"Perhaps--taken by itself." Dan rolled up his sleeve. "See how it joins
the forearm."
Crander waggled it gravely. "It coordinates perfectly. I've observed
you have complete control over it. The doctor's eye, my boy. The
doctor's diagnostic eye."
The other just didn't understand. "But the size--it doesn't match my
arm!"
"Doesn't _match_?" cried the doctor. "Do you have any idea of the
biological ways in which it _does_ match? True, it may not be
esthetically harmonized, but here we delve into the mysteries of the
human organism, and we can hardly be striving for Botticelli bodies and
Michelangelo men. First, your hand moves freely at the joint, a triumph
of surgical skill." He moved the hand experimentally, to show Merrol
how it was done. He dropped the hand and hurried to a screen against
the wall.
Crander drew his finger across the surface and the mark remained. "You
know about Rh positive and negative blood. Mixed, they can be lethal.
This was discovered long ago, by someone I've forgotten. But there are
other factors just as potent and far more complex."
He scribbled meaningless symbols on the screen with his finger. "Take
the bone factors--three. They must be matched in even such a slight
contact as a joint ... this was done. Then there are the tissue
factors--four. Tendon factors--two. Nerve-splice factors--three
again. After that, we move into a complex field, hormone-utilization
factors--seven at the latest count and more coming up with further
research.
"That's the beginning, but at the sensory organs we leave the simple
stuff behind. Take the eye, for instance." Merrol leaned away because
Dr. Crander seemed about to pluck one of Dan's eyes from its socket.
"Surgical and growth factors involved in splicing a massive nerve
bundle pass any layman's comprehension. There are no non-technical
terms to describe it."
* * * * *
It was just as well--Merrol didn't want a lecture. He extended his
arms. One was of normal length, the other longer. "Do you think you can
do something with this? I don't mind variation in thickness--some of
that will smooth out as I exercise--but I'd like them the same length."
"There were many others injured at the same time, you know--and you
were one of the last to be extricated from the ship. Normally, when
we have to replace a whole arm, we do so at the shoulder for obvious
reasons. But the previously treated victims had depleted our supplies.
Some needed only a hand and we gave them just that, others a hand and
a forearm, and so on. When we got to you, we had to use leftovers or
permit you to die--there wasn't time to send to other hospitals. In
fact there wasn't any time at all--we actually thought you were dead,
but soon found we were wrong."
Crander stared at a crack in the ceiling. "Further recovery will take
other operations and your nervous system isn't up to it." He shook his
head. "Five years from now, we can help you, not before."
Merrol turned away miserably. There were other things, but he had
learned the essentials. He was Dan Merrol and there was nothing they
could do for him until it was too late. How long could he expect Erica
to wait?
The doctor hadn't finished the medical session. "Replacement of body
parts is easy, after all. The big trouble came when we went into the
brain."
"Brain?" Dan was startled.
"How hard do you think your skull is?" Crander came closer. "Bend your
head."
Merrol obeyed and could feel the doctor's forefinger slice across his
scalp in a mock operation. "This sector was crushed." Roughly half his
brain, it appeared. "That's why so many memories were gone--not just
from shock. In addition, other sectors were damaged and had to be
replaced."
Crander traced out five areas he could feel, but not see. "Samuel
Kaufman, musician--Breed Mannly, cowboy actor--George Elkins,
lepidopterist--Duke DeCaesares, wrestler--and Ben Eisenberg,
mathematician, went into the places I tapped."
Dan raised his head. Some things were clearer. The memories were
authentic, but they weren't his--nor did the other wives belong to him.
It was no wonder Erica had cringed at their names.
"These donors were dead, but you can be thankful we had parts of their
brains available." Crander delved into the file and came up with a
sheet.
"Here are some body part contributors." He read rapidly. "Dimwiddie,
Barton, Colton, Morton, Flam and Carnera were responsible for arms and
hands. Greenberg, Rochefault, Gonzalez, Tall-Cloud, Gowraddy and Tsin
supplied feet and legs."
* * * * *
He was not a man, Merrol thought. Not now. If anything, he was a
convention and one body was not a large enough hotel to hold it in
comfort.
"These were the major human donors, but there were others I didn't
bother to read, for the kidneys and so on. And I think our four-footed
friends deserve some mention." He looked up. "The skin on your face is
from a pig embryo."
That explained why it was hard to shave. "_Oink?_" he said. "I mean did
it have to be a pig?"
"You'd be surprised how hard it is to transplant human skin," commented
Crander. "Besides, we wanted to give you a masculine look. The finest
face there is, genuine pigskin."
Merrol felt like a wallet.
The doctor droned on through the list, but Merrol scarcely listened.
Only once did he interrupt, to ask incredulously, "Did you say a
_horse_?"
"Is there anything wrong with a horse?"
Merrol thought back. Come to consider it, there was nothing wrong--in
fact, compliments were more in order.
"The skill that went into matching the unrelated parts that are now
you is a landmark in medical history, quite comparable to Harvey's
discovery of the circulation of the blood," said Dr. Crander. "I
wouldn't believe it if I hadn't participated in it myself. There have
been limb and brain replacements before, but never on such a scale. One
of these days, we'll get out a report that will astound the medical
world."
Without doubt, it would. Merrol tried to feel grateful, but gratitude
refused to come. They had saved him--but was it worth it?
Puzzled, Crander frowned at the buzzer. He'd been pressing it
intermittently for the past few minutes. "Doesn't seem to be working,"
he muttered, heading toward the door through which Merrol had entered.
"Wait here--I'll be back. I have to cancel an appointment."
* * * * *
As soon as the door closed, a voice behind Merrol hissed. "I fixed the
buzzer. He went for the guards."
He whirled. Miss Jerrems stood in the doorway that led into the filing
room on the opposite side of the office. "Guards?" he repeated.
"Of course--guards for the violent patients."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"You escaped once, didn't you?"
He hadn't escaped, he had merely walked out when he felt he could. Did
that qualify him as violent? It might. "What of it? I'm no longer a
patient. The doctor said I had recovered."
"That's what he said to _you_. But even if he means it, there's always
psychotherapy, post-re-growth orientation."
Orientation--he hadn't thought of that. They'd want to keep him under
observation for several days and he had no desire to stay hospitalized.
Erica would come to the hospital in a few hours. Perhaps she was there
now, waiting to see someone. Come to think of it, he had got past the
receptionist with remarkable ease. At any rate, if she was insistent
about it, she must eventually get to see the evidence he had just
studied.
And then there would be orientation--for both of them.
Without doubt, he would be taught to accept himself as he was, and
Erica would be trained to look at him without laughter, and together
they would know that beneath his piebald exterior lurked a lovely
personality. Then, well adjusted, they would go home and live happily
ever after. Or would they?
"Don't stand there, if you want to get away," Miss Jerrems whispered
urgently. "Next time they won't take any chances."
They wouldn't. He would be confined to a room he couldn't break out of
with guards disguised as nurses. Blindly he moved toward the door.
"Not there," she exclaimed. "Do you want to walk right into them? This
way. They won't look for you in here." She clasped his hand in her bony
fingers and led him through the maze of files to an elevator. "This
takes you to the ground floor," she said. "Once outside, you can get
away."
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."