"You mean what did happen—to the Harry K. Jones who passed in pharmacology but did not marry Kate. He must be around in another probability somewhere, the same as we are. Good heavens," I shouted, "somewhere I may have solved the fourth octave equation."
"You're right, Harry. And I may have found out how to get hyperspace relapse under control."
"Harold," I said, "This is momentous! It is more probable that you-I and I-you will make a mess of things, but there must be other probability sequences where we are successful."
"And we can get to them," he shouted, jumping up. "Are you using oxylatohydrobenzoic-pheophenophino?"
"Something like that."
"Three pills last thing at night?"
"Yes."
"Ever have foreign bodies materialize into your time-space?"
"Several breakfasts," I said. "The last egg was yesterday, on my shoe."
"It was Virginia ham with me, so I stopped dieting and increased the dosage."