"Someone is going to have a time proving it," replied the image Foster.
"Yeah," drawled the real Foster, "that's what I'm counting on!"
From within his coat, Foster took a revolver. Holding it on his image, Foster replaced the tube and watched the scene resume, with a third Foster going through its paces. He snapped off the camera and the set disappeared, leaving the bare stage. He wiped his fingerprints from the place and then nudged the image Foster with the revolver.
"Out," he snapped, pointing with the gun barrel.
They went—in a death march.
A half hour later, the real Foster handed his image a drink. "Drink deeply," he said sarcastically. "You needn't be afraid to die—you never lived, you know."
The image Foster shook his head. "I've been alive as you have!"
The real Foster lifted his revolver and snarled: "We can put a stop to that!" He fired thrice and each shot slammed into Foster's stomach driving the man back against the wall. He crumpled, finally.
Then Harry Foster took a look around the living room of his apartment, shrugged, and left, tossing the pistol into a corner.