"When? Let's see. It's 6:40 A.M. So we—Daisy and I—are on our way back here now. In the patrol car."
"Now? You and Daisy? In the patrol car?"
"The one we borrowed. The police—they seem to have a lot of cars—are not far behind. I believe they think they recognized me. You can tell them how wrong they are."
He stopped to listen. I heard it too, a sound of sirens in the distance, coming closer.
"So, Benji. In a minute or so, you—a second edition of you, when one has always been plenty—you are coming here, with all the cops in town on your tail, and with my girl. And you expect me to step forward and, lying in my teeth, tell these enraged cops that you are innocent. This is quite a request, Benji."
There was the roar of a car racing down the quiet, Saturday-dawn street. Benji looked at me anxiously. "Here we come. Bull, please! You wouldn't turn me over to the police. Would you?"
No, I didn't want the cops to get him. I wanted to get him myself—and let Vera finish him.
There was a sound of running footsteps up the porch stairs. The hallway door opened. Arm in arm, laughing like a pair of idiots, in came Benji—Benji II—and my girl, Daisy. They staggered across the room. Benji II threw his arms around Daisy and kissed her with conviction and assurance. Then, quickly, he stepped away from her and walked over to the time-machine rig.
"Hurry it up," said the first Benji, "quick. The power will cut off any second now, until they switch in the new line."
Drunk or not, Benji II knew what he was doing. He dragged the straight chair by the wall to the side of the machine and climbed it. He swayed, almost fell. Then, without touching any of the bars, he managed to step from the chair into the seat of the machine rig. He fiddled with a dial or knob—and vanished. The double exposure look of the machine disappeared too.