RANDALL awoke in bed, wondering how he had overcome Limpy’s shrewdness and knowledge of his customer’s finances. He had all the inward agonies of a hangover. Then he remembered the Air Cop and the two doctors. He sat up quickly, then held his head in his hands and regretted his hasty movement.
He stared down at the cover of the bed. It was heavily brocaded. He felt of it. It was yellow, and had a metallic feel. And though he had seen little of the metal of late and was consequently a poor judge, he bet himself that it was gold.
“Are you feeling better?” asked a soft, feminine voice.
Randall looked to the source of the words and for a moment the world seemed to consist of clear gray eyes. . . . Then he saw the rest—an evenly featured young face with a few freckles on the nose, dark hair, and all set off to the very best advantage by a nurse’s uniform. She was approaching, coming across the huge room to his side.
“Much better,” he agreed, staring.
She flushed, then said coldly, “Don’t let it get you down. As a rule, patients fall for their nurses, and usually regret it afterward. It is propinquity.”
“I don’t think so. . . . It’s you.”
She turned away, muttering something about “—fresh.”
“Unspoiled, you mean,” he corrected. “Well, how about getting me some clothes so I won’t feel so d—darned helpless.” Then he remembered Dr. Brophy’s operation and added, “And I’d like to have a mirror.”
She brought him a hand mirror. He took it and waited for her to speak.
“Sorry, no clothes,” she said. “Patients stay in bed better when they know they will be nearly nude if they get up. It makes it much easier to handle them.”
Randall grunted and deferred the argument to look at himself. The face he saw wasn’t his own! For the first time since that fight in Sydney his nose was straight. His reflection had blue eyes instead of brown, the forehead was higher, and the eyes set deeper.
“A big improvement, don’t you think?” asked a third person.
Randall looked up to meet Brophy’s eyes. He waited without answering.
Brophy motioned the girl to leave, and when she had, he faced Randall. His eyes were hard and unemotional, as was his voice.
“You know what you face,” he stated calmly. “The Air Chief will take your body, and your brain will be destroyed. And don’t think that it can’t happen. I have done it twice for the Air Chief, myself.” He halted and seemed to be waiting for some comment from Randall.
“Well, admitting that,” Randall prompted.
“You might escape that by cooperating with us. You might not only escape that, but be the richest and most powerful man in the world, subject only to a three-man board.”
“Who are ‘us’ and this three-man board?”
“We are the scientific men of Yss. In this one giant city we have over a fifth of the scientists and research workers of the world. As soon as an outsider reaches prominence, he is brought here to work. We have made great advances, far beyond what the world at large suspects, but we work under rigid supervision. We are forbidden to investigate certain things, told to do others; we are only the laboratory assistants of the Air Chief. He controls everything. A hundred times we have been ordered to cease experimenting along a certain line, and for no visible reason.”
“I can’t see what all this has to do with me,” said Randall.
“Just this!—you, instead, will become the ruler, under our control. There will be a brain destroyed, but a brain is not a very personalized bit of matter as far as appearance goes—not as far as ordinary acquaintance goes, anyway. His brain and not yours will die.”
Randall locked his fingers in back of his head and settled himself comfortably. “This sounds a lot more interesting,” he judged. “Go on.”
Dr. Brophy smiled. “That’s all,” he said.
“Is that why you changed my eyes and face?”
“No,” Dr. Brophy said. “We did that at the Air Chief’s orders. The transplantation is always a great shock and he thought to lighten it as much as possible. Also, there are many memory-blanks after the operation, and his retinue’s knowledge of that and our help, will make the switch possible. Are you going to help?”
“First, how did you change me this way? It’s far better than plastic surgery.”
“But most of the change was plastic surgery, then we healed the wounds and added flesh to your face by using a variant of mitogenetic rays that can be screened by silver salts. We photographed the Air Chief many times, made a composite negative that was lightest where your face was leaner than his, then screened the rays with that negative. The Gen-Rays, acting on the cells of your body, stimulated growth. You were chosen because your skeletal structure corresponded. Coloring your eyes was simply by the old tattooing method. Is that all?”
“Yes,” said Randall sharply. “Why don’t you simply transfer your own brain, or the one of someone you trust, to my body. And don’t tell me you trust me!”
“We don’t, but we are forced to seek your aid,” said Dr. Brophy coldly. “Skeletal structures differ, and your cranium will hold your brain, or the Air Chief’s—not ours. You were selected after we had searched thousands of records. The Air Chief supervised that work personally.”
“He seems to have his fingers in everything,” Randall commented dryly. He thought quickly. When he looked up, his eyes and mouth were hard. “I’m with you,” he said.
“Good,” the doctor returned. “I have scheduled the operation for ten o’clock—that is two hours from now. Rest quietly until then. I’ll have to put you under, and create the appearances of the operation having been completed, so you will need your strength.” He turned and left.
THE girl came back almost immediately. But she seemed to have changed greatly. Her face was set firmly with determination as she approached Randall. Then he saw that she had
a tiny pistol in her hand, and that it pointed directly at him. His hair moved as though a chill wind had blown suddenly on the back of his neck.
He looked at her face, saw that she was steeling herself to do something that was unpleasant to her—and, he suspected, even more unpleasant to him. If he could make her smile. . . .
“Gosh! Trouble sure loves me!” he mourned, searching her face anxiously for some response. There was none. “I always thought I’d be safe if I stayed in bed,” he continued.
She was only a few feet away. The bore of the tiny pistol looked like a rocket jet to Randall. He felt a chilly perspiration beading his forehead. Something like this would happen when he had just found out that the world was his oyster!
Her lips trembled, and his spirits soared with sudden hope, only to be dashed abruptly as her finger tightened on the trigger. She was close enough so that he could have reached the gun, but he knew that he couldn’t wrench it away from her before she pulled the trigger. And though the pistol was small, he was well aware of the destructive explosiveness of the tiny bullets. Sponges would be in order for him afterward. God! If only he could make her smile! . . . Or even talk!
“Why are you going to shoot me?”
“I can’t let you live!” she said huskily, revealing the strain she felt. “I can’t! A Science Board would be worse than the Air Chief. And if you die, maybe the Air Chief will die before they can find another body for him.”
“You talk like an Irredentist,” he accused quickly.
“I am an Irredentist,” she said proudly. “And this is a chance to free the world—a chance that may never come again. You must die!” Her finger tightened on the trigger again.
“Wait a minute!” he almost shouted. “Wait a minute! Don’t be unreasonable—I’m not.”
“You mean—”
“I mean I don’t give a damn for politics—of any kind. It seems to be a pretty rough business the way you folks play it. All I care for is a good rocketship,
and paydays. Now, you tell me what’s on your mind and I’ll see if we can’t two-time those guys.”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. We couldn’t trust you.”
HE WAS tensing his arm for the hopeless snatching at the weapon, when there was a sound at the door. The girl half-turned. Randall reached out quickly and twisted the pistol out of her hand, then turned to the door.
Dr. Torvald was standing in the doorway, staring at them.
“You must come in,” said Randall with mocking politeness, and reinforced the invitation by leveling the pistol at the doctor.
Dr. Torvald saw the point and came in meekly. Randall sized him up carefully, then turned to the girl.
“You go to the window and watch the street,” he ordered. “And you,” he continued, turning to Dr. Torvald, “get out of those clothes and I’ll lend you a sheet.”
The girl faced the doctor. She was close to crying. “I’m sorry, doctor. It’s my fault. I couldn’t kill him!”
“That’s a surprise to me,” Randall snorted. “I’d have sworn your intentions were the worst.” Then he frowned and looked from one to the other. “Say, are you an Irredentist, too?” he asked the doctor.
Neither of them said anything.
“I see you are,” Randall growled. “Well, get over to that window, anyway! And you take those clothes off, and take them off fast!”
A few moments later he faced the pair, fully dressed. He smiled. Dr. Torvald was much less impressive with a sheet for a toga.
Dr. Torvald became even more dignified. “What
do you plan to do?” he asked.
“Well, I think I’ll look up Brophy first. He was going to do the right thing by me.”
“Any guard will take you to him,” sneered
Torvald. “He was arrested only a few minutes ago.”
Randall’s eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed. “Well, maybe I’ll stumble over a rocketship, then,” he said, knowing he could hardly
just run into one. The building was filthy with the Air Chief’s personal guards.
He looked at the girl. She had been silent since returning from the window. She avoided his eyes.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Patricia Holden,” she replied in a muffled voice.
He leveled the pistol at Dr. Torvald, then swept her to him with his left arm, kissed her. He released her as the doctor started forward. The doctor halted quickly.
“Not very satisfactory,” Randall said to the girl. “But it’ll have to do. I may not be seeing you again.”
He started toward the door, but she halted him.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
He looked at her in amused surprise, and smiled. “I could learn,” he admitted.
“Then help us! Please! I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll marry you, if you want.”
He stared down at her, found her eyes unwavering. He tried to read her purpose, but couldn’t.
“You’ve forgotten that Brophy has been arrested. The only way I could help you is to die— messily. And I’m not in the mood. And another thing—I like to do my own chasing. It’s kind of disconcerting to have a woman snap back at me.”
She flushed, and he went on to the door. He halted, listened, then turned to ask:
“Any guards out here?”
Torvald said, “Yes,” and the girl shook her head
“no.”
“You ought to get together,” Randall criticized.
He opened the door, holding the gun ready in his pocket where it would be unnoticeable—unless he had to use it. But the girl had told the truth.
“Thanks, Pat,” he called back. “And, so long!
I’ll be seeing you later—maybe.”