An overtone of amazement thrums the Standing Wave, vibrating painfully between me and Little Red. Even though I/we suspected something like this … to hear it verified openly is positively weird.

Poor, doomed realYosil! It’s one thing to see death coming at the hands of your own creation. That’s part of the human epic tradition, after all. Oedipus and his father. Baron Frankenstein and his monster. William Henry Gates and Windows ’09.

But to realize that your slayer will be your own self. A being who shares every memory, understands your every motive, and agrees with you about nearly all of it. Every subvibration of the Standing Wave — identical!

And yet, something was unleashed in clay that could never fully emerge in flesh. Something ruthless, at a level I could not imagine.

“You … are genuinely insane …” I pant. “You need … help.”

In response, the gray ghost simply nods, almost amiably.

“Uh-huh. That sounds about right. At least by society’s standards. Only results can possibly justify the extreme measures I’ve taken.

“I’ll tell you what, Albert. If my experiment fails, I’ll turn myself in for compulsory therapy. Does that sound fair?”

He laughs. “For now, though, let’s operate on the assumption that I know what I’m doing, eh?”

Before I can answer, an especially strong pulse of the soul-stretching machinery throws me into a spasm, my back arching in pain.

Through it all, part of me remains calm, observant. I can see ditYosil working now to prepare the next phase of his grand experiment. First by pushing aside the glass partition that divided the laboratory and replacing it with some kind of hanging platform, suspended by cables from the ceiling. Carefully he centers the platform, midway between me and my alter ego, Little Red. It sways back and forth like a pendulum, bisecting the room.

After a few seconds, the quivering aftereffects of that last pulse begin to fade, enough for me to blurt the question foremost on my mind.

“Wh … what … is it you’re trying to accomplish?”

Only when he’s fully satisfied with the placement of the swaying platform does the renegade golem turn to face me again, now with a thoughtful expression, sounding almost sincere. Enthralled, even.

“What am I trying to accomplish, Albert? Why, my purpose here is evident. To fulfill my life’s work.

“I aim to invent the perfect copying machine.”

Dusk was falling over the city as I burst onto the tenement roof, closely chased by a mob of candy-striped Waxers, howling to blast me into pottery shards. Turning at the exit door, I spent one of my last scattergun shells, emptying it down the stairwell, taking out the nearest pursuer along with several wooden steps, three feet of bannister, and a huge gout of ancient plaster. The rest of them backed off, darn fast.

Catching my breath, I saw it was a pretty good defensive position, for the moment. Still, they seemed to have plenty of reinforcements, and ways to outflank me, given time.

Time was one of many things I lacked — along with allies and ammo. Not to mention my fast-draining supply of élan vital, which was due to run out in a few hours, at best.

I’m getting way too old for this kind of thing, I pondered, feeling stale as a loaf of bread several days out of the oven. Those multicolored basdits were still down there. I could hear scuttle movements below. And whispers, urgently debating ways to get at me.

Why me?

All this was rather over the top for a typical gang raid. Nor could I imagine any reason to spend so much expense trying to annihilate the cheap utility-greenie of a dead private eye.

Unless Kaolin is cheesed at me for missing our appointment.

It did appear rather eerie, I recalled. The attackers struck just after Palloid — poor little guy — mentioned slapping Aeneas with a transparency subpoena, forcing the reclusive trillionaire to open his books and camera records, perhaps even requiring him to appear in person. Could that be driving the hermit to desperate measures?

Maybe Kaolin didn’t send these goons after me, but to recover the pictures.

In my pocket lay the spool of photos Queen Irene took, during her meetings with “Vic Collins” … the co-conspirator she thought was Beta, but who later revealed hints of platinum skin under all that clever makeup. Instinctively, I had grabbed the spool from Pal when shooting broke out. Save the evidence — a good reflex for a gumshoe. But maybe the Waxers wouldn’t be pursuing me right now, if I had left the pictures behind!

Palloid should’ve been the one to snatch the film and run! They’d never have caught the lithe ferret-ditto. Only retreat wasn’t part of my friend’s basic nature. And now Pal would never get those memories.

Too bad. We may have been a couple of disposables, but we sure had some times, Palloid and me.

I kicked the door in frustration. There’s gotta be a way off this roof!

Still listening for another attack, I stepped away from the edge a bit, turning to look around at twilight in dittotown … perhaps my last view of the world. Off to the west and north, realfolk would be sitting on balconies and verandas right about now, sipping cool drinks and watching the sun set while awaiting their other halves — the selves they sent forth to work this morning, with a promise of downloaded continuity as reward for a hard day’s labor.

That’s fine. It’s fair. Only where was a home that I could go to?

Grumbles down the stairwell turned into loud argument. Good. Maybe their command structure had been messed up by the carnage Pal and I dished out, back in the apartment. Or it could just be a ruse, while they prepared a flanking maneuver.

Taking a chance, I hurried over to one parapet and glanced down at the rusting fire escape. No one there. At least not yet.

The opposite end of the roof supported a rickety shed made largely of wire mesh. Small gray shapes bobbed and cooed within. A pigeon coop. Two humanoid figures could be made out beyond — an adult and child, working together at repairing part of the enclosure. Both wore threadbare clothes, suitable for the slum environment, but their skin color was a drably realistic dun shade … almost brown. Probably an illusion in the rapidly dimming light. Still, I beat a hasty retreat just in case. If they were real, I had no business drawing danger toward them.

Returning to the stairwell, I arrived in time to catch two of the red and pink — striped gladiators trying to sneak past the shattered steps by slithering up ropes attached to the ceiling by shock grapnels. They opened fire when I appeared, but the swaying cables spoiled their aim. So I blasted them to fragments that fell, tumbling, six stories to the atrium below.

Only one shell left, I thought, checking the scattergun. It also occurred to me that this artfully contrived slum wasn’t quite as accurate as the designers hoped. Even in the worst of the old days, there were cops who would show up, eventually, if gunfire went on for very long. But here and now, nobody would come.

Well, you had your chance, Gumby. You could have called Inspector Blane. Had him send a bunch of LSA enforcers to pick you up. But you’re too much like Pal. He can’t turn down a fight, while you gotta try and outsmart the forces of darkness. All by yourself, if possible.

Even when you haven’t got a clue.

It was true! More than I had realized. My mood at that particular moment gave it away. Despite everything, I felt strangely … happy.

Oh, there’s no high quite like getting the focused attention of powerful enemies. Nothing is better guaranteed to make you feel important in the world, which may be why conspiracy theories are so popular among frustrated underachievers. In this case, it wasn’t an illusion. The mighty Aeneas Kaolin was apparently willing to spend loads just to get my little green porcelain ass.