From outside came the sound of a motorcycle. Or of two motorcycles. He turned, looked out the window. There was dust where the motorcycles had just been, a light cloud of it settling. On the plywood platform at the entryway to the building being renovated stood two men in brown sleeveless sweaters, blue shirts, jeans. One was holding a clipboard, and they were talking. He could not hear their voices even though the window was open. He walked slowly to the window, placed his hands on the ledge, stared down at them. He stared at the same sandy hair, the same face. Two schoolgirls in plaid skirts walked by, on their way to lunch. Behind them was a woman in a brown sleeveless sweater and blue jeans, with sandy hair. She had the same face as the man, only slightly feminized in the way the head set on the shoulders. And she walked like a woman. She walked by the two men, her twins, ignoring them.

Harold looked at his watch. Twelve-fifteen. His heart was pounding painfully. He went to the telephone and called his psychiatrist. It was lunch hour and he might be able to reach him. He did, for a minute or two. Quickly he told him that he was beginning to see the same person everywhere. Even in the movies and on TV. Sometimes two or three at a time.

“What do you think, Harold?” he said to the doctor. The psychiatrist’s name was Harold, too.

“It would have to be hallucination. Maybe coincidence.”

“It’s not coincidence. There’ve been seven of them and they are identical, doctor. Identical.” His voice, he realized, was not hysterical. It might become that way, he thought, if the doctor should say “Interesting,” as they do in the movies.

“I’m sorry that you have an hallucination,” Harold the psychiatrist said. “I wish I could see you this afternoon, but I can’t. In fact, I have to go now. I have a patient.”

“Harold!” Harold said. “I’ve had a dozen sessions with you. Am I the type who hallucinates?”

“No, you aren’t, Harold,” the psychiatrist said. “You really don’t seem to me to be like that at all. It’s puzzling. Just don’t drink.”

“I won’t, Harold,” he said, and hung up.

What to do? he thought. I can stay inside until Janet comes back. I don’t have to go out for anything. Maybe it will stop on its own.

And then he thought, But so what? They can’t hurt me. What if I see a whole bunch of them today? So what? I can ignore them. He would get dressed and go out. What the hell. Confront the thing.

When he got outdoors, the two of them were gone from in front of the building. He looked to his right, over toward Madison. One of them was just crossing the street, walking lightly on the Adidas. There were ordinary men and women around him. Hell, he was ordinary enough. There were just too many of him. Like a clone. Two more crossed, a man and a woman. They were holding hands. Harold decided to walk over to Fifth Avenue.