* * * * * Horning lashed out with the wrench, straight at the other's head. It struck home with a sound like that of a dropped watermelon bursting on a concrete sidewalk. The killer went limp. Horning sagged back, panting. After a moment, he saw that his counterpart had stopped breathing. Horning staggered to his feet. His stomach churned. He lurched to the wastebasket beside the desk and vomited. Then a dull, shuffling sound impinged upon him. Swaying, Horning came erect and peered round behind him. Myrtle stood in the doorway, eyes blacker and beadier than ever. Her jaw was set, her greying hair loose and disheveled. She wore a frayed, ancient kimona and dirty white mules. Horning choked, "Myrtle, get back--!" and tried to move round between her and the bodies. But she pushed past without speaking, straight to his fallen counterpart, and bent as swiftly as her bulk would allow. When she straightened, she held the murderer's pistol in her hand. "Myrtle, be careful--!" She shoved him back with a meaty hand, blocking him with her body, the gun held behind her. He could not read her expression. When she spoke, her voice was flat and without feeling, no longer strident: "I heard it all, Raymond--all the conniving ... how you hate me ... that monster's scheme to steal his wife's fortune...." Horning shrugged, not bothering to answer. Squatting down, he began gathering together the tools spilled from the workbench. "Raymond...." Horning glanced up, then stiffened. Myrtle had brought round the pistol. She was pointing it at him. In the same flat voice she said: "Put on that outfit, Raymond. That transdimensional whatever-you-call-it." Horning let the tools fall. "Are you out of your mind, woman? In this shambles, with two corpses...." He choked, unable to go on. Myrtle said: "Put it on." Her face was a mask, an enigma. Her voice stayed low, completely devoid of emotion. "I'll kill you if you don't." Horning stared into his wife's eyes. They were inscrutable, hard and blank and black as twin balls of polished onyx. Myrtle's lips parted. Her jowls quivered. She steadied the pistol. Very slowly, very wearily, Horning rose. Wordless, he crossed to the transdimensional registration unit and strapped it on. "Go over in the corner," his wife ordered. "Stand with your face against the wall." Horning obeyed. He wondered whether Myrtle intended to shoot him in the back. Or maybe she'd just gone mad. Whatever it was, he decided, he didn't much care. * * * * * Metal scraped on metal. Something thudded on the floor. The hoarse wheeze of Myrtle's breathing, the slap and shuffle of her mules, sounded loud in the stillness. After another moment, Myrtle said, "Turn around." Horning pivoted, then stared. His wife now wore the other transit unit, the one by means of which Horning's counterpart had crossed the barrier between the parallel worlds.