ced at his watch. "By God!" he muttered. "_Maybe you
could_--"

* * * * *

Blackness.

He had no body, no form. There was no light, no shape, nothing but
eternal, dismal, unbroken blackness. This was the Void, the place
where time had not yet come. Roger Strang shuddered, and felt the cold
chill of the blackness creep into his marrow. He had to move. He
wanted to move, to find the right place, moving with the infinity of
possible bodies. A stream of consciousness was all he could grasp, for
the blackness enclosed everything. A sort of death, but he knew he was
not dead. Blackness was around him, and in him, and through him.

He could feel the timelessness, the total absence of anything.
Suddenly he felt the loneliness, for he knew there was no going back.
He had to transfer his consciousness, his mind, to the place where the
Dictator was, hoping against hope that he could find the place before
time caught him wedged in the substance of the stone walls of the
Palace. He reached the place that _should_ be right, and waited--

And waited. There was no time in this place, and he had to wait for
the normal time stream. The blackness worked at his mind, filling him
with fear, choking him, making him want to scream in frightened
agony--waiting--

And suddenly, abruptly, he was standing in a brightly lighted room.
The arched dome over his head sparkled with jewels, and through
paneled windows the red glow of the city's fires flickered grimly. _He
was in the Palace!_

He looked about swiftly, and crossed the room toward a huge door. In
an instant he had thrown it open. The bright lights of the office
nearly blinded him, and the man behind the desk rose angrily, caught
Roger's eye full--

Roger gasped, his eyes widening. For a moment he thought he was
staring into a mirror. For the man behind the desk, clothed in a rich
glowing tunic was a living image of--_himself!_

The Dictator's face opened into startled surprise and fear as he
recognized Roger, and a frightened cry came from his lips. There was
no one else in the room, but his eyes ran swiftly to the visiphone.
With careful precision Roger Strang brought the heat-pistol to eye
level, and pulled the trigger. Farrel Strang crumpled slowly from the
knees, a black hole scorched in his chest.

Roger ran to the fallen man, stared into his face incredulously. His
son--and himself, as alike as twin dolls, for all the age difference.
Dreng