Cloned(Neil Hotson) Life had gone on without incident for as long as I could remember; I considered my life to be inordinately dull and routine. I have to qualify this by mentioning the time, oft repeated to friends, when I checked into a flight to Paris.

It was a couple of years ago now; just a week away, to visit the art galleries and take in a few tourist sites. I had presented my documents to the check in lady who was quite resplendent in a gold and crimson uniform. It wasn't really a flight of course, more a transference of atoms, but we still used the old words.

She asked my name. As usual it was Ian Helterman, so why the frown on receiving this information?


"Yes," I replied.

As I retrieved my passport I caught my finger on the steel beading of the desk.

"Oh ... it doesn't matter of course," she went on. "It's just that we're having another Ian Helterman through the desk today."

As well as shock there was satisfaction and excitement that I was not alone. I couldn't remember my childhood; some sort of trauma was the reason for this. I must have been adopted and that was an end to it.

Today that incident was troubling me; the name of the man about to enter my office was also Ian Helterman and his C.V. stated that he was a fifty year old certified accountant. so was I.

I looked at my hands and fingered with the cist.

The door was opened quite slowly, the head showing before the rest of his body.

He walked across the floor and I held out my hand.


"Have you ever been to Paris?" I asked.




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