His facsimile cut him short. “No time for long-winded explanations. I know more about it than you do—you’ll concede that—and my judgment is bound to be better than yours. He doesn’t go through the Gate.”
The offhand arrogance of the other antagonized Wilson. “I don’t concede anything of the sort—” he began.
He was interrupted by the telephone bell. “Answer it!” snapped Number Three.
The tipsy Number One looked belligerent but picked up the handset. “Hello. . . . Yes. Who is this? . . . Hello. . . . Hello!” He tapped the bar of the instrument, then slammed the receiver back into its cradle.
“Who was that?” Wilson asked, somewhat annoyed that he had not had a chance to answer it himself.
“Nothing. Some nut with a misplaced sense of humor.” At that instant the telephone rang again. “There he is again!” Wilson tried to answer it, but his alcoholic counterpart beat him to it, brushed him aside. “Listen, you butterfly-brained ape! I’m a busy man and this is not a public telephone. . . . Huh? Oh, it’s you, Genevieve. Look—I’m sorry. I apologize
—. . . You don’t understand, honey. A guy has been pestering me over the phone and I thought it was him. You know I wouldn’t talk to you that way, babe. . . . Huh? This afternoon? Did you say this afternoon? Sure. Fine. Look, babe, I’m a little mixed up about this. Trouble I’ve had all day long and more trouble now. I’ll look you up tonight and straighten it out. But I know I didn’t leave your hat in my apartment—. . . Huh? Oh, sure! Anyhow, I’ll see you tonight. ‘By.”
It almost nauseated Wilson to hear his earlier self catering to the demands of that clinging female. Why didn’t he just hang up on her? The contrast with Arma—there was a dish!—was acute; it made him more
determined than ever to go ahead with the plan, despite the warning of the latest arrival.
After hanging up the phone his earlier self faced~him, pointedly ignoring the presence of the third copy. “Very well, Joe,” he announced. “I’m ready to go if you are.”
“Fine!” Wilson agreed with relief. “Just step through. That’s all there is to it.”
“No, you don’t!” Number Three barred the way.
Wilson started to argue, but his erratic comr2de was ahead of him. “Listen, you! You come butting in here like you think I was a bum. If you don’t like it, go jump in the lake—and I’m just the kind of a guy who can do it! You and who else?”
They started trading punches almost at once. Wilson stepped in warily, looking for an opening that would enable him to put the slug on Number Three with one decisive blow.
He should have watched his drunken ally as well. A wild swing from that quarter glanced off his already damaged features and caused him excruciating pain. His upper lip, cut, puffy and tender from his other encounter, took the blow and became an area of pure agony. He flinched and jumped back.
A sound cut through his fog of pain, a dull smack! He forced his eyes to track and saw the feet of a man disappear through the Gate. Number Three was still standing by the Gate. “Now you’ve done it!” he said bitterly to Wilson, and nursed the knuckles of his left hand.
The obviously unfair allegation reached Wilson at just the wrong moment. His face still felt like an experiment in sadism. “Me?” he said angrily. “You knocked him through. I never laid a finger on him.”
“Yes, but it’s your fault. If you hadn’t interfered, I wouldn’t have had to do it.”
‘Me interfere? Why, you bald faced hypocrite—you butted in and tried to queer the pitch. Which reminds me—you owe me some explanations and I damn well mean to have ‘em. What’s the idea of—”
But his opposite number cut in on him. “Stow it,” he said gloomily. “It’s too late now. He’s gone through.”
“Too late for what?” Wilson wanted to~know.
“Too late to put a stop to this chain of events.”
“Why should we?”
“Because,” Number Three said bitterly, “Diktor has played me—I mean has played you. . . us—for a dope, for a couple of dopes. Look, he