Part 3

"Easy," said the man. "Sit there. You don't have to move. We'll find out what's wrong. It may not be serious at all."

* * * * *

Unhooking the visio-recorder, the tester also swung the mike away. "You were doing fine," he said. "Never saw anything smoother. About here, though, you seemed to be having difficulty. We'll slow it down and see what it was."

He snapped the reels in place and darkened the room. On the screen was the vision-port and, through it, a view of Mars. A fleck of light glittered, grew, became a cloud, a swarm. A swarm?

"God!" said the tester, bewildered. "A billion butterflies! How could you imagine butterflies, twenty million miles from a planet?"

Merrol squirmed--he didn't know either. What was wrong with him to make him dream up butterflies?

The examiner switched the film off and the lights on. "So you missed them--why, I don't know." He fiddled with another machine. "We'll slow down the sound, synchronize the two of them later, but maybe by itself the sound will give us a clue as to what happened."

"What's that?" It came from the sound track, but it was Merrol's voice.

"Those are lepidoptera." Another voice, also his, though of different pitch and timbre--his, because he was the only one there to speak. "I've always dreamed of discovering a new species and at last I have, since these can fly through space. What strange adaptations they have made. Aren't they beautiful?"

He answered. "They won't be when I plow through them. The rockets will fry them."

"Turn aside!" shouted the lepidopterist. "You can't destroy them."

"I'm going to act as if this were not happening," said a cultured voice. "_Bang-bang!_"

"This is upsetting," said a different person. "Since I have no instrument, I'll listen with my memory to a Bach concerto. Unfortunately, it ends in the middle of the third movement, as though it has been sliced through with a knife that separated one note cleanly from the next. Still, it's better to have this than nothing."

"Your computers are awfully slow," said the fifth. "I'll figure out a new course for us."

"Gimme the controls," said the wrestler. "I'll turn the ship, if I hafta do it with my bare hands."

The examiner snapped off the sound and busied himself with things that may have been necessary. "You don't have to sit there," he said after a while. "Wait outside." He glanced down, "Be careful when you move, the control column will fall off. Didn't know it could be broken."

As he got out of the seat, the examiner slapped his back. "Tell you what, fellow--don't wait--go now to the Compensation Board and see about retirement."

IV

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.

Merrol tapped the man across the aisle. "Please repeat it."

The man glanced around and saw who it was. "Aw, you're the guy who doesn't like that stuff." He jerked his head at the broken screen.

The memory cell of the picture tube didn't have a long attention span. It could recall forty-five seconds of the past program and no longer. The broadcast might be repeated, or it might not. Did he want to wait?

He reached out his arm--the long one--and fastened onto the man's jacket, giving him a short rough shove.

"Repeat it, I said!"

The man looked down. He wasn't small himself, but it was a large fist. "Sure thing," he said, jabbing the repeat button. The scene was replayed.

"Thanks," said Merrol, letting go.

The man looked at his crumpled clothing. "Not at all," he muttered, sliding away against the wall. "Don't mention it."

* * * * *

The woman was Erica. It was too much of a coincidence that, among so many millions in the city, she should be the one. The hospital and _Interplanet_ were working together and now they had brought in Erica. How gullible did they think he was and how much had they offered her for this? It might not be money, though--they might have convinced her it was to Dan's own best interest that they get in touch with him immediately.

They were baiting him crudely and if they weren't, there were others who could respond as well as he. There must be hundreds in the vicinity, scores at any rate, who could qualify. There were enough without him, depending on how often the blood fraction was needed. Crander hadn't said. It was a trick and Erica wasn't ill--or if she was, she would be safe without him. He had to make up his mind before he saw her, and he couldn't. He clenched his hands, both big and little. He had stretched Wysocki's theorem too far and it had failed.

"I had a wife once." The voice startled him, but he sat still, hoping to hear it again. Maybe they would tell him what to do. "Not so slender as Erica. Rather bouncy, in fact, but I liked her. Pity she ran away with a coleopterist. Never could understand what she saw in him." The voice grew sad. "_Beetles!_"

"My advice is that wives are easily come by," said a theatrical voice, modulated for effect. "But before he shuffles off this mortal coil to the last roundup, every man should have at least one wife like Erica."

"I can't speak of wives or women," said the musician. "There's so little memory left, mostly music. But you've been subconsciously humming a tune for days--and I must tell you that Beethoven didn't write anything called Erica. The correct title is Eroica."

"One fall don't mean nothing, it's always the best two out of three. The way I see it, you gotta get up. Get close to them, hold them tight, or they'll throw you outta the ring."

"This is something that can't be figured. There are some odds no one can live by. You'll have to solve this one yourself."

He sat there, not moving. They were with him always, but sometimes they weren't much help.

The plane would land on the other side of the continent. He had little money, but he could get in touch with _Interplanet_ and they would advance him the fare back. Unfortunately, such a move would take time. There would be schedules to juggle, to say nothing of the ride back. A mere matter of hours on a fast ship--yet what if that was too long?

* * * * *

He got to his feet and went forward. "You can't go in there," said the stewardess.

He looked past her into the pilot's compartment. It was securely locked from this side though not on the other. He glanced down at the girl. It was a tradition that stewardesses were gorgeous creatures, though the tradition was simply not true any longer. In an age of space exploration, air travel had dispensed with glamor. But for unfathomable reasons, this stewardess was a throwback to the old days. If she didn't quite achieve real beauty, she came close enough so that no healthy male could conceivably object to her nearness.

Merrol could take the keys away from her, but she'd scream and a dozen men would come leaping to her rescue. He didn't care for the odds.

He had met three women and had he misjudged the effect of the new himself on them? First Erica--her behavior had been strange, considering that, even from the first, she must have doubted he was her husband. Then the receptionist--she _had_ gone out of her way to get him into Crander's office when the latter was upset by the disappearance of a patient. And finally, the pathetic Miss Jerrems, who had thawed and would have descended to crooked schemes, had he encouraged her. Was this some form of pity or something quite different--or did it matter at all as long as they were not indifferent? There was a way to find out.

He raised his arm, the shorter one, and laid his hand affectionately on the stewardess' shoulder. "Isn't there a private room in back?"

She tilted her head and her lips glistened. "Yes, there is."

"Small enough for two?"

"I believe so." Her lashes trembled and lowered and she seemed surprised that they did. "That is if you--if we snuggled close."

"I'm sure we will. Why don't you find out about that room?"

"It seems like a good idea." She blushed and turned to leave.

"I'll need keys, won't I?" he said.

She leaned against him and the keys dropped into his hand. "I'll be waiting," she whispered. He watched her walk down the aisle and enjoyed the enticing sway of her hips. Under other circumstances, he might have considered joining her.

He had the keys! It had worked! He didn't know why, nor did he have time to think about it. He inserted the key and stepped inside.

"Hi, Jane," sang out the pilot, not turning, assuming he knew who it was.

Merrol located the autopilot switch and, reaching past the man, turned it on. With the same motion he whirled the pilot around. "Listen, friend, don't you want to go back?"

"No. Why should I?" The pilot was startled, but not intimidated.

"Engine trouble or something. You figure it out. I don't care what it is, as long as we get back." He half-hoped the man would object--physical action would be a relief. In an emergency, he could handle the ship himself--it was simpler than a spaceship.

* * * * *