He recognized himself―another carbon copy.
He stood silent for a minute, trying to assimilate this new fact and force it into some reasonable integration. He closed his eyes helplessly. This was just a little too much. He felt that he wanted to have a few plain words with Diktor.
"Who the hell are you?" He opened his eyes to find that his other self, the drunk one, was addressing the latest edition. The newcomer turned away from his interrogator and looked sharply at Wilson.
"He knows me."
Wilson took his time about replying. This thing was getting out of hand. "Yes," he admitted, "yes, I suppose I do. But what the deuce are you here for? And why are you trying to bust up the plan?"
His facsimile cut him short. "No time for long-winded explanations. I know more about it than you do―you'll concede that―and my judgment is bound to be better than yours. He doesn't go through the Gate."
The offhand arrogance of the other antagonized Wilson. "I don't concede anything of the sort―" he began.
He was interrupted by the telephone bell. "Answer it!" snapped Number Three.
The tipsy Number One looked belligerent but picked up the handset. "Hello. Yes. Who is this?. Hello. Hello!" He tapped the bar of the instrument, then slammed the receiver back into its cradle.
"Who was that?" Wilson asked, somewhat annoyed that he had not had a chance to answer it himself.