Foster swore again. "There must be some way--How does he do this anyway?" Foster opened the cabinet-like side of the solid camera and looked at the circuits. They were enigma to Foster, but there was some logic to it--there must be. You create an image and then wipe it away to make place for the next image--just as in common cinema. But in normal cinema it is possible to halt the film and project a still. That's what Harry Foster wanted-- He pulled a single tube from one circuit and snapped the camera on. The stage was blank. He replaced the tube and tried another tube removed by some distance from the first. He started the camera, and the stage flashed into being once and then went blank again. There was a tiny flash from the bottom panel of the machine and Foster looked down to see the indicator of a blown fuse. Foster nodded. Obvious. To stop the wipe-away would mean that the next frame would be placed on top of the first. A double exposure would not work in the solids. Not without repealing that law of nature that states that two things cannot occupy the same space at the same time. What he had to do was to stop the projector at the same time he stopped the wipe-away. Tim Woodart had fixed the machine so that the wipe-away completed the scene after stopping the works. Just a matter of safety. Foster puzzled over the machine and restarted it again. He waited until the image of Harry Foster stared off stage and then he grabbed two tubes and jerked them out simultaneously. The projector stopped; the scene remained. The image of Harry Foster stood there dumbly. Then it turned vaguely and looked at the camera and the man beside it. "Hello, hero," sneered Foster. The image blinked. "I've wondered what might happen," said the spurious Foster. "Yes," chuckled the real Foster, "we have, haven't we?" "I--," started the image, but he stopped and looked wildly around. "What do you want?" "You know." "I'll not do it! You ... we ... ah ... well, it's no go." The real Harry Foster sat down in the director's chair. "I've had more time to plan," he said. "You're just an image--" Foster snarled back, "Not now I'm not. I'm just as real as you are!" "I'm the original; you came out of that camera." "Someone is going to have a time proving it," replied the image Foster. "Yeah," drawled the real Foster, "that's what I'm counting on!" From within his coat, Foster took a revolver. Holding it on his image, Foster replaced the tube and watched the scene resume, with a third Foster going through its paces. He snapped off the camera and the set disappeared, leaving the bare stage. He wiped his fingerprints from the place and then nudged the image Foster with the revolver. "Out," he snapped, pointing with the gun barrel. They went--in a death march. A half hour later, the real Foster handed his image a drink. "Drink deeply," he said sarcastically. "You needn't be afraid to die--you never lived, you know."