Once he got started, walking wasn't hard. His left side swung at a
different rate from his right, but that was due to the variation in
the length of his thighs and lower legs, and the two rhythms could be
reconciled. He swept along, gaining control of his muscles. He became
aware that he was whizzing past everyone.
He slowed down--he didn't want to attract attention. It was difficult
but he learned to walk at a pedestrian pace. However poorly they'd
matched his legs, they'd given him good ones.
Last night, on an impulse, he'd left the hospital and now he had to go
back. _Had_ to? Of course. There were too many uncertainties still to
be settled. He glanced around. It was still very early in the morning
and normal traffic was just beginning. Maybe they hadn't missed him
yet, though it was unlikely.
He seemed to know the route well enough and covered the distance in a
brief time. He turned in at the building and, scanning the directory,
went at once to the proper floor and stopped at the desk.
* * * * *
The receptionist was busy with the drawer of the desk. "Can I help
you?" she asked, continuing to peer down.
"The director--Doctor Crander. I don't have an appointment."
"Then the director can't see you." The girl looked up and her firmly
polite expression became a grimace of barely suppressed laughter.
Then laughter was swept away. What replaced it he couldn't say, but it
didn't seem related to humor. She placed her hand near his but it went
astray and got tangled with his fingers. "I just thought of a joke,"
she murmured. "Please don't think that I consider you at all funny."
The hell she didn't--and it was the second time within the hour a woman
had used that word on him. He wished they'd stop. He took back his
hand, the slender one, an exquisite thing that might once have belonged
to a musician. Was there an instrument played with one hand? The other
one was far larger and clumsier, more suited to mayhem than music.
"When can I see the director?"
She blinked at him. "A patient?" She didn't need to look twice to see
that he had been one. "The director does occasionally see ex-patients."
He watched her appreciatively as she went inside. The way she walked,
you'd think she had a special audience. Presently the door opened and
she came back, batting her eyes vigorously.
"You can go in now," she said huskily. Strange, her voice had dropped
an octave in less than a minute. "The old boy tried to pretend he was
in the middle of a grave emergency."
On his way in, he miscalculated, or she did, and he brushed against
her. The touch was pleasant, but not thrilling. That reaction seemed
reserved for Erica.
"Glad to see you," said Doctor Crander, behind the desk. He was nervous
and harassed for so early in the morning. "The receptionist didn't give
me your name. For some reason she seems upset."
She did at that, he thought--probably bewildered by his appearance. The
hospital didn't seem to have a calming influence on either her or the
doctor. "That's why I came here. I'm not sure who I am. I thought I was
Dan Merrol."
Doctor Crander tried to fight his way through the desk. Being a little
wider and solider, though not by much, the desk won. He contented
himself by wiping his forehead. "Our missing patient," he said, sighing
with vast relief. "For a while I had visions of...." He then decided
that visions were nothing a medical man should place much faith in.
"Then I _am_ Dan Merrol?"
The doctor came cautiously around the desk this time. "Of course. I
didn't expect that you'd come walking in my office--that's why I didn't
recognize you immediately." He exhaled peevishly. "Where did you go?
We've been searching for you everywhere."
It seemed wiser to Dan not to tell him everything. "It was stuffy
inside. I went out for a stroll before the nurse came in."
Crander frowned, his nervousness rapidly disappearing. "Then it was
about an hour ago. We didn't think you could walk at all so soon, or we
would have kept someone on duty through the night."
* * * * *
They had underestimated him, but he didn't mind. Of course, he didn't
know how a patient from the regrowth tanks was supposed to act.
The doctor took his pulse. "Seems fine," he said, surprised. "Sit
down--please sit down."
Without waiting for him to comply, Crander pushed him into a chair and
began hauling out a variety of instruments with which he poked about
his bewildered patient.
Finally Crander seemed satisfied. "Excellent," he said. "If I didn't
know better, I'd say you were almost fully recovered. A week ago, we
considered removing you from the regrowth tank. Our decision to leave
you there an extra week has paid off very, very nicely."
Merrol wasn't as pleased as the doctor appeared to be. "Granted you can
identify me as the person who came out of regrowth--but does that mean
I'm Dan Merrol? Could there be a mistake?"
Crander eyed him clinically. "We don't ordinarily do this--but it is
evident that with you peace of mind is more important than procedure.
And you look well enough to stand the physical strain."
He pressed the buzzer and an angular woman in her early forties
answered. "Miss Jerrems, the Dan Merrol file."
Miss Jerrems flashed a glance of open adoration at the doctor and
before she could reel it in, her gaze swept past Dan, hesitated and
returned to him. Her mouth opened and closed like that of a nervous
goldfish and she darted from the room.
_They see me and flee as fast as they can caper_, thought Merrol. It
was not wholly true--Crander didn't seem much affected. But he was a
doctor and used to it. Furthermore, he probably had room for only one
emotion at the moment--relief at the return of his patient.
Miss Jerrems came back, wheeling a large cart. Dan was surprised at the
mass of records. Crander noticed his expression and smiled. "You're
our prize case, Merrol. I've never heard of anyone else surviving
such extensive surgery. Naturally, we have a step-by-step account of
everything we did."
He turned to the woman. "You may leave, Miss Jerrems." She went, but
the adoration she had showed so openly for her employer seemed to have
curdled in the last few moments.
Crander dug into the files and rooted out photographs. "Here are
pictures of the wreckage in which you were found--notice that you were
strapped in your seat--as you were received into the hospital--at
various stages in surgery and finally, some taken from the files of the
company for which you worked."
Merrol winced. The photographic sequence was incontrovertible. He had
been a handsome fellow.
"Here is other evidence you may not have heard of. It's a recent
development, within the last ten years, in fact. It still isn't
accepted by most courts--they're always lagging--but to medical men
it's the last word."
* * * * *
Merrol studied the patterns of waves and lines and splotches. "What is
it?"
"Mass-cell radiographs. One was loaned by your employer. The other was
taken just after your last operation. Both were corrected according
to standard methods. One cell won't do it, ten yield an uncertain
identity--but as few as a hundred cells from any part of the original
body, excepting the blood, constitute proof more positive than
fingerprints before the surgical exchange of limbs. Don't ask me
why--no one knows. But it is true that cells differ from one body to
the next, and this test detects the difference."
The mass-cell radiographs did seem identical and Dr. Crander seemed
certain. Taken altogether, the evidence was overwhelming. There had
been no mistake--he was Dan Merrol, though it was not difficult to
understand why Erica couldn't believe he was her husband.
"You did a fine job," he said. Recalling the picture of the wreckage,
he knew they had. "But couldn't you have done just a little better?"
* * * * *
Crander's eyebrows bounced up. "We're amazed at how well we have
done. You can search case histories and find nothing comparable." His
eyebrows dropped back into place. "Of course, if you have a specific
complaint...."
"Nothing specific. But look at this hand...."