Instantly, the scene about the busy spaceport changed. It took on a vaporous unreality like an x-ray photograph. The people, the buildings, even the pavement underfoot became tenuous as smoke. He could see right through them.
It always frightened Vickers a little to use his full vision, taking him a second to adjust. Then he located his double about ten steps ahead.
He could make out the misty outlines of elevators in the man's flashing heels. So that was how he'd given himself the necessary height. Pads filled out his frame reproducing Vickers' Jupiter-trained muscles. The nictitating lids had been cleverly simulated by contact lenses.
But why?
Why should anyone go to all that trouble to disguise himself exactly like Vickers—even to the ill-fitting gray suit? There was something sinister about the whole affair.
Just then Vickers tripped, lost his precarious balance and fell sprawling.
He scrambled to his feet in time to see the stranger leap into an air taxi.
"Look at his eyes!" a woman cried out at his elbow. "Look at his eyes!"
Vickers hastily lowered his inner lids, cursing under his breath. There wasn't another cab in sight. He'd better clear out before he was the focal point of a riot. Normal humans weren't fond of mutants.