unds of panic at the
other end. He and Pierce chortled over the frantic queries and
exclamations from the victim. The whole thing, succinct and pointed
and with the dramatic power of simplicity, was one super practical
joke which would set the entire solar system scurrying around for the
next few weeks.

The ramifications would be endless. Persons would vanish abruptly and
take up new names and identities in the obscure countries, others
would draw out their heavy savings and take the first rocket out from
Earth. There would be a new influx of refugees to the Belt, new
settlers to be honest farmers and factory workers and repair men.

Yes, the situation was dramatic.

The day was a good day.

But as Bryce hung up on the last call, a depressing sense of calamity,
unsettlingly anti-climatic, began to press down on him. Pierce was
talking about plans for the next week with an enthusiasm which should
have been completely contagious.

But there was something wrong. There was something wrong.

What was it?

Bryce felt Pierce's enthusiasm catch at him and start to sweep him
away. He savored the pleased glow produced by the shattering changes
he had managed to cram into one day. With six telephone calls he had
broken the drug ring completely and forever, broken it so completely
that no member of it would ever have dealings with any member of it
again. All of them were out of business, fleeing with the imaginary
hounds of the law baying at their heels.

He smiled at the thought.

And then his smile faded for some strange reason and he ceased
listening to Pierce for a moment, looked away and ceased listening,
for hearing Pierce just then distracted oddly from the clarity of his
thinking. He wanted to review what he had just done.

What was wrong?

What?

He struggled with a mounting confusion, the desk top and telephones
blurring as he tried to concentrate with desperate effort.

Unexpectedly the question sprang into focus. It was as if the room
turned inside out, the day turned upside down.

He had smashed himself--not UT!

Why?

Why had he made those calls--changed his plans--and made those calls?

With the most perfect and terrible clarity he saw the results of what
he had done. The organization destroyed. The contacts he had made
fifteen years ago as an anonymous young dock hand, contacts that as
Bryce Carter he could never make again--vanishing--merging with the
great mass of the public--becoming gray