"Yes―"
"Well, that's a lot of malarkey. All he means to do is to get us so incredibly tangled up in this Gate thing that we'll never get straightened out again."
"Joe" looked at him sharply. "How do you know?"
Since it was largely hunch, he felt pressed for reasonable explanation. "Why go into it?" he evaded. "Why don't you just take my word for it?"
"Why should I?"
"Why should you? Why, you lunk, can't you see? I'm yourself, older and more experienced―you have to believe me." Aloud he answered, "If you can't take my word, whose word can you take?"
"Joe" grunted. "I'm from Missouri," he said. "I'll see for myself."
Wilson was suddenly aware that "Joe" was about to step through the Gate. "Where are you going?"
"Through! I'm going to look up Diktor and have it out with him."
"Don't!" Wilson pleaded. "Maybe we can break the chain even now." But the stubborn sulky look on the other's face made him realize how futile it was. He was still enmeshed in inevitability; it had to happen. "Go ahead," he shrugged. "It's your funeral. I wash my hands of you."