HOLD ONTO YOUR BODY! _By Richard O. Lewis_ People do strange things--an example, committing suicide for no apparent reason. Unless it's time for a change of identity! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy October 1953 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "Fidwell," I said, "why don't you go lose yourself!" He stared at me uncomprehendingly for a full three seconds. Then a glimmer of understanding leaped into his beady little eyes and he got up from the chair before my desk and started happily toward the outer door of the office. "Okay, Mr. Nelson," he said over a thin shoulder. "Just whatever you say." "Better still," I amended, tapping the glass top of my desk with manicured nails, "go shoot yourself." He nodded blithely. "Just as you say, T. J. Just as you say." He always called me T. J. when he felt that I was giving him a measure of attention. "Wait," I said, as he reached the door. "Do you by any chance own a gun?" He turned, a frown spreading between his mousy brows. "No," he said, slowly, "I don't." Then he brightened. "But I could purchase one!" "Fine," I said, tossing him a bill. "Buy a couple bullets for it, too." He caught the money, smiled, nodded, and left--closing the door softly and respectfully behind him. Humming a merry little tune, I turned to the papers upon my desk. The partnership contract between James Fidwell and T. J. Nelson. _If one of the partners should die from any cause, the other partner would become sole owner of the Remey Company...._ They seemed quite in order. I shuffled them into a neat pile and cut an intricate little dance step on my way to the files with them. The partnership was soon to reach a happy culmination. Suicide has it all over murder, you know. No silly questions from the police. No mess to clean up. No body to get rid of. (The relatives usually take care of all that.) No bother at all, really. I skipped back to the desk, flipped up the telephone, and began poking a finger into the little holes in the dial. "Mr. Pasquamine?" I chimed, after hearing the faint click at the other end of the wire. "Yes." "This is T. J.," I said, chummily. "You still own that block of floating stock in the Remey Company, don't you?" "Yes." "Fine! Fine!" I complimented. "Bring it over to my office as soon as possible. And, by the way," I added, casually, "have it transferred to my name, you know." "Yes." He was in my office in less than an hour, his fat hulk sweating and panting in the chair before my desk, the heavy lids drooping over his black eyes. The stocks were piled neatly before me. I thumbed through them. They seemed to be quite in order. I skipped across the room to the files with them.