orld any more, anyway."

He went around to the other side of the truck while she slid to the
driver's seat.

"Tomorrow's going to be the twelfth," she said. "Do you realize that?"

"I hadn't given it much thought," admitted Sam, "but what's the
difference?"

"That's the day where the other you was when he called you up the first
time."

"That's right," said Sam morbidly. "It is."

"And so far," added Rosie, jamming her foot viciously down on the
accelerator, "I've kept you honest. If you change into a scoundrel
between now and tomorrow--"

She changed to second gear. The truck jerked and bounced.

"Hey!" cried Sam. "Watch your driving!"

"Don't you tell me how to drive!"

"But if I get killed before tomorrow--"

* * * * *

Rosie changed gear again, but too soon. The truck bucked, and she jammed
down the accelerator again, and it almost leaped off the road.

"If you get killed before tomorrow," raged Rosie, "it'll serve you
right! I've been thinking and thinking and thinking. And even if I stop
you from being a crook, there'll always be that--other you--knowing
everything we say and do." She was hitting forty miles an hour and
speeding up. "So there'd still be no use. No hope, anyway."

She sobbed, partly in fury and partly in grief. And the roadway curved
sharply just about there and she swung the truck crazily around it--and
there was a car standing only halfway off the road.

[Illustration]

Sam grabbed for the steering wheel, but there wasn't time. The light
half-truck, still accelerating, hit the parked car with the noise of
dozens of empty oil-drums falling downstairs. The truck slued around,
bounced back, and then it charged forward and slammed into the parked
car a second time. Then it stalled.

[Illustration]

Somebody yelled at Sam. He got out of the truck, looking at the damage
and trying to figure out how it was that neither he nor Rosie had been
killed, and trying worriedly to think how he was going to explain to the
telephone company that he'd let Rosie drive.

The voice yelled louder. Right at the edge of the woodland, there was a
reddish-haired character screaming at him and tugging at his hip pocket.
The words he used were not fit for Rosie's shell-like ears--even if they
probably came near matching the way she felt. The reddish-haired man
said more nasty words at the top of his voice. His hand came out of his
hip pocket with something glittering in