Parallelities by Alan Dean Foster

himself who was buckling his belt saw himself holding a handful of absorptive recycled brown paper to his own face and halted. Identical jaws dropped simultaneously.
    “Holy shit!” Max mumbled.
    Equally flabbergasted, himself stared back. “Who the hell are you?”
    For an instant Max was really not sure. As the once strong sensation of self began to flee madly, he hastened to rein it in. “Max—Maxwell Parker.”
    The other’s expression twisted sardonically.
Do I look like that when I’m about to get sarcastic?
Max found himself wondering. I guess I do, because I am.
    “What a hysterically funny coincidence,” the other declaimed, not smiling at all.
    Max’s reply was as controlled as it was emotionless. “No it isn’t.”

“W hat are you,” the emerging Max inquired, “some kind of clone?” His gaze traveled the length of the figure standing at the sink. “What are you doing in my clothes? And when did you start parting your hair on the right?”
    “I’m not a clone, these are my clothes, and I’ve always parted my hair on the right.” The alternate hair parting was the only visible difference in his other self. It was just like looking into a mirror, only in this case the mirror talked back. With an edge in its voice.
    Max turned. At any moment their transient privacy might be lost, leading to questions he did not want to have to try and answer. “Listen, I’ll explain it all as best I can, but not here. We need to find someplace quiet away from people who know us.”
    His counterpart hesitated only briefly before replying with a suggestion. “How about El Cortez?”
    Max nodded agreeably. It was the same place he would have picked. Naturally. The Mexican restaurant was a personal favorite. The booths were dark, the service discreet, and at this hour no one from the office would be there. “I was just about to suggest that myself.”
    “Of course you were,” murmured his twin. “This is insane.”
    “No, it’s science. It’s been my experience that science is never insane, just maddeningly complex.” He walked to the door, paused a moment before stepping through. “Unlike people. Since I don’t like to think I’m going insane, and also to keep things on as even a keel as possible, how about if I call you Mitch?”
    “Wait a minute.” The other man objected as quickly as Max would have himself. “How come I have to be Mitch? Why can’t you be Mitch? Or Murphy, or Marty, or whatever the hell you like?”
    Max stared stolidly at himself staring back at him. “Do you have a clue as to what’s going on?”
    “Well, no,” his other self admitted.
    “That’s why.” Max put a hand on the door. “Wait five minutes. By that time I’ll be clear of the building.” He smiled thinly. “No point in inviting questions neither of us can answer. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”
    “Back corner booth?” said Mitch.
    “Where else?” Max headed toward the elevators.
    No one intercepted him as he left. For a moment he considered waiting for his double. If he took the Aurora, Mitch would have to walk. But it wasn’t far and besides, the Aurora was
his
car. Of course, Mitch would doubtless think of it the same way.
    This early in the morning the restaurant was virtually deserted except for the habitual barflies. Mitch arrived fifteen minutes later, miffed and winded in equal measure.
    “I thought somebody stole my car,” he explained as he slipped into the other side of the booth. “Then I realized that you probably took it.”
    “I considered leaving it for you. But you know how it is: first Max come, first Max served.”
    “You’re handling this a lot better than I am.” Munching on corn chips and salsa, Mitch looked distinctly unhappy.
    “That’s because I know what’s going on.”
    “Yeah.” His other leaned forward. “Mind filling me in?”
    “You’re not going to like it.”
    Mitch made a face. “I don’t like it already.”
    Over drinks, chips, guacamole, and