e. There's this
woman--this Margie Hayman. This woman you call the Doll."

That one jerked me around.

"Exactly. Now listen very carefully. You aren't entirely you anymore,
Mr. Anders. I mean, you aren't the complete _whole_ individual you as
you once were. You love this woman. Something inside you has gone out
and is now a part of her."

"Therefore, if you will just discard the thought of her sometime
between now and when you take that ship up I can attach myself to her
sentient being, don't you see, and thereby exist--at least
partly--even though you yourself are dead."

I pushed myself unsteadily to my feet. I stared at the entire black
repulsive undulating mass before me. I took a step toward it.

"It isn't much to ask, Mr. Anders. You've quarrelled with her. You
want no more of her. You've practically told her that. All I ask is
that you finish the job--forget her. Discard her--throw her into the
mental junk pile of Abandonment."

I didn't take any more steps. Something inside me was screaming, was
ripping at my guts, was roaring with all the cacaphony of all the
giant discords of all eternity. Something inside my brain was sucking
all my strength in one tremendous, surging power-dive of wish
fulfillment. I was willing the black mucous mass of him out of my
consciousness.

He was no longer there. The only thing to prove he'd ever been there
at all was a very-old, very-rusty penknife over on the table in front
of the davenport--the knife with my name carved on the bone handle.

After that I went unsteadily to the dresser in the living room. I got
the Doll's picture down off the dresser. I undressed. I took the
picture to bed with me. The lights burned in my bedroom the entire
night.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Colonel Melrose looked weatherbeaten. His graying hair was
pulled here and there like a rag mop that's dried dirty--stiff. He had
a freshly lit cigarette between his lips. He grinned nervously when he
saw me, butted the cigarette, said in a thin voice, "This is it,
Anders. Ship goes up in twenty minutes."

"I know," I said.

He poked another cigarette at his lips. He said, "What?" in a startled
tone.

"Nothing," I said. "All right, I'll get ready."

He lit the cigarette, took a puff that made the smoke do a frenetic
dance around his nostrils. He jabbed it at an ashtray, bobbed his head
in a convulsive movement, said, "Righto!"

They strapped me in. Pop came to the