Horning twisted at his belt. Narrow-eyed, frowning, he stared at his visitor. "But why—?"
The man's thin lips parted in a mirthless grin. "How would you feel if, stupid and knowing nothing of transdimensional transit, you were suddenly to awaken in a completely strange world? What would be your chances of making a successful adjustment?"
"I ... I don't know...."
"Adjustment to environment is the key to integration of personality. When anyone loses touch with his world, the background he knows as reality, he can no longer adjust." Horning's counterpart paused. His voice dropped a note. "Every plane has facilities to take care of such unfortunates."
The skin along the back of Horning's neck prickled. "You mean ... Myrtle would go mad?" he whispered hoarsely.
"That's what the psychiatrists would say, at least."
A new tremor shook Horning. Unsteadily, he made his way to the chair by the desk and slumped into it.
His other self chuckled. "It's beautiful, isn't it? All you need to do is call the authorities in the morning. They'll take Myrtle to the nearest mental hospital for observation—and that's the last you'll ever see of her."
Horning's collar was all at once too tight. His palms grew wet with icy sweat.
His coexisting self leaned back against the light-loop's control panel. The pistol hung loose at his side.