Part 1

Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

BRAINCHILD

BY HENRY SLESAR

_Ron definitely didn't like what had happened. But who can blame him? How would you like to wake and find your body had been switched for a child's?_

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, April 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Ron Carver's day was beginning strangely.

For one thing, the legs he swung off the narrow bed wouldn't touch the floor. And his hands, whose ten strong fingers could manipulate the controls of any ship ever launched into space, were weak and clumsy.

He looked at the hands first, looked at them for a long time. Then he screamed.

He screamed until footsteps were loud in the corridor outside his room; shrill, piping screams that didn't stop even when the giant woman-face was bending over him, speaking gentle, soothing words, stroking his thin shoulders with giant, comforting gestures.

"There, there, now," the woman was saying. "You're all right, Ronnie. You're all right. It was only a nightmare... a bad old nightmare...."

She was right. Only the nightmare hadn't ended. The nightmare was before his face, in her gargantuan features, in her motherly touch on his frail body, in the sight of the small, soft appendages that were his hands.

They were the hands of a boy of twelve. And Ron Carver was thirty years old.

Two men giants joined the woman at his bedside, and one of them forced a small speckled capsule past his resisting lips. Then his viewpoint became detached and distant, and a pleasurable drowsiness overcame him. He stretched out and shut his eyes, but he could still hear the worried tones of their speech.

"Dr. Minton warned us," one of the men said, lifting Ron's bony wrist and feeling for the pulse. "The boy has suffered some severe traumatic shock..."

Dr. Minton! Ron Carver's mind grasped the familiar name--the name of his own physician--gratefully. But his body gave no sign.

"Maybe we better call him," the woman said nervously. "I think he's still in the sick bay."

"Good idea."

In another moment, a familiar hairy face was floating over Ron's head like a captive balloon, a face grown grotesque in size.

"Doctor..." he said with his lips.

"There." Dr. Minton patted his shoulder. "You're all right now, Ronnie. You're perfectly all right. Just relax and try to sleep." The balloon came closer, and the scraggly ends of the doctor's beard brushed his cheek. Then the doctor's mouth was covering his small ear.

"Play the game," the doctor whispered. "For your own sake. Play the game, Ron..."

Then he was asleep.

* * * * *

He awoke to the sound of running feet. He sat up in bed and looked towards the door of the small white room in which he was confined. It was partly open, and the sound of clattering soles and shrill young voices came through clearly.

The door slammed open, startling him. A hoydenish youngster gaped at him. There was a flat lock of reddish hair over his forehead, and his face was freckled.

"Hoy," he said. "What's the matter with _you_?"

Ron stared back wordlessly.

"You sick or something?" the boy said, edging into the room.

"No." His own voice, strange and reedy, frightened him. "No, I'm all right."

"Andy!" A tall man with a frowning face appeared behind the boy. "Come on, fella. Let's not waste any time." He looked at Ron. "You the new chap?"

"Yes."

"Feel well enough for some breakfast?"

"I guess so."

"Fine. Then get some clothes on and come along."

"Hoy," the freckle-faced boy said curiously. "You play airball?"

"That's enough of that." The man paddled the boy's rump. "Get along, Andy. You'll have plenty of time to get acquainted later."

The boy giggled and ran down the hall. Ron got out of bed slowly, and walked towards the undersized clothing that was draped on a nearby chair. He slipped into a gray coverall and said: "Listen--can I talk to you?"

The man looked at his watch. "Well ... all right, I suppose. But only for a minute. I promised the boys a game this morning; I'm Mr. Larkin, the athletic director."

Ron hesitated. "Mr. Larkin, I--where am I?"

"Don't you know?" Even the man's smile was half a frown. "You're at Roverwood Home for Boys. Didn't they tell you that?"

"No," Ron said carefully. "I--I don't seem to remember very much. How I got here, I mean."

"Dr. Minton brought you in last evening. He's one of our directors."

"Oh." Ron laced on the tiny scuffed shoes. "And where's Dr. Minton now?"

"Gone back to the city. He's a busy man. Hear they've got him working on some big government project. Well, come on, Ronnie. Breakfast's waiting."

"Yes, sir," Ron Carver said.

He followed the tall man down the hall, having trouble guiding the short stumpy legs that were now his own. They entered a communal dining room, filled with the clatter of dishes and the laughter of boys. He was brought to a long table and seated beside Larkin. The other boys greeted him with only mild interest, but the freckle-faced youth at the other end dropped him a broad wink.

He ate sparingly, choking on the food, his mind working. It was the longest nightmare of his life, and the moment of awakening seemed too far off for comfort.

Then Larkin was standing up and rattling a spoon against a water glass.

"Fellas," he said, "all those interested in this morning's airball game will assemble on the field in half an hour after breakfast. Please don't volunteer unless you're able to handle a PF. Everybody else is invited to see the game."

He sat down, amid cheers. He smiled sadly at Ron, and asked: "How about you, Ronnie? Can you operate a PF?"

"Of course," he answered, without thinking. He'd been using Personal Flyers since he was old enough to dream about flight. On his tenth birthday, his father had bought him one of the earliest models, a cumbersome machine then called a "platform". Since that day, he had become familiar with every man-made thing that flew, from the double-rotored PF's to the sixty-rocket space liners.

"Fine," Larkin said cheerfully. "Then maybe you'd like to play the game."

Ron Carver looked up sharply. _Play the game...._

"Sure, Mr. Larkin," he said, forcing his eagerness.

Half an hour later, they were assembled on the huge lawn outside of the main building of Roverwood Home for Boys. The long row of PF's, looking like chrome-plate pot-bellied stoves, gleamed in the morning sun. The boys began to run when they saw their Flyers, and Ron found his arm taken by the freckled youth who had entered his room.

"Hoy," he said. "Follow me. I'll pick you out a lively one!"

The redhead clambered inside a machine marked Seven, and Ronnie followed his instructions by choosing the vehicle marked Nine. They secured themselves inside, and tested the jet tube set in front of the Flyer. The boys took off from the ground in perfect unison, the redhead bellowing out an introduction over the sound of the wind roaring past their ears.

The PF's descended on a blast from Mr. Larkin's whistle, congregating in the center of the field. Teams were chosen, and Andy was picked as Captain of the Odds. A coin was tossed to decide the playing sequence, and they were ready.

Larkin released the first airball, and the two teams streamed up after it. Andy gunned the engine and reached the ball first. He sent it scooting thirty yards ahead of him with the blast of the airjet pipe, but a member of the Evens team was there to veer it off to the left. Another Evens man, a burly youth of fourteen, took command of it, neatly getting the airball in the sight of his airjet and cork-screwing it towards the goalpost. Ron had grown too old before the game of airball had become popular with the nation's youngsters, but he had seen enough action to have learned some tricks. He pointed his PF directly for the Even machine, and kept coming. The burly youth looked up, startled at the onslaught, and pulled his Flyer away. The fact that the PF's were magnetically collision-proof didn't matter; it was pure instinct. Ron captured the ball in his airjet pipe, and shouted for Andy to block his path towards the goal.

The Odds scored, and the two teams descended for a rest. Andy, the grin wide on his brown-spotted face, said: "You're okay, Ronnie! Hoy, I mean it. You're okay!"

"Thanks," Ron said. He found himself panting.

The game resumed. It ended in a 3-2 score, favor of the Odds. Andy and Ron were cheered as they left the Flyers and headed for the communal showers of the Roverwood Home for Boys.

In the stall, Ron Carver looked down at the spindly frame that was now his body, and began to weep. Andy heard him, but said nothing. Then they dressed and ambled back to the main house, sharing the awkward silence of new friends.

Finally, the older boy said: "I don't mean to butt in, Ronnie. But is somethin' the matter?"

"I--I don't know, Andy. I'm all mixed up. I don't even know how I got here."

"That's easy. Dr. Minton brought you."

"But where is he now, Andy? Dr. Minton? It's very important that I see him."

Andy shrugged. "Not much chance of that. Dr. Minton only comes around once, twice a year.

"But I have to see him! Right away! Will they call him for me?"

"Gosh. I don't think so. He's some kind of big shot in the government now."

They flopped on the grass, and Andy tore out a ragged clump and chewed on it blankly. Ron said: "Andy, I'm in trouble. I need some help."

"No kidding?"

"Yes!" He brought his voice to a whisper. "Andy--what if I told you that I was really--" He stopped, and examined the open, innocent face in front of his eyes. He knew that it would be useless to tell the truth. "Skip it," he said.

"I don't get you. What's on your mind, Ronnie?"

"Nothing, Andy. I just have to get away from here."

"But you can't. I mean, not until they let you. It's the rules."

"Andy--how long have you been here?"

The boy thought a moment. "Almost nine years," he said blissfully. "Since my folks got killed."

"How long do you have to stay?"

"Why, 'til I'm old enough to work. Eighteen, I guess."

_Only six years to go_, Ron thought sourly.

He stood up.

"Andy--where do they put the PF's?"

"In the shed."

"Is it possible to get one out?"

"'Course not. Only when we play the game."

"And when will we play another game?"

"Dunno. Tomorrow maybe. It's Sunday."

_Play the game._ Ron said to himself.

* * * * *

The Evens team member caught the spinning, gas-filled airball in the path of his airjet and kept it moving in front of his Flyer. Andy was after him in a flash, shouting for Ron to join him. But Ron's daring tactics of yesterday seemed to have deserted him. He steered the PF out of the path of the Evens man, and the goal was scored.

On the ground, Andy said: "What's the trouble, Ronnie? Didn't you hear me?"

"Yes, I heard you. Andy, listen. I'm taking off--"

"Sure, in just a minute," the freckled boy said. "But, look, the next time you see me cut across the--"

"You don't understand!" Ron said intensely. "I'm running away!"

"What?"

Larkin's whistle sounded the signal to resume play. The airball shot into the sky, and the two teams sped after it. Andy was late getting started. He looked at Ron and gasped: "You can't do that--"

But Ron Carver was already in flight, and his PF was heading away from the center of the action, heading over the jagged pinetree tops that surrounded the Roverwood Home for Boys, heading for the misty green hills beyond.

Larkin saw what was happening, and he blew his whistle shrilly. The teams descended, thinking a foul had been called. Larkin shouted a command towards the burly youth who had played so aggressively the day before, but then realized it was far too late to stop the swift passage of the PF now disappearing behind the trees.

* * * * *

Ron dropped the PF to earth as soon as his eyes spotted the first sign of a settled community. He landed the small machine in the shadow of a hillside, and dragged it into the thick underbrush for concealment. Then he trekked to the main highway, until he reached a road sign that informed him of his location. He was in a town called Spring Harbor, just fifteen miles outside of the city.

He looked down at the waxy newness of his gray Roverwood coverall, and wondered if it was a familiar uniform to the residents. But he had to take the chance. He covered the cloth with dust, and rolled up the trouser legs almost to his knees. Then he broke off a long branch from a sapling and used it as a walking stick. Casually, he strolled into the town proper.

The pose worked. Some people on the porches looked after him with mild curiosity, but no one stopped him. Then he paused at a gas station, and asked the owner of the automatic pump if there was transportation available to the city.

The owner scratched his face and looked at the boy curiously. Ron told a plausible story about being separated from a scouting group, and the man seemed satisfied. He had a pick-up copter going into the city at ten o'clock; he invited Ron to wait inside his house, and even served him a sandwich.

The copter pilot, a genial red-faced man, asked him some gentle questions. Ron answered them guardedly, and told him that his destination was Fordham Terrace. The copter dropped him on the rooftop of the massive office building, and the pilot left with a friendly wave of his hand.

When he was gone, Ron rolled down his trouser legs, brushed his uniform clean, and descended to the fourteenth floor of the building. He walked rapidly along the corridors until he came to the door marked:

WILFRED G. MINTON, M.D.

He rattled the knob. When he found the door locked, he let out an adult oath. It was Sunday, of course. Dr. Minton wouldn't be in on Sunday. And Ron had never known his home address.

He returned to the elevator and went to the ground floor. There was an information booth, and the woman behind the glass was a motherly type. Her eyes softened at his approach.

"Dr. Minton?" she said, lifting an eyebrow. "Why, I guess I do have his address. But who sent you, young man?"

"Nobody," Ron said. "I was supposed to see him, that's all."

She kept her eyes on his face while her hand leafed through the directory on her desk. "Of course, Dr. Minton doesn't use his office anymore. He gave up his practice here almost a year ago. He was put on an important government project. Dr. Jurgens, his assistant, handles all his patients now. Would you like Dr. Jurgens' number?"

"No," Ron said. "Please. I must see Dr. Minton."

"All right. But I don't know if you can see him without an appointment. He's staying at the Government Medical Center in Washington." She smiled. "That's a long way for a little boy...."

"Thank you," Ron said curtly, and walked off.

His mind was racing, tripping over his thoughts. A year ago! But that was impossible! It seemed only days since he had returned from Andromeda, after a five-year absence. One of his first visits had been to Dr. Minton's office--not just to renew an old friendship, but to allow the physician to examine him thoroughly for traces of the varied and deadly diseases that man was subject to on alien worlds. Could it have been a whole year ago? Where had he spent the time between? And what had happened to give him the body of a twelve-year-old child?

He fought off the questions. He had no time for the puzzle now; there weren't enough pieces to make sense. He had only one thought: to find the doctor.

But that was a major problem all by itself. Washington was a good hour away by fast copter service. And in this big, suspicious city, it wouldn't be as easy to obtain free transport to his destination. He could do nothing--not without money.

When he thought of money, he thought of Adrian.

Adrian....

Of course! Adrian would know what to do next. Adrian always seemed to know what to do. Her father's money had opened every conceivable door in this city, and she herself had often suggested that it open doors for him. Doors to the executive heights of the Space Transport Company. Doors to the plush offices in the sky tower, doors to the select circle of cigar-smoking men who controlled the transportation empire of which Ron had been only a spare part. But Ron Carver had been young (he thought now, sourly) and his head had been stuffed with ideals. He detested the groundworms who stayed home and counted the profits of space travel. He wanted the stars.

So he had become a pilot, one of the best in her father's fleet. She had sworn at him for his decision, and turned away from his embrace. But on the night of their parting, the night before the dawn ascent towards the speck of light that was Andromeda, she had softened, and cried in his arms.

He thought now of that moment, and his small fingers rolled into fists.

_Adrian_, he thought. _I must go to her...._

The doorman was magnificent and imposing in his braided uniform, but his eyes were cold when he saw Ron.

"What do you want, son?"

"I--I have a message for Miss Walder. It's very important."

"Okay, son. You just give your message to me."

"No! I'm supposed to deliver it in person!"

The doorman grunted. "Wait a minute." He put in a call to the penthouse apartment. The idea of a twelve-year-old visitor must have amused the girl. He brought back an invitation for Ron to enter her home.

Ron stepped off the elevator, and his stomach was churning. What would she say when she saw him? Would she believe his story? Would she help him find an answer?

Adrian came to the door herself, and the amusement was evident on her long, smoothly-planed face. Her auburn hair was swept back in Grecian ringlets, and the gown she wore was blindingly white. "Come in, dear," she said, smiling.

The effect of looking up at the girl, now a sort of giantess in his eyes, made Ron dizzy. He swayed against the doorframe, and her cool fingers steadied him.

"You poor boy," she crooned. "Come inside."

She half-carried him to the downy sofa. For a full minute, he was too choked to speak. She offered him a glass of milk, but he asked for water. She brought some to him, and he coughed.

"Now," the girl said, spreading the wide skirt over her knees, "just what was it you wanted to tell me?"

"I--"

"Come now." She smiled endearingly, and brushed back the hair from his forehead. "You must have had something on your mind."

"Yes," he said at last, his voice strained. "Yes, Adrian. I--I'm Ron...."

"What?"

"I'm Ron Carver! No, listen, I'm not mad. It's really me, Ron!"

She had stood up, shocked. Then she laughed.

"Adrian, listen to me! Something happened to me when I returned from Andromeda. I don't know what. I found myself at a boy's home near Spring Harbor."

"Now, really! This is the craziest--"

"I know it's crazy!" He wiped his forehead in an adult gesture. "But it's true, Adrian. I've been--changed somehow. I don't know why. But it's something to do with Dr. Minton."

She sat down again, limply. Then she studied his face, and for a moment, Ron thought she was seriously considering his predicament. But then the laugh started again, the same slightly off-key laugh Ron remembered.

"Adrian, you must believe me! I can prove it! Just listen to me for a moment!"

She stopped the laugh and grew serious, her eyes caught by the intensity of his own. "All right," she whispered. "I'll listen...."

"My name is Ronald Carver. I'm thirty years old. I'm a Captain of the Walder Space Transport Company. I have been in the Andromeda system for the past five years. I returned to Earth--" he stopped, and swallowed hard. "I don't know exactly when. I went to see Dr. Minton, an old friend and a physician. He examined me, and then--"

She stared, fascinated.

"And then I was a child! A child of twelve, in a home for boys. I ran away from there this morning, and came looking for Dr. Minton. I've been told that he's in Washington. I must get to him. I must find out what's happened to me--"

She was shaking her head, slowly, eyes still fixed on his face. He got up from the sofa and came towards her. His small hand reached out and patted the fine bones of hers.

"You must remember," he said. "You must believe me, Adrian. Remember our last night together? Right here? We stood by that window, and you cried in my arms. And then we...."

She tore her hand away, as if burned. Then she stood up, looking horrified.

"Get out of here!" she shrieked. "You little monster!"

"Adrian--" Only now did he realize what it must have been like to her, to hear those words from his childish lips, to feel the touch of his tiny hand as he spoke of the night they....

"Get out!" she cried, covering her face. "Get out before I call the police!"

"Adrian!"

She screamed, piercingly. This time, the sound brought heavy foot-side clumping outside her front door. It was thrown open, and a uniformed man with bouncing epaulets was striding towards him.

"No," Ron said. "You must listen--"

"Get him out of here!"

"Sure, Miss Walder!"

He struggled in the big man's grip, while the girl turned her head aside. He managed to squirm from his hold, and broke for the door. The houseman started after him, cursing. Ron's hand went out and grasped a solid metal ash tray. He threw it without thought or aim, but it crashed squarely into the man's face and sent him thudding to the carpet.

Adrian screamed again. He looked at her once more, imploringly. Then he ran for the door, just before she reached for the house telephone.

In the elevator cage, he punched the button marked roof, and fell against the wall, panting.

On the rooftop, he galloped across the metallic surface towards the ledge. He peered over it, and his heart sank when he saw that his stratagem had deceived no one. Police were entering the building, and some were pointing fingers in his direction. With a sigh, he dropped to his knees and rested his head against the cool aluminum surface.

"It's no use," he said aloud.

Then he heard the copter overhead.

He looked up, thinking it was a police vehicle. But then he saw the outmoded design of its fuselage, and the young face at the controls.

It hovered over his head, and a rope ladder unfolded. The youthful pilot said: "Quick! Climb in!"

He blinked at the voice, unbelievingly. Then he scrambled to his feet, and grabbed the dangling ladder. He barely made it into the copter; the pilot had to help.

"Who are you?" he said, gasping.

The boy laughed. "I hate cops, too."

Then they were in the air, and speeding towards the west.

* * * * *

Ron Carver watched the back of the young boy's neck for twenty minutes, while he steered the ancient copter expertly across the skies. He figured that the boy might have been fourteen or fifteen, but there was a competence in the way his hands moved over the controls, and a steeliness in the way his head sat on his thin neck.

They didn't make much conversation, but Ron gathered that the boy was a member of something called the Red Rockets, an organization with some inexplicable purpose.

It was only after the copter had landed on the roof of a half-decayed slum in the worst part of town, that Ron realized who the Red Rockets were. They were kids, all of them, banded together for mutual defense and in common antagonism toward the world. When he clambered out of the copter, his rescuer grinned and said:

"This is it, pal. This is where the gang meets."

"The Red Rockets?"

"Yeah. This is Shock's house. He's the leader."

They had to descend by stairs; there was no building elevator. When they reached the second floor, the boy put a finger to his lips, and rapped one-two, two-two on the apartment door.