"That should be the top of Dan Merrol's head," she said softly.
He was a good six inches taller than he ought to be. But there must be
some explanation for the added height. He glanced down at his legs.
They were the same length from hip bone to the soles of his feet, but
the proportions differed from one side to the other. His knees didn't
match. _Be-dum, be-dum, be-dumdum, but your knees don't match_--the
snatch of an ancient song floated through his head.
Quickly, he scanned himself. It was the same elsewhere. The upper right
arm was massive, too big for the shoulder it merged with. And the
forearm, while long, was slender. He blinked and looked again. While
they were patching him up, did they really think he needed black, red
and brown hair? He wondered how a beagle felt.
* * * * *
What were they, a bunch of humorists? Did they, for comic effect, piece
together a body out of bits and scraps left over from a chopping block?
It was himself he was looking at, otherwise he'd say the results were
neither hideous nor horrible, but merely--well, what? Ludicrous and
laughable--and there were complications in that too. Who wants to be
an involuntary clown, a physical buffoon that Mother Nature hadn't
duplicated since Man began?
He felt the stubble on his face with his left hand--he _thought_ it
was his left hand--at least it was on that side. The emerging whiskers
didn't feel like anything he remembered. Wait a minute--was it _his_
memory? He leaned against the wall and nearly fell down. The length of
that arm was unexpectedly different.
He hobbled over to a chair and sat down, staring miserably at Erica as
she began dressing. There was quite a contrast between the loveliness
of her body and the circus comedy of his own.
"Difficult, isn't it?" she said, tugging her bra together and closing
the last snap, which took considerable effort. She was a small girl
generally, though not around the chest.
It was difficult and in addition to his physique there were the
memories he couldn't account for. Come to think of it, he must have
been awfully busy to have so many careers in such a short time--_and_
all those wives too.
Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't
comforted. "I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you."
He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still
Dan Merrol--but he wasn't going to insist on it--not after looking at
himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories.
She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the
scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that,
stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he
had to do.
* * * * *
The jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve
that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the
sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders
were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around
in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight.
The trousers were also a problem--six inches short with no material
to add on, but here again Erica proved equal to the task and, using
the cuffs, contrived to lengthen them. Shoes were another difficulty.
For one foot the size was not bad, but he could almost step out of the
other shoe. When she wasn't looking, he wadded up a spare sock and
stuffed it in the toe.
He looked critically at himself in the mirror. Dressed, his total
effect was better than he had dared hope it would be. True, he did look
_different_.
Erica gazed at him with melancholy affection. "I can't understand why
they let you out wearing those clothes--or for that matter, why they
let you out at all."
He must have given some explanation as he'd stumbled through the door.
What was it?
"When I brought the clothes yesterday, they told me I couldn't see you
for a day or so," she mused aloud. "It was the first time you'd been
out of the regrowth tank--where no one could see you--and they didn't
know the clothes wouldn't fit. You were covered with a sheet, sleeping,
I think. They let me peek in and I could make out a corner of your
face."
It was the clothes, plus the brief glimpse of his face, which had made
her think she recognized him when he came in.
"They told me you'd have to have psychotherapy and I'd have to have
orientation before I could see you. That's why I was so surprised when
you rang the bell."
His head was churning with ideas, trying to sort them out. Part of last
night was dim, part sharp and satisfying.
"What's Wysocki's theorem?" she asked.
"_Whose_ theorem?"
"Wysocki's. I started to call the hospital and you wouldn't let me,
because of the theorem. You said you'd explain it this morning." She
glanced at the bruise on her arm.
It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital.
He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of
coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted--but
she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan
Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock.
* * * * *
She was looking at him, waiting for that explanation. He shook his
mind frantically and the words came out. "Self-therapy," he said
briskly. "The patient alone understands what he needs." She started to
interrupt, but he shook his head and went on blithely. "That's the
first corollary of the theorem. The second is that there are critical
times in the recovery of the patient. At such times, with the least
possible supervision, he should be encouraged to make his own decisions
and carry them through by himself, even though running a slight risk of
physical complications."
"That's new, isn't it?" she said. "I always thought they watched the
patient carefully."
It ought to be new--he'd just invented it. "You know how rapidly
medical practices change," he said quickly. "Anyway, when they
examined me last night, I was much stronger than they expected--so,
when I wanted to come home, they let me. It's their latest belief that
initiative is more important than perfect health."
"Strange," she muttered. "But you are very strong." She looked at him
and blushed. "Initiative, certainly you have. Dan could use some,
wherever he is."
Dan again, whether it was himself or another person. For a brief time,
as she listened to him, he'd had the silly idea that.... But it could
never happen to him. He'd better leave now while she was distracted and
bewildered and believed what he was saying. "I've got to go. I'm due
back," he told her.
"Not before you eat," she said. "Any man who's spent the night with me
is hungry in the morning."
It was a domestic miracle that amidst all the pressing and fitting,
she'd somehow prepared breakfast and he hadn't noticed. It was a simple
chore with the automatics, but to him it seemed a proof of her wifely
skill.
He wanted to protest, but didn't. Maybe it was the hand she was
holding--it seemed to be equipped with a better set of nerves than its
predecessor. It tingled at her touch. Sadly, he sat down and looked at
his food. Eat? Did he want to eat? Oddly enough, he did.
"How much do you remember of the accident?" She shoved aside her own
food and sat watching him.
* * * * *
Not a thing, now that she asked. In fact, there wasn't much he did
remember. There had been the chart at his bed-side, with one word
scrawled on it--_accident_--and that was where he'd got the idea. There
had been other marks too, but he hadn't been able to decipher them. He
nodded and said nothing and she took it as he thought she would.
"It wasn't anybody's fault. The warning devices which were supposed to
work didn't," she began. "A Moon ship collided with a Mars liner in
the upper atmosphere. The ships broke up in several parts and since
they are compartmented and the delay rockets switched on immediately,
the separate parts fell rather gently, considering how high they were.
Casualties weren't as great as you might think.
"Parts of the two ships fell together, the rest were scattered. There
was some interchange of passengers in the wreckage, but since you were
found in the control compartment of the Mars liner, they assumed you
were the pilot. They never let me see you until yesterday and then
it was just a glimpse. I took their word when they said you were Dan
Merrol."
At least he knew who or what Dan Merrol was--the pilot of the Mars
liner. They had assumed he was the pilot because of where he was found,
but he might have been tossed there--impact did strange things.
Dan Merrol was a spaceship pilot and he hadn't included it among his
skills. It was strange that she had believed him at all. But now that
it was out in the open, he did remember some facts about spaceships. He
felt he could manage a takeoff at this instant.
But why hadn't he told her? Shock? Perhaps--but where had those other
identities come from--lepidopterist, musician, actor, mathematician
and wrestler? And where had he got memories of wives, slender and
passionate, petite and wild, casual and complaisant, nagging and
insecure?
Erica he didn't remember at all, save from last night, and what was
that due to?
"What are you going to do?" he asked, deliberately toying with the last
bite of breakfast. It gave him time to think.
"They said they'd identified everyone, living or dead, and I supposed
they had. After seeing you, I can believe they made any number of
similar mistakes. Dan Merrol may be alive under another name. It will
be hard to do, but I must try to find him. Some of the accident victims
went to other hospitals, you know, the ones located nearest where they
fell."
Even if he was sure, he didn't know whether he could tell her--and he
wasn't sure any longer, although he had been. On the physical side of
marriage, how could he ask her to share a body she'd have to laugh at?
Later, he might tell her, if there was to be a 'later.' He pushed back
his chair and looked at her uncertainly.
"Let me call a 'copter," she said. "I hate to see you go."
"Wysocki's theorem," he told her. "The patient has decided to walk."
He weaved toward the door and twisted the knob. He turned in time to
catch her in his arms.
"I know this is wrong," she said, pressing against him.
It might be wrong, but it was very pleasant, though he did guess her
motives. She was a warmhearted girl and couldn't help pitying him.
"Don't be so damned considerate," he mumbled.
"You'll have to put me down," she said, averting her eyes.
"Otherwise.... You're an intolerable funny man."
He knew it--he could see himself in the mirror. He was something to
laugh at when anyone got tired of pretending sympathy. He put her down
and stumbled out. He thought he could hear the bed creak as she threw
herself on it.