"Why go into it?" the other answered wearily. "Why don't you just take my word for it?"
"Why should I?"
His companion turned a look of complete exasperation on him. "If you can't take my word, whose word can you take?"
The inescapable logic of the question simply annoyed Wilson. He resented this interloping duplicate of himself anyhow; to be asked to follow his lead blindly irked him. "I'm from Missouri," he said. "I'll see for myself." He moved toward the Gate.
"Where are you going?"
"Through! I'm going to look up Diktor and have it out with him."
"Don't!" the other said. "Maybe we can break the chain even now." Wilson felt and looked stubborn. The other sighed. "Go ahead," he surrendered. "It's your funeral. I wash my hands of you."
Wilson paused as he was about to step through the Gate. "It is, eh? H-m-m-m―how can it be my funeral unless it's your funeral, too?"
The other man looked blank, then an expression of apprehension raced over his face. That was the last Wilson saw of him as he stepped through.
The Hall of the Gate was empty of other occupants when Bob Wilson came through on the other side. He looked for his hat, but did not find it, then stepped around back of the raised platform, seeking the exit he remembered. He nearly bumped into Diktor.