safety?"

"No."

"It's a wonderful plan. So simple...."

Horning cut him off with a short, decisive gesture. "I don't want to hear it."

The man with Horning's face took one fast step forward. His head seemed to draw down between his shoulders. "And I say you're going to hear it, whether you want to or not!" he snapped harshly. He swung the gun in a threatening arc. "I don't intend to have gone through all of this for nothing."

* * * * *

Horning hooked his thumbs in his belt and met the other's cold eyes with all the bravado he could muster. He said nothing.

"I merely propose that we switch wives," his counterpart clipped.

"Switch wives--!" Shock startled the words from Horning.

"Could anything be simpler? Here are two women, completely identical. Both are stupid, both termagants in their own right. So, each falls asleep tonight in her own world. In the morning, she wakes up in another."

Horning twisted at his belt. Narrow-eyed, frowning, he stared at his visitor. "But why--?"

The man's thin lips parted in a mirthless grin. "How would you feel if, stupid and knowing nothing of transdimensional transit, you were suddenly to awaken in a completely strange world? What would be your chances of making a successful adjustment?"

"I ... I don't know...."

"Adjustment to environment is the key to integration of personality. When anyone loses touch with his world, the background he knows as reality, he can no longer adjust." Horning's counterpart paused. His voice dropped a note. "Every plane has facilities to take care of such unfortunates."

The skin along the back of Horning's neck prickled. "You mean ... Myrtle would go mad?" he whispered hoarsely.

"That's what the psychiatrists would say, at least."

A new tremor shook Horning. Unsteadily, he made his way to the chair by the desk and slumped into it.

His other self chuckled. "It's beautiful, isn't it? All you need to do is call the authorities in the morning. They'll take Myrtle to the nearest mental hospital for observation--and that's the last you'll ever see of her."

Horning's collar was all at once too tight. His palms grew wet with icy sweat.

His coexisting self leaned back against the light-loop's control panel. The pistol hung loose at his side.

"We have an undetectable anesthetic in my world," he observed. "A few drops of it on a handkerchief, pressed over your Myrtle's face tonight, will make her sleep as soundly as my wife is sleeping over there." He nodded to the still figure on the floor.

Horning scrubbed the sweat from his hands against his pant-legs. Shivering, he ran his fingers through his hair.

"You'll be free to follow your research, wherever it leads you," his counterpart murmured dreamily. "For me, I'll have my Myrtle's fortune to console me." He laughed softly. "What could be simpler, or sweeter?"

Horning slumped deeper into the chair. He rubbed at his cheek; squeezed his eyes tight shut and then opened them again. The skin across his forehead seemed to draw tighter and tighter, like a band of steel, till it was all he could do to keep from screaming aloud. He twisted, shifted, slid down further.

His counterpart stretched. The dreamy look left the deep-set eyes.

"We're dawdling too long. It's time we got started." He straightened. "Come on."

"No," said Horning.

The man from across the barrier between the parallel worlds half turned, head tilted, brows suddenly knitting. "What--?"

"I said no," Horning answered through dry lips. "I'm not going to do it."

* * * * *

The other's lean face went blank, incredulous. He came a step towards Horning. "Do you know what you're saying, man? Would you actually pass up a chance like this to rid yourself of that harridan you married?"

Horning shifted in his seat. He dodged the other's eyes, not speaking.

"But why? Why won't you? You'll never have another chance like this."

"I don't know why," said Horning. "Or ... maybe I do...." His voice trailed off.

The other took a stand directly before him--feet spread apart, face cold and rocky. "Don't give me that! We're really one--remember? I know how you feel. You want to do it!"

The fury in the man's voice struck an answering spark in Horning. He came up from the chair. "I want to--but I'm not going to! Now get out! And take her"--he gestured towards the other's unconscious wife--"with you!"

His counterpart seemed to grow suddenly taller. "When I'm ready to go, I'll tell you!"

"You'll go now!"

"No!"

Horning started forward.

The other whipped up his gun. "I've come too far to quit now," he clipped tightly. "If you're too much of a fool or a coward to go along, then that's your bad luck. I'll handle things a different way." His lips twisted. "Back up against the wall!"

For the fraction of a second, Horning hesitated. But the gun in his alter ego's hand stayed steady.

Horning backed away.

"Maybe this way is better, after all," his counterpart said. "Maybe I should have planned it like this from the start."

New lines of strain slashed his lean, sardonic face. The deep-set eyes took on a light almost of madness.

Then--lightning fast; without warning--he pivoted. The pistol in his hand made flat, clicking sounds. There was no report, no muzzle flare.

Three times he fired--straight at the limp form of his bound, drugged wife.

Dust leaped from the plastic wrapper as the slugs smashed home. The woman's body jerked convulsively.

Horning gave a hoarse cry and leaped forward.

His counterpart jumped aside. He hit Horning hard on the back of the neck with the pistol.

Horning slammed to the floor. The room rocked about him.

As from afar, he heard his alter ego's voice: "Get up!"

Horning dragged himself to his knees, choking and gasping. He caught a blurred glimpse of the limp figure of the woman who had been his counterpart's wife. A thin trickle of blood was seeping from her mouth....

"Get up, I said!" the killer cried in a tight terrible voice.

He kicked Horning in the side.

Horning rolled away, pain stabbing through him. He scrambled to his feet.

"Climb onto the desk!"

* * * * *

Shaking, Horning clambered up, standing half-crouched with the top of his head pressing the ceiling. A water pipe lay like a cold knife-blade against the back of his neck.

His counterpart dragged a coil of insulated wire from the workbench and threw it to Horning. "Here! Tie a noose!"

In aching silence, Horning looped and twisted the wire.

"You know what happens now, don't you?" The murderer from another world leered up at him, rocking with laughter, and this time there was no mistaking the madness in the deep-set eyes. "You're going to anchor that wire to the water pipe, and put the noose around your scrawny neck, and jump off the desk! After that"--he laughed again--"I'll take your wife and go back to my own plane. When they find you here, with my Myrtle and my gun, they'll say you murdered her and hanged yourself!"

"They wont believe it!" Horning blurted. He groped desperately. "They--they'll know from the gun. There's no other like it on this plane--"

"--So, they'll say it's a new development by the renowned scientist, Doctor Raymond X. Horning--" Abruptly, the man who was Horning's counterpart broke off. His mirth vanished, replaced by cold, gun-backed menace. "You're stalling! Anchor that wire!"

A knot of black fear drew tight in Horning's midriff. Numbly, he fumbled with wire and pipe.

"Anchor it!"

Horning sucked in air.

"Hurry up!"

Horning let the wire drop.

The coil hit the edge of the desk, hung for a moment, and then rolled off onto the floor.

The other's eyes flicked down to it. He cursed and took one short step forward, hand outstretched.

Horning dived off the desk, straight at him.

The man from beyond the barrier started back. He jerked up the gun.

His shot went wild. Horning landed on him with bone-crushing impact. The gun skated off across the room. They crashed to the floor together, rolling over and over till they hit the workbench. It rocked wildly. Tools cascaded over them.

Twisting, Horning drove a blow at his counterpart's face.

The other writhed away. His elbow jabbed into Horning's throat.

Horning choked. Before he could recover, a knee found his belly. The wind went out of him. His adversary broke free and scrambled away, clawing for the gun.

Horning lunged after him. He caught a foot ... jerked and twisted with all his might.

The killer sprawled, flat on his face. But his outstretched hand clutched the pistol.

Horning snatched a Stillson wrench from the litter of tools fallen from the workbench.

His counterpart rolled, whipping round the gun.

* * * * *

Horning lashed out with the wrench, straight at the other's head. It struck home with a sound like that of a dropped watermelon bursting on a concrete sidewalk.

The killer went limp.

Horning sagged back, panting. After a moment, he saw that his counterpart had stopped breathing.

Horning staggered to his feet. His stomach churned. He lurched to the wastebasket beside the desk and vomited.

Then a dull, shuffling sound impinged upon him. Swaying, Horning came erect and peered round behind him.

Myrtle stood in the doorway, eyes blacker and beadier than ever. Her jaw was set, her greying hair loose and disheveled. She wore a frayed, ancient kimona and dirty white mules.

Horning choked, "Myrtle, get back--!" and tried to move round between her and the bodies. But she pushed past without speaking, straight to his fallen counterpart, and bent as swiftly as her bulk would allow. When she straightened, she held the murderer's pistol in her hand.

"Myrtle, be careful--!"

She shoved him back with a meaty hand, blocking him with her body, the gun held behind her. He could not read her expression. When she spoke, her voice was flat and without feeling, no longer strident: "I heard it all, Raymond--all the conniving ... how you hate me ... that monster's scheme to steal his wife's fortune...."

Horning shrugged, not bothering to answer. Squatting down, he began gathering together the tools spilled from the workbench.

"Raymond...."

Horning glanced up, then stiffened.

Myrtle had brought round the pistol. She was pointing it at him.

In the same flat voice she said: "Put on that outfit, Raymond. That transdimensional whatever-you-call-it."

Horning let the tools fall. "Are you out of your mind, woman? In this shambles, with two corpses...." He choked, unable to go on.

Myrtle said: "Put it on." Her face was a mask, an enigma. Her voice stayed low, completely devoid of emotion. "I'll kill you if you don't."

Horning stared into his wife's eyes. They were inscrutable, hard and blank and black as twin balls of polished onyx.

Myrtle's lips parted. Her jowls quivered. She steadied the pistol.

Very slowly, very wearily, Horning rose. Wordless, he crossed to the transdimensional registration unit and strapped it on.

"Go over in the corner," his wife ordered. "Stand with your face against the wall."

Horning obeyed. He wondered whether Myrtle intended to shoot him in the back.

Or maybe she'd just gone mad.

Whatever it was, he decided, he didn't much care.

* * * * *

Metal scraped on metal. Something thudded on the floor. The hoarse wheeze of Myrtle's breathing, the slap and shuffle of her mules, sounded loud in the stillness.

After another moment, Myrtle said, "Turn around."

Horning pivoted, then stared.

His wife now wore the other transit unit, the one by means of which Horning's counterpart had crossed the barrier between the parallel worlds.

"All right, Raymond." She gestured to the light-loop's glowing, door-like frame. "Go through."

"Go _through_--?"

"Yes. Ahead of me. I'll follow."

"No." Horning put flat finality into his voice. "You don't understand what that frame is for, Myrtle--what lies on the other side--"

"Don't tell me what I don't understand!" For an instant the old stridency rang in Myrtle's words. "I've read those things you wrote--remember? Your notes, too. I know what I'm doing!" She thrust the pistol forward. "Go on! Go through!"

Once again, Horning studied his wife's face, to no avail. He made a wry mouth. Then, turning, he walked up the ramp, and stepped through the light-loop's pulsating, tube-laden frame.

The silver plain stretched endlessly before him ... infinitely vast, infinitely lonely.

Horning shivered a little and swung about.

A bulky figure loomed close at hand, framed in the light-loop's glow. A moment later, Myrtle was beside him, staring across the shimmering wastes wide-eyed. She cringed before the immensity and desolation of it, knuckles white, face slack and waxy grey. Horning could almost taste her fear.

He prodded her: "What now?"

She shook as with a chill, not answering. Then, peering down into the scanner screen, she fumbled with the calibrated knobs that shifted the scene from plane to plane.

Horning began, "If you'd only tell me what you want--"

"Shut up."

The seconds ticked into minutes. The minutes marched stolidly on. A half hour dragged by. An hour. And still Myrtle spun the registration dials.

Horning shifted, closed his eyes. A haze seemed to rise about him. He was so tired he could hardly stand.

Myrtle said, "Raymond...."

Horning shook away the haze.

* * * * *

His wife's expression was more unfathomable than ever. She stepped closer, and now he saw that she was holding out the pistol, butt-foremost, as if to hand it to him.

He reached up to take the weapon.

But instead of releasing it, she brushed his hand aside and brought the gun-butt down sharply on the screen of Horning's scanning scope.

The scanner smashed to splinters.

Horning went rigid. But before he could move, his wife had jerked back the gun, reversed it, and leveled it at him.

Horning cursed aloud.

For the first time, Myrtle smiled.

It reminded Horning of the grin on a bleaching skull.

She said: "Set your dials at 830-X-974."

For a moment Horning hesitated. But the gun was very steady. Seething, he did as he was told.

"Now turn your projector drive to high."

Horning gripped the corner of his unit's bulky case. "Where are you sending me? Why did you smash the scanner so I couldn't see?"

"We're both going. Turn it to high." Her eyes mocked him. The pistol menaced.

Horning threw the switch.

"Now, reintegrate...."

A wave of utter helplessness, utter hopelessness, engulfed Horning. He pressed the button.

A room materialized about him--a room almost the twin of his own basement laboratory. There was the workbench, there the desk. A frame close akin to that of the light-loop rose against one wall.

A man sprawled on his back near the control panel. His face was Horning's face.

Horning bent over him and felt for some trace of pulse, then straightened, to find Myrtle once more standing beside him.

"He's dead," Horning said.

She nodded. Her lips twitched. "Take off your unit."

"My unit--?"

"Yes," She gestured to the dead man. "Put it on him."

"What--?"

"I said, put it on him." All the flatness was back in Myrtle's voice.

In a numb, aching void of silence, Horning obeyed.

"Set the dials for 701-G-0060."

Horning's fingers went stiff. He looked up at his wife, hardly believing his own ears. "You mean...?"

"I mean, I'm going to the world that murdering monster in our basement came from!" Myrtle's breasts rose and fell in a sudden tempest of emotion. She was breathing noisily, too fast. The greying hair fell over her face, and her eyes were drawn to hot black pinpoints. "You wanted to get rid of me, didn't you? You were ready to try anything short of murder or sending me to the madhouse? So I'm leaving you here. That other woman had a fortune. I'll have a better life in her place than you ever gave me!"

"But this man here...."

"He died a natural death. That's all I care about. I'll be a widow--a wealthy widow...."

* * * * *

The words went on, but Horning hardly heard. He sagged back against the workbench--shaken, unable to speak. It was as if, of a sudden, he were seeing his wife through new eyes.

She crowded close to him and said, "One other thing...."

Her hand darted out. She snatched Margaret's picture from Horning's pocket--ripping it to shreds, scuffing the fragments.

Horning made no effort to stop her.

"I hate her!" Myrtle cried. "That woman--that creature--she could be dead a thousand years and I'd still hate her--!"

She broke off, shaking, and switched both transit units' projector drives to high, then pressed the disintegrator buttons.

In the tick of a clock, both woman and corpse had vanished.

New weariness welled up in Horning ... weariness, and a sudden, stabbing pang of pity. In the awful emptiness of losing Margaret, he'd plunged down, all the way, till finally he'd been blinded and panicked into marrying Myrtle. Then, climbing from the depths once more, he'd come to hate her.

Now, that, too, was past. The hate was dead; the bitterness had fallen from him. He knew the fault lay as much with him as her. They were simply dog and cat, not suited.

He even found himself hoping she'd find happiness in the world to which she'd fled.

It made him smile a little; and he knew it was good that he _could_ smile ... that he'd grown so much in depth and understanding.