Then, like the turning on of a light, I was staring through a windshield. My hands were gripping a steering wheel. I was in my car. And I was Fred Martin! Ahead of me a man was starting to cross the street. I could not see him clearly. But there was something significant about him--something of tremendous significance. My foot was pressed down on the gas. My car was going faster and faster. My hands turned the steering wheel a trifle, heading the car toward the man. And then I knew who he was--Dave Thordsen! * * * * * My blood was ice in my veins. I saw him half turn and see me. He started to run. I turned the wheel so he couldn't escape. He looked over his shoulder at the car, then through the windshield at me, and he recognized me. I could see it in his expression as the left fender struck him and tossed his shattered body aside. At the next corner I turned right. Two blocks later I turned right again. A third time, and ahead of me in the next block a crowd had collected around something at the curb. A man's body. I turned into the driveway and slid the car into my garage stall. The left headlight was broken. I thanked my lucky stars for being the cautious type. I always carried a spare. I got it, and tools, from the trunk of the car. Ten minutes later the job was done. Now I had one more job to do. I'd put it off long enough. I realized that now. Thordsen's discovery of my secret identity had precipitated things. He was dead now, but while I was in the mood I might as well get it all done. It was wrong. I knew it was wrong. But I was Fred Martin and it was something to cling to, to hold to forever. It was better to be Fred Martin than to be nothing. In the glove compartment was a gun, a small size thirty-eight automatic. It belonged to Orville Snyder. I took it out and put it in my pocket. Then I backed my car out of the garage and turned it into the driveway. As I edged across the sidewalk I looked up the street. Police cars were there with their ogling red eyes. And an ambulance. Fear clutched at me. Maybe Thordsen wasn't dead. I fought down the fear. If Thordsen lived, I was done. That possibility made it all the more imperative that I kill-- I didn't know her name. Even now I couldn't get her name. Some psychological block kept it from me. I sat back, mentally, and looked at the situation. The realization slowly simmered through that it wasn't _I_ who had killed Thordsen. It wasn't _I_ who was driving so intently, with my fingers gripping the steering wheel so tensely. I had thought so because I seemed to _possess_ thoughts, tie myself to them and believe them mine. I tried to feel regret for Dave Thordsen. I couldn't, because Fred Martin didn't. I tried to feel horror at what was coming. I couldn't. All I could feel was an overwhelming desire to point the gun at that woman and fire, and see her crumble to the floor.