PROBLEM IN SOLID

BY GEORGE O. SMITH

Illustrated by Orban

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astounding Science-Fiction, October 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Martin Hammer should have been prepared for anything. As the world's foremost producer of motion pictures, he should have taken any situation from earthquake to fatherhood without a qualm or a turned eyebrow. But Hammer had not seen everything—yet.

A noise presented itself at Hammer's office door. Not the noise of knocking or tapping, nor even the racket made by attempts to breach the portal with a heavy blunt instrument. It was more like the sound of a dentist's drill working on wood, or perhaps one of those light burring tools, or maybe even a light scroll saw.

Then, with all the assurance in the world, a man's hand came through the door, the fingers clenched about an imaginary doorknob. The hand swung an imaginary door aside and as it moved, the wood of the real door fell to the floor in a pile of finely-ground sawdust.

Once the imaginary door was thrust aside, the rest of the intruder entered, leaving the exact outline of his silhouette in the door.

He smiled affably and said, "I trust I'm not intruding!"

He was still holding the imaginary door open with his right hand. As he finished speaking, he stepped forward a step, turned, pulled the imaginary door shut a few inches, transferred it to take the inside knob in his left hand, and then stepping carefully forward, he thrust the imaginary door closed, his hand clenched around the imaginary knob. The act ended as his hand entered the real doorknob and there was the high-pitch whine of metal against metal like cutting a tin can with a bandsaw.

The intruder turned, walked across the office, and stood there in front of Martin Hammer. From a pocket he look a cigarette and a match and lit up, blowing a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air.

"I am delighted to meet you," he said.

At which point, Martin Hammer blew up.

He had been patient. He had been astounded. He had been sitting there with his chin getting lower and lower and lower as this ... this character walked through his door with all the assurance in the world. Then the bird had the affrontery to behave as though he had not invaded Hammer's office; had not ruined a fine oak door; and as though Hammer should have been glad to see him.

What added fuel to Hammer's explosion was the fact that the intruder seemed absolutely unaware of the ruination of the door.

"What the—" yelled Hammer. He leaped to his feet, ran around his desk, and faced the intruder angrily for only an instant.

Hammer launched himself at the intruder with intent to do bodily harm, mayhem, and perhaps a little bit of second-degree murder that might be juried into justifiable homicide.

He did not connect. The stranger disappeared at that instant, and Hammer's well directed blow fell upon thin air. Hammer, finding no resistance before him, fell flat on his face, which mashed the cigar into his mouth and burned a hole in his fine Persian carpet. He turned over and sat up, spitting out bits of tobacco mixed with equal parts of very bad language. Blankly he ran his hand through the spot where the stranger had been.

"Now," he said in puzzlement, "what in the name of—"

"May I apologize?" came a voice at the door. Hammer whirled and saw the intruder again, standing there with a rather dumfounded expression on his face.

Hammer grunted. At least he is now cognizant of his ruin-production, he thought. This was true. The intruder no longer had that fatuous expression that ignored the damage.

"Apologize?" exploded Hammer.

The intruder stepped through the ruined door. "I got the focus wrong," he said, "otherwise the image could have—"

"Image?" yelled Hammer.

The stranger nodded. "Image," he said. "Look, Hammer, you don't really think that I actually walked through that door, across your office floor, and then disappeared into thin air, do you?"

"Well ... and who are you?"

"My name is Tim Woodart. I'm an engineer."

"Look," said Hammer shakily, "I'd like to know what's been going on. As a producer of motion pictures, I am beginning to see the glimmerings of a fine idea. I sort of resent the destruction you've created, but it certainly carried off its point."

"I'll bring in the gear, too," said Woodart. "If you don't mind."

Hammer nodded. Whatever it was, Martin Hammer had just had his door broken in by the first of all true three-dimensional photography!

Harry Foster stood on a lonely stage and smiled at some mythical point in the mid distance. Dramatically he pointed, and as he pointed, across his face there came a change over his features. Normally handsome, Harry Foster's "bad" face was thrice as bad for the distortion into hatred. It was excellent acting.

The man beside the camera nodded. It was not only excellent acting but it was rather emotionally troublesome to be confronted by a living, breathing image of yourself. You, watching you do something that you had done previously.

Harry Foster's hand stole up alongside of the cutoff button and he thrust it down viciously.

The scene stopped instantly and disappeared.

Foster, remaining beside the camera, swore. He rereeled manually a few yards and restarted the camera. He caught a previous scene's ending: a beautiful woman smiling shyly at another man. The scene's ending was brief, to a flash-over of Harry Foster standing in the center of the stage, and going through the same motions of smiling offstage, with the features changing from smile to scowl of hate.

Again Foster's hand flipped the switch and the image of Foster disappeared as did the settings on the stage.

Foster swore again. "There must be some way—How does he do this anyway?"

Foster opened the cabinet-like side of the solid camera and looked at the circuits. They were enigma to Foster, but there was some logic to it—there must be. You create an image and then wipe it away to make place for the next image—just as in common cinema. But in normal cinema it is possible to halt the film and project a still. That's what Harry Foster wanted—

He pulled a single tube from one circuit and snapped the camera on. The stage was blank. He replaced the tube and tried another tube removed by some distance from the first. He started the camera, and the stage flashed into being once and then went blank again. There was a tiny flash from the bottom panel of the machine and Foster looked down to see the indicator of a blown fuse.

Foster nodded. Obvious. To stop the wipe-away would mean that the next frame would be placed on top of the first. A double exposure would not work in the solids. Not without repealing that law of nature that states that two things cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

What he had to do was to stop the projector at the same time he stopped the wipe-away. Tim Woodart had fixed the machine so that the wipe-away completed the scene after stopping the works. Just a matter of safety.

Foster puzzled over the machine and restarted it again. He waited until the image of Harry Foster stared off stage and then he grabbed two tubes and jerked them out simultaneously.

The projector stopped; the scene remained. The image of Harry Foster stood there dumbly. Then it turned vaguely and looked at the camera and the man beside it.

"Hello, hero," sneered Foster.

The image blinked. "I've wondered what might happen," said the spurious Foster.

"Yes," chuckled the real Foster, "we have, haven't we?"

"I—," started the image, but he stopped and looked wildly around. "What do you want?"

"You know."

"I'll not do it! You ... we ... ah ... well, it's no go."

The real Harry Foster sat down in the director's chair. "I've had more time to plan," he said. "You're just an image—"

Foster snarled back, "Not now I'm not. I'm just as real as you are!"

"I'm the original; you came out of that camera."

"Someone is going to have a time proving it," replied the image Foster.

"Yeah," drawled the real Foster, "that's what I'm counting on!"

From within his coat, Foster took a revolver. Holding it on his image, Foster replaced the tube and watched the scene resume, with a third Foster going through its paces. He snapped off the camera and the set disappeared, leaving the bare stage. He wiped his fingerprints from the place and then nudged the image Foster with the revolver.

"Out," he snapped, pointing with the gun barrel.

They went—in a death march.

A half hour later, the real Foster handed his image a drink. "Drink deeply," he said sarcastically. "You needn't be afraid to die—you never lived, you know."

The image Foster shook his head. "I've been alive as you have!"

The real Foster lifted his revolver and snarled: "We can put a stop to that!" He fired thrice and each shot slammed into Foster's stomach driving the man back against the wall. He crumpled, finally.

Then Harry Foster took a look around the living room of his apartment, shrugged, and left, tossing the pistol into a corner.

Lieutenant Miller looked down at the corpse. "Someone sure hated him," he said.

The man in the business suit nodded. "They had reason to," he said. He was Jacobson of the F.B.I. "Too bad. I'd rather he were legally punished."

"Me, too."

"What about his wife?"

"She's in the next room. Which reminds me—"

Lieutenant Miller went to the door and looked in quietly. "Look, fellows, just establish her. Don't bother grilling her."

Sergeant Mullaney looked up in surprise. Miller nodded. "This is one case I'm not going to kill myself solving," he said. "I just want to be certain that the murderer of Harry Foster isn't as obvious as a stone pillar on the corner of Hollywood and Vine. Is Mrs. Foster clear?"

Mullaney nodded. "Spending the whole evening with a friend."

"Friend corroborate it?"

Mrs. Foster smiled wanly. "She will if asked," she said.

Miller nodded. "My only regret, Mrs. Foster, is that his insurance will just about cover his embezzlements. The rest—"

"I wouldn't touch it—or him—with a ten-foot pole," she blazed.

Jacobson met Miller at the door. "He got around," he said. "Blackmail, embezzlement, and outright larceny. There's been talk of drug-peddling and white slave traffic. Why or how the bird managed to be such a thorough stinker and still maintain his position here I'll never tell you."

Miller looked at the coroner, who was just polishing up his job. Miller said, "Whoever did it did Foster a favor. Between you and me, we'd have had him between nutcrackers in another week."

Jacobson nodded. "Couldn't have been suicide?"

Miller shook his head. "After filling himself that full of lead, he was too dead to toss that gun. Furthermore, he was shot from greater than arm's distance. No," said Miller, "someone 'done him in' and should possibly be commended. Plain case of: 'Too bad, thank God!'"

Martha Evers watched her image on the stage in the studio theater. Beside her was Martin Hammer who was watching the performance with interest. Martha was watching with wonder; Hammer had seen this thing at work before and was more concerned with the technical portions of the opus than the wonder of watching a life-sized, living, breathing, talking image perform.

On the other side of Martha Evers was Tim Woodart, who was just watching. He was more or less out of a job since professional photographers had taken over the job of making the performance.

"But how is it done?" she asked him.

"Same like any other of its kind," smiled Tim.

"But there isn't any other."

"Television is, sort of," he said. "Anyway, there is a three-way scan taking in the volume to be reproduced. Each atom in the original has its own characteristic charge and mass: this charge and mass is registered. When the reproducer replaces the real people with the image, the same scan forms real atoms where the real atom was in the original. The follow-up scan wipes the atom clear to make room for the next frame."

"How about this building atoms?" puzzled the girl. "Doesn't that make for radioactivity?"

"Uh-huh," he said, "but the radioactivity is really energy that we use to operate the machine."

The scene on the stage switched to a close-up of Martha and the picture's villain, one Jack Vanders whose leer was known across the continent.

The woman on the other side of Tim Woodart stood up and called "Cut it!" in a low contralto.

The stage cleared in a twinkle and the lights went up.

Martin Hammer leaned across the seats and spoke to the standing woman. "What's wrong, Mrs. Foster?"

"That won't do," she said. "Bad shot!"

Hammer thought for a moment. "There's nothing wrong with a close-up," he said. "It's done daily."

Jenny Foster smiled. "Yes," she agreed, "the screen fills up from top to bottom with the face, and the eyes look softly into the camera lens as the girl murmurs, 'I love you' and it is effective because in the two-dimensional cinema, the trick of looking into the camera lens makes it appear as though the girl were gazing softly into your own eyes—no matter where you are in the theater. But this is solid, Hammer. When the gal looks at you, I can tell that she's looking at you from here."

"So?"

"So I'm resentful of the guy who has the preferred seat," she said.

Martin Hammer smiled. "You can't have all the seats in the theater within a two-foot circle," he said. "But there must be some way to lick it."

"You'll remember what I had to say?" she asked.

Hammer nodded. "We'll work on it," he said. "Like all other media, solid performances require their own techniques. But until we locate the techniques, people will take to solids for their novelty."

They all sat down. Mrs. Foster turned to Tim Woodart and asked him how it was done.

"You mean the whole thing?"

"No, the job of making enlargements."

"Easy," he said. "We just have a repeat-scan that repeats the same atom in between true signals. Same like cramming a whole twelve-story building on a busy street. We cut out certain patterns—sometimes every other signal, sometimes every third, sometimes four out of five are eliminated in the recording. The number cut is a definite statement of the 'times-size' of the reproduction."

"Sounds simple when you say it fast," she smiled.

"I'll tell you about it later—?" he suggested.

"I'd like that."

He was too silent for a moment, and Jenny Foster knew it. "Tim," she said, "if you're worrying about the ... the—"

"Well," he admitted slowly, "I was. Not that I care, but you—?"

She smiled bitterly. "It's often said that no one knows another person until you've lived with them for some time. It was between our first meeting and three years after I married Harry Foster that I was his wife. That was when I found out about him. I—"

"Look," said Tim, worriedly, "there's been something worrying me ever since we took these shots yesterday. Now I know what it is. Let's get out of here and I'll buy you a drink."

"Shhhhhh!" insisted Hammer.

"Stop it," returned Woodart.

"Make notes," said Hammer. "I want to see these rushes to the close."

"But—"

"But nothing. Tell me later."

"Let's go," said Tim plaintively.

"It'll only be a minute. What are you worrying about?"

Tim looked at the stage. This was a comic shot. In it, the head of the butler filled the stage and looked out at the audience through half-closed eyes. A middle distance shot previously had shown the butler taking a sniff of pepper, this was the aftermath—

"No!" yelled Woodart.

He was too late. His yell was covered by the explosive sneeze. A hurricane of wind blasted at the tiny theater. A window went out in back, and Martin Hammer's toupee left for Kansas.

As the echoes died, Tim Woodart said, "That's what I meant."

Hammer blinked. "I'd hate to pull an Alfred Hitchcock and have a .45 pointed at the audience—close-up."

Back of him, the photographer looked at the stage and made a quick estimate. "That," he said, "would hurl a nine-foot slug of lead at the audience!"

Tim Woodart left quietly.

Tim Woodart led Jenny Foster to a small table and ordered Martinis. Jenny smiled at him and said: "Tell me how you came to invent this thing?"

"Easy," he grinned. "I'm an avid reader of science-fiction and there was a yarn in one of the leading magazines some time ago that dealt with a matter transmitter. Written by a crackpot electronics engineer by the name of George O. Smith. He was rather explicit in a vague sort of way, but it gave me the initial idea, and here we are with it!"

She laughed. "Is this character going to get any royalty?"

"Oh," said Tim Woodart expansively, "I offered him some, but he refused, saying that his idea was nothing but a fiction idea and that any bright engineer would know how to send matter by radio."

"Oh."

"Besides, he's in Philadelphia, now, and the men in the white coats wouldn't let him write with anything but a blunt crayon."

"Well, could you send things by wire with it?"

Tim smiled, "Not at present," he said. "There isn't a transmission line with a broad enough band-pass to accept the signal frequencies necessary."

"Now," said Jenny, taking a sip of her Martini, "you're getting in way over my head."

Tim Woodart pulled out pencil and paper, but Jenny stopped him by laying a gentle hand on his. "Don't," she said plaintively. "I don't even know what happens when I snap on the light switch, let alone understanding transmission lines."

Uncertainly he replaced the pencil and paper in his pocket. Then he laughed. "Shall we dance?"

"That," she told him, "I understand."

They danced—and they danced well together. And while they were getting better acquainted, a hundred miles to the south a man was stopped by a motorcycle policeman for traveling too fast.

"Name?" snapped the policeman.

"Harold Farman."

"Driver's license?"

"Why ... er ... I—"

"No license?"

"Well, it's here. But—"

The policeman nodded. "Gimme," he snapped.

Harry Foster cursed himself for forgetting. For even trying to run under an assumed name without changing every bit of evidence. But the policeman looked rather rough, and Harry handed over the license.

"This says 'Harry Foster'," grunted the cop.

"I'm Harry Foster."

"That wasn't the name you gave me," said the cop pointedly.

"Look, officer, I'm about to meet a young lady—we're meeting at the Border to marry in Mexico. Her father objects, and he's influential enough to send out word that I'm to be picked up on some pretext and held. That's why."

The officer nodded sensibly. "Sounds reasonable," he said, "and logical, and just about as silly as the usual guy who tried to elope."

"Well—thanks, officer. And may I bet you fifty that today is Sunday?"

"Today's Tuesday," replied the officer.

"My goodness," said Foster in surprise. "I lose, don't I?" He handed the officer a folded fifty. The officer took it and smiled dryly.

"You lose," he told Foster, "because so far as I know, there's a Lieutenant Miller of the Los Angeles police that has a dragnet out for Harry Foster—the motion picture hero!"

"Now look—"

"I've looked," said the cop, "and you're it. Will you come quietly or will you come horizontal?"

Harry Foster laughed. "I'm not that Harry Foster," he said.

"No?"

"No."

"And how am I going to tell?"

"Call Miller. I happen to know that the moving picture star died not more than a few days ago."

"That," said the policeman, closing his book, "is something that we can check but quickly. You'll come along while we check it, though."

"I'll come," said Foster cheerfully.

He went. The policeman called. Miller gave him the right answer, that the wanted man, Harry Foster, had been buried within the week. No, there was no mistake. The dead man's identity had been established to the satisfaction of every interested agency. The F.B.I. and the local police had seen to it that the dental work checked, fingerprints, everything including visual identification by friends, enemies, wife, and business associates.

Harry Foster left a short time later with an internal grin. He—was dead. Ergo—he could not be punished!

He laughed wildly as he resumed his driving, but his driving was less wild. There was a thoughtful quality about it.

At the Mexican Border, Harry Foster stopped for rest and while resting he read the newspaper. It carried the usual run of gossip columns, and in one of them Harry Foster saw—and read with growing interest:

The widow of Harry Foster, whose body was found on the evening before the authorities were to have closed in on his nefarious activities, is finding solace in the company of Tim Woodart, who is the inventor of Hammer Productions' new play technique. No one would deny Jenny Foster her right to happiness, and we'll cheer her on—

Foster crumpled the paper craftily. Woodart was about ready to start banking checks in six or seven figures, and—

Harry Foster left the restaurant and headed back toward Hollywood.

The locomotive thundered across the stage at a forty-five degree angle, filling the theater with a wave of heat and a puff of smoke and steam. Then it was past and gone, and its string of cars rumbled out of "offstage" to the right rear to the "offstage" at the left-front corner. It slowed and stopped, and the porter and passengers emerged; the principal players of the scene appeared and went through their action.

"Now that," said Hammer, pleased, "is a right good scene."

"Y'know," smiled Jenny Foster, "people are going to be so surprised to see the real thing come roaring across the stage that they're going to forget a couple of rather irrelevant items like having their heroine's head nineteen feet in diameter."

"Yeah," drawled Hammer, "and tell the crook to shave closer. A close-up of Jack Vanders looks like a pincushion with telephone poles shoved in. Didn't know hair could be so big!"

"What bothers me," smiled Martha Evers, "is where I drink that Manhattan in the close-up. Darned drink must be all of twenty-three gallons."

"That isn't the main trouble with that scene," objected Vanders cheerfully. His saturnine face was only for selling purposes; a more pleasant villain was seldom to be found. "What bothers everybody is that you can smell the odor of that drink, it's so big. Half of the would-be sots in the audience are going to be as dry as the Sahara by the time Evers gets it down."

Martha laughed, "Hammer is a great one for realism," she said, "but I hope he doesn't insist on a real slug of cyanide in the poisoning scene. I hate to think of twenty gallons of cyanide!"

"No doubt," laughed Hammer. "But what we ought to do is to have Woodart fix up some way of stopping that thing during close-up. We could start with a normal Martini and end up with fifty gallons."

Woodart shook his head. "Cost twenty times as much liquor itself," he said with a good-natured smile. "You see, the energy that keeps this thing in balance comes from the wipe-out of the previous scene. Stop it that way and your light bill heads for the ceiling."

"O.K.—it was just an idea."

Vanders faced the group. "Look," he said. "I'm a professional villain, and all villains are supposed to want something for nothing and finding out that it can't be did."

Woodart agreed.

Then the scene changed to an overhead shot of Cincinnati. Taken by helicopter, the scene was an angle shot down across Fountain Square towards the river. In the cinema such shots do not seem bizarre, but in solid, the street with its teeming cars and pedestrians was tilted at an angle: the angle between street and camera remained as it was, and the camera, of course, became the projector which was in the back of the theater.

The "eye" zoomed down and the street grew in size until the fountain that gave the Square its name was in plain view. It seemed incongruous that the water in the fountain came out at an odd angle to gravity and fell back at another odd angle, yet this was not a running reproduction of Fountain Square but a swift series of instantaneous reproductions and the droplets of water like everything else was replaced in whatever relative position it was, regardless of the facts of true gravity.

The scene tilted flat, finally, and traveled along the street on the level until the principal character was approached, whereupon the action began. The camera followed Jack Vanders into a bar where he met Martha Evers and ordered the Manhattan that was to become Gargantuan in size—

Jenny Foster put her face up for a good night kiss, and then shoved her apartment door open as Tim turned to leave. Inside, the living room light was on, and Jenny instantly called Tim back.

"Someone," she said, pointing to the lights.

"O.K." he said, entering before her. Sprawled in Jenny's easy-chair was—

"Foster!"

"Who—me?" asked Foster in surprise. "Foster's dead."

"Can it," snapped Woodart. "And talk!"

"Or else?" drawled Foster indolently.

"Or else," snarled Woodart.

"Or else what?"

Tim went to the telephone and dialed the number of the police force.

"Don't bother," said Harry Foster. "I'm ... Foster, that is, is dead."

Tim replaced the telephone. "What's the gag?" he demanded.

"I," said Foster hollowly, "am a ghost returned to plague mine unfaithful wife."

"The hereafter is going to have a moaning ghost with a shanty on its eye," said Woodart ominously. "Unfaithful wife my foot. If ever she—"

"Now that's been the big bone of contention," smiled Foster. "Foster gave her no grounds, and she was too good to give me any. And Foster gave her none because it is still impossible to have a wife testify against her husband."

"Very sly of you."

"Of Foster."

"You're Foster!"

"Me? No. Foster's dead."

Jenny gave a weak cry of despair. "What do you want?" she asked.

"How much have you got?" asked Foster pointedly.

"Blackmail," snarled Woodart.

"Why no. Not at all."

"You name it."

"It need have no name. You see, Woodart, I've learned that I no longer need the protection of the legality that prevents a wife from testifying against her husband. Her husband is dead."

"So?"

"Well, it isn't blackmail to perform a service for someone."

"Meaning?"

"Divorce comes high," explained Foster pointedly.

"After which—if done—you could continue to ask for more," said Woodart angrily. "You could threaten to prove that you were paid to get the divorce, a mere matter of blackening the character of a woman whose only error was being blind enough to take a second look at you."

"Your ingenious mind is too complex," said Foster quietly.

"May I point out that if you are dead, you are dead, and therefore—"

Foster laughed nastily. "Legally and physically, Harry Foster died and was buried. Legally there is nothing that could possibly prevent you from marrying her if you wanted to. But you see, Woodart, my wife is a completely moral woman, to say nothing of ethical. Though it is legal, there is still the gnawing doubt in her that she is compounding a felony—bigamy."

Jenny made a plaintive gesture, "I'll wait until he asks me—"

But she was not heard. Tim Woodart snorted. "So you think they'll be hesitant about punishing a dead man?"

"What do you think?"

Woodart strode forward and took Foster by the lapels of his coat, gathered them into one hand, and lifted the crook out of the easy-chair with an angry shake. "Then they can't book me for assault and battery upon the person of a corpse," he gritted. His free hand came back and forth across Foster's face, driving the heel's head from side to side. Then Woodart shoved him back, letting go of the lapels and using that hand to bury itself to the wrist in Foster's midsection. As Foster folded forward, Tim straightened him up with an upward chop to the jaw.

Foster crumpled, and Woodart lifted him by the collar and dragged him to the door, hurling him into the hallway. Foster turned, wiping blood from his face, and spat like an angry cat.

"That'll cost you, punk," he snarled.

Woodart laughed.

"Laugh," leered Foster. "You can't bring suit for divorce against a dead man, either!"

Harry Foster opened the door to his apartment and nodded quite genially. "Come in, gentlemen," he said overpolitely.

State attorney Jones was less cordial, and Lieutenant Miller was harsh.

"You're Harry Foster."

"I am. Strange coincidence, isn't it?"

"Coincidence my—"

"Be careful," warned Foster. "You wouldn't want to insult a citizen, would you? It might go hard with you."

"You're Harry Foster."

"I am."

"Then who was the man that was buried?"

"That is the coincidence," said Foster sorrowfully. "He was another Harry Foster. I understand that he was a rascal and definitely needed killing."

"Where were you when that deed was done?"

"Me? Look, sir, am I under suspicion?"

"Could be."

"Then produce your warrant! I shall take no guff from you nor any of your ilk."

"Take it easy," said Jones. "An innocent man has nothing to fear."

"An innocent man," said Foster, "has plenty to fear. Scheming politicians and courts who like to see convictions. Also there is the protection of the Constitution of the United States that grants me the right to do as I please so long as I am lawful about it."

"It also grants us the right to protect other people," said Lieutenant Miller. "As for a warrant, we have a search warrant—plus the fact that we know that murder was done in this apartment not more than two weeks ago."

"You're in," said Foster. "And you may leave as soon as you can. I'll not detain you."

"You know," said State attorney Jones, "this man answers the description of the man who is wanted for any number of assorted crimes from forgery to grand larceny. In every way he fills the bill. I think we will arrest you, Mr. Foster."

"You'll be sorry. This is false arrest."

"Indeed. In this country, all arrests are false arrests because it is a statement of intent that all men are innocent until proven guilty by a court of justice! Ergo, we take you into custody whether innocent or guilty and we will permit the judgment of the court to decide your status. Coming quietly—or would you prefer to resist arrest?"

Lieutenant Miller looked eager. "Please resist," he said clenching his fist.

"Unclench it," snapped Foster. "You touch me and I'll prove that you wantonly and brutally attacked an innocent victim without provocation."

"I've provocation enough," snarled Miller. "My sister—"

"Your sister suffered deeply at the hands of this blackguard Harry Foster," said Foster oilily. "But because he resembled me and wore my name is no logical nor lawful reason for identifying your hatred of him against me. That is a psychopathic failing, Lieutenant Miller."

"I'd like to make a pathological mess out of you," snapped Miller.

"Mr. Jones, you will remember that threat," said Foster. "As State attorney, it is your duty to protect the innocent."

Jones closed his lips over hard teeth and said nothing. He would have enjoyed the job of protecting Foster against a hungry hyena.

Foster went with them, but his manner was not that of a dangerous criminal who had been apprehended. It was that of a man who knows all the answers.

"The defendant, Harry Foster, is charged with Murder in the First Degree," said State attorney Jones. "This is a strange case, gentlemen of the jury. It is without precedent, and, therefore, your action will establish a precedent. I charge you to consider not only the case at hand and to try it with the utmost regard to justice, but to remember, as you are considering the evidence to be presented, that this is but the first of many cases that will certainly follow. I—"

"I object! The defendant is on trial, not the Judicial System of the United States!" shouted Defense attorney Cranshaw.

Judge Carver said, "The objection is sustained. Strike that from the record."

Jones turned to the Court. "Your Honor, I request that my statements about the establishment of precedent be retained."

Carver nodded. "It is true that this case will establish a precedent. Yet the trial at hand is the only thing of importance."

"I accept," replied Jones, and returned to the jury.

"I will attempt to show that the defendant did produce a living duplicate of himself after which he killed the duplicate. I call for my first witness the inventor of the device, Timothy Woodart."

Tim came to the stand and was sworn. There was considerable questioning to establish the qualifications of the witness, during which Cranshaw said to Foster: "This will be a thin case, Foster. Yet, if we can establish a reasonable doubt, the result will be an acquittal."

"Thin nothing," laughed Foster. "Just tie 'em up as I told you!"

"All right," replied Cranshaw uncertainly. "But it will be like arguing on one side for part of the time and then switching sides in the middle."

"What do you care so long as we win?"

"I don't," grinned Cranshaw. "Listen—Woodart is starting to give pertinent testimony."

"Mr. Woodart," asked Jones, "is it possible for your device to be stopped at such a time as to leave a complete set?"

"Yes," said Woodart.

"And you've known this all along?"

"Naturally. I invented it."

"Then the device is essentially a duplicating device?"

Woodart nodded. "It is, but like all such devices, it requires power. The laws of conservation of matter and energy make it impractical to produce a myriad of devices from a recording."

"And why is the device practical for the production of panoramic entertainment?"

"The initial power is expended in producing the first replica of the original scene," said Woodart, "after which, the scene is obliterated, which returns the power to the equipment for the construction of the next frame. Aside from the conversion losses and basic inefficiencies, the thing is then self-supporting."

"In other words, if it takes a kilowatt to establish one frame, that kilowatt is returned to the equipment?"

"Yes," said Woodart, "though the power is more on the order of a hundred thousand kilowatts."

"As the main party involved with the equipment, it is your duty to see that it is kept in operating condition?"

"Yes."

"Then tell us, Mr. Woodart, at any time since the device was initiated has there been any expenditure of great power that was unaccounted for?"

"There was."