"I will call Qui Dor."
"Since I'm a perfect copy," Channing pointed out glibly, "he won't be able to tell."
"Who's a perfect copy? I'm a perfect copy."
"True enough," said Sarchix. "He won't be able to tell by any examination. But he can will the copy out of existence, leaving the real Channing. Then he can make a new copy."
"He can do what?" the copy cried. "Nothing doing. If he wills me out of existence and makes a new one, it won't be the same thing. I won't be me. I'll cease to exist. I don't care about any new copy. I care about myself."
"You see," Channing said, "he's looking for excuses."
"It's all well and good for you to say that," the copy told Channing. "You have nothing to lose."
"Unfortunately," Sarchix explained, "you both stand to lose. The original copy will cease to be, as the Channing on my left has pointed out. But after the little experiment, Channing himself will have to be eliminated. Now, if the two of you will wait inside while I call Qui Dor...?"
They went into another room and paced together, five steps up and five back. They glared at each other. They made threatening gestures. Channing's brain was awhirl with ideas, all of them bad. The copy would cease to be. Channing would be destroyed. A new copy would take both their places. This was impossible. First he had to prove himself not himself. He had neither succeeded nor failed. Now he stood to lose, as the Denebian Ambassador had said, no matter which Channing he was.