Part 2

A boy no older than Ron's new body opened it. His dark pinched face grew smaller and darker when he saw the stranger. He looked back into the room before letting them in.

The room was a study in decay. Someone had once wallpapered it in an optimistic pink pattern that was now sardonic in the surroundings. The furniture was rudimentary, and there were no working light fixtures. A battery lamp was sitting in the middle of a wooden table, and three youngsters were playing with a ragged deck of cards.

The tallest of them arose when the newcomers entered. He was the only one wearing a jacket; the others were in shirtsleeves. His hair was black, and unruly to the point of being ludicrous. His wide mouth twisted when he spoke.

"Who's this?" he said. "What's the idea?"

"He's okay," Ron's protector said. "He's an okay kid. I spotted him on a rooftop down on Park. A million cops after him. I dropped down in the copter and picked him up."

The tall boy studied Ron's face. "What's your name?"

"Ron."

"What were the cops chasin' you for?"

Ron hesitated. "Any of your business?"

The tall boy smiled. "Maybe not." He looked towards the others, and winked as if pleased. "Guess he's okay." He held his right hand out to Ron, while his left ducked into his jacket pocket. "My name's Shock, pal. And I'm the leader here. And just so's you don't forget it--"

Pain lanced through Ron's arm and struck the base of his skull. He tried to free himself from the tall boy's grip, but his fingers wouldn't part from the other's flesh. He dropped to his knees in agony, until the grip was broken.

He looked up, his face damp.

"That's your 'nitiation," the tall boy grinned. "Now you know what's what, Ronnie boy. So if you want to join the Rockets, you'll know where your orders come from."

Shock helped him to his feet. "Right, Ronnie boy?"

Ron shook his head, still bewildered.

"Good deal," Shock said. "Now let's finish that game. You play, kid?"

"No," Ron said. He staggered towards a wooden chair on the side of the room and dropped on it heavily. "No," he repeated, still trying to regain his breath.

_Play the game...._

His rescuer sat beside him. "Don't mind that guy," he whispered. "He does that to everybody. He got some kind of a power in his hands. But he's not a bad guy. Honest."

"Sure," Ron said weakly.

"We get a lot of kicks," the boy said eagerly. "You'll see. We have dogfights with the other gangs. With copters. We only got one, that ain't so much. But we're figurin' on gettin' some PF's next year, if we can collect enough dough in the treasury...."

"That'll be great," Ron said. Then he dropped his hand on the other's arm. "Listen--is there any chance of takin' a trip? In the copter?"

"Yeah, sure," the boy said warily. "Only you gotta ask for it in advance. I mean, it's Rocket property, and you gotta sign for it. And even then, if Shock wants to use it--well...."

"Why?" Ron said. "Why's that? Because he's the leader?"

"Sure," the boy said simply. "That's the reason."

Ron looked across the room at the card players.

"How do you get to be the leader?"

"I dunno. Shock's the leader 'cause he can lick anybody in the Rockets. That makes sense, don't it?"

"Yes. I suppose so." He chewed his lip. "Listen. Let's say _I_ was leader. Could I use the copter then? Any time I wanted?"

"Sure. I mean, if you're the leader, who's gonna stop you?"

"Yes," Ron said. He stood up and walked to the table, watching the cards as they were slapped on the wood.

"Hey, Shock," he said.

The tall boy didn't look up. "What is it?"

"You cheat." A thrill ran through Ron's new body as he said it, and he muttered a small prayer that his guess about Shock's power was correct.

"I _what_?"

"I've been watching you play, and you cheat. You don't even cheat good. You cheat sloppy."

The tall boy stood up slowly, and the other chairs were scraped back in anticipation.

"Now that's something," he said. "That's really something! The kid's here ten minutes, and right away he wants to be buried." His face became grim. "Boy, we've had 'em wise before, pal. But never like this."

Ron planted himself in front of him.

"So?" he said.

Shock's face clouded. "Say, are you kidding? You really like trouble that bad?"

His right hand lashed out, while the left headed for his jacket pocket. But it wasn't the right that Ron avoided. Both of his short arms shot out towards the tall boy's left, and stopped the descent of the arm. Shock's right hand thudded against Ron's shoulder, the blow only stinging him.

"Hey!" Shock cried. "Hey, you--"

It was a triumph for Ron. He had been right about the electrical circuit woven through Shock's clothing, the circuit he couldn't complete without his left hand tripping the mechanism in his pocket. With the power off, Shock's weapon was useless. He was caught by surprise, and Ron's quick-moving hands tumbled him to the floor.

Before he had a chance to do anything else, Ron was upon him with an upraised chair. He closed his eyes before he swung. The sound of the crash might have sickened him in other circumstances; now it sounded good and satisfying.

Ron looked around the room, panting.

"I'm the leader now," he said. "Understand? I'm the leader!"

The looked at each other uncertainly.

"I'm taking the copter for a while," Ron said, backing towards the door. "Any arguments?"

Nobody answered.

"Swell. So long, pals."

Outside the door, he ran all the way back to the roof and was off before the gang could follow.

The trip took almost two hours. Even Ron's experienced guidance of the controls couldn't push the old copter past its limits, and he was keeping a worried eye on the fuel gauge. It was with a sigh of relief that he dropped the vehicle atop a public parking station in the downtown district, within walking distance of the Government Medical Center.

The sun was dropping fast, and the Washington streets were still filled with Sunday sightseers who found nothing odd in the sight of a solitary twelve-year-old. When he entered the enormous U-shaped edifice that housed a hundred and one government medical projects, he was thinking fast about a plausible story for the receptionist. The best he could do was:

"I'm looking for Dr. Wilfred Minton. He--he's my uncle."

"Dr. Minton?" She was young, and the efficient type. "I'm sorry, but Dr. Minton's been on special assignment for some time. It's not easy to locate him."

"Oh, I know about that," Ron said airily. "But I was supposed to see him today. You see, my mom--his sister that is--she was in a very bad accident...." He swallowed hard, wondering if he was being believed.

The woman frowned. "Well, if it's an emergency, I suppose I could check with central control. If it's really important."

"Oh, it's important, all right!" He said this with great conviction.

"Very well, then." She picked up her telephone, and there was much transferring from party to party. Finally, she lowered the receiver, saying: "He's in the east wing. It's Security territory, so I'll have to see about a pass."

It took another ten minutes for her to locate the authority she was seeking. A young man with crinkly hair and a grim expression came briskly to the desk, asked him a few questions, and then signed his name on a document. Ron put the paper into the pocket of his coveralls, and followed the man to a bank of private elevators.

The man waved him inside one, and he couldn't resist a wide-eyed question.

"Gosh, mister. Are you from the FBI?"

The man couldn't conceal a small pleased grin. "That's right, son. Only you keep it a secret."

"Sure," Ron said. When the door closed and the elevator ascended, he grinned too. Being twelve had its advantages sometimes.

He got off the elevator, and a uniformed guard checked his paper and led him into an anteroom.

"You wait here, son," he said, and left.

Ron waited five minutes. When nothing happened, he tried an adjoining door. It was open. He stepped inside the next room, and saw that it was a bare room with nothing but a row of filing cabinets and an abandoned swivel chair with a definite list to port.

He went to the files and peered at the designation cards.

They read:

PROJECT SCHOLAR.

He shrugged, and tried to open the top file. It was locked. He tried the others, with no better luck.

Then he heard the voices in the anteroom.

For some reason, he sensed danger. He knew he shouldn't be in the file room, that if he were found his visit to Dr. Minton might come to a sudden end. He couldn't take the chance. He tiptoed to the front door of the file room and turned the knob. He slipped out, and ran on his toes down the empty corridor.

Quickly, without thought of the consequence, Ron opened still another door and closed it behind him.

He looked at the shining brass fixtures and ultra modern appliances, and wondered what a kitchen was doing in a government medical building. Then, when he heard a sound in the adjoining room, he reasoned that he had stumbled into someone's living quarters.

He went to a brown mahogany door and pushed against it gently, until he widened the crack sufficiently to make out the figure walking up and down in the other room.

When the man crossed his line of vision, Ron's breath tumbled out in a gasp.

It was his own body. His thirty-year-old body, with its six-foot-two frame of big bones and long muscles, its sandy, close-cropped hair, its brooding eyes and full mouth. It was Ron Carver. It was himself as he had been before.

"Here's the little rascal," a voice said behind him.

* * * * *

The crinkly-haired man took his arm roughly.

"Okay, kid. Let's hear it."

"Hear what?" Ron said plaintively. "I wasn't doing anything!"

"Sure," the guard sneered. "He wasn't doin' a thing. Just snoopin' around, that's all."

The swinging door opened.

"What's going on here?"

Ron Carver looked at himself; at his own face, now strange and stony; at his own eyes, now bright and disinterested; at his own mouth, now a thin line of discontent. He heard his own voice, in a dangerous inflection he had never known before.

"Sorry, sir," the guard said, reddening. "Didn't know you were inside. Wouldn't have disturbed you--"

"How did he get here?"

"Gosh, sir, I really don't know. He says he was lookin' for Dr. Minton--"

"Minton," Ron Carver's voice said. "Yes, of course. He would be looking for Minton, wouldn't he?"

"Sir?"

"Never mind. Bring the boy into my quarters. Then get Dr. Minton up here at once."

"Yes, sir!"

They pushed the swinging door open and shoved Ron ahead of them. The room was an anomaly in this pristine government building, a warm room of deep-colored woods and thick carpeting. He was placed in a leather chair, his feet not touching the floor. The two men exited, and Ron Carver's body walked to an oaken desk and sat in the padded swivel chair behind the blotter.

"Well," he said. "This is something of a surprise for me."

"And how about me?" Ron said hoarsely.

The man laughed. "Yes, we are both surprised. Was it Robert Burns? Yes, of course. 'To see ourselves as others see us....'" He chuckled, and reached for a cigarette. "Filthy habit, this. Don't know how I picked it up. Possibly a deep-seated trait of yours, Mr. Carver. Odd how these things can be transferred."

The door opened again.

"Dr. Minton!" Ron leaped to his feet.

The doctor's face went white behind the gray beard and moustache.

"Then you've found him," he said softly, to neither of them in particular.

"No," Ron Carver's body answered. "I didn't find him, doctor. Rather, he found us. Isn't that right, Mr. Carver?"

"Yes!" Ron said. "And now I want to know the truth!"

"I, too, need answers," the Ron-body said stiffly. "I need answers at once, Dr. Minton. I would think this requires an explanation."

"I couldn't do it," the doctor whispered. "I couldn't do what you wanted, Scholar."

"Do what?" Ron said.

"All right, then," the Ron-body said coldly. "You failed once. But you're far too intelligent to make the same mistake twice. So you have your assignment, Dr. Minton. I will get you the help you need. But kill this--this remnant--"

He turned away in disgust, and picked up the telephone. He spoke under his breath for a few moments, and then hung up. "Dr. Luther will be here in just a moment. He'll arrange things with the laboratory. It will all be very painless and quick."

Ron said: "What are you talking about?" He looked wildly towards the old man, who had aged even further since entering the room. "Dr. Minton--"

The door opened. A brisk young man, carrying a small valise, appeared.

"All set downstairs," he said.

"Good," the Ron-body answered. "Then get it over with."

Ron struggled for a moment in the young man's grip, but he found it iron.

"Please, Ron." Doctor Minton's eyes were moist. "Don't make any trouble. Please...."

* * * * *

The laboratory was in the basement of the building, an antiseptic room with the acrid odor of chemicals. Dr. Luther prepared something in a hypodermic syringe, while Dr. Minton strapped his former patient onto a padded examining table.

"Doctor ..." Ron whispered.

"Hush, Ron. It's all right...."

"But what is all this? Who am I?"

The doctor frowned. "You're Ronald Carver. You're the same Ronald Carver you always were. But you have made an exchange of bodies. That is all."

"But why? How?"

"I don't really know. God help us. It was _his_ project from start to finish--that thing upstairs."

"Who is he?"

"A phenomenon. A mutation. A freak. A genius. A god. I can't explain him. He was born twelve years ago, to normal parents in the middle west. He was a recognized prodigy at the age of six months, a mathematical wizard at one, a scientific genius at three.... You've heard of this kind of thing, Ron. Once a generation, something like this. And once a millenium--a horror like this one."

"I don't understand! What is Project Scholar?"

"He is. All by himself. The government has taken charge of his abilities, at least for the time being." He snorted. "He's already done things I wouldn't have believed possible in five thousand years of evolution. And yet he is still only twelve years old...."

"Only twelve?" Ron squirmed in the straps. "Doctor! This body--"

"Yes, Ron. It's his, of course. He grew angry with it; wanted to discard it, like everything else which doesn't fit his conception of the fitness of things. It was awkward--a giant's brain in a child's body. So he developed a solution--an operation, involving the total transference of electrical energy...."

The doctor's shaggy head bowed. "He needed human help for that. That's when I was brought in as assistant. And it was my function to select the perfect body as a temporary house for his ego...."

"Temporary?"

"When this body ages and grows feeble, there will be another. Our friend has outwitted Death itself."

The doctor looked up, his jaw firm.

"I was instructed to destroy his body when the transference was completed. I couldn't do it, Ron. I managed to spirit you away where you would be cared for. It was almost a year before you came to your senses after the operation. By that time, I didn't know what to do with you. My first thought was the Roverwood Home, where I am a director, where you would be lost among many, many boys' faces...."

"But why me, doctor? Why me?"

"I had to choose someone, Ron. It was merely a question of who...."

Dr. Luther entered, priming the needle.

"Ready?" he said.

"One moment." The doctor's hand covered Ron's mouth, and he felt the contours of a small round pill against his lips. He realized he was meant to swallow it, and he did.

"Ready now," Dr. Minton said.

Dr. Luther performed the injection.

"Good night, sweet prince," he said gently.

* * * * *

When Ron awoke, it was under a blanket of darkness and ice.

He blinked until his eyes became accustomed to the impoverished light that was glowing behind a glass-paned door.

He was on a block of some cold composition, in what must have been the Medical Center's morgue. He reacted with revulsion at the thought, and leaped off. Then he saw that his left hand was holding a sheet of paper. He carried it to the meager light source and read it quickly:

_Ron_--

_Don't wait another moment. You'll find a suit of clothes in the closet left. Leave through back stairway marked N. There is money in suit. Use it to leave the city. Do not return if you value your safety and the life of_

_M._

He found the clothes as directed, a neatly-cut suit of boy's clothing, with a small wallet stuffed with bills amounting to three hundred dollars. He dressed rapidly, opened the door, and peered down the hall. It was empty as he ran silently towards the exit marked N.

Now he was doubly in debt to Dr. Minton. But he couldn't spare the doctor even now, for his life had been given a new direction and purpose.

He was going to kill the Scholar.

He walked rapidly through the dark streets towards the public parking lot where the helicopter had been stored. He took the lift to the roof, and walked up to it quickly.

"It's about time, pal."

It was Shock, his hair tousled over his hard, bright eyes. There was a gun in his hand.

"I've been waitin' an hour, you punk. Think you were gettin' off so easy?"

"Look, Shock--"

"You thought you were a clever boy, didn't you? Well, I got news for you--"

"Look, I don't want to be leader. I just needed a copter for a few hours."

"Yeah, sure. Only you forgot something. We put Finder equipment on this baby a long time ago, so we could keep tabs on it."

"You can _have_ the copter--"

"I don't want just the copter, Ronnie boy. I want to square a few things with you."

"Look, Shock. I'll make a deal with you. I'll give you two hundred bucks for that gun."

The tall boy's face changed. "What?"

"You heard me. You hand over that gun, I'll give you two hundred dollars."

His eyes narrowed. "Then what? I suppose you'd shoot me and take off. Uh-uh, pal."

"You can check the gun downstairs, and sell me the key."

"Okay," Shock said slowly. "But if you're pullin' something--" He balled his hands menacingly.

They went down to the lower level together. Shock bought himself a public locker, and shoved the gun inside. Then he held up the key.

"Here it is, pal. Two hundred bucks worth."

Ron handed him the money. Shock whistled at the sight of the bills.

"Now," Ron said. "Would you like to make a hundred more?"

He looked at Ron with respect. "Okay. What's the pitch?"

"I want you to make a phone call for me."

"Yeah, sure." Shock looked bewildered. Then Ron explained.

They reached the guard in the East Wing of the Medical Center without much difficulty. Shock crouched over the receiver and said:

"This is Dr. Luther. Something's happened; you better connect me with _him_."

"Okay, hold on."

There was a wait. Then Ron Carver's own voice, in its eerie new inflection, was on the other end.

"What is it?"

"This is Luther. Something's happened down here. I think the boy got away."

"What? Where are you?"

"In the morgue, downstairs. I think you better come down yourself."

"How could it happen?" The Ron-voice was raging. "How?"

"I don't know. But you better meet me here in ten minutes--"

Ron jabbed Shock in the side, and the tall boy slammed the receiver back into place with a relieved sigh.

"I don't get it," he said. "Who was that guy?"

"Me," Ron said, with a grim smile. He handed Shock the money, and watched him depart, still looking baffled. Then he went to the locker and removed the gun, stuffing it inside his jacket. It bulked large against his narrow chest.

He raced through the streets back to the medical center, heading for Exit N and the morgue.

* * * * *

Ron was waiting, gun poised, behind the empty slab. A shadow covered the dim light behind the glass-plated door, and the Ron-body entered the silent room.

He saw his own hand reaching out to flick on the light switch. He saw his own face register dismay and annoyance at the quiet scene.

Then the Ron-body turned and was about to leave.

"Stay awhile," Ron said.

He stood up, revealing the weapon, holding it in both of his small hands for firm control of the trigger.

"Well," his voice said.

"Yes, well," Ron answered. "Very well, thanks. Only I won't speak for you, Scholar. Because I don't think you're well at all. I think you're out of your mind...."

The Ron-lips curled.

"Naturally. Genius is akin to madness. It's one of the deep-rooted convictions of the human ego. It reflects their suspicion, their distrust of the superintelligent ... I understand you, Mr. Carver."

"And I don't understand you! You're something new to me. Maybe you're better than us, maybe you're worse. I don't know, Scholar. But that's not why I'm going to kill you--"

"Oh?"

"No! You think I want to kill you for the sake of the world? Because you're a menace to homo sapiens? Because of your contempt for us ordinary mortals? Hell, no, Scholar! I'm too ordinary myself. I'm killing you for _me_, for Ron Carver! Because I'm sore! Just plain sore!"

He raised the gun.

For a moment, Ron didn't know what had happened. Something else blurred his vision, a fast-moving figure bulking up in front of his target. It was only when he heard the voice that he recognized the intruder as Dr. Minton, and he saw then that the doctor had rescued the Scholar from certain death.

"Stop, Ron--"

"Doctor! Get out of the way!"

"No, Ron. You don't know what you're doing--"

The old man was shielding the Ron-body with his own. Ron put the weapon down.

"But why?" he said.

"Because this is no answer! This is the assassin's way--" He turned to the Ron-body, and his voice was shaking. "Listen, Scholar. I want to arbitrate. Will you listen?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes!" the doctor said fiercely. "Life or death! Will you listen to my terms?"

The Ron-body shrugged. "All right."

"Very well. Then I want you to spare Ron Carver. I want you to allow me to deliver him into the hands of friends, deliver him alive and safe. In return, I promise that your twelve-year-old body will leave this Earth virtually at once. I will send it to the colony on Mars, where it will stay until adulthood. Will you allow this?"

The Scholar's smile was thin. "And that is your only condition?"

"My only one!"

"Doctor--" Ron stepped towards him. "You can't leave things as they are--"

"Are you willing, Scholar? Will you let Ron Carver live his life in peace?"

The Ron-body stiffened.

"Yes," he snapped.

"Ron--" the doctor waved towards him. "Hand him your gun."

"What?"

"Give it to him! We've made a pact."

Ron hesitated, and then extended the butt towards the Scholar. He took it with a slight bow, weighed it in his palm, and then slipped the weapon into his pocket.

"You did wisely," the doctor said, with noticeable relief. "If you had turned that gun on us, Scholar, I would have killed you on the spot." He patted the metallic bulk beneath his own coat. "I came prepared, too...."

* * * * *

The copter rose serenely towards the heavenly vault. Ron's small body was feeling the effects of the day's strain. It collapsed against the leathery cushions, the short arms and legs limp and dangling.

The doctor patted his knee. "Another few moments," he said.

"Where are we going?"

"To the spaceport in Winnipeg. I have a friend there. He has two children of his own, both born in the Mars Colony. He'll be returning there within the week."

"And you want me to go with him?"

"Yes, Ron. I want you to grow up all over again, and then return to Earth. It won't be easy for you, but there will be advantages. Your life span has been lengthened. And right now, you know, you're something of a prodigy yourself." He chuckled dryly.

"And what happens here?" Ron said bitterly. "What kind of Earth will I find on my return?"

"An older Earth. Perhaps a wiser Earth...."