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Title: Es Percipi

Author: Stephen Marlowe

Illustrator: W. E. Terry

Release date: November 1, 2021 [eBook #66646]

Language: English

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ES PERCIPI ***




                              Es Percipi

                          By Stephen Marlowe

               Diplomatic relations became strained when
           the Targoffian Ambassador started selling miracle
           products on Earth. Products that didn't exist!...

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                             October 1955
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Nicholson ducked into the room and squinted myopically through contact
lenses which made his eyes look watery and far away. "Better scram out
the back way, boss," he said. "That dame from the Department of Health
and Public Welfare is here again."

Bryan Channing allowed himself ten seconds of barely audible swearing.
Finally, he said, "What does she expect me to do, snap my fingers and
make the Ambassador from Targoff disappear?"

"It would be nice," Nicholson admitted.

"Unfortunately," Bryan Channing said for the fifth time that day, "our
hands are tied. Sure, Earth can get along without Targoff. The galaxy
would hardly know the difference if sub-space opened up a world-sized
pocket tomorrow and swallowed Targoff and its sun."

"But," said Nicholson.

"Yes, but, I'll have to see the old battle-ax sooner or later, Nick. On
your way out you might as well tell Julie to send her in."

"Oh, am I leaving?"

"You get the idea," said Bryan Channing. "You discovered Targoff, then
dumped it in my lap. One of these days you better find us a planet
which will make Health and P. W. happy. Now, beat it."

A moment after Nicholson had departed, the under-secretary of Health
and Public Welfare opened the door with a well-manicured hand and
followed it into Bryan Channing's office, which looked out on the East
River and the dismantling job being done on the Queensboro Bridge
through a solid wall of thermoglass.

"I don't smoke and I don't drink on duty," she said primly after Bryan
Channing had made the necessary gestures and offerings. "There were
twenty-two thousand divorces in the New York Metropolitan Area alone
last week, Mr. Channing. I have figures for other locations, if you
wish."

"Just let my secretary have them on your way out."

"Very well."

"Incidentally, I don't want to tell you your business, but the figure
doesn't seem so alarmingly high."

"Perhaps. How would fifty thousand sound--for the first half of this
week?"

"High," said Bryan Channing. "Go ahead."

"Deaths from malnutrition and disease continue at an even more alarming
rate. These figures--" And the under-secretary began to remove a sheaf
of papers from her briefcase.

"My secretary," Bryan Channing said again. "Can you pin these things
directly on Qui Dor?"

"Qui Dor?"

"The Targoffian Ambassador."

"I can only go by his advertisements and what our field workers report
after interviews. Qui Dor or whatever his name is, is to blame, it
appears. Tell me, Mr. Channing, is it quite regular for a planetary
Ambassador to--well, to go into business like that?"

"Yes and no," Bryan Channing told her, launching himself on his
favorite subject. "We don't make the laws, m'am. Fifty different
planetary cultures nurtured on fifty different sets of laws with a
heritage as rich as our own Roman one--you don't merely stamp out all
the existing laws and arbitrarily distribute a new code. All you can do
is hope that in some fields at least there is a common meeting point
for the planets."

"You've failed to answer my question."

"Sorry. The Lurane Ambassadors are primarily businessmen, out to make a
buck for their planet, as the expression goes. The Specixes Ambassador
is a glorified emcee trooping around with a bunch of acrobats, dancers
and singers. There are no laws which would prohibit Qui Dor--"

"But he's threatening our entire way of life!" cried the
under-secretary, no longer prim and diplomatically correct.

"Aren't you exaggerating the situation, m'am?" he asked politely. He
wanted to say she was making a mountain not out of a mole hill but a
pimple. He wanted to say a lot of things but never did, and realized
that was one of the reasons ulcers ran so high in the Department
of State. He would settle for some chianti, antipasto and chicken
cacciatore with Ellen in their favorite Italian restaurant, but first
he had to placate the emissary from Health and P. W. and keep Nicholson
happy at the same time. It hardly seemed possible, for if he knew
Nick, the myopic explorer-with-portfolio was eavesdropping on their
conversation through the office intercom.

"You think it isn't serious, if our standard of living is threatened
by--"

"Let's look at it another way. I mean, it's just not our problem.
That's an internal problem for the Department of Health and Public
Welfare to solve, m'am."

"You can tell the Targoffian Ambassador to get the hell off our planet.
Excuse me."

       *       *       *       *       *

Channing shook his head. "Even if I agreed with you, I couldn't do
that. Wouldn't that be perfect grist for the propaganda mills on Sirius
and Centauri, not to mention Deneb? Big Brother Earth goes around using
all the little planets. Humans break off diplomatic relations with
cultures which don't adhere to Earth standards--unless, of course, we
could milk something out of them."

"You know that isn't true."

"I'm not standing in judgment on it. I'm merely saying how they would
interpret it on Centauri and Sirius. Not to mention Deneb."

It was Channing's trump card. You didn't argue when someone mentioned
Deneb like that. Deneb was the _ne plus ultra_ of dangerous
interplanetary relations. If something were white on Earth, it was
black on Deneb. Unfortunately, Channing knew, there was at least as
much truth as fancy in what he said.

"How do the Denebians deal with Targoff?" the under-secretary demanded.

Channing lit his pipe and knew he was in for trouble. "They don't,"
he said. "Diplomatic relations are not maintained between Deneb and
Targoff."

"May I ask you why not? You see, Deneb can get away with it, but we--"

"I'm surprised at you," Channing cut her off. "Earth can't sink to the
Denebian level. We've got to set the example. We've got to be a shining
light, a beacon, a...."

"Those speeches sound fine on television," the under-secretary said,
"but I wasn't born yesterday, Mr. Channing. What are you going to do
about this situation?"

"Nothing right now. The Secretary of State wants to let matters ride
for the time being. The President...."

"I'm going to see the President, you know."

"Maybe it's best," Channing admitted. He was a thirty thousand dollar
a year trouble-shooter for the Department of State, running smack-dab
into a brick wall.

"You'll hear from me," warned the under-secretary. "You'll hear from
the President. This is deplorable."

"Yes, m'am," said Channing, showing her to the door.

Half an hour later, Channing had wilted his whiskers with depilatory,
staring all the while at his moody face with the slightly sagging jowls
in a desk mirror and wishing he were in some other line of work. The
achesonian epithet, it seemed, applied to State Department officials
above the level of clerk who had the misfortune of dealing with touchy
issues. If Health and P. W.'s Girl Friday had her way, Channing
suspected, he would be an ogre by morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Don't go near the living room," Ellen called from somewhere on the
bedroom level of the house, "it's still wet. The maid quit, dear."

"Quit?" Channing hollered back. "What on Earth for?" He settled himself
on a web-chair in the study, poured a martini from the decanter Ellen
had prepared, and began to thumb through the impressive compilation of
figures the under-secretary had left with Julie.

"She's getting married."

"What?" Channing gasped. "Fanny getting married? I don't believe it."

"Honest," said Ellen, entering the room. She was a little pretty
woman, dressed in tight black torrero slacks and a fuzzy crimson
sweater which Channing thought came from one of the Centauri planets.
She was twenty-eight, half a dozen years younger than Channing, with
short-cropped chestnut hair and the dimpled smile and attractive legs
which aided and abetted a diplomat's career. She knew it and in the
best modern fashion they made good use of it.

Ellen sipped from Channing's cocktail glass, poured another for each of
them, pecked at his cheek with carmined lips and settled comfortably in
his lap. "You see," she said, not looking at him, "someone from Qui Dor
enterprises visited us on Monday."

"So now Fanny's getting married. I'll be damned. Say, you didn't take
anything from them, did you?"

"You mean like a husband? No-o."

"I mean like anything. And stop kidding."

"Well, yes, I did. Everybody's trying it, dear. I had to. I didn't want
to feel--left out."

Channing climbed to his feet, almost dumping his pretty wife on the
floor. "All right," he said. "You tell me what you bought."

"You won't be mad?"

"I'm not saying."

"Then I won't tell you."

"Ellen--"

"Promise?"

"O.K. I promise."

Ellen skipped away from him toward the dining room. "Then come on
inside and I'll show you."

       *       *       *       *       *

Afterwards, he could have sworn that Ellen did no cooking. She merely
reached into a cabinet adjacent to the electric range, (must get a
radar range one of these days, he thought, especially with no more
Fanny around and the servant situation being what it was) and came
out with the platters, piping hot. "Hey," he'd said between mouthfuls
of savory white meat which tasted like a rare Centaurian fowl he had
eaten in that interplanetary restaurant on East 48th once, "this is
all right." The dessert was Sirius, and brother, what they could do
with those whipped toppings. And to finish it all off with the proper
pleasant glow, Ellen had even managed to find a bottle of good old
French brandy which must have been corked when Napoleon was a boy.

"The devil with Fanny," Channing declared, loosening his belt a notch.
"I've got myself quite a cook. Say, if you don't want to tell me about
that Qui Dor thing, honey...."

"Ha!" Ellen laughed triumphantly. "If that isn't just like a man. Give
him something good to eat and he'll be licking the palm of your hand.
But I said I'd show you. I already have."

"Huh?"

"You've eaten it. That's what the Qui Dor people sold me, that food
cabinet. How to keep a husband, they said. You see, no one can cook
that well, not in such variety. Mad at me, dear?"

"No," Channing admitted. "It was delicious, every bit of it." But he
patted his slight paunch reflectively. "Sometimes food can be too good,
though."

"Listen, big eyes. Qui Dor's food cabinet was made for guys like you.
Are you full?"

"Lord, yes."

"There wasn't a single calorie in what you ate. Nor any vitamins,
minerals or--"

"I've heard of that," Channing said incredulously. "But, but I've
eaten. I know I have. I tasted it, all of it. I felt it going down. I
feel full now. I couldn't eat another thing."

"I can't explain that, dear. You know the Targoffian Ambassador
personally. Perhaps he can."

"But if there was no food value in any of that stuff, we still haven't
eaten dinner."

"You're supposed to eat concentrates first, dear. I just wanted to
surprise you, that's all. Well, how do you like it?"

"I want it out of this house tomorrow," said Channing, raising his
voice.

"You don't have to holler at me."

"I'm sorry. But that cabinet goes."

"Why? Give me one good reason."

"Because--because it isn't natural. That's why. Not natural."

"And you're supposed to be the broad-minded whiz-kid of the State
Department."

"I'm no kid any more."

"Well, that's what they called you. It never hurt anybody on Targoff,
did it? This kind of thing?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never been there."

"What did Nicky say?"

"He said Targoff looks like the richest planet he's ever seen, but
is really the poorest. He said they have nothing and seem to have
everything. He said they don't admit it, though. As far as the
Targoffians are concerned, they do have everything."

"Well, do they or don't they?"

"It depends on your point of view," Channing said. "Objectively, they
have nothing. Subjectively, they have everything. Point is, the stuff
isn't real."

"What do you mean, it isn't real?"

"Say, has Qui Dor or someone been lecturing you? You're really going
off on the deep end about this Targoffian business, aren't you?"

"Not Qui Dor, an Earthman, Viennese, I think, working for him. You
haven't answered me, dear. I said, what do you mean it isn't real?"

"Well, it--it doesn't exist. It's all in the mind, in the imagination."

"You just ate it. When you looked at it, the food was there. You could
smell it and taste it and touch it--if it was hot it burned your hand,
Bryan--and you had to chew it and swallow it. If you ate too fast it
might even give you an upset stomach."

"But it wasn't real," Channing protested.

"Then what is real? Look at me."

"Um, pretty," said Channing.

"Stop that. Stop trying to change the subject. It's all well and good
for you to talk about these things in the office, but you never want to
talk about them with me. Touch me. Go on, touch me."

       *       *       *       *       *

Feeling mildly ridiculous, Channing placed his big hand on the fuzzy
red material covering his wife's shoulder. "So what does that prove?"
he said.

"Stand up. Turn around."

He stood up, pushing the chair back. He turned around, facing the
entrance to the living room.

"Where am I?"

"Where are you? Right behind me, of course. Sitting down at the table."

"How do you know?"

"I--I just know."

"Are you sure? Can you be sure?"

"I just saw you there, damnit!"

"But you don't see me here now, unless you have eyes in the back of
your head, dear. How do you know I'm still here, unless you see me?"

"Because you didn't get up and go away, that's why. I would have heard
you."

"How do you know? Maybe I'm only around when you look at me. When you
_perceive_ me, dear. You understand?"

"No. Yes. I read all about the idealists in college, too. Berkeley,
Hume...."

"The Qui Dor people say they have the right idea. To be is to be
perceived. As soon as you stop perceiving me--or anything--it no longer
exists. As soon as you see me again, here I am. If you carry it to
extremes, the notion can lead to solipsism, but--"

"--but," Channing finished for her, "you can thank the good Lord that
Bishop Berkeley was no pagan and saved himself and the rest of us from
that way of thinking. Sure, to be is to be perceived. Maybe nothing
does exist unless it's being perceived, but that's where God comes
in. God is the constant conserver, he said. God is always looking at
everything. So everything always exists."

"But the Targoffians are atheists, dear," Ellen pointed out with
exasperating logic. "You may turn around now."

Channing turned around and glared at her.

"You see, it works. I don't know what you're getting so mad about."

"Then I'll tell you. What would happen if I went on eating meals like
that for a couple of weeks."

"You'd lose weight, dear. You'd fit into that bathing suit I bought you
for our third anniversary."

"I'm serious, damnit."

"You'd be awful hungry. You'd suffer from malnutrition. But the
concentrates come along with the food cabinet."

"Forget about the food cabinet. You're going to get rid of it tomorrow.
I want to ask you something else. Who did Fanny marry?"

"She didn't yet. She's getting married on Saturday, she said."

"My mistake," growled Channing. Ulcer potential was now following him
home from the office. "Who is she going to marry?"

"Whom."

"Yes."

"Someone sent by the Qui Dor people."

"Will he be real?"

"We just went through all that."

"Will I be able to see him?"

"Yes."

"Anybody?"

"Of course. You see, he's real. Not only that, he'll be the ideal
husband. At least, he'll be Fanny's ideal husband. You have a wide
variety to choose from, they told me. You can even buy one whose
temperament changes to suit yours day by day."

"There were fifty thousand divorces in New York so far this week,"
said Channing, "according to the under-secretary of Health and Public
Welfare. Have you any idea why?"

"I guess people were shedding their spouses to marry the ideal mate
before the price went up. Is there anything wrong with that?"

"I think so," Channing said. "I didn't think so before. I told the
under-secretary not to get so upset. But I want you to answer one
question. Will Fanny's husband be able to give her children?"

"No," Ellen conceded.

"You get rid of the food cabinet tomorrow."

       *       *       *       *       *

Within a week, the brick wall became a nightmare. Health and Welfare
met with State on the highest level. Health stood firm: something
must be done about the situation. Health's figures were not only
impressive, they were downright frightening. In Buenos Aires, where
Latin tempers flared and, anyway, summer was approaching, one out
of every two recent marriages and one out of three of older vintage
could be expected to end in the divorce courts--if annulment did not
get them first. In Paris, the shrugging French found the answer in
multiple marriage, provided not more than one of the partners was a
bona fide human being. In Russia it became illegal to talk of Qui Dor's
creations: they did not exist.

State was equally firm: the cause of the situation could not at
this time be removed. Health must find its own internal solution.
The Denebian Ambassador began to pass snide remarks and send home
delightful tidbits of propaganda--was it true that the wife of the
President of United Amereurope had visited the attorney general's
brother-in-law concerning the possibility of divorce?

The Council of International Security met with the President, who had
been called home from his Martian vacation. Health was adamant; State
left the conference with a won point but a red face. The Denebian
Ambassador received a copy of the minutes of the special session and
gloated. Some said Health had maliciously given the transcript to the
saurian from Deneb. State marched into Bryan Channing's office with
his red face and demanded a solution. Someone, said State, would have
to resign.

"Which would solve nothing," Channing told his boss glumly.

"But we might get off the hook. What about that explorer, Nicholson?"

"He did his job," said Channing. "Just like I'm trying to do mine."

"The wolves are howling from both directions," pleaded State. "You've
got to do something."

"That's the trouble. Both directions. If we get rid of Qui Dor and tell
the Targoffians we no longer want to maintain diplomatic relations,
Deneb howls and we lose prestige. If we leave Qui Dor alone, Health and
Public Welfare raises a stink."

"Well, it's justified. Have you heard the latest?"

"About what?"

"About a state of emergency, Bryan. Places where the standard of living
is high, it isn't too bad. But try telling 'em in India they have to
buy and take food concentrates along with Qui Dor's stuff. They won't
listen to you. They starve to death. They take Qui Dor's medication to
get rid of disease and the symptoms disappear. But they're still sick
and some of them die."

"Has anyone spoken to Qui Dor about this?" Channing wanted to know.

"Health wants to. We won't let 'em. State's job, I said. They told me,
then do it. How can I do it, Bryan? What can I say? The only time I
ever met this Qui Dor was when he presented his credentials. You know
Qui Dor. You've talked with him. He'll feel more at ease with you--or
possibly that Nicholson fellow."

"Afraid you'll have to count Nick out. He's not a diplomat. All he
wants is to get back into space again. You know, it isn't a bad idea. I
still have my explorer's rating. I could--"

"Don't even think of it. You came up through the ranks, Channing. A man
doesn't go down the same way. He goes out. I don't like this business
of giving ultimatums. We're all grown men here, but ... Channing. I
want you to see Qui Dor. I want you to reason with him. Not the full
treatment, you understand. Qui Dor stays. Deneb would have us spitted
over an open fire, otherwise."

"Then what do you want me to do?"

"I'll leave it in your hands, but I want results. Is that clear?
Whatever you do, do not offend Qui Dor. But placate the Department
of Health and Public Welfare. I'm going down to India on official
business, Channing. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes. How the devil can I make both of them happy?"

"Be diplomatic," said State, and took his leave, a worried, red-faced
man with an over-sized brief case and round shoulders almost but not
quite hidden by an expert job of tailoring.

"Julie," Channing called over the office intercom, "get me an
appointment with Qui Dor, Targoffian Embassy, for tomorrow morning or
as soon as possible. And is Nick out there listening?"

"Well ... yes."

"Tell him, pretty please, to take his spaceship somewhere and get lost."

"Aw, boss," said Nicholson over the intercom. But he was laughing.

Channing wasn't.

       *       *       *       *       *

At least, Channing thought as he brought his copter down for an
excellent landing on the asphalt airstrip around which his and a dozen
other houses were situated in suburban Center Moriches, he could
retain his sanity at home. It was decidedly upper middle class, this
Center Moriches community, with half an acre of landscaped grounds for
each house, a copter and a surface car for each family, and enough
money floating around to keep everything, including the marble-walled
swimming pools, in good repair.

There was something warm and secure about upper middle, anyway. The
lower strata might need some of Qui Dor's goods, the highest might
play with them extensively to show that it could but didn't need to,
really. But upper middle was neither needy nor had the time for such
conspicuous consumption. Mindful of its bootstrap beginnings, upper
middle would ape what was above in such things as marble swimming pools
and over-generous charity donations and hardly leave time for what
Qui Dor had to offer. An occasional food cabinet and a little family
squabble, Channing admitted to himself, could be tolerated. But when
he remembered Ellen's thorough knowledge of Qui Dor and his Targoffian
theories, it unnerved him.

The crabapple trees had shed most of their fruit on the back lawn,
dotting the blue-green carpet of grass with brilliant red. The roses
were out of bloom but protected next year's blossoms with thorny
security. And best of all, thought Channing, breathing deep of
everything, there was the chill of autumn on the air and the brittle
gold of it in the fast-fading sunlight and the leaf-burning smell of
it, so piquant he could almost taste it.

Ellen was not on the back lawn, not in the den, the living room, the
basement, or the kitchen. Ellen was in one of the spare bedrooms.

Ellen had a baby.

       *       *       *       *       *

"You're minding it until one of the neighbors returns," Channing
suggested hopefully.

"Uh-uh. It's mine."

"Now wait a minute!"

"Shh, please." Ellen was burping the tiny infant who, wrapped in
swaddling clothes and balanced shapelessly on her shoulder, was staring
at Channing out of big, solemn eyes. The lips puckered, not all at
once but slowly, building up a head of steam. Burp and frightened wail
issued forth at the same instant.

"What do you mean, it's yours?" Channing demanded. But the facts were
plain enough. The spare room had been converted to a nursery, all done
in pink, with crib and bath-gadget and nightstand and a little pink
diaper pail.

"Do you like the name Stephanie?" Ellen asked, gently placing the
infant in her crib and cooing at her until the wail subsided.

Incredulously, Channing stepped across the threshold to have a closer
look. Stephanie puckered and wailed again, drumming tiny legs under the
swaddling clothes.

"You're frightening her," said Ellen.

"Will you please tell me what's going on here?"

"Only if you lower your voice."

"There," Channing told his wife in a furious whisper which made
Stephanie shriek. "Now tell me."

"Dr. Lang said I couldn't have a baby for two more years. You know
that. When I heard about the babies Qui Dor Enterprises were--"

"So now it's enterprises," Channing shouted. Stephanie drowned him out.

"She's pretty, isn't she?"

Stephanie's small, snub-nosed face was pink with fury. The mouth opened
wide and hollered.

"I don't care if she's going to grow up and be Miss Universe. By the
way, does--does she actually grow up?"

"What's the matter with you, Bryan Channing? Of course she grows up.
She's real."

"As real as that food cabinet. How much did she cost?"

"I won't tell you while you're mad like that."

"Don't you see how fantastic this is?" Channing pleaded, "We can't go
around with a fake baby."

"Fake? How dare you!"

"Yes, fake. How would you go about entering her in school when she's
four years old, for instance?"

"We'll worry about that in four years, but don't you call Stephanie
fake. Anyway, Qui Dor is selling so many babies, provisions will have
have to be made."

"That's what the salesman told you. The Viennese."

"Yes. But if you had to clean up the mess she makes, you wouldn't call
her fake."

"She goes," Channing said, pointing theatrically at the door, then
regretting it. How did he ever get to be a diplomat, anyway?

Ellen ignored him. "You know, dear, I think she looks like you. I was
able to select my own features and weight and everything. At birth she
weighed six pounds. She's two weeks old now and already gained a pound."

"At birth? Two weeks?"

"Well, you know what I mean. She would have, if she--"

"Oh, then you admit it?" said Channing in triumph. "She isn't real."

"Well, she wasn't born like--like other babies. But she's real. You may
hold her if you want."

"I don't want."

"Just to convince you."

"Let's not go through that again."

"You're shouting. You're making Stephanie cry. What's the matter with
you, Bryan?"

"Nothing's the matter with me. My wife is going crazy. Here I'm
supposed to put a stop to this sort of thing on a worldwide level, and
my own wife betrays me."

"That Viennese had a good point, you know. I don't entirely agree with
him, but he said a lot of women like babies and want children, but
would rather not go through nine months of pregnancy and giving birth
and all. Qui Dor Enterprises provide the baby."

"It's not real."

"Don't call Stephanie an it, I said. She is perfectly real. She is as
real as you. You can touch her, feel her, smell her--try changing her
diaper sometime, Bryan." Stephanie shrieked.

"You sure can hear her," Channing admitted. He explored the little
bundle experimentally with a forefinger and was gratified when she did
not howl.

"See, you like her."

"I do not like her. She doesn't exist." Channing backed away.

"For a twenty-first century man with a college education, sometimes you
can be the stubbornest--"

"She's not even a mess of chemicals!" stormed Channing. "It wouldn't be
so bad if they made her in a test-tube or something. She just--is. You
don't even know how they do it. You can't even call her an artificial
baby."

"I'll say you can't," Ellen told him, picking Stephanie up and
engulfing her with protective arms. "She's a real one."

"She goes," Channing. "It goes, do you hear me?"

"Stop shouting."

"Well, it does."

"Is that so?" Now Ellen was shouting. "You better get that idea out of
your head, Bryan. You can't boss me like that. Stephanie stays or ...
or I don't."

"You're acting like a child."

"Am I? I'm not joking. Why don't we talk about it later, after I fix
you dinner?"

"We'll talk about it now."

"I have nothing to say."

"I don't want to see her here tomorrow night."

"You're impossible. You're getting to be an ... ogre."

"In the office too," Channing said. "But I won't stand for it at home,
understand?"

"Don't make a scene in front of the child."

"I'm not making a scene. She's no child."

"We'll talk about it later."

"Then talk to Stephanie," said Channing. "I'm going out."

"Goodbye. Don't slam the door."

They were behaving irrationally, Channing realized as he went for a
spin in the copter, clearing the suburban traffic lanes and heading
west toward the city. He was as much to blame as Ellen, but he couldn't
let this thing get the better of him at home. If only he could explain
to the Targoffian Ambassador that his business enterprises were playing
hob with the socio-economic set-up on Earth not to mention Channing's
own marital life. The thing that hurt almost as much as Channing's own
troubles was the Denebian Ambassador. He could picture the saurian face
gloating.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Good morning, chief. You have an appointment with Qui Dor at the
Targoffian Embassy, eleven hundred hours."

"Morning, Julie. Anything else?"

"You look tired."

He couldn't tell her he'd been sleeping in a hotel. A man gets used to
suburban quiet. "One of those nights," he said.

"I'm afraid it's going to be one of those mornings, too, if you don't
mind me saying so. Mrs. Delacourt is here."

"From Health and Public Welfare? Oh, no."

"Definitely yes. In your office, chief. And mad. Nick called and wants
to see Qui Dor with you."

"Tell him nothing doing. Tell him I'll see him later. Sometimes I think
it's all some kind of conspiracy between Nick and Qui Dor."

"You know Nick is only doing his job, chief. As an explorer with
portfolio, he finds new planets and begins arranging diplomatic
relations with them."

"With all the planets in the galaxy, why did he have to stumble on
Targoff?"

"Ask Nick."

"Don't mind me, Julie. Just letting off steam." Channing pushed
through the door marked UNDER SECRETARY FOR EXTRA-SOLAR AFFAIRS. Mrs.
Delacourt paced back and forth like a fat lion which had learned to
walk on its hind legs and grown soft in the process, but was still
dangerous.

"State's out," she said, bristling. "I had to see someone."

"What's it about this time?" Channing demanded wearily. If he kept
this up, he would be out of a job in record time. Of all the Cabinet
portfolios, Health and P. W. was the one you had to bend over backwards
to please. The Secretary was usually a bridge-partner and friend of
the First Lady. Her assistant might have been the wife of a five-star
general or at least a Congressman. Delacourt--anyway the name wasn't
familiar. "I'm sorry," said Channing. "Bad night. Can I help you?"

"I doubt it, Mr. Channing. As you know, litigation moves swiftly these
days. Are you aware of the case of Myers versus Myers?"

"No, m'am." Before you knew it, it might be Channing versus Channing.

"You should be. When Sylvanus Myers died, he left an estate valued at
three million dollars. He cut the widow off with almost nothing and
left the bulk of his wealth to his--uh, child."

"I'm afraid I don't see the connection."

"This child was purchased from Qui Dor. Child, indeed. Mrs. Sylvanus'
attorneys brought suit, maintaining that since the Sylvanus child did
not exist, he could not legally inherit the estate. Do you follow, Mr.
Channing?"

And, after Channing lit his pipe and nodded: "They weighed the Myers
baby. They examined him. They pointed out he had a set of unique
fingerprints, like a person. They showed his retinal pattern was
both distinct and unique, as well as his electro-encephalogram.
Child psychologists tested him and found him normal in every
way. He perspires and passes his water and--forgive me, Mr.
Channing--defecates." Mrs. Delacourt took the whole thing as a personal
insult, as if, in finding that the Myers child functioned normally, the
doctors had somehow deflated not only the entire human race but Mrs.
Delacourt as well.

Half listening and half wondering if he had presented the same
ridiculous picture to Ellen the night before, Channing said, "Go on,
Mrs. Delacourt."

"The Myers child had been born, created or made to exist in the State
of New Jersey. The Myers child therefore was adjudged a citizen after
his attorneys had invoked the Fourteenth Amendment. Do you understand
what that means, Mr. Channing?"

"I guess it means the Myers child will get his inheritance."

"It means much more than that. It set a precedent. Qui Dor creations
have equal rights before the law, Mr. Channing. They can sue, they can
vote, they can hold office, they can--"

"I can't see the harm in that."

"It encourages more of them. If you leave a fortune and want it spent
a certain way, the Qui Dor Enterprises will create precisely the
individual you want as an heir. It encourages crime, Mr. Channing. The
Qui Dor Enterprises can create an individual for you to commit a crime.
He'll do the job, you'll return him, he'll cease to exist--"

"And you'd be guilty as an accessory."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Delacourt shook her head. "No, you wouldn't. I have looked into
the legality of the matter. That would be like admitting there were
such things as pre-natal influence. The Qui Dor creation, whether child
or full grown, is a citizen with all a citizen's rights, and since
we don't recognize the possibility of pre-natal influence, we don't
recognize the real criminal in such a case as an accessory."

"It's not the same thing."

"In the eyes of the law, I fear it is."

"But if you return a--a citizen to Qui Dor and the citizen ceases to
exist because he's no longer needed for the job--it does work that way,
doesn't it, Mrs. Delacourt?"

"Yes."

"Then you'd be guilty of murder, taking the life away from the Qui Dor
creation, I mean. It's complicated."

"No, it isn't. It's simple. You'd be guilty of nothing. _Esse es
percipi_, Mr. Channing. No one's been murdered. There's no corpse. No
one exists."

"I give up," said Channing. "Mrs. Delacourt, I can sympathize with you.
For personal reasons, I can understand your problem. But right now
there isn't a thing I can do about it. However, I'm going to see Qui
Dor this morning and possibly something can be arranged to your mutual
satisfaction."

Mrs. Delacourt had hardly heard him. "Yet _esse_ should be more than
_percipi_," she was mumbling. "There should be more to existing than
merely being perceived, don't you think? It would all be so--so empty,
so meaningless that way. They can make any legal decision they wish: I
am more than something which is seen or touched or ... or tasted. Not
merely myself, Mr. Channing. The people. All the people. You. Are you
only the various qualities of sense, an image in my mind, an idea? Are
you?"

"I don't know," Channing admitted.

"If you are, if we all are, it's a sinister plot against the people.
Civilization is ruined. Qui Dor's creations shall surely take over.
Why, before you know it, women will stop having babies. No pain, no
nuisance, no chance of congenital illness."

"I know exactly what you mean," Channing declared ruefully. "I've got
to see Qui Dor, though, Mrs. Delacourt."

"Call me and let me know. Oh, do call me and tell me you've sent him
packing."

"Remember Deneb, m'am. I'll do my best."

A few moments later, a furious Nicholson telio'd Channing and informed
him that the New York State Junior League was lobbying Congress to pass
a law nullifying diplomatic relations with Targoff. That was the root
of the evil, they said. The planet itself. We want nothing to do with
them. We don't want our children associating with images. Channing
swore in silent desperation. You couldn't argue with the Junior League.
Qui Dor Enterprises was lowering the standard of living more and more
every day, not maliciously, certainly, but lowering it nevertheless.
Divorce, malnutrition, illness, crime, decreased birth rate, domestic
squabbles....

Which immediately suggested a hopeful but abortive attempt at
reconciliation with Ellen. Yes, she was busy. Of course she had kept
Stephanie. What was the matter with him, anyway? He could hear the girl
wailing, couldn't he? She was so helpless. She had to be cared for.
Where was his sense of responsibility? Well, yes, she still loved him,
but not if he were going to maintain his pig-headed attitude toward
their daughter. What? Yes their daughter. He heard her. Click and
fadeout of the picture of his wife, bunting in one hand and a squealing
infant with obvious quiddity but questionable essence in the other.

Three quarters of an hour later he stormed into Qui Dor's office on
the top floor of an old office building which had been converted into
the Targoffian Embassy in the days before anyone anticipated anything
but a casual interchange of cultural trivia between the Targoffians
and Earthmen. He cooled his heels in the reception room, fighting
back an impulse to ask the too-pretty, too-courteous, too-efficient
receptionist if she were real. By the time he was admitted to Qui Dor's
sanctum sanctorum he presented, at least on the surface, the unruffled
appearance of a diplomat on a routine state call.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Bryan Channing, is it not? You see, I have learned your language with
no great difficulty."

In Channing's job, you had to forget human standards. The office
was large, with a high-vaulted ceiling where the insulating space
beneath the building's roof had been exposed. There were two or three
comfortable chairs which would fit Channing. There was a big sign
beyond Qui Dor's massive desk, blocking the window and the view of
other skyscrapers. It said QUI DOR ENTERPRISES--WE SELL ANYTHING. It
faced into the room, and with it as a back-drop, Qui Dor looked like
anything but an interstellar ambassador.

Qui Dor was a dozen feet tall and neither reptilian nor mammalian. He
defied classification in any terrestrial system, but with the feathery
covering, hard, protruding, pointed lips and round, small, jet-black
eyes, looked most nearly bird-like. The thin legs added to the
illusion; the three sets of thin arms dispelled it.

"I haven't seen you since that day I showed you around the city after
Nicholson introduced us," Channing began, settling himself comfortably
in a chair and wishing he didn't have to stare at the sign behind Qui
Dor's feathery back.

"You were a most gracious host, Mr. Channing. But now I suspect your
visit is of an entirely different nature."

"Well, yes. Yes, it is."

"I see that you are in danger of falling from Scylla into Charybdis,
as it is said in your literature. You needn't mince words with me. You
understand, I have my informants." The black eyes twinkled merrily, the
crest atop the long, narrow head stirred.

_I'll bet they're from Deneb_, Channing wanted to say. This was a
pretty pickle, with the Denebians sitting somewhere out of sight and
chuckling over the whole thing. Why couldn't Nick have been even more
myopic--near-sighted enough to miss Targoff entirely?

"There is no limit to what I can give your people," said Qui Dor. "Next
week we are opening a line of jewelry, as you may know. It is cheaper
than what you can get in your mines."

South Africa, here comes disaster. "Artificial jewels?" demanded
Channing.

"No, not artificial."

"Natural?"

"No."

"Real?"

"Decidedly. What is real, Mr. Channing?"

"Well--but suppose you tell me. You're the man who's livened interest
in the British Empiricists after they'd been all but forgotten except
by students of philosophy."

"What are you, Mr. Channing? That is, what makes you real?"

"Umm, let me see. The chemicals. Yes, the chemicals of which my body is
composed. And a soul, whatever that is. If there is such a thing."

"But are you really chemicals? That is, are the chemicals real?"

"I don't follow you."

"Like everything else, these chemicals have qualities. In solids, they
have size, shape, weight, bulk. Similar properties in liquid and gas.
On a secondary scale, they have color, taste, odor. On a tertiary one,
they can do things. They react. They behave as expected from a study of
the primary and secondary qualities. Now do you follow me?"

"I think so."

"I'm sorry to begin our discussion this way. I feel I know what your
problem is, but I'm starting at the beginning. Do you mind?"

"Not at all." Mrs. Delacourt would be very unhappy.

"Who is Mrs. Delacourt?"

"Eh?" Channing cried. "I didn't say anything."

"Your thoughts have such qualities too, Mr. Channing."

"You mean you can read my mind?"

"I can perceive it, as you can perceive color. To continue: we of
Targoff maintain that no thing in itself is real. Things only have
existence as their various qualities are perceived. When you leave this
room, as far as I am concerned, you do not exist."

"A man named Hume went a step further than that," Channing told Qui Dor
with a smile. "After disposing of the world in such summary fashion,
he also disposed of you and me and everyone. The mind which perceived
these qualities, he said, was nothing more than a collection--he
used the word collocation, I think--of the qualities. So you have
non-existent external things on the one hand and a non-existent mind on
the other. The second nothing somehow gets images of the first nothing,
and that's the sum total of the world."

"Interesting," said Qui Dor, ruffling his crest with a three-fingered
hand, "but hardly practical. You see, Mr. Channing, our theories work.
We can create your collocations of qualities to order. We can even give
a man immortality."

"How can you do that?"

"Why, by recreating his qualities down to the last atomic detail when
he dies."

"You wouldn't," said Channing.

"Not here, not yet. Someday, perhaps."

"I don't want to be blunt, but you're playing hob with the whole
structure of our society."

       *       *       *       *       *

Three sets of arms spread out before Channing in a very human gesture.
"We call it progress, don't you see?"

"But that's interfering with the internal affairs of another planet."

"Is it? We're not foisting anything on you. What we sell is exactly as
claimed. There is no compulsory--"

"But how many people can resist?"

"How many _should_, Mr. Channing?"

"How do we know what you're creating is real, or permanent? I'll tell
you this, sir: you're in trouble if it's all an illusion."

"My dear Mr. Channing, I'm surprised at you. Your culture has created
or accepted--or that strange combination of both which is the
religious zeal--a First Principle, a Prime Mover, a deity culturally
endowed with the ability to create. Your culture then supposes this
deity did his creating once, long ago, and now is content to rest
through all eternity. I say the first half of it is anthropomorphic
wish-fulfillment. I say the second is a lack of cultural imagination."

"Are you calling yourself a deity?" Channing shuddered at the
possibility. Along with Health and P. W. and Ellen, every church on
Earth might soon be clamoring for his scalp.

"Yes and no. Why create--or accept--the godhood if you have the power
yourself? No wish-fulfillment was involved. And we never stopped
creating."

"Are you trying to tell me that you ... that you can actually, well,
create things out of air?"

"Out of nothing, Mr. Channing. For we create nothing. We merely
establish your Mr. Hume's collocation of qualities around any desired
pattern. We do not admit the existence of the external world, so we are
not bothered about creating parts of it. You understand?"

"How do you do it?"

"We do it."

"Where will you stop?"

Qui Dor made the shrugging gesture again. "I see that the problem is a
domestic one for you as well. Here." He reached into a drawer of his
desk and produced a diamond-studded tiara.

Channing touched it gingerly, as if the many-faceted gems might burn
his fingers. "Was this there a minute ago?" he asked.

"It was there when I opened the drawer and looked for it. It is there
now, when you are touching it. But put it back in the drawer, Mr.
Channing."

Channing did so. Qui Dor shut the drawer.

"Now where is it?" the Targoffian Ambassador demanded.

"In the drawer."

"Indeed? How do you know?"

"Well, I--suppose I don't know."

"Open the drawer, if you please."

Channing did, and found the tiara. "See?"

"Yes, but what about when the drawer was shut? I admit, it's a
difficult concept to grasp at once. You see, we of Targoff are not
interested whether the tiara exists when someone is not actively
perceiving it or not. It exists when existence becomes a necessary
quality for it. It's a Monday, Wednesday, Friday concept, Mr. Channing.
Your mind can grasp it only at times, and perhaps even then flittingly.
Like the ontological proof for the existence of your God: by
definition. He is an infinitely perfect Being. Since existence is one
of the qualities of infinite perfection, He exists. Do I make myself
clear?"

"No-o."

"Here. Take the tiara to your wife. My compliments. Things will work
out for you, Mr. Channing."

"I came here to work out some compromise with you," Channing said,
pocketing the tiara, then feeling foolish and placing it back on the
desk, then deciding that would be quite undiplomatic and pocketing it
again while Qui Dor's round eyes fairly sparkled. "Instead, I find
myself being lectured on the philosophy behind the trouble. That
doesn't help."

"You're confused, Mr. Channing. When I said things will work out for
you, I meant it. More I cannot tell you, except to say the matter is
entirely up to you. I should have said things can work out for you. I'm
sorry if this sounds cryptic, but I can tell you no more. Incidentally,
I'm sure your wife will like the tiara."

It did sound cryptic. Channing did not know if Qui Dor was sorry.
Channing was sorry.

Maybe he'd be better off giving the tiara to Mrs. Delacourt.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Channing could make only a negative report to Mrs. Delacourt,
the wheels began their spinning. Health and P. W. tendered a frosty
ultimatum which he was forced to ignore because he lacked policy-making
authority. Someone bent the First Lady's ear, who in turn bent the
President's. When State himself returned from India with a redder face
but no answers, he received a verbal whipping and almost achesonian
condemnation in the press. Clearly, he needed a scapegoat.

While State was being chastized by the President, the scapegoat was
home in Center Moriches, determined to rescue something from the
sinking ship of life. He'd effect a reconciliation with Ellen and they
could debate the ultimate disposition of little Stephanie at some
later date.

A savory aroma assailed his nostrils from the kitchen. He found Ellen
there, scurrying from pot to pot, a determined look on her face, a
stray lock of chestnut hair loose over one eye.

"Chicken cacciatore," he said, breathing deeply. "Hey now, we haven't
had that at home in a long time."

"Too long," said Ellen, stirring the delicious contents of a large pot.
"A girl can make mistakes, dear. Smell good?"

"Wonderful."

"I knew you'd listen to reason. I just knew it."

"Well, I'm a reasonable guy." What was she talking about? he wondered.

"That's why I married you. Taste?"

"No. I'll wait till it's on the table."

"Stephanie's gained another pound."

"That's--uh, fine."

"I must say, you don't seem as enthused about her as you did before."

"Before?"

"This morning."

He had been in his office all morning, taking the afternoon off to come
home. "What did I say?" Funny, he did not remember calling her.

"You know what you said."

"Honest, I don't."

"Say, are you planning to renege or something?"

"Ellen, something's screwy. I don't remember calling you this morning."

"That's because you didn't, dear."

"But you said I said--"

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"No."

"You were here all morning. You weren't gone more than an hour when you
came back."

"I--came back?"

"Of course."

"I did not."

"Are you trying to stand there and tell me we didn't have a long talk
this morning in Stephanie's room? Are you trying to stand there and
tell me we didn't decide to keep Stephanie and maybe even get her a
little brother in a year or so?"

"What's got into you? I never said anything of the kind."

"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...."

"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."

State stared Qui Dor down. "I thought you said--"

"I don't understand it," Qui Dor protested.

"They tried to have me killed," Channing said quite matter-of-factly,
as if it weren't very important to him. "Because I was real, I couldn't
be willed out of existence. This ties the whole thing up, boss. Qui Dor
and the Denebian Ambassador are working together in a conspiracy to--"

"Your whole case," Qui Dor interrupted him, "rests on one simple fact.
You claim we created a double for you because we wanted a spy, as
you put it--an informant would be better--to keep us abreast of all
diplomatic developments here. Well, I will admit it. You are the real
Channing and this other man is your copy."

The copy moaned softly. Channing felt sorry for him.

"But," Qui Dor went on, "the copy was never created for that purpose,
and I can prove it. Mr. Secretary, will you summon the witness I have
waiting?"

State nodded, glared at Channing, opened a door. In walked Ellen.
"Darling," she murmured, running into Channing's arms. "I'm ready to
admit I was wrong. I don't want Stephanie. I don't want your copy. I
want you."

"You see, Channing," Qui Dor explained, "after you and Mrs. Channing
began to argue about the little girl she had purchased from my
representative, she decided to purchase, for a trial period, a copy of
you which had all of your traits she liked, and none of the bad ones."

"You didn't," Channing said.

Ellen nodded slowly. "I--I guess I did. I was wrong."

Qui Dor offered State a forgiving smile. "You see how you Earthmen can
jump to conclusions?" he asked. "What is so nefarious about the woman
ordering a twin of her husband?"

"Plenty," Mrs. Delacourt snapped at him. "You're wrecking our
social institutions. Of course, I wouldn't put anything past the
Channings--all three of them."

"That's beside the point," the Denebian Ambassador spoke for the first
time. "In all fairness to the man from Targoff, we ought to think of
first things first. If you want my opinion as an objective observer--"

"That's a laugh," Channing shouted. "You know damn well you're not
objective and never were."

"--I would say this man Channing is a trouble maker. I think I told you
he assaulted me not long ago."

"Yes," State admitted, "you did. I do wish, Mr. Ambassador, that
whatever happens here never goes beyond this office."

"I understand," Sarchix assured him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Frustration mounted in Channing and exploded. "You're all a bunch of
gullible fools!" he cried. "Letting them pull the wool over your eyes
like that. The only one with any sense is Mrs. Delacourt."

State crimsoned. "That's enough, Channing. If I were your wife, I would
choose the copy."

Ellen shook her head firmly.

"In that case," Qui Dor said, "we might as well eliminate the second
Bryan Channing. You are quite sure, Mrs. Channing?"

"Oh, yes."

"I don't believe my wife had anything to do with it," Channing blurted.
"Maybe this isn't Ellen at all. Maybe she's a copy." Prove it, he told
himself wearily. Go ahead and try to prove it.

Qui Dor ignored him. "Let me tell you in advance," he said, "that
the elimination of a copy extends beyond the merely physical. When
the second Channing disappears, so will your memory of him. You will
remember that any individual, any object--created by me or not--is
merely a collocation of qualities perceived by you, the people aware
of the object. To destroy the object is to destroy the collocation of
qualities within your minds--past, present, and future."

In spite of himself, Channing was interested. "But according to the
British Empiricists, God's awareness was the constant conserver...."

"We of Targoff are atheists. We have no God-memory, no constant
conserver. But why debate it _a priori_. Watch."

"Wait, please ..." wailed Channing's copy. It was his own voice and it
was unnerving.

The copy wasn't. Not gradually, but all at once. The copy vanished.

"Well," said State, gazing about in a brief moment of confusion, "you
haven't been able to prove your point, Channing. I see no evidence of
collusion here. What were you trying to tell me, anyway?"

Channing shook his head. "I don't remember." It was as if he had just
awakened from a dream and the more he tried to remember it, the vaguer
his memory of it became.

"I suppose you know you're through, Channing."

"I--I was fired, wasn't I?"

"You were. I can't remember why, though ... wait a minute." The
Secretary had seen Mrs. Delacourt.

"Certainly," she said, dragging herself up from the same un-remembered
dream. "I insisted on it."

"You'll get decent references," said State.

"Thank you."

"Mr. Ambassador--both of you--I'm terribly sorry about all this. If
I can use my good offices in any manner whatever to help you, feel
perfectly free to--"

"One more thing," Channing said. "One thing before I go."

"Yes?"

"In a moment." He frowned. He scratched his head. He sensed that some
vital cog had been slipped from his memory and all the little pieces
which remained had fallen apart chaotically. "I guess I'll go," he said
slowly. "I don't remember." He edged toward the door, Ellen following
him.

"I don't care who's fired," Mrs. Delacourt told anyone who would
listen. "Something has got to be done about the Targoffians."

Nick was going to Targoff to do something about it, Channing thought
dreamily. No, he was going to Deneb, via Targoff. Channing was supposed
to call him.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I've got to make a call to Deneb."

"Deneb?" Sarchix thumped his tail.

"The Earth Embassy there. Our explorer, Nicholson." While State
protested and Mrs. Delacourt went on complaining, Channing placed the
call on their sub-space tie-line. If anyone could get rid of Qui Dor
and his copies, it was Nick. But strangely, Channing had thought he had
something concrete to go on. Well, Nick might help.

       *       *       *       *       *

They spoke at length and Channing told the explorer to hold on. He
turned to Sarchix. "Mr. Ambassador," he said, "I thought you'd like to
know that we've done Deneb a great favor."

"What's that? What did you do?"

"We established diplomatic relations between Targoff and Deneb."

"You're joking."

"No. Honest."

"Why in the world did you do that? I mean, it would seem that we're
capable of making our own decisions when it comes to--"

"Uh-uh," Channing shook his head. "You just refused to accept a good
thing when you saw it. Good old Targoff and its magic. Now that
relations are established, of course, if for any reason you decide to
break them, that won't look so good as far as the rest of the galaxy
is concerned--unless Earth and Deneb should decide to break relations
with Targoff simultaneously."

"Let me at that telio!" Sarchix cried, and was soon busy talking with
Nick in English and someone else in Denebian.

"Will someone please tell me what's happening?" State demanded.

"I'm not sure," Channing said. "Somehow, Deneb discovered Targoff
and hid the fact, then got us to discover it. It was a way to wreck
Earth's position in the galaxy, and to weaken Earth over a long period
of time to such an extent that Deneb would be top dog. But now, as the
Ambassador is beginning to find out, Deneb will also be confronted with
a lower standard of living, a high divorce rate, a low birth rate, food
which doesn't prevent malnutrition, medicine which cures symptoms but
not disease...."

"I see, I see," Mrs. Delacourt beamed on Channing for the first time
since they had met. "Everyone can save face if Earth and Deneb break
off relations with Targoff at the same time."

"Right. Only poor Targoff gets left out in the cold."

"I assure you, it is far worse than that," said Qui Dor.

Sarchix had finished on the tie-line and turned to face Channing with
a beaten look on his face--if you could call it a face and the slight
change of feature-orientation a beaten look. Channing thought you could.

"Then we both break relations with Targoff?" he said.

"No." Sarchix shook his head sadly. Qui Dor paced about the room as if
he were cornered. He seemed to know it and Sarchix did, although no one
else seemed to notice.

At one and the same instant, Qui Dor and Ellen disappeared. A flitting
realization barely made itself felt in Channing's mind. Two of them,
but with no chance to take root. This was not Ellen. This was a copy
created by Qui Dor to convince them Ellen had wanted ... wanted
something, he couldn't remember what, created. Targoff and Qui Dor had
not been discovered by Sarchix of Deneb--the Denebians had created
them. The original power resided in the Denebians!

White hot and searing, it entered his mind--and vanished. He watched
the Denebian Ambassador shaking hands with the Secretary of State
before leaving the room. Somehow, the Denebian Ambassador looked glum,
as if he had lost something important.

"Am I fired or something?" Channing wanted to know.

"I seem to remember some talk about it," State said vaguely. "But it
doesn't make sense. There's no reason to fire you."

"I should be angry at this young man," Mrs. Delacourt mused. "Can't
remember why. Well, good day, Mr. Secretary."

She left.

"What did she want?" State asked Channing.

"Beats me."

"I'm tired, Channing. Going to take the afternoon off. You look bushed
yourself. Why don't you do the same?"

"Thanks," said Channing.

"I'll keep in touch with the office and call you if you're needed."

"Much obliged," said Channing, and headed for home.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ellen didn't let him go into the kitchen, but he could smell the
chicken cacciatore, anyway. Dinner was interrupted, however, when he
received a call from State.

"This will interest your man Nicholson, Channing," the Secretary
said, "although it isn't actually in our field. If he's ever in the
neighborhood, he might investigate, though."

"What will interest him? Say, where is Nicholson, anyway? Seems to me I
sent him someplace. Well, he'll turn up."

"Nothing much, really. It seems a star six hundred light years
galactic north of Deneb disappeared. Since it didn't have any planets,
I suppose it really doesn't matter."

"I'll try to remember and tell Nick," said Channing. "Did the star
have a name or just a catalogue number?"

"They named it after the man who discovered it with the new Luna
telescope. Professor Targoff. It's called Targoff's Star."




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