He'd been a fool. He'd never carry it off in a million years! They were smart—even a half-intelligent person of his own world could spot the eternal phony trying to bluff for what just wasn't there, even in the guy who'd learned how from the right books. Hell, he'd be as transparent as manners at a pink tea.
He wondered about the other Douglas Blair, and how the trap felt that had snapped on him. About the kids—what about his kids? Terry was a smart boy and he'd know the Contraption had been responsible for what had happened. Would he try to get hold of Carl or somebody? If a bunch of technicians or even scientists got to the Contraption, touched anything.... There would be no knowing about that until they tried to get back. Either the reference frame would be the same or, if someone had tampered, it would be completely altered, and Dot and himself would go from one time thread to the next, ad infinitum, with finding their own again as probable as finding a specific grain of sand in the Sahara.
The other Douglas Blair. And of course, his wife. He knew what they looked like—she would have Dot's slenderness, her face, eyes, hair.... No one would know. And the man would look like himself. Suppose even the kids didn't know? Doug wondered if they'd fool the kids.... And then—then what? No one would know, but that was a joke. They wouldn't believe it if his alter-ego got to a microphone and broadcast it. People only believed in gossip, in rumor, in the miracles of wishful thinking. They never believed in facts. They accepted them, but they were not convinced. Newspapers would publish accounts of dolls that wept, but carefully steered clear of the scientific phenomenon if it were not between governmental quotation marks. It was true of course—mystery, properly interpreted, could not hurt. A fact defied interpretation; in the final analysis, it must be taken or left. And when it was a fact strange to the beliefs of men, it was left for as long a period as curiosity would permit. And then, of course, misunderstood.
He wondered how the other Douglas Blair would manage, and what, upon realizing that his was the superior intelligence and knowledge, he would do with it....
The 'copter had begun to lose altitude and the flat expanse of a large roof below was its destination. Its edges were lined with other 'copters, hangars, servicing equipment, men. While he watched a pilotless ship gently rose into a flight-pattern above the roof toward which he descended. Another was descending toward it even as he was, from slightly above and from the east.
And then there were little cold, stabbing fingers of panic inside him, squeezing, twisting his vitals.
Relax, mister.
Now it was no longer a pleasantly fantastic detached stage setting, with red exit lights glowing reassuringly somewhere off in the shadows of reality. Quite painfully, he felt the chiding slap of reality across his face.
And it hurt.