His first impulse was the illogical but quite human and very common feeling of look- what-you-made-me-do. "Now you've done it!" he said angrily.
"Me?" "Joe" protested. "You knocked him through. I never laid a finger on him."
"Yes," Wilson was forced to admit. "But it's your fault," he added, "if you hadn't interfered, I wouldn't have had to do it."
'Me interfere? Why, you bald faced hypocrite, you butted in and tried to queer the pitch. Which reminds me―you owe me some explanations and I damn well mean to have them. What's the idea of―"
"Stow it," Wilson headed him off. He hated to be wrong and he hated still more to have to admit that he was wrong. It had been hopeless from the start, he now realized. He felt bowed down by the utter futility of it. "It's too late now. He's gone through."
"Too late for what?"
"Too late to put a stop to this chain of events." He was aware now that it always had been too late, regardless of what time it was, what year it was or how many times he came back and tried to stop it. He remembered having gone through the first time, he had seen himself asleep on the other side. Events would have to work out their weary way.
"Why should we?"
It was not worthwhile to explain, but he felt the need for self — justification. "Because," he said, "Diktor has played me―I mean has played you-us-for a dope, for a couple of dopes. Look, he told you that he was going to set you up as a big shot over there, didn't he?"