The Intruder To have an exact duplicate of yourself show up and take over your business, your wife? . . . brother, it’s murder! THE first thing Baldwin felt was the cool pressure of the inhalator cone against his face. Sluggishly his thoughts unwound from a soft, sticky darkness. He’d been asleep—no!—he’d been drugged! He breathed deeply and let the sweet-smelling antidote fill his lungs.
Images solidified: first the pretty face of the stewardess, then the room. A private room, of course, for him . . . Memory returned, and with it a consciousness of regret. Regret that the Ultrabeam Jump was sensually so unpleasant as to make anesthesia necessary. There was a certain loss of dignity in being doped and bundled about like a piece of luggage . . . Still, a day’s drugged sleep was a small price to pay for spanning the gulf between the stars.
“You should lie down and rest awhile, Sir,” said the stewardess.
Noting a nervous, hesitant quality to her voice, Baldwin looked at her more attentively. What was there in her manner that made him uneasy? She seemed too scared, too unsure of herself . . .
He was not on the ship. . . .
