Merrol sat in the room where he had been sitting for a day and a half
since the psych test. He had walked out immediately, found a room and
was still in it. It wasn't comfortable, sitting. Whichever position was
right for the bend of one knee was wrong for the other.
He had depended on the test to get him out of a jam, but the stratagem
had failed. If he had passed, he'd have been another experienced pilot
for the _Interplanet_ string and that meant something. Experienced men
were valuable and I. P. would have gone to bat for him.
Not everyone could pass the test and, while it didn't prove that the
man who did was one hundred per cent sane, it was a big argument
in that direction. It was evidence that would have to be respected
publicly, whatever private doubts a psychotherapist might have.
Unwittingly, he had provided additional ammunition against himself.
When the results of the test sifted through the layers of red tape to
the front office, _Interplanet_ would contact the hospital, which would
then really want to orient him to a frazzle.
Orientation sounded nice but it was not for Merrol. If they could
orient everyone he would come in contact with as well--but how much
insulation could a man build up against involuntary laughter? It was
fine to be a comedian on the screen and then step out of character
and relax--but what if you couldn't stop? Nobody could adjust to the
constant expectation of hysterical mirth. But wasn't that a reason
to undergo psychotherapy, so they could blunt the edges of his own
reactions? It ought to be, but somehow it wasn't. He didn't dare
submit.
There was a difference, apparently determined by sex, in the way
people behaved toward him. No man had thus far done more than smile
respectfully while he was near. What they did later, he could guess.
Face to face, they seemed to be reserved and incredulous until they
learned to accept him as a member of their species and sex and
then--how _did_ they act? It would take more than casual thinking to
puzzle _that_ out.
Women saw the big joke instantly and giggled, and he couldn't blame
them. Seconds later, they smirked contritely and tried to touch him, as
if contact could atone for their behavior. _They_ noticed appearance at
all times, whereas men didn't as a rule of their own sex.
He paused to re-examine his thoughts. Something seemed to be missing in
his analysis. What it was, he couldn't tell. It would have to come out
later, as he mingled more with people--if he ever did.
* * * * *
And that wasn't all. He had been a pilot, but never would be one
again. His skill had been destroyed by the intrusion of five other
personalities, who each brought his own odd bit of useless knowledge to
the whole Merrol. He should have expected it, but he hadn't, nor had
the doctors.
It was obvious--the brain slices that had replaced his own damaged
tissues had to be in healthy condition or they'd never have functioned
properly--and what did those medical fools think was the function of
any brain? He was in command of the group brain because his was the
dominant fraction, but when he sat down and thought about it, what good
did it do? He was sitting down and it didn't do any good, so he got up.
He took two paces across the room and looked out the window, into
windows that looked into his. Compensation was coming to him.
Ultimately, he'd divide it with Erica and go away. She must know by now
that the man she had spent the night with was actually her own husband.
Intellectually she must have decided to accept him.
He wasn't noble, though. Much as he wanted her, he knew he couldn't
live with anyone who had to stifle her laughter when he stepped out of
the bath or into bed.
He walked the carpet aimlessly until, through the window, he caught a
word from the telecast in the next apartment. He thought it sounded
familiar. He yanked the louvers closed and grunted, but it didn't
help--the word bothered him. He reached out the long arm to turn on his
own screen.
A face came into view and a man's voice whispered. Merrol turned up the
volume, but it didn't get any louder. It was the low-pressure soothing
type. Whatever he was selling, it was a welcome change.
The announcer smiled reassuringly. "Actually, I'm talking to one
person. The rest of you may listen or not for the next five minutes,
after which I'll have something to say to you." It was a clever
approach to insure that the audience didn't switch programs.
"Dan Merrol, this is a personal message to you." Merrol sat up.
"We'd call you if we could, but this is a large city and you've simply
vanished. We have operatives trying to trace you, but with no success
up to now." The announcer leaned forward confidentially.
"Now, Dan, before you become alarmed, let me say you've done nothing
wrong. In fact, at _Interplanet_, we think you've done everything
right--but I'll come to that later."
* * * * *
Interplanet? Then it wasn't the hospital or the police. What could I.
P. want of him?
"No doubt the test you took was somewhat of a shock. Don't blame the
psych examiner for the conclusions he formed--he can't be expected to
know more than the leading psychologists. You're probably curious as
to what this test has to do with you and _Interplanet_. We hope so--we
want you to keep on listening.
"The test proved you're no longer a competent pilot--but it also
indicated something much bigger. Dan, _you_ are the answer to a problem
that has been bothering us for generations. Before the accident, you
knew nothing of music or any life science, your math was adequate but
not deep, you often felt awkward in the presence of others when you had
no need to and you lacked confidence in your physical ability.
"Suddenly, you gained something of each and, when we contacted your
doctors, we were able to surmise how it happened. Now you ask--what
good does this do you and what is the problem to which this is the
answer?
"Simply this--_specialization_. You know what constitutes a rocket
crew--pilot, radio man, engineer and several lesser technicians, each
of whom knows only his own job. Although you'll never sit at the
controls again--through you, we can help others."
The announcer lowered his voice now. "You can unlock specialization
for us. In the future, each man will concentrate on what particular
aptitudes he has, then share it, via surgery, with others whose
knowledge complements his own. To do this, we need to study you further
and, of course, we'll pay you well for the opportunity. In addition,
you'll still get your compensation. Please come and talk it over with
us.
"Frankly, we're a little worried about what you may be thinking. If
you have any thoughts of self-destruction because of what must seem a
strange condition, put them aside. You're much saner than the average
man."
* * * * *
Merrol listened, smiling at the remark. No matter what they thought, he
couldn't seriously contemplate suicide. There were too many others to
dissuade him.
Nevertheless, it was hard to understand and accept the sudden change of
his status. He had formerly been a mere employee, but now....
The announcer hadn't finished. "In the beginning, Dan, I said you had
done everything right, whether you knew it or not. After we learned
what we did from your test, we checked through our files and found
that we had a few other accident cases on record in which part of
the brain had been replaced. In each case there was a faint trace of
another personality, which we could detect when we knew what to look
for. We rechecked each person we could locate. Unfortunately, the
latent personalities and their share of knowledge had been submerged
beyond recovery by the rigorous psychotherapy the accident victim had
undergone after surgery."
* * * * *
The imaginary Wysocki's theorem of self-therapy. He never knew of
anyone by that name, nor had he got it from one of the other five. But,
however nonsensically he had invented it to express the needs he felt
at the time, it was, in fact, not nonsense. When it came to that, who
knew anything about six minds packaged together--and what could have
been done to him in ignorance?
The announcer was finished talking to Dan Merrol alone. "Remember,
all of you," he said briskly. "This man is neither a criminal
nor insane. He is extremely withdrawn, as a result of unpleasant
experiences. If you can induce him to come to _Interplanet_, or lead
our representatives to him, you will receive a substantial reward. Here
is his picture."
Merrol turned off the screen and scowled. He didn't like that last.
He intended to take their offer, but he wanted to be free to walk
the streets. He could settle that easily enough by just calling
_Interplanet_. They'd send someone down to whisk him away. That would
solve all his problems--or would it?
Certainly, it eliminated orientation or any form of psychotherapy.
After what had happened to the others, the psychologists would be
content merely to observe what went on in his mind. They wouldn't want
to give him much privacy, but he'd have to insist on it. They'd listen.
This could be just a job, a very good job while it lasted--say three or
four years--until they had learned all they need to know. Perhaps there
would be other men blended more scientifically than he had been. But he
could accumulate enough money to last the rest of his life, or perhaps
turn his many new talents to something else. There were many things he
would like to do, and he was ahead of everyone else now, even though in
three or four years he would no longer be unique.
Except, of course, in his body.
And there it was again. Was there nothing he could do to get away from
it?
He had no memory of Erica except for the one night, but it was enough
to convince him. What would their future be like in what was sure to
follow? After that broadcast, he would be a person of some note, but
would that stop laughter? Would she wait until he left the room before
she giggled?
He'd come to terms with _Interplanet_, but first he had to come to
terms with himself ... and he hadn't.
How good was his imaginary Wysocki's theorem? Could it take one last
extension? He counted what was left of the money Erica had given him.
It wasn't much, but with it he could leave the city. And he had to.
V
It was dusk when he slipped out of the room and later still when the
plane lifted away from the station. It was an ancient jet, long since
relegated to cheap overnight service where speed was not a factor and
price was.
He knew he was taking a chance and half expected to be stopped, but
apparently not many people had listened to the broadcast. Casual
glances slid off him and didn't linger. Partly, he suspected, because
he had pulled his hat over his face and thrust his hands in the jacket.
He'd gotten away in time, but by the morning there would be people on
the streets looking for him.
He stared at the approximation of a port. When this ship had been
built, there was some feeling against the practice and so the row of
picture tubes had been camouflaged as ports in the wall. There was a
station selector switch, but none for _on_ or _off_. He glowered at the
picture at his elbow and turned to the least annoying thing he could
find. Across the aisle, there were three other programs he could see
distinctly. The one directly opposite was a repeat of the broadcast
he had heard a few hours previously. He scowled and looked away. If
it hadn't been a night plane, in which people sought sleep, he would
certainly have been spotted. Apathy was his best protection. He hunched
down in his seat and dozed off.
When he awakened, the familiar _Interplanet_ program was at his elbow.
He reached to change stations, then on impulse let his hand continue
past the knob until he felt the ash tray. He unfastened the heavy
article and poked it through the screen.
The glass broke, but only a few in the immediate vicinity heard it in
the din. To those who stared at him, he presented a view of his back or
the profile of his hat. They glanced at him indifferently, then looked
away. Outside the orifice, where the tube had been in the outer of two
walls, was an actual port. He gazed through it contentedly.
A finger tapped him. "Yes?" he said in a loud voice.
The man behind him leaned over. "I've been riding in this plane once a
week for five years. I mean, would you mind if I looked out? I've never
seen where I'm going."
"Glad to have you."
The man sat beside him and peered wistfully out. Below were lights,
the patterns of cities, roads and towns and in the distance the glare
of furnaces. There was also a current of cold air seeping from the
space between the double walls. The man looked, shivered, turned up his
collar and finally went back to his seat.
It was cold, but Merrol remained where he was. There was some
satisfaction in asserting himself, but the satisfaction wore off and
the cold didn't.
His attention was caught by the program which was flickering across the
aisle. Doctor Crander--Merrol frowned. Did the hospital want him too?
He listened intently. No, they didn't want him.
* * * * *
Crander sounded tired. "This is an emergency appeal and we'll need a
wide response. We have in our care a person with a serious illness we
can't diagnose. With so much interplanetary travel we can't determine
what causes the disease. It may be an organism from a moon of Saturn or
almost anything else.
"Our staff is working at top speed. We feel, if we can keep her alive
for one week, she'll be out of danger. That is by no means a certainty,
but a reasonably accurate forecast.
"We have a new theory, largely untested, but we hope it will work.
Each person differs from the next and though, when we match limbs and
organs, we try to take this into account, we never quite succeed in
effecting a perfect biological match. As a result, the character of the
blood changes, slightly but significantly. It's as if we had lumped
together the various natural immunities of the component bodies and
created an entirely new super-immunity."
Crander paused. "We need persons who have had five or more major
replacements. By major, I mean hands, arms, legs or parts of
them--nothing so trivial as ears, or a few feet of skin, or three or
four fingers.
"It must be at least five, though more are correspondingly better.
Nothing less--and please don't apply with only a minor replacement. Two
donors have volunteered so far and we have fractioned and administered
the blood of one with dramatic, if temporary, results. In a few hours,
we'll have to use the second. After that, I don't know what we'll do."
Merrol stirred. He was deeply suspicious.
"Here's the woman," said Crander. "She needs your help."
The man across the aisle leaned forward and his head was in front of
the picture. Merrol tried to see, but couldn't.
"It's up to you," said Crander as he faded from the screen.