"But I've got to worry about it. What happened to the guy that came through just ahead of me?"
"You remember, don't you? However―" Diktor hurried on ahead, led him down a passageway, and dilated a door. "Take a look inside," he directed.
Wilson did so. He found himself looking into a small windowless unfurnished room, a room that he recognized. Sprawled on the floor, snoring steadily, was another edition of himself.
"When you first came through the Gate," explained Diktor at his elbow, "I brought you in here, attended to your hurts and gave you a drink. The drink contained a soporific which will cause you to sleep about thirty-six hours, sleep that you badly needed. When you wake up, I will give you breakfast and explain to you what needs to be done."
Wilson's head started to ache again. "Don't do that," he pleaded. "Don't refer to that guy as if he were me. This is me, standing here."
"Have it your own way," said Diktor. "That is the man you were. You remember the things that are about to happen to him, don't you?"
"Yes, but it makes me dizzy. Close the door, please."
"O.K.," said Diktor, and complied. "We've got to hurry, anyhow. Once a sequence like this is established there is no time to waste. Come on." He led the way back to the Hall of the Gate.
"I want you to return to the twentieth century and obtain certain things for us, things that can't be obtained on this side but which will be very useful to us in, ah, developing-yes, that is the word-developing this country."
"What sort of things?"