I looked up Dave Thordsen's number and dialed it. I recognized the voice of the woman who answered. "Dave," I growled. "I'll be late. Something that has to be done." "Did you go to the radio-therapist?" she asked. "Yes," I grunted. "I'll be home maybe nine. Not later than ten." I had a hasty dinner at the cafe across the street, then caught another taxi to my apartment house. Dismissing the taxi, I walked down the driveway to the line of garage stalls. In the back of mine, I knew, was a packing case I could sit in and wait, and no one could see me. I was restless and uncomfortable. My shoulder ached a little again. I finally relaxed, and began to feel drowsy. I fought against sleep. A car entering the stall would awaken me, but that wasn't what I was afraid of. I was afraid that if I went to sleep I would awaken as someone else, somewhere else. I had about decided to go out front and walk up and down to keep awake, when I heard a car coming. It turned into my stall. I jerked my head back and kept out of sight until I heard the car door open and close. Then I risked a look. A man was locking the car door, and that man was Orville Snyder. My only surprise was that I wasn't surprised. Some part of my mind had expected that. The more I thought of it the more obvious it became. Orville Snyder was also Fred Martin. He was living a double life! I watched him leave the garage. Should I follow him to his apartment--_my_ apartment? Of course, I knew I was going to. I had to. I gave him five minutes, then followed slowly, until I reached the door of the apartment and stopped. I could hear him moving around inside, humming cheerfully. I felt a regret at having to disturb him in his secret existence, but I had to. I was Fred Martin. He was Fred Martin. He was also Orville Snyder, and I wasn't. And right now I was Dave Thordsen, too, and he would know me as Dave Thordsen. I lifted my fist, feeling a stab of rheumatism in my shoulder, and knocked at the door. There was an instant of silence as he stopped humming. Then there were footsteps. A lock grated. The doorknob twisted. He opened the door and looked at me, his eyes going very wide suddenly. "Dave!" he said. "Hello, Fred Martin," I said calmly. He blanched. "Come in," he said hurriedly in a hushed voice. I entered the familiar living room with its shelves lined with my books. Then I turned to face the man who was both Fred Martin and Orville Snyder. "How did you find out?" he asked, his back against the door. "Never mind that," I said. "Tell me your story. That's what I want to hear." He did. All of it. It was a common enough one. He had been born Fred Martin. He had gone to college. One of his companions in college had been Orville Snyder. They had graduated together. Afterwards they had gone their separate ways, keeping in touch with each other by correspondence.