The Project Gutenberg eBook of Es Percipi, by Stephen Marlowe.

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?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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?"

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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.

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."

"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...."

"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."

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.

"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?"

"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."

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."

"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?"

"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?"

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

"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."

"It depends on your point of view," Channing said. "Objectively, they have nothing. Subjectively, they have everything. Point is, the stuff 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?"

"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."

"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.

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

"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?"

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

"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."

"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."

"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?"

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

"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?"

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.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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?"

"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?"

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.

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

"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.

"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—"

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."

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

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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."

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

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

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."

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."

"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."

"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.

"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?"

"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."

"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?"

"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—"

"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—"

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."

"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?"

"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?"

"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."

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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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'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?"

"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."

"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?"

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

"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?"

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."

"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?"

"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.

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?"

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

"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?"

"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."

"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.

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.

"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."

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?"

"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."

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

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

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

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

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.: 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.

"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.

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

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?"

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.

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.

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.

"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."

"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?"

"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, 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."

"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."

"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.

"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."

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

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

"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."

"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.

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

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

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.

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

"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."

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?"

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

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

"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."

"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."

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

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

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

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

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."

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

"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."

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

"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 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?"

"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...."

"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."

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

"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."

"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.

"... some kind of animal, instead of declaring it. How cheap can people be when they're willing to spend ... it's a man!"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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."

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."

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

"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.

"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.

"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."

"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—"

"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.

"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."

"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.

"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."

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.

"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.

"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."

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

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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Es Percipi

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