_Ron definitely didn't like what
had happened. But who can blame him?
How would you like to wake and find
your body had been switched for a child's?_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, April 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ron Carver's day was beginning strangely.
For one thing, the legs he swung off the narrow bed wouldn't touch the
floor. And his hands, whose ten strong fingers could manipulate the
controls of any ship ever launched into space, were weak and clumsy.
He looked at the hands first, looked at them for a long time. Then he
screamed.
He screamed until footsteps were loud in the corridor outside his room;
shrill, piping screams that didn't stop even when the giant woman-face
was bending over him, speaking gentle, soothing words, stroking his
thin shoulders with giant, comforting gestures.
"There, there, now," the woman was saying. "You're all right, Ronnie.
You're all right. It was only a nightmare... a bad old nightmare...."
She was right. Only the nightmare hadn't ended. The nightmare was
before his face, in her gargantuan features, in her motherly touch on
his frail body, in the sight of the small, soft appendages that were
his hands.
They were the hands of a boy of twelve. And Ron Carver was thirty years
old.
Two men giants joined the woman at his bedside, and one of them forced
a small speckled capsule past his resisting lips. Then his viewpoint
became detached and distant, and a pleasurable drowsiness overcame him.
He stretched out and shut his eyes, but he could still hear the worried
tones of their speech.
"Dr. Minton warned us," one of the men said, lifting Ron's bony wrist
and feeling for the pulse. "The boy has suffered some severe traumatic
shock..."
Dr. Minton! Ron Carver's mind grasped the familiar name--the name of
his own physician--gratefully. But his body gave no sign.
"Maybe we better call him," the woman said nervously. "I think he's
still in the sick bay."
"Good idea."
In another moment, a familiar hairy face was floating over Ron's head
like a captive balloon, a face grown grotesque in size.
"Doctor..." he said with his lips.
"There." Dr. Minton patted his shoulder. "You're all right now, Ronnie.
You're perfectly all right. Just relax and try to sleep." The balloon
came closer, and the scraggly ends of the doctor's beard brushed his
cheek. Then the doctor's mouth was covering his small ear.
"Play the game," the doctor whispered. "For your own sake. Play the
game, Ron..."
Then he was asleep.
* * * * *
He awoke to the sound of running feet. He sat up in bed and looked
towards the door of the small white room in which he was confined. It
was partly open, and the sound of clattering soles and shrill young
voices came through clearly.
The door slammed open, startling him. A hoydenish youngster gaped at
him. There was a flat lock of reddish hair over his forehead, and his
face was freckled.
"Hoy," he said. "What's the matter with _you_?"
Ron stared back wordlessly.
"You sick or something?" the boy said, edging into the room.
"No." His own voice, strange and reedy, frightened him. "No, I'm all
right."
"Andy!" A tall man with a frowning face appeared behind the boy. "Come
on, fella. Let's not waste any time." He looked at Ron. "You the new
chap?"
"Yes."
"Feel well enough for some breakfast?"
"I guess so."
"Fine. Then get some clothes on and come along."
"Hoy," the freckle-faced boy said curiously. "You play airball?"
"That's enough of that." The man paddled the boy's rump. "Get along,
Andy. You'll have plenty of time to get acquainted later."
The boy giggled and ran down the hall. Ron got out of bed slowly, and
walked towards the undersized clothing that was draped on a nearby
chair. He slipped into a gray coverall and said: "Listen--can I talk to
you?"
The man looked at his watch. "Well ... all right, I suppose. But only
for a minute. I promised the boys a game this morning; I'm Mr. Larkin,
the athletic director."