Part 1

The Man Who Was Six

By F. L. WALLACE

Illustrated by ASHMAN

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

There is nothing at all like having a sound mind in a sound body, but Dan Merrol had too much of one--and also too much of the other!

"Sorry, darling," said Erica. She yawned, added, "I've tried--but I just can't believe you're my husband."

He felt his own yawn slip off his face. "What do you mean? What am I doing here then?"

"Can't you remember?" Her laughter tinkled as she pushed him away and sat up. "They said you were Dan Merrol at the hospital, but they must have been wrong."

"Hospitals don't make that kind of mistake," he said with a certainty he didn't altogether feel.

"But _I_ should know, shouldn't I?"

"Of course, but...." He did some verbal backstepping. "It was a bad accident. You've got to expect that I won't be quite the same at first." He sat up. "_Look_ at me. Can't you tell who I am?" She returned his gaze, then swayed toward him. He decided that she was highly attractive--but surely he ought to have known that long ago.

* * * * *

With a visible effort she leaned away from him. "Your left eye does look familiar," she said cautiously. "The brown one, I mean."

"The _brown_ one?"

"Your other eye's green," she told him.

"Of course--a replacement. I told you it was a serious accident. They had to use whatever was handy."

"I suppose so--but shouldn't they have tried to stick to the original color scheme?"

"It's a little thing," he said. "I'm lucky to be alive." He took her hand. "I believe I can convince you I'm _me_."

"I wish you could." Her voice was low and sad and he couldn't guess why.

"My name is Dan Merrol."

"They told you that at the hospital."

They hadn't--he'd read it on the chart. But he had been alone in the room and the name had to be his, and anyway he _felt_ like Dan Merrol. "Your name is Erica."

"They told you that too."

She was wrong again, but it was probably wiser not to tell her how he knew. No one had said anything to him in the hospital. He hadn't given them a chance. He had awakened in a room and hadn't wanted to be alone. He'd got up and read the chart and searched dizzily through the closet. Clothes were hanging there and he'd put them on and muttered her name to himself. He'd sat down to gain strength and after a while he'd walked out and no one had stopped him.

It was night when he left the hospital and the next thing he remembered was her face as he looked through the door. Her name hadn't been on the chart nor her address and yet he had found her. That proved something, didn't it? "How could I forget you?" he demanded.

"You may have known someone else with that name. When were we married?"

Maybe he should have stayed in the hospital. It would have been easier to convince her there. But he'd been frantic to get home. "It was quite a smashup," he said. "You'll have to expect some lapses."

"I'm making allowances. But can't you tell me something about myself?"

He thought--and couldn't. He wasn't doing so well. "Another lapse," he said gloomily and then brightened. "But I can tell you lots about myself. For instance, I'm a specialist in lepidoptera."

"What's that?"

"At the moment, who knows? Anyway, I'm a well-known actor and a musician and a first-rate mathematician. I can't remember any equations offhand except C equals pi R squared. It has to do with the velocity of light. And the rest of the stuff will come back in time." It was easier now that he'd started and he went on rapidly. "I'm thirty-three and after making a lot of money wrestling, married six girls, not necessarily in this order--Lucille, Louise, Carolyn, Katherine, Shirley and Miriam." That was quite a few marriages--maybe it was thoughtless of him to have mentioned them. No woman approves her predecessors.

"That's six. Where do I come in?"

"Erica. You're the seventh and best." It was just too many, now that he thought of it, and it didn't seem right.

She sighed and drew away. "That was a lucky guess on your age."

* * * * *

Did that mean he wasn't right on anything else? From the expression on her face, it did. "You've got to expect me to be confused in the beginning. Can't you really tell who I am?"

"I _can't_! You don't have the same personality at all." She glanced at her arm. There was a bruise on it.

"Did I do that?" he asked.

"You did, though I'm sure you didn't mean to. I don't think you realized how strong you were. Dan was always too gentle--he must have been afraid of me. And _you_ weren't at all."

"Maybe I was impetuous," he said. "But it was such a long time."

"Almost three months. But most of that time you were floating in gelatin in the regrowth tank, unconscious until yesterday." She leaned forward and caressed his cheek. "Everything seems wrong, no matter how hard I try to believe otherwise. You don't have the same personality--you can't remember anything."

"And I have one brown eye and one green."

"It's not just that, darling. Go over to the mirror."

He had been seriously injured and he was still weak from the shock. He got up and walked unsteadily to the mirror. "Now what?"

"Stand beside it. Do you see the line?" Erica pointed to the glass.

He did--it was a mark level with his chin. "What does it mean?"

"That should be the top of Dan Merrol's head," she said softly.

He was a good six inches taller than he ought to be. But there must be some explanation for the added height. He glanced down at his legs. They were the same length from hip bone to the soles of his feet, but the proportions differed from one side to the other. His knees didn't match. _Be-dum, be-dum, be-dumdum, but your knees don't match_--the snatch of an ancient song floated through his head.

Quickly, he scanned himself. It was the same elsewhere. The upper right arm was massive, too big for the shoulder it merged with. And the forearm, while long, was slender. He blinked and looked again. While they were patching him up, did they really think he needed black, red and brown hair? He wondered how a beagle felt.

* * * * *

What were they, a bunch of humorists? Did they, for comic effect, piece together a body out of bits and scraps left over from a chopping block? It was himself he was looking at, otherwise he'd say the results were neither hideous nor horrible, but merely--well, what? Ludicrous and laughable--and there were complications in that too. Who wants to be an involuntary clown, a physical buffoon that Mother Nature hadn't duplicated since Man began?

He felt the stubble on his face with his left hand--he _thought_ it was his left hand--at least it was on that side. The emerging whiskers didn't feel like anything he remembered. Wait a minute--was it _his_ memory? He leaned against the wall and nearly fell down. The length of that arm was unexpectedly different.

He hobbled over to a chair and sat down, staring miserably at Erica as she began dressing. There was quite a contrast between the loveliness of her body and the circus comedy of his own.

"Difficult, isn't it?" she said, tugging her bra together and closing the last snap, which took considerable effort. She was a small girl generally, though not around the chest.

It was difficult and in addition to his physique there were the memories he couldn't account for. Come to think of it, he must have been awfully busy to have so many careers in such a short time--_and_ all those wives too.

Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't comforted. "I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you."

He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still Dan Merrol--but he wasn't going to insist on it--not after looking at himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories.

She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that, stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he had to do.

* * * * *

The jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight.

The trousers were also a problem--six inches short with no material to add on, but here again Erica proved equal to the task and, using the cuffs, contrived to lengthen them. Shoes were another difficulty. For one foot the size was not bad, but he could almost step out of the other shoe. When she wasn't looking, he wadded up a spare sock and stuffed it in the toe.

He looked critically at himself in the mirror. Dressed, his total effect was better than he had dared hope it would be. True, he did look _different_.

Erica gazed at him with melancholy affection. "I can't understand why they let you out wearing those clothes--or for that matter, why they let you out at all."

He must have given some explanation as he'd stumbled through the door. What was it?

"When I brought the clothes yesterday, they told me I couldn't see you for a day or so," she mused aloud. "It was the first time you'd been out of the regrowth tank--where no one could see you--and they didn't know the clothes wouldn't fit. You were covered with a sheet, sleeping, I think. They let me peek in and I could make out a corner of your face."

It was the clothes, plus the brief glimpse of his face, which had made her think she recognized him when he came in.

"They told me you'd have to have psychotherapy and I'd have to have orientation before I could see you. That's why I was so surprised when you rang the bell."

His head was churning with ideas, trying to sort them out. Part of last night was dim, part sharp and satisfying.

"What's Wysocki's theorem?" she asked.

"_Whose_ theorem?"

"Wysocki's. I started to call the hospital and you wouldn't let me, because of the theorem. You said you'd explain it this morning." She glanced at the bruise on her arm.

It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital. He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted--but she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock.

* * * * *

She was looking at him, waiting for that explanation. He shook his mind frantically and the words came out. "Self-therapy," he said briskly. "The patient alone understands what he needs." She started to interrupt, but he shook his head and went on blithely. "That's the first corollary of the theorem. The second is that there are critical times in the recovery of the patient. At such times, with the least possible supervision, he should be encouraged to make his own decisions and carry them through by himself, even though running a slight risk of physical complications."

"That's new, isn't it?" she said. "I always thought they watched the patient carefully."

It ought to be new--he'd just invented it. "You know how rapidly medical practices change," he said quickly. "Anyway, when they examined me last night, I was much stronger than they expected--so, when I wanted to come home, they let me. It's their latest belief that initiative is more important than perfect health."

"Strange," she muttered. "But you are very strong." She looked at him and blushed. "Initiative, certainly you have. Dan could use some, wherever he is."

Dan again, whether it was himself or another person. For a brief time, as she listened to him, he'd had the silly idea that.... But it could never happen to him. He'd better leave now while she was distracted and bewildered and believed what he was saying. "I've got to go. I'm due back," he told her.

"Not before you eat," she said. "Any man who's spent the night with me is hungry in the morning."

It was a domestic miracle that amidst all the pressing and fitting, she'd somehow prepared breakfast and he hadn't noticed. It was a simple chore with the automatics, but to him it seemed a proof of her wifely skill.

He wanted to protest, but didn't. Maybe it was the hand she was holding--it seemed to be equipped with a better set of nerves than its predecessor. It tingled at her touch. Sadly, he sat down and looked at his food. Eat? Did he want to eat? Oddly enough, he did.

"How much do you remember of the accident?" She shoved aside her own food and sat watching him.

* * * * *

Not a thing, now that she asked. In fact, there wasn't much he did remember. There had been the chart at his bed-side, with one word scrawled on it--_accident_--and that was where he'd got the idea. There had been other marks too, but he hadn't been able to decipher them. He nodded and said nothing and she took it as he thought she would.

"It wasn't anybody's fault. The warning devices which were supposed to work didn't," she began. "A Moon ship collided with a Mars liner in the upper atmosphere. The ships broke up in several parts and since they are compartmented and the delay rockets switched on immediately, the separate parts fell rather gently, considering how high they were. Casualties weren't as great as you might think.

"Parts of the two ships fell together, the rest were scattered. There was some interchange of passengers in the wreckage, but since you were found in the control compartment of the Mars liner, they assumed you were the pilot. They never let me see you until yesterday and then it was just a glimpse. I took their word when they said you were Dan Merrol."

At least he knew who or what Dan Merrol was--the pilot of the Mars liner. They had assumed he was the pilot because of where he was found, but he might have been tossed there--impact did strange things.

Dan Merrol was a spaceship pilot and he hadn't included it among his skills. It was strange that she had believed him at all. But now that it was out in the open, he did remember some facts about spaceships. He felt he could manage a takeoff at this instant.

But why hadn't he told her? Shock? Perhaps--but where had those other identities come from--lepidopterist, musician, actor, mathematician and wrestler? And where had he got memories of wives, slender and passionate, petite and wild, casual and complaisant, nagging and insecure?

Erica he didn't remember at all, save from last night, and what was that due to?

"What are you going to do?" he asked, deliberately toying with the last bite of breakfast. It gave him time to think.

"They said they'd identified everyone, living or dead, and I supposed they had. After seeing you, I can believe they made any number of similar mistakes. Dan Merrol may be alive under another name. It will be hard to do, but I must try to find him. Some of the accident victims went to other hospitals, you know, the ones located nearest where they fell."

Even if he was sure, he didn't know whether he could tell her--and he wasn't sure any longer, although he had been. On the physical side of marriage, how could he ask her to share a body she'd have to laugh at? Later, he might tell her, if there was to be a 'later.' He pushed back his chair and looked at her uncertainly.

"Let me call a 'copter," she said. "I hate to see you go."

"Wysocki's theorem," he told her. "The patient has decided to walk." He weaved toward the door and twisted the knob. He turned in time to catch her in his arms.

"I know this is wrong," she said, pressing against him.

It might be wrong, but it was very pleasant, though he did guess her motives. She was a warmhearted girl and couldn't help pitying him. "Don't be so damned considerate," he mumbled.

"You'll have to put me down," she said, averting her eyes. "Otherwise.... You're an intolerable funny man."

He knew it--he could see himself in the mirror. He was something to laugh at when anyone got tired of pretending sympathy. He put her down and stumbled out. He thought he could hear the bed creak as she threw herself on it.

II

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."