In the desk I found a magnifying glass. With it I examined my print and that on the identification, for the right index finger. In every respect they seemed identical. I laid the magnifying glass down slowly. Things were adding up. Things that couldn't be denied. The driver's license was a photostat copy and seemed authentic. The government identification card with the fingerprints on it was encased between sheets of plastic that sealed it. The Rexlo identification was on a printed card. And there was a hospital card giving blood type. All this added up to my being Orville Snyder. I hadn't ever heard the name before. I'd never seen that woman before. I was Fred Martin. I was as certain of that as I could ever be of anything. But I had to be Orville Snyder. I couldn't get out of it. The fingerprint, the man next door who had called me Orville, the woman who ranted at me as only a wife of that type can rant to a man. I was Fred Martin and I knew I was Fred Martin. But I was Orville Snyder. I couldn't go any further. I didn't see how anyone could go any further. Suppose I went to a psychiatrist and told him all this? What explanation would he give? He would obviously say I was insane. Perhaps I was, but it didn't seem so. The thing didn't seem to fit conventional patterns. The only thing a psychiatrist might sink his teeth into was Orville's impossible marital situation. The psychiatrist might say the situation was so intolerable that Orville Snyder was becoming a schizo, and retreating into an identity called Fred Martin. But that was absurd. Such an identity would be fictitious. It wouldn't hold up under critical examination. "To hell with the work I was going to do," I said. I snapped off the lights over my bench and returned the magnifying glass to the desk, switching off that light, and left the lab. * * * * * Outside, I found my car where I had left it. I took out my keys and unlocked it, and slipped in behind the wheel. A moment later I was gliding along familiar streets, taking familiar turns. I put my car in a familiar garage behind an apartment house. I climbed familiar steps to a familiar door, unlocked it, and went in, turning on the lights. This was where I lived. I went to the bookshelves and picked a book at random and opened it. There was my bookplate pasted in it, with my name, Fred Martin, in Gothic letters. I put the book back, and went into the kitchen. I was hungry. I took the last of a beef roast from the refrigerator and cut some slices for a sandwich or two. I took them to the table and went back to the refrigerator for a glass of milk. I sat down and bit into a sandwich. This was where I lived. I was Fred Martin. This business of Orville Snyder was crazy. I took a swallow of cold milk and felt better. I took another bite of the sandwich and laid it down on the plate, and reached for the newspaper--then stopped. Where had the newspaper come from?