[Illustration]
* * * * *
Lee slid off the examining table and began buttoning his shirt. He had
had a medical examination every six months of his adult life, and it
always seemed strange to him that, despite the banks of machines the
doctor had which could practically map a man from a single cell
outward, each examination always entailed the cold end of a
stethoscope against his chest.
He tucked his shirt into his pants and turned to the examining doctor
who was writing on a chart.
"Well?" Lee asked him.
"Sound as a dollar," replied the doctor. "Of course Dr. Flotman or Dr.
Roberts might turn up something on their electronic monsters, but I
see no reason why we can't go ahead on schedule."
Lee felt relieved. Even while being examined by technicians, M.D.'s
and biologists, he had been conscious of the hundreds of little dull
pains which had nibbled like mice in every corner of his brain.
Sometimes he felt like a piece of his brain was being completely
smothered, a horrible sensation of having a part of his head severed
from him. This would go away, but would appear again in a different
area, usually in about fifteen to thirty minutes. Well, the doctor
said he was fit for surgery. That would end this nagging pain, just as
it always had in the past.
"... If you're ready now." Lee became aware the doctor was speaking to
him.
"Oh," Lee said. He had no idea what the doctor was talking about. "I'm
sorry, I guess I didn't hear what you said--"
The doctor smiled tolerantly. "I said you can see Dr. Letzmiller this
afternoon to get the final O.K."
"Letzmiller? Who's he? I thought you said I was ready to go." Lee knew
he sounded a little petulant, but he was tired from all these
examinations, and besides, his head hurt.
The doctor, Gorss, Lee thought his name was, was rather young but
seemed used to this kind of thing. He turned on his tolerant smile
again. "Dr. Letzmiller is chief of the Familiarization and
Post-Operative Adjustment Section. He can explain himself better when
you see him."
"Is he the last one?" Lee asked. He was already following Dr. Gorss
out the door and down a corridor.
Dr. Gorss stopped before a door marked "Dr. C. L. Letzmiller," and
opened it. "The last one. You take these," he handed Lee a thick
manila folder, "and tell the girl Dr. Gorss sent you for your
interview." He waited until Lee had entered, then closed the door and
left.
* * * * *
Evidently Dr. Letzmiller had been expecting him, for very shortly Lee
found himself sitting at the doctor's desk, comfortably seated in a
brown leather armchair. He was facing a rather pudgy man, who was
leafing through the manila folder Lee had given him. Finally Dr.
Letzmiller looked up.
"Well. Well now, Mr. Lee, suppose you first tell me about yourself,
and then I'll tell you about me."
"Tell you about me?" Lee asked.
Dr. Letzmiller smiled. It was another tolerant smile, but it seemed
more sincere than Gorss'. "I suppose the best way would be for me to
review these facts on your medical history. You are Vincent Bonard
Lee?"
"Yes, sir."
"Date of birth?"
"August 11, 1934."
"That would make you four hundred nine years old."
Lee hesitated. He never really thought of his age. It had long ago
ceased to be of any importance to him. Of course he remembered his
birth date. It was one of those facts that always appears on your
records, like your social security number. He did some calculation in
his head, as rapidly as the constantly shifting blank spots in his
thinking would allow him.
"Yes, sir."
"It shows here that you first underwent replacive surgery in 1991.
Correct?"
"Yes."
"Remember what it was for?"
"Yes, I had heart trouble. They fixed me up with one of those big jobs
requiring my carrying batteries under my armpit."
"One of those early models. And this shows that at various times since
then you have undergone replacive surgery some eighty-seven times,
including three replacements of a pulmonary nature."
Again Lee hesitated. The number of times he had had a worn organ or
tissue repaired or replaced was more than a little hazy. After the
novelty of the first few times when he found himself with a new
stomach, or liver, or muscle, he had started to take these things as a
matter of course. He gave a little nervous laugh. "If that paper says
so, I suppose so, doctor."
"Yes. Well, everything seems to be functioning properly now, doesn't
it? With the exception of your head, of course."
"Yes, yes I feel fine otherwise." Lee was feeling uncomfortable.
"Doctor, could you tell me what this is all about? I must have
answered these questions half a dozen times before to those other
people."
"In just a moment. First I need to know you a little better. Your
medical history lists your occupation as 'cabinet maker'."
"That's right." Lee was becoming more and more uncomfortable. The
extensive examinations had tired him, and repetition of the answers to
all these questions was making him edgy.
"Doctor, can't you at least tell me what type operation I'm going to
have?"
"What do you think it will be?"
"I don't know. Some sort of repair on my head, I guess."
"Mr. Lee, this isn't going to be a matter of repair. We have found it
necessary to replace the entirety of what could roughly be called
your 'brain', as well as part of the spinal cord."
"My whole brain?" Lee sat, stunned, comprehension slowly filtering
into him. He voiced the only coherent thought which materialized. "Why
that will mean there won't be anything left of me at all."