He was up at the fireplace, stirring the embers again. When I finished talking he turned around, the poker clutched in his hand. His face was impassive. "Not only could be, Charley. I am." I suppose there's a time in everybody's life when the chips are down and you have to react automatically, you have no room for thought. I let him have the bottle square in the face and then the poker glanced off my shoulder and he was on me. He gripped me by the throat and forced me back against the wall. "You'll never leave alive," he said and it was like ice-water down my neck because he said it in a monotone, with no emotion at all. I tried to break his grip and couldn't and then the world turned a spotty black and I could feel my life start to slip away like a bar of wet soap. I fell to the floor and doubled my knees and drove my heavy boots into his stomach. He had to loosen his hold then and for a moment I was free. I didn't waste time and I didn't bother about fighting fair. We both went for the poker but I got there first. I killed a man that night. Without compunction, without regrets, without any hesitation. I killed Fred and buried him in the woods and loaded the car that same night. When I started the car it kicked right over and I spun out of there, gravel spraying from beneath the wheels. I didn't breathe any easier until I was a hundred miles away. * * * * * I thought a lot about what I was going to do on the way back. I'm not the hero type but I just can't see them move in on Earth without fighting back. And I consider Fred only the downpayment on John Kelley's murder. One important thing. I've found a flaw, a weak spot. The invaders are imitators. The perfect imitators. They're a lot like Fred was. They never have original ideas of their own, they parrot the editorial pages and even the stock of jokes they save for stag parties aren't funny because you've heard them all before. You can see them on the street-car on their way to work. Half will sit with blank stares on their faces, reading the transitads, while the other half will sit with their noses buried in their papers. Watch them. If they looked alike you'd be reminded of the rockettes on the stage of the RCA Music Hall. Or walk into a bar when the fights are on and watch the customers with their faces glued to the TV sets. All with their glasses of beer in the right hand, all with the same rapt expressions on their faces.