“But suppose there was somebody else who could work the psych field amp, somebody who had a real motive for murdering Sir Etherium and Lex Largesse? You see, the Lifestylers were reading the future one day and they learned some very dangerous information about Johnny Quog’s political ambitions. Next, I imagine, they got in touch with certain Peace Party officials and told them that unless Quog dropped out of the elections, they would alert the rest of the galaxy.
“Quog didn’t pay any attention to them, so the Lifestylers went ahead—but before they could talk, two of them were murdered and the rest scared enough to keep their mouths shut. The point is, the assassinations were political; the only people who stood to gain were supporters of Johnny Quog.”
Nick paused, hoping that Senator Harmon would prevent him from continuing, but the speaker grill remained silent. He took a deep breath. It was becoming more and more difficult to speak.
“All humans have psi powers, but usually their concentration is too diffuse to make use of it. That’s because their bodies are busy moving around and breathing and digesting food. But this particular person’s body was mechanically maintained so his concentration had nothing to distract it. Naturally he never let on that he had the power; it was too useful a tool. And he was such a respectable old gentleman nobody ever dreamed he was a murderer.”
Nick could say no more.
Almost a minute later Senator Harmon crackled, “And who is this person, Nicholas?”
Nick’s voice was barely audible.
“You.”
Another long silence elapsed before the senator spoke again.
“I’ve always thought you were a fool, Nicholas. You didn’t survive your first term of medical school. Your only interests seem to be rocket polo and women. Your job at Mutagen was a result of my personal connections, and only my influence has stopped you from being fired. Yet you’ve unraveled this incident quite nicely. The only element you’ve neglected is your friend Ms. Hasannah. It was not by whim that we chose her as our sacrificial lamb. We intend to demand reparations from the Alta-Tyberians, reparations for the loss of our Lifestylers.”
“Pallinite,” Nick said.
“Indeed. We have a fleet of warships standing ready. As soon as Ms. Hasannah is apprehended and tried, we will dispatch them for her planet and the vast resources of pallinite will be ours.”
“But it won’t give you military superiority,” Nick objected. “I’ve seen the future myself—I’ve seen what will happen. The surfaces of our planets will become uninhabitable. We’ll all be living underground in bottles while robots act out our lives.”
“Yes, Nicholas, but I am already living in a bottle. It won’t make any difference to me.”
“I won’t let you,’’ Nick said, starting toward him. It would be simple enough to pull out a few tubes and let the milky fluorocarbons drain onto the marble floor. Oddly, he felt no compunction. This thing of indescribable evil—this was not his father. His father had died years ago. Hali had been right about the existence of the soul.
“Let me show you something,” the senator said, pressing a door slide built into the desk.
The door began to open. Nick turned, drawing the nerve gun from under his waistband. Although it was too dark to distinguish the man’s features, something about the figure silhouetted in the doorway made Nick’s skin crawl.
“Come in, Nicholas,” the senator said.
He entered the room and faced Nick, and it was as though Nick were regarding himself in a mirror: the same tall, rangy body; the same muscular limbs; identical black hair, thick and unruly; identical face, broad and handsome. Yet instead of Nick’s sweet, lopsided smile, this double wore a look of unmitigated hatred, a hatred so strong it seemed to seep from his pores like a fetid perfume.
The hand in which Nick held the nerve gun began to shake.
“Your donor double,” the senator said.
Was it possible? Could they have crept into the cryogenic vaults and awakened him, he who had been cloned from the same egg as Nick, who had been intended to exist solely as a donor of spare parts, a second, a replacement, a sleeper in the shadow world while Nick walked in the sunlight? (No wonder the hatred and jealousy burned so intensely in his black, black eyes.) There was one way to be certain: the three middle fingers of Nick’s left hand had been crushed playing rocket polo; the replacements had come from his donor double. As if reading his mind, the other man held up his left hand and then there was no doubt; a thumb, a pinky, three stumps in between.
“I’ll take those fingers back from you,” the other Nicholas said. “They’re rightfully mine.” His voice too was identical.
“It’s not my fault,” Nick protested, pointing at the senator. “He’s the one who cloned you and put you in storage.”
But the hatred in the other Nicholas’ eyes was beyond the reach of reason, wild and obsessional.
“He’ll be taking your place,” the senator explained. “He will admit that Hali Hasannah confused him with her psi powers, and beg forgiveness. He will explain how the Alta-Tyberians sent her to murder our Lifestylers and betray our friendship and trust.”
‘‘If he’s been asleep since he was born,” Nick said, ‘‘then how did he learn to talk?”
‘‘We gave him a dose of your memory RNA”—a sample was kept on file from every employee of Mutagen, so replacements could be easily trained in case of a death—‘‘and intensive hypnotherapy. In a few days we’ve taught him almost as much as you’ve learned in your twenty-eight years. He’s nearly identical to you; only your closest friends will notice the difference, and they will be persuaded to keep quiet. You must forgive me, Nicholas, for doing this, but now that you’ve seen what the Lifestylers saw, you cannot be allowed to live. Nothing must interfere with the election of Johnny Quog.”
‘‘You’re going to kill me?” Nick asked in disbelief. It all seemed somehow absurd and dreamlike.
“No,” Senator Harmon replied, ‘‘he is.”
Nick faced his double and saw that he too held a nerve gun in his right hand. They faced each other in identical stances—with one difference: one Nicholas’ hand shook while the other’s was steady as the earth.
The other Nicholas smiled. ‘‘We’re more than twins. I know every thought you’re thinking. You can try to run from me, but I’ll know where you’re hiding. You can try to trick me, but I'll know what you’re planning. I’ll kill you, Nick— I'll kill you because I have one big advantage. I despise you with every cell in my body. And I know that you couldn’t kill me if you wanted to. Go ahead.” He smirked. ‘‘Try to kill me.”
Nick pulled at the trigger. His hand shook more and more. Finally he threw the gun in the other man’s face and dashing around him, made for the door.
The senator tried to trap him by tripping the door slide on the desk, but Nick squeezed through and raced down the hall.
A bell was clanging—the burglar alarm. In seconds the guards would be after him. Reaching the window through which he had entered, Nick inched out onto the arch and, dangling from his hands, dropped the twelve feet to the lawn.
He had hoped for a few minutes’ grace, but the guards
were already out; they converged on the house from every corner of the lawn. Nick ducked behind a thick hedge of creeberry bushes and crouched there motionless, waiting for them to pass.
A voice identical to his own cried out: “Look behind the creeberry bushes.”
Of course the other Nick knew about it; this was where he had always hidden as a child. In the future he would have to be more careful, he would have to double-think every move. Keeping low and weaving, Nick ran for the cover of the baroque fountain in the middle of the lawn; then he made for the street.