I was going to stop on a bridge and leave my coat, with the gun in it, and with my wallet in it, to serve as proof that I had jumped. But it wasn't I. It was Fred Martin. I was fighting to destroy the illusion of his surface thoughts being mine, of my being Fred Martin. It was no use. The most I could accomplish was a conscious realization of the fact. Abruptly I tried another line. If I couldn't divorce myself from him could I actually control him for a brief moment? I had done so before, when he wasn't under emotional tension. I looked at the concrete streetlight standards on the curb. I was travelling fast. Forty-five. If I could twist the wheel and crash into a light standard.... I fought for control of my arms. Beads of perspiration formed on my face. I didn't want to kill myself. Why did I think of such an absurd thing? But it wasn't I who didn't want to kill myself. It was Fred. With that realization I jerked the steering wheel, feeling myself lurch against the door as the car headed for the curb. I was two people, and aware of the thoughts of both. I was Fred, and he had done a curious thing in this last second of his life. He had rejected the knowledge of impending death. To him the light standard was Thordsen, and he was once again going to kill him. And I was myself, aware suddenly that perhaps this was death for me too, for with Fred's death there was nothing to transfer to. I couldn't face it. I changed my mind and jerked frantically at the wheel to avert the crash. And at the same time I felt myself lifted. I saw the sidewalk and buildings spin. I had time to realize the car had hit the curb and was turning over.... * * * * * I frowned at the doodles I had drawn on the notepad. One was a triangle. Another was a crude circle, resting on the bottom of the triangle. "Dr. Mintner," a voice said behind me. I turned my head, startled. A man I had never seen before was standing there, a plastic lab apron covering his shirt front. "What is it?" I said. My thoughts were whirling. I was Mintner. I had always been Mintner. "I think I know what to do about that problem of the dialectric," he said. I smiled. The inexperienced fool. I had worked on that problem for two years. It wasn't going to be solved easily. "Yes?" I said. "I studied it from a different angle than the one you did," he said. "That was what you suggested when I started here two months ago. Try new lines of approach." "That's right," I said. I smiled encouragingly.