Horner's first impulse was to run. What could he explain to Jane now? Whatever he tried was doomed to failure by the simple presence of the other Hugh Horner--of the convict, Lionel Overman, in Horner's body, he now realized. He should have expected it. Overman and the other seven men in the observation room, the auburn-haired girl had said at _Bodies, Inc._, had approved of the switch. It was a question of money, the girl had said. And now Horner knew that was a lie. It had to be a lie. It wasn't a question of money at all. Lionel Overman was a convict. And the others? Convicts too, Horner decided. Glad to trade twenty years of their lives for freedom.... Apparently they had been recruited in prison by hirelings of _Bodies, Inc._ Apparently they knew the full score. Lionel Overman--in Horner's body--seemed quite sure of himself. "Good God!" Horner blurted. "You're me! You have my body--Horner's that is!" "Quiet, you fool," the other Hugh Horner told him. "The old lady'll hear you. I'll give you this much of a break: get lost and I won't call the cops. But beat it--fast!" "Now listen--" Horner began. His voice trailed off. He had nothing to say. He understood, but he was stunned. Intellectual understanding and emotional acceptance of a situation, he knew, having learned the hard way, were two different things. But he studied Lionel Overman in Hugh Horner's body, and was more determined than ever that he would not go back, if going back were possible. The Hugh Horner he looked at was an ageing man. Forty-seven? He looked easily that old. He was a dumpy man with a sagging-jowled face, small, rather close-set eyes and a receding hair line. The eyes looked crafty, too: Horner had never known his eyes to look crafty before. Probably, that was Overman's personality coming through. "You listen to me," Overman said, "and listen good. Get lost. I mean that brother. We both know the score, so don't try to pull any of this bewilderment crap on me. I heard over the radio how you escaped, but hell, man, they got a seven state alarm out for you. I got enough trouble with that bag of an old lady inside--" "What," said Horner in a shocked voice, "did you say?" "I got enough trouble with your bag of a wife, I said," Overman told him. "Hell, man, maybe my body's older now, but my memory ain't. She's a bag. A real bag. But what do you care, huh? You ain't saddled with her any more." "Saddled with her?" Horner mumbled. "Saddled? I--I love my wife. How dare you call her a--a--" Horner went livid with rage, grabbed Overman's arm. * * * * * The small dumpy man lurched toward him. "Hey, leggo--" Overman struck out awkwardly, unathletically, in the Hugh Horner body. Horner warded off the weak blows easily, and hit Overman once, expertly, on the point of the jaw just as Jane Horner called from within the apartment: "Who is it, dear? What's taking so long?"