Dread

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Dread

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.
He probably could—it was a large building and it would take a
prolonged search to determine that he was not inside it.
She smiled peculiarly, clearing her throat. "Thirty-seven Brighton
Drive."
Mechanically he repeated the number. "What is it?"
"That's where you can find out."
"Find out what?"
"What they did to you here. I can't tell you now," she whispered
nervously. "Oh, do hurry!"
If he had to move fast, this seemed a good time. The elevator
dropped him to the street level and, looking cautiously around, he
walked out. In a few minutes, he was blocks away. It was mid-
morning, and he swung along, hands thrust into his jacket. There
was a wad of paper inside and he fished it out and examined it—
money, neatly folded with a note around it.
The note was from Erica, saying that the money was meant for him.
The sum was not great, but she must have given him everything she
had in the house. Mistily, he counted it out.

III
Dan hadn't been stopped and didn't expect to be. He wasn't a
criminal, but until the hospital released him, he was technically a
mental case. But Crander would hardly be anxious to report to the
police that a patient was missing—not until he had tried everything
else.
Merrol took the elevator. It was a bright new apartment building,
which conferred some social status and not much else on those
living in it.
Miss Jerrems opened the door. "Come in," she said, looking around
furtively as he slipped past her.
He sat down gingerly, watching her scurry about. He tried to protest,
but nothing he said had any effect on her aggressive hospitality. She
thrust a cup of watery coffee in his hand and placed a tray of
breakfast rolls beside him.
She sat facing him. Their knees almost touched—it was a narrow
room. "I came home at once," she said, not very successful in her
attempt to control her excitement. "I told them I was upset and,
after my long years of service, they didn't question me. I tore my
dress and told them you had done it. I said that you ran up toward
the top of the building."
He appreciated her motives, but thought she shouldn't have tried so
hard to convince them. Now they had reason to think he was violent.
"Until today, I've been devoted to Doctor Crander," she said sternly.
He recalled the first look on her face in the doctor's office—and the
one after she had seen him. In seconds, her whole attitude had
changed. Why?
"I heard what he told you." She hissed the word—"Lies."
Dan stared at her skeptically. "They didn't do what he said?"
"Oh, the facts were straight enough," she said bitterly. "It was the
reasons he concealed. They thought you didn't have a chance, so
they did all sorts of strange things they never tried on anyone else.
You were an experiment, that's all—but you surprised them."
The hospital was looking for the wrong mental case. They had one
working for them and didn't know it. He didn't doubt that she was
right—about his being an experiment—but her observations were
wrong. It was due entirely to their unorthodox procedures that he
was alive.
She looked him over carefully and he knew that the halves of his
face didn't match by a ridiculous margin, that one shoulder was
heavier than the other, that his hair was in three colors. Even in
repose and fully clothed, so that some of the discrepancies of his
physique were hidden, he was hardly presentable.
"When I saw you standing there today, I realized what they had
done to you and my loyalty to the institution and the doctor
vanished," she said earnestly. "And the psychotherapy isn't to help
you, it's to make sure you won't protest over what they've done.
That's why I had to get you away. They've ruined you and now you
must ruin them."
He had half-suspected it would come to this—but he hadn't been
sure. "I don't want to ruin them," he said slowly. "I'd rather be alive,
even as an experiment. And if you're thinking of a malpractice suit,
you saw the files. I couldn't win against that."
"I ought to know about the files—I worked on them." Her eyes
sparkled and her voice lowered. "What if the evidence is missing?"

He sat back. With her co-operation, the vital parts of the file could
vanish and, with that gone, he could collect a staggering amount
from the institution. He had only to appear and no jury or panels of
experts would decide against him. Is that what she had planned so
swiftly in the director's office—that she would share the money with
him? Somehow, he couldn't believe money meant that much to her.
"I can't permit it," he said. "In spite of everything, I feel obligated."
She flung herself across the narrow space. "I expected you to be
noble," she sobbed. "One look at you, and I knew I had met the
loneliest person in the world."
Like called to like, at least for her, and that explained why she had
grimaced when she had first seen him. It was her counterpart of the
receptionist's reaction. It explained, too, why she was willing to turn
against the doctor she had previously adored. As for the money, she
didn't want it for herself, but as bait for him—and he'd have to take
her with it.
She had guessed wrong on all counts. He would have thrust her
away, but it would have been too cruel. He tried to comfort her, and
she dried her eyes on his shoulder. "Darling," she sniffled. "I've
never yielded to any man, but if it will help you...."
She pressed close and he couldn't get away without breaking
through the thin walls of the cramped apartment. He had never
known a female form could be shaped around so many bones.
"These things take time," he said, though they didn't. "Let's not rush
into anything we'll regret." He seemed to arouse the motherly
instinct in some women, if only in the future tense.
Presently, she sat up, blowing her nose and looking ardently at him
through tear-rimmed eyes. "You can stay here. You've no place else
to go, and they'll be looking for you."
"Well," he said—but it was true. He shouldn't be wandering on the
streets.
He slept that night on a sink that converted to a bed. It would have
been more comfortable unconverted.

He crept out in the morning before she was awake. He paused

outside to scribble a note, principally to throw her off his track. You
never could tell with so unstable a person. Implicated in his escape,
she might nevertheless report to the hospital. He shoved the note
under the door and left quickly and quietly.
His first move was to buy a hat, which entailed further trouble. The
doctors had overcompensated in replacing the missing brain tissue
and, in piecing a skull together, had constructed an outsized head on
which nothing seemed to fit. By careful shopping, he found
something that did fit and, when he'd clapped it on, he happily
noted it concealed the tricolor hair ... one item less to attract
attention.
He ate and afterward walked to the rocketport. It was a long
distance and formerly he might have complained, but now he didn't
mind it. The miles seemed to have shrunk to furlongs.
He found the big Interplanet sign and examined the place minutely
from the outside. Once he had worked there, technically he still did.
Some memories came back, but not many. He needed at least an
hour inside to enable him to forget the hospital and its
psychotherapy.
Once cleared, he would be free for a while to concentrate on what to
do about Erica.
The hospital evidently had yet to call in the police. He was still safe
on the streets, but the medicos must have notified Interplanet and
all other places at which he might show up. However, the company
was too big for everyone to know about him this soon. More likely
there would be only a few who could have information on him as
yet. The trick was to bypass those individuals who might try to
detain him and still get where he wanted.
Normally, he'd go to the front office after an accident. This time, he
went to the side gate and when the guard looked at him
questioningly, mumbled, "Reporting for duty." Which got him
through.
Inside, there were more memories awaiting him. Depending on
them, he walked rapidly through hall after hall and finally found the
desk he sought. The man behind it looked up. "Are you sure you're
in the right place?" he asked.
Merrol would soon know. "Reporting for duty," he stated.
This reply elicited a puzzled expression. "The devil you are. We
haven't hired anyone new."
"I'm not new. I've been injured, and this is my first time back. Dan
Merrol's my name."
"Okay, where's your slip?"
"Slip?" he asked, stalling. This was something he ought to know
about, but didn't.
"Sure, the release from the front office after an injury."
"They said they'd send it down," he replied, holding his breath.
The clerk pawed through the stack. "They don't send nothing down,"
he growled. "I'll call and find out." His hand reached out and then he
relaxed. "No use bothering them, it'll get here tomorrow." He looked
up and laughed. "Red tape," he said by way of explanation. "Why
should I doubt you? If you said they released you, then they did."
Merrol was glad to see one man who wasn't impressed by office
routines. Still, his behavior was a little puzzling.
The man screened on. The communication unit was behind the desk,
tilted so he couldn't see it. The volume was low, but Dan could hear
the conversation from this end. "Got a case for you. Name is Dan
Merrol. I don't know, he's before my time."
The reply was faint and Dan didn't catch it. But the clerk added, "He
seems okay. What? Sure he's got a release. Would I send him in?"
He cut the connection and looked up. "Go over to Psych. They'll test
you. If you pass, we'll put you back on schedule." He started to turn
away and saw Merrol standing there. "What's the matter?"
"I don't know where Psych is."
"I see. We must have moved things since you were here." The man
got up and pointed. "Down there and turn left at the second corner.
You can't miss."
The examiner was scanning a card as he entered. "Lots of
experience," he commented. "We'll pass over the written stuff.
That's for kids, to make sure they've studied their lessons. After
you've been out this long, you can almost feel a course faster than
anyone can figure it."
It was a relief. Merrol didn't know how much theory he remembered,
but was sure he could still lift a ship as well as the next man.
The examiner made a notation on the card and tossed it into a
machine that snapped it up and clicked furiously over it. "Let's take
the biggest thing first, if you're up to it."
"I feel fine." It was not true, but it was the customary answer.
Anything else, and he'd be shunted off into a series of meaningless
tests, each designed to verify the results of previous tests. An
ingenious scheme rigged up by the psych crew in their spare time to
see how complicated they could make any given system. Answered
straightforwardly, they rushed a man through with a minimum of
officiousness.
"Okay, let's take the trip."
He accompanied Dan into a room unlike the others. For one thing, it
might have been the control room of a ship. Forward, there was the
usual clear view. The stars were there too, in an adaptation of the
planetarium. Outside, arranged to give any effect from top
acceleration to free fall, were a number of gravity coils. Except for
the pilot—and Merrol would play that role—there was a full
complement of officers who were invisible.

The tester flicked on a machine. "I'll give you Mars, because that's
your usual run. This is a short drive, because you're in a favorable
position. Got it?"
Merrol nodded and climbed into the seat, facing the instruments.
"I've turned on the best crew simulators, better than you'd ever
actually get. Don't worry about them, just take the data and flit the
way you think you should." The tester clamped a mike inches away
and adjusted the visio-recorders firmly on his head, where electron
beams could sneak in and tap his optic centers. "The first trip after
you've been away is rough, but you'll make it."
Merrol strapped himself in and hoped the other man was right.
The examiner went to the door, turned and grinned. "Watch out for
the interplanetary goose," he called and snapped the switch.
Merrol was now in a ship. In the back of his mind there was some
doubt of his ability, but it didn't reach as far as his fingers. Rockets
vibrated beneath him. Outside, he could see the glazed earth-slick.
He touched the power and climbed above the clouds. The sky turned
black and there were stars.

He checked position. The tester had given him a setup. The Moon
was out of the way and the run to Mars was the shortest on record.
If he couldn't handle this, he wasn't a pilot.
The seat jabbed him suddenly. That's what he'd been warned about
—he'd been expecting it and still wasn't prepared. The tempathy
drugs flooded into him and the needle was withdrawn.
Takeoff and landing were always rehearsed on the pilot's own time.
The ends of a voyage were critical and it was essential to have an
undistorted reaction. Besides, neither took long.
The time between one planet and the next was long and nothing
much happened, so it could be shortened without deleterious effect
on the results. Tempathy drugs shortened it, though not completely.
Part of a man's consciousness went along at normal speed and the
rest, that which counted in jockeying rockets, was enormously
telescoped.
It telescoped on Merrol. He couldn't see. Rather, part of him could
but, for the other fraction, images passed in front of his eyes too
fast for his mind to evaluate. Weeks flipped past in minutes. It was a
dream world turned inside out—the roles of consciousness and
unconsciousness were reversed.
There was something wrong with the sounds he half-heard. He could
get emotions, though he couldn't separate them into sense. There
were additional voices that shouldn't be there—the mechanical crew
spoke to him giving silent data—but there were other actual voices,
fearful or consolatory. He tried to speak, but his vocal cords were
preempted.
He was doing it all, speaking, moving the controls, directing the ship
between planets. It ought to be easier than takeoff, but it wasn't. He
shouldn't be afraid of anything he might find out there—which was
nothing—but that didn't alter conditions. He was profoundly
disturbed, and he hoped the tester noticed it.
The examiner did spot trouble. He opened the door and reversed the
switch. Lights went on, and another needle speared him,
counteracting the effects of the tempathy drugs. Slowly the ship
disappeared, space along with it, and the room whirled back into
view and settled down. Something handed him back his eyes and
ears.
"Easy," said the man. "Sit there. You don't have to move. We'll find
out what's wrong. It may not be serious at all."

Unhooking the visio-recorder, the tester also swung the mike away.
"You were doing fine," he said. "Never saw anything smoother.
About here, though, you seemed to be having difficulty. We'll slow it
down and see what it was."
He snapped the reels in place and darkened the room. On the screen
was the vision-port and, through it, a view of Mars. A fleck of light
glittered, grew, became a cloud, a swarm. A swarm?
"God!" said the tester, bewildered. "A billion butterflies! How could
you imagine butterflies, twenty million miles from a planet?"
Merrol squirmed—he didn't know either. What was wrong with him
to make him dream up butterflies?
The examiner switched the film off and the lights on. "So you missed
them—why, I don't know." He fiddled with another machine. "We'll
slow down the sound, synchronize the two of them later, but maybe
by itself the sound will give us a clue as to what happened."
"What's that?" It came from the sound track, but it was Merrol's
voice.
"Those are lepidoptera." Another voice, also his, though of different
pitch and timbre—his, because he was the only one there to speak.
"I've always dreamed of discovering a new species and at last I
have, since these can fly through space. What strange adaptations
they have made. Aren't they beautiful?"
He answered. "They won't be when I plow through them. The
rockets will fry them."
"Turn aside!" shouted the lepidopterist. "You can't destroy them."
"I'm going to act as if this were not happening," said a cultured
voice. "Bang-bang!"
"This is upsetting," said a different person. "Since I have no
instrument, I'll listen with my memory to a Bach concerto.
Unfortunately, it ends in the middle of the third movement, as
though it has been sliced through with a knife that separated one
note cleanly from the next. Still, it's better to have this than
nothing."
"Your computers are awfully slow," said the fifth. "I'll figure out a
new course for us."
"Gimme the controls," said the wrestler. "I'll turn the ship, if I hafta
do it with my bare hands."
The examiner snapped off the sound and busied himself with things
that may have been necessary. "You don't have to sit there," he said
after a while. "Wait outside." He glanced down, "Be careful when
you move, the control column will fall off. Didn't know it could be
broken."
As he got out of the seat, the examiner slapped his back. "Tell you
what, fellow—don't wait—go now to the Compensation Board and
see about retirement."

IV
Merrol sat in the room where he had been sitting for a day and a
half since the psych test. He had walked out immediately, found a
room and was still in it. It wasn't comfortable, sitting. Whichever
position was right for the bend of one knee was wrong for the other.
He had depended on the test to get him out of a jam, but the
stratagem had failed. If he had passed, he'd have been another
experienced pilot for the Interplanet string and that meant
something. Experienced men were valuable and I. P. would have
gone to bat for him.
Not everyone could pass the test and, while it didn't prove that the
man who did was one hundred per cent sane, it was a big argument
in that direction. It was evidence that would have to be respected
publicly, whatever private doubts a psychotherapist might have.
Unwittingly, he had provided additional ammunition against himself.
When the results of the test sifted through the layers of red tape to
the front office, Interplanet would contact the hospital, which would
then really want to orient him to a frazzle.
Orientation sounded nice but it was not for Merrol. If they could
orient everyone he would come in contact with as well—but how
much insulation could a man build up against involuntary laughter?
It was fine to be a comedian on the screen and then step out of
character and relax—but what if you couldn't stop? Nobody could
adjust to the constant expectation of hysterical mirth. But wasn't
that a reason to undergo psychotherapy, so they could blunt the
edges of his own reactions? It ought to be, but somehow it wasn't.
He didn't dare submit.
There was a difference, apparently determined by sex, in the way
people behaved toward him. No man had thus far done more than
smile respectfully while he was near. What they did later, he could
guess. Face to face, they seemed to be reserved and incredulous
until they learned to accept him as a member of their species and
sex and then—how did they act? It would take more than casual
thinking to puzzle that out.
Women saw the big joke instantly and giggled, and he couldn't
blame them. Seconds later, they smirked contritely and tried to
touch him, as if contact could atone for their behavior. They noticed
appearance at all times, whereas men didn't as a rule of their own
sex.
He paused to re-examine his thoughts. Something seemed to be
missing in his analysis. What it was, he couldn't tell. It would have to
come out later, as he mingled more with people—if he ever did.

And that wasn't all. He had been a pilot, but never would be one
again. His skill had been destroyed by the intrusion of five other
personalities, who each brought his own odd bit of useless
knowledge to the whole Merrol. He should have expected it, but he
hadn't, nor had the doctors.
It was obvious—the brain slices that had replaced his own damaged
tissues had to be in healthy condition or they'd never have
functioned properly—and what did those medical fools think was the
function of any brain? He was in command of the group brain
because his was the dominant fraction, but when he sat down and
thought about it, what good did it do? He was sitting down and it
didn't do any good, so he got up.
He took two paces across the room and looked out the window, into
windows that looked into his. Compensation was coming to him.
Ultimately, he'd divide it with Erica and go away. She must know by
now that the man she had spent the night with was actually her own
husband. Intellectually she must have decided to accept him.
He wasn't noble, though. Much as he wanted her, he knew he
couldn't live with anyone who had to stifle her laughter when he
stepped out of the bath or into bed.
He walked the carpet aimlessly until, through the window, he caught
a word from the telecast in the next apartment. He thought it
sounded familiar. He yanked the louvers closed and grunted, but it
didn't help—the word bothered him. He reached out the long arm to
turn on his own screen.
A face came into view and a man's voice whispered. Merrol turned
up the volume, but it didn't get any louder. It was the low-pressure
soothing type. Whatever he was selling, it was a welcome change.
The announcer smiled reassuringly. "Actually, I'm talking to one
person. The rest of you may listen or not for the next five minutes,
after which I'll have something to say to you." It was a clever
approach to insure that the audience didn't switch programs.
"Dan Merrol, this is a personal message to you." Merrol sat up.
"We'd call you if we could, but this is a large city and you've simply
vanished. We have operatives trying to trace you, but with no
success up to now." The announcer leaned forward confidentially.
"Now, Dan, before you become alarmed, let me say you've done
nothing wrong. In fact, at Interplanet, we think you've done
everything right—but I'll come to that later."

Interplanet? Then it wasn't the hospital or the police. What could I.

P. want of him?
"No doubt the test you took was somewhat of a shock. Don't blame
the psych examiner for the conclusions he formed—he can't be
expected to know more than the leading psychologists. You're
probably curious as to what this test has to do with you and
Interplanet. We hope so—we want you to keep on listening.
"The test proved you're no longer a competent pilot—but it also
indicated something much bigger. Dan, you are the answer to a
problem that has been bothering us for generations. Before the
accident, you knew nothing of music or any life science, your math
was adequate but not deep, you often felt awkward in the presence
of others when you had no need to and you lacked confidence in
your physical ability.
"Suddenly, you gained something of each and, when we contacted
your doctors, we were able to surmise how it happened. Now you
ask—what good does this do you and what is the problem to which
this is the answer?
"Simply this—specialization. You know what constitutes a rocket
crew—pilot, radio man, engineer and several lesser technicians, each
of whom knows only his own job. Although you'll never sit at the
controls again—through you, we can help others."
The announcer lowered his voice now. "You can unlock specialization
for us. In the future, each man will concentrate on what particular
aptitudes he has, then share it, via surgery, with others whose
knowledge complements his own. To do this, we need to study you
further and, of course, we'll pay you well for the opportunity. In
addition, you'll still get your compensation. Please come and talk it
over with us.
"Frankly, we're a little worried about what you may be thinking. If
you have any thoughts of self-destruction because of what must
seem a strange condition, put them aside. You're much saner than
the average man."

Merrol listened, smiling at the remark. No matter what they thought,

he couldn't seriously contemplate suicide. There were too many
others to dissuade him.
Nevertheless, it was hard to understand and accept the sudden
change of his status. He had formerly been a mere employee, but
now....
The announcer hadn't finished. "In the beginning, Dan, I said you
had done everything right, whether you knew it or not. After we
learned what we did from your test, we checked through our files
and found that we had a few other accident cases on record in
which part of the brain had been replaced. In each case there was a
faint trace of another personality, which we could detect when we
knew what to look for. We rechecked each person we could locate.
Unfortunately, the latent personalities and their share of knowledge
had been submerged beyond recovery by the rigorous
psychotherapy the accident victim had undergone after surgery."

The imaginary Wysocki's theorem of self-therapy. He never knew of

anyone by that name, nor had he got it from one of the other five.
But, however nonsensically he had invented it to express the needs
he felt at the time, it was, in fact, not nonsense. When it came to
that, who knew anything about six minds packaged together—and
what could have been done to him in ignorance?
The announcer was finished talking to Dan Merrol alone.
"Remember, all of you," he said briskly. "This man is neither a
criminal nor insane. He is extremely withdrawn, as a result of
unpleasant experiences. If you can induce him to come to
Interplanet, or lead our representatives to him, you will receive a
substantial reward. Here is his picture."
Merrol turned off the screen and scowled. He didn't like that last. He
intended to take their offer, but he wanted to be free to walk the
streets. He could settle that easily enough by just calling Interplanet.
They'd send someone down to whisk him away. That would solve all
his problems—or would it?
Certainly, it eliminated orientation or any form of psychotherapy.
After what had happened to the others, the psychologists would be
content merely to observe what went on in his mind. They wouldn't
want to give him much privacy, but he'd have to insist on it. They'd
listen.
This could be just a job, a very good job while it lasted—say three or
four years—until they had learned all they need to know. Perhaps
there would be other men blended more scientifically than he had
been. But he could accumulate enough money to last the rest of his
life, or perhaps turn his many new talents to something else. There
were many things he would like to do, and he was ahead of
everyone else now, even though in three or four years he would no
longer be unique.
Except, of course, in his body.
And there it was again. Was there nothing he could do to get away
from it?
He had no memory of Erica except for the one night, but it was
enough to convince him. What would their future be like in what was
sure to follow? After that broadcast, he would be a person of some
note, but would that stop laughter? Would she wait until he left the
room before she giggled?
He'd come to terms with Interplanet, but first he had to come to
terms with himself ... and he hadn't.
How good was his imaginary Wysocki's theorem? Could it take one
last extension? He counted what was left of the money Erica had
given him. It wasn't much, but with it he could leave the city. And he
had to.

V
It was dusk when he slipped out of the room and later still when the
plane lifted away from the station. It was an ancient jet, long since
relegated to cheap overnight service where speed was not a factor
and price was.
He knew he was taking a chance and half expected to be stopped,
but apparently not many people had listened to the broadcast.
Casual glances slid off him and didn't linger. Partly, he suspected,
because he had pulled his hat over his face and thrust his hands in
the jacket. He'd gotten away in time, but by the morning there
would be people on the streets looking for him.
He stared at the approximation of a port. When this ship had been
built, there was some feeling against the practice and so the row of
picture tubes had been camouflaged as ports in the wall. There was
a station selector switch, but none for on or off. He glowered at the
picture at his elbow and turned to the least annoying thing he could
find. Across the aisle, there were three other programs he could see
distinctly. The one directly opposite was a repeat of the broadcast he
had heard a few hours previously. He scowled and looked away. If it
hadn't been a night plane, in which people sought sleep, he would
certainly have been spotted. Apathy was his best protection. He
hunched down in his seat and dozed off.
When he awakened, the familiar Interplanet program was at his
elbow. He reached to change stations, then on impulse let his hand
continue past the knob until he felt the ash tray. He unfastened the
heavy article and poked it through the screen.
The glass broke, but only a few in the immediate vicinity heard it in
the din. To those who stared at him, he presented a view of his back
or the profile of his hat. They glanced at him indifferently, then
looked away. Outside the orifice, where the tube had been in the
outer of two walls, was an actual port. He gazed through it
contentedly.
A finger tapped him. "Yes?" he said in a loud voice.
The man behind him leaned over. "I've been riding in this plane once
a week for five years. I mean, would you mind if I looked out? I've
never seen where I'm going."
"Glad to have you."
The man sat beside him and peered wistfully out. Below were lights,
the patterns of cities, roads and towns and in the distance the glare
of furnaces. There was also a current of cold air seeping from the
space between the double walls. The man looked, shivered, turned
up his collar and finally went back to his seat.
It was cold, but Merrol remained where he was. There was some
satisfaction in asserting himself, but the satisfaction wore off and the
cold didn't.
His attention was caught by the program which was flickering across
the aisle. Doctor Crander—Merrol frowned. Did the hospital want him
too? He listened intently. No, they didn't want him.

Crander sounded tired. "This is an emergency appeal and we'll need

a wide response. We have in our care a person with a serious illness
we can't diagnose. With so much interplanetary travel we can't
determine what causes the disease. It may be an organism from a
moon of Saturn or almost anything else.
"Our staff is working at top speed. We feel, if we can keep her alive
for one week, she'll be out of danger. That is by no means a
certainty, but a reasonably accurate forecast.
"We have a new theory, largely untested, but we hope it will work.
Each person differs from the next and though, when we match limbs
and organs, we try to take this into account, we never quite succeed
in effecting a perfect biological match. As a result, the character of
the blood changes, slightly but significantly. It's as if we had lumped
together the various natural immunities of the component bodies
and created an entirely new super-immunity."
Crander paused. "We need persons who have had five or more
major replacements. By major, I mean hands, arms, legs or parts of
them—nothing so trivial as ears, or a few feet of skin, or three or
four fingers.
"It must be at least five, though more are correspondingly better.
Nothing less—and please don't apply with only a minor replacement.
Two donors have volunteered so far and we have fractioned and
administered the blood of one with dramatic, if temporary, results. In
a few hours, we'll have to use the second. After that, I don't know
what we'll do."
Merrol stirred. He was deeply suspicious.
"Here's the woman," said Crander. "She needs your help."
The man across the aisle leaned forward and his head was in front
of the picture. Merrol tried to see, but couldn't.
"It's up to you," said Crander as he faded from the screen.
Merrol tapped the man across the aisle. "Please repeat it."
The man glanced around and saw who it was. "Aw, you're the guy
who doesn't like that stuff." He jerked his head at the broken screen.
The memory cell of the picture tube didn't have a long attention
span. It could recall forty-five seconds of the past program and no
longer. The broadcast might be repeated, or it might not. Did he
want to wait?
He reached out his arm—the long one—and fastened onto the man's
jacket, giving him a short rough shove.
"Repeat it, I said!"
The man looked down. He wasn't small himself, but it was a large
fist. "Sure thing," he said, jabbing the repeat button. The scene was
replayed.
"Thanks," said Merrol, letting go.
The man looked at his crumpled clothing. "Not at all," he muttered,
sliding away against the wall. "Don't mention it."

The woman was Erica. It was too much of a coincidence that,

among so many millions in the city, she should be the one. The
hospital and Interplanet were working together and now they had
brought in Erica. How gullible did they think he was and how much
had they offered her for this? It might not be money, though—they
might have convinced her it was to Dan's own best interest that they
get in touch with him immediately.
They were baiting him crudely and if they weren't, there were others
who could respond as well as he. There must be hundreds in the
vicinity, scores at any rate, who could qualify. There were enough
without him, depending on how often the blood fraction was
needed. Crander hadn't said. It was a trick and Erica wasn't ill—or if
she was, she would be safe without him. He had to make up his
mind before he saw her, and he couldn't. He clenched his hands,
both big and little. He had stretched Wysocki's theorem too far and it
had failed.
"I had a wife once." The voice startled him, but he sat still, hoping
to hear it again. Maybe they would tell him what to do. "Not so
slender as Erica. Rather bouncy, in fact, but I liked her. Pity she ran
away with a coleopterist. Never could understand what she saw in
him." The voice grew sad. "Beetles!"
"My advice is that wives are easily come by," said a theatrical voice,
modulated for effect. "But before he shuffles off this mortal coil to
the last roundup, every man should have at least one wife like
Erica."
"I can't speak of wives or women," said the musician. "There's so
little memory left, mostly music. But you've been subconsciously
humming a tune for days—and I must tell you that Beethoven didn't
write anything called Erica. The correct title is Eroica."
"One fall don't mean nothing, it's always the best two out of three.
The way I see it, you gotta get up. Get close to them, hold them
tight, or they'll throw you outta the ring."
"This is something that can't be figured. There are some odds no
one can live by. You'll have to solve this one yourself."
He sat there, not moving. They were with him always, but
sometimes they weren't much help.
The plane would land on the other side of the continent. He had
little money, but he could get in touch with Interplanet and they
would advance him the fare back. Unfortunately, such a move would
take time. There would be schedules to juggle, to say nothing of the
ride back. A mere matter of hours on a fast ship—yet what if that
was too long?

He got to his feet and went forward. "You can't go in there," said the
stewardess.
He looked past her into the pilot's compartment. It was securely
locked from this side though not on the other. He glanced down at
the girl. It was a tradition that stewardesses were gorgeous
creatures, though the tradition was simply not true any longer. In an
age of space exploration, air travel had dispensed with glamor. But
for unfathomable reasons, this stewardess was a throwback to the
old days. If she didn't quite achieve real beauty, she came close
enough so that no healthy male could conceivably object to her
nearness.
Merrol could take the keys away from her, but she'd scream and a
dozen men would come leaping to her rescue. He didn't care for the
odds.
He had met three women and had he misjudged the effect of the
new himself on them? First Erica—her behavior had been strange,
considering that, even from the first, she must have doubted he was
her husband. Then the receptionist—she had gone out of her way to
get him into Crander's office when the latter was upset by the
disappearance of a patient. And finally, the pathetic Miss Jerrems,
who had thawed and would have descended to crooked schemes,
had he encouraged her. Was this some form of pity or something
quite different—or did it matter at all as long as they were not
indifferent? There was a way to find out.
He raised his arm, the shorter one, and laid his hand affectionately
on the stewardess' shoulder. "Isn't there a private room in back?"
She tilted her head and her lips glistened. "Yes, there is."
"Small enough for two?"
"I believe so." Her lashes trembled and lowered and she seemed
surprised that they did. "That is if you—if we snuggled close."
"I'm sure we will. Why don't you find out about that room?"
"It seems like a good idea." She blushed and turned to leave.
"I'll need keys, won't I?" he said.
She leaned against him and the keys dropped into his hand. "I'll be
waiting," she whispered. He watched her walk down the aisle and
enjoyed the enticing sway of her hips. Under other circumstances,
he might have considered joining her.
He had the keys! It had worked! He didn't know why, nor did he
have time to think about it. He inserted the key and stepped inside.
"Hi, Jane," sang out the pilot, not turning, assuming he knew who it
was.
Merrol located the autopilot switch and, reaching past the man,
turned it on. With the same motion he whirled the pilot around.
"Listen, friend, don't you want to go back?"
"No. Why should I?" The pilot was startled, but not intimidated.
"Engine trouble or something. You figure it out. I don't care what it
is, as long as we get back." He half-hoped the man would object—
physical action would be a relief. In an emergency, he could handle
the ship himself—it was simpler than a spaceship.

The pilot squinted beyond and behind him. "Engines don't sound so
good," he muttered. He was unexpectedly docile. "Safety first is the
motto of this airline." It was a good rule, but it was questionable
whose safety he was referring to.
The pilot was still having unaccountable difficulty with his eyes—
there was a marked tendency to cross. "Sure, we'll go back," he
said. "Glad you brought it to my attention. But call off your gang, will
you, mister?"
Merrol turned around. He was alone. There was no one behind him,
though the pilot seemed convinced there was.
He had a partial answer to the pilot's strange reaction. He was a
multiple personality and, normally latent, in times of stress the multi-
personality became dominant and impressed itself psychologically on
the observer. And if the mind received the impression of several
men, the eye tried hard to produce evidence that would confirm it.
Not everyone was as successful at self-hypnosis as the pilot, but the
temptation toward it was always there. Now that he thought of it,
men never had laughed at him. Instead they had been respectful.
He apparently had an unsettling effect on those of his own sex he
came in contact with—just how powerful it was, he didn't know yet.
The complete answer would have to await investigation by trained
psychologists.
Women were different. They invariably laughed first—Erica too, in
spite of the general sympathy she must have felt for him. In what
did the difference lie? That too he would have to determine—later.
The pilot looked at him dizzily, beseechingly. Merrol decided he must
be pouring it on, though he felt no different. "Remember, I can get
up here in an awful hurry," said Merrol, "so no tricks." The pilot
nodded and clung helplessly to the controls. He wouldn't cause any
trouble. Merrol raised his arm in a gesture. "Come on, fellows."
As an afterthought, he locked the stewardess in the private
compartment and, as he did so, he could feel the plane swing in a
wide arc that would take them to the station they had started from.
The apathetic dozing passengers didn't even notice.
And then all six of him walked back to his seat and Merrol sat down.

VI
He slid out of the plane while it was still rolling. He didn't want to
argue with the passengers, when they found they were on the
wrong coast and he was to blame. Nor did he particularly want to
explain to the authorities. Later he would have to, but by then he
would have powerful interests behind him to smooth over the
incident.
It was late and there were no cabs in sight, in air or on surface. He
crossed the landing strip into the station and out of it and swept
along the dark streets with a loose-jointed stride that made the
distance seem less than it was. Presently, he broke into a trot and
his speed was encouraging.
A hoppicopter—one of the little surface cars that could rise and fly
for a short time to avoid traffic jams—bounced down and rolled
alongside. A window slid open and a head popped out. "In a hurry,
mister?"
He bobbed his head. "Hospital."
"Jump in and we'll take you. We're not doing anything special—just
riding around." The hoppicopter stopped. This was luck—he'd get
there faster.
The man in the front seat opened the door and stepped out, flashing
a light on him. "Just a check. We don't mind taking you, but we
want to be sure we don't pick up some rough character."
The man didn't look so gentle himself—and the light was trained on
Dan too long. If they were afraid, he'd have to refuse their offer and
go on.
"Hey, Carl," the man with the flash called out puzzledly. "Haven't we
seen this guy somewhere before?"
He should have expected something like this and not stopped—but
maybe it would have been worse if he hadn't. So far, he had been
lucky that no one had spotted him—and now was not the time to be
discussing terms with Interplanet. He began to edge away.
Carl climbed out of the hoppicopter and circled in the same direction
Merrol was inching toward. "I guess I have at that," said Carl slowly.
He was a big man. "Can't say where, though."
Merrol breathed more easily. He couldn't make a break for it, but
perhaps he wouldn't have to. They might not have seen the
broadcast. "I've got to hurry," he said. "I'll go on."
"Don't get sore," said Carl soothingly. "We'll take you. Climb in."
The man with the light was frowning indecisively. "The guy on the
broadcast?" he asked sharply.
"Nah," said Carl disgustedly. "That guy—you look at his picture and
you have to bust out laughing. Now this fellow here—while he's a
long way from handsome—is clearly the executive type, a man you
can trust." Carl scrutinized him thoughtfully. Before Merrol could stop
him, he reached out and plucked off the hat. "There's only one guy
with three-colored hair, though, and you've got it," he said
unbelievingly.
Merrol started to back away, but the body of the hoppicopter
stopped him.
"Mister, you've sure got some disguise," said the other man in an
awed voice. "I could look right at you all day and not tell who it
was."

It was no disguise, it was the multi-personality again. No one looked

quite the same in real life as in a picture, because the personality
was missing. And with him the difference was far more marked. The
camera could register his features accurately, but men couldn't, not
when he was actually there to inspire trust and respect—and he did
arouse those emotions. Added together, these were some of the
reasons why he hadn't hitherto been recognized.
"Sorry to have bothered you," he said, pushing between them as
they converged on him. "I'm in a hurry."
"Sure, sure," said Carl, apologetically, moving aside.
"But he's money!" the man with the flashlight cried in an anguished
voice.
"So he is!" said Carl. The vision of money seemed to carry a lot of
weight with him. He seemed reluctant to act, but he reached out
and swung Merrol around. "We'll take you to Interplanet and then
you can go to the hospital. Don't worry, we aren't going to do
nothing. It don't pay us to hurt you."
Their original intentions were probably sincere, but now that they
thought they'd found money on the street, they weren't willing to let
it go. But Merrol was not going to accompany them to Interplanet.
He jerked away.
"We'll split the reward," said Carl. "Too bad we got to carry him in."
Merrol tried to elude him, but Carl caught his arm in a bone-cracking
hold. That is, it ought to have splintered bone. That it didn't was not
due to lack of skill, but to the proportions of the arm to which it was
applied. The advantage of leverage went to Merrol and he used it.
He broke loose and swung the long arm with the large fist and Carl
went down.
The man with the light dropped it, climbed on Merrol's back and was
pounding away at a nerve. Had he found the nerve, Merrol might
have crumpled to the street. He didn't find it, because it wasn't
there. The nerve had been surgically rerouted.
Merrol peeled him off and tossed him on top of Carl. He tossed him
harder than he meant to and neither man moved.
He climbed into the hoppicopter and rolled it through the dark
streets. They had caused him to lose time and for this they would
forfeit the use of their 'copter. They could pick it up in the morning,
if they felt like claiming it. He got out and hurried into the hospital.
He met others in the corridors—it was a busy place in spite of the
lateness—but the first person he recognized was Erica. "Dan!" she
said. She didn't use anything scientific, but the hold on him was
harder to break than judo. Perhaps because he didn't want to.
Later, he became aware of someone tapping his shoulder. He turned
around. "These things can be consummated in the privacy of one's
own home," murmured Doctor Crander. "But when a life is at stake,
passion should be put aside."
The purely physical elation began to fade. He put Erica down, but
uncertainly holding onto her. It was an ambivalent gesture. "Is this
what you call an emergency?" he asked sarcastically. He had broken
a number of minor laws and nearly his own neck in getting here. He
had a right to be angry, though he was not sure how he felt.
The doctor gave him a scandalized look. "Do you think we're
unethical? There is such a woman as we described, one of our staff.
We do have other donors, but we think you can do more for her. In
a fit of despondency, this woman wandered into the extraterrestrial
room without the customary protection, hoping to catch something—
and she did." Crander frowned. "The only way we altered facts was
to use your wife's photo. It was her idea. Furthermore, it is true that
a pretty girl gets a better response—and, of course, Erica wanted
you back."
When he learned who the patient was, he was satisfied with his
decision. After the blood fraction had been administered to Miss
Jerrems, even his untrained eyes could see the improvement.