Croyd went out that afternoon and bought a Dumont television set with a sixteen-inch screen, paid cash, and arranged for its delivery to Ridgewood. He visited with Bentley then, but declined a somewhat-risky-sounding job because of his apparent lack of special talent this time around. Actually, it was a good excuse. He didn't really want to work anyway, to take a chance on getting screwed up-physically or with the law-this close to the wedding.

He had dinner with Bentley in an Italian restaurant, and they sat for several hours afterward over a bottle of Chianti, talking shop and looking ahead as Bentley tried to explain to him the value of long-range solvency and getting respectable one day-a thing he'd never quite managed himself.

He walked most of the night after that, to practice studying buildings for their weak points, to think about his changed family. Sometime after midnight, as he was pa.s.sing up Central Park West, a strong itching sensation began on his chest and spread about his entire body. After a minute, he had to halt and scratch himself violently. Allergies were becoming very fashionable about this time, and he wondered whether his new incarnation had brought him a sensitivity to something in the park.

He turned west at the first opportunity and left the area as quickly as possible. After about ten minutes the itching waned. Within a half-hour it had vanished completely. His hands and face felt as if they were chapped, however.

At about four in the morning he stopped in an all-night diner off Times Square, where he ate slowly and steadily and read a copy of Time Time magazine which someone had left in a booth. It's medical section contained an article on suicide among jokers, which depressed him considerably. The quotations it contained reminded him of things he had heard said by many people with whom he was acquainted, causing him to wonder whether any of them were among the inter- viewees. He understood the feelings too well, though he could not share them fully, knowing that no matter what he drew he would always be dealt a new wild card the next time around-and that more often than not it was an ace. magazine which someone had left in a booth. It's medical section contained an article on suicide among jokers, which depressed him considerably. The quotations it contained reminded him of things he had heard said by many people with whom he was acquainted, causing him to wonder whether any of them were among the inter- viewees. He understood the feelings too well, though he could not share them fully, knowing that no matter what he drew he would always be dealt a new wild card the next time around-and that more often than not it was an ace.

All of his joints creaked when he rose, and he felt a sharp pain between his shoulder blades. His feet felt swollen, also.

He returned home before daybreak, feeling feverish. In the bathroom, he soaked a washcloth to hold against his forehead. He noted in the mirror that his face seemed swollen. He sat in the easy chair in his bedroom until he heard Carl and Claudia moving about. When he rose to join them for breakfast his limbs felt leaden, and his joints creaked again as he descended the stairway.

Claudia, slim and blond, embraced him when he entered the kitchen. Then she studied his new face.

"You look tired, Croyd," she said.

"Don't say that," he responded. "I can't get tired this soon. It's two days till your wedding, and I'm going to make it."

"You can rest without sleeping, though, can't you?"

He nodded.

"Then, take it easy. I know it must be hard. . . . Come on, let's eat."

As they were sipping their coffee, Carl asked, "You want to come into the office with me, see the setup I've got now?"

"Another time," Croyd answered. "I've got some errands."

"Sure. Maybe tomorrow."

"Maybe so."

Carl left shortly after that. Claudia refilled Croyd's cup.

"We hardly see you anymore," she said.

"Yeah. Well, you know how it is. I sleep-sometimes months. When I wake up I'm not always real pretty. Other times, I have to hustle to pay the bills."

"We've appreciated it," she said. "It's hard to understand. You're the baby, but you look like a grown man. You act like one. You didn't get your full share of being a kid."

He smiled.

"So what are you-an old lady? Here you are just seventeen, and you're getting married."

She smiled back.

"He's a nice guy, Croyd. I know we're going to be happy."

"Good. I hope so. Listen, if you ever want to reach me I'm going to give you the name of a place where you can leave a message. I can't always be prompt, though."

"I understand. What is it that you do, anyway?"

"I've been in and out of a lot of different businesses. Right now I'm between jobs. I'm taking it easy this time, for your wedding. What's he like, anyhow?"

"Oh, very respectable and proper. Went to Princeton. Was a captain in the Army."

"Europe? The Pacific?"

"Washington."

"Oh. Well-connected."

She nodded.

"Old family," she said.

"Well. . . . Good," he said. "You know I wish you happiness."

She rose and embraced him again.

"I've missed you," she said.

"Me, too."

"I've got errands to run, too, now. I'll see you later."

"Yes."

"You take it easy today."

When she left he stretched his arms as far as they would go, trying to relieve the ache in his shoulders. His shirt tore down the back as he did this. He looked in the hall mirror. His shoulders were wider today than they had been yesterday. In fact, his entire body looked wider, huskier. He returned to his room and stripped. Most of his torso was covered with a red rash. Just looking at it made him want to scratch, but he restrained himself. Instead, he filled the bathtub and soaked in it for a long while. The water level had lowered itself visibly by the time he got out. When he studied himself in the bathroom mirror he seemed even larger. Could he have absorbed some of the water through his skin? At any rate, the inflammation seemed to have vanished, though his skin was still rough in those areas where it had been prominent.

He dressed himself in clothing he had left from an earlier time when he had been larger. Then he went out and rode the subways to the clothing store he had visited the previous day. There, he re-outfitted himself completely and rode back, feeling vaguely nauseous as the car jounced and swayed. He noted that his hands looked dry and rough. When he rubbed them, flakes of dead skin fell off like dandruff.

After he left the subway he walked on until he came to the Sarzannos' apartment building. The woman who opened the door was not Joe's mother, Rose, however.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I'm looking for Joe Sarzanno," he said.

"n.o.body here by that name. Must be someone who moved out before we moved in."

"So you wouldn't know where they went?"

"No. Ask the manager. Maybe he knows."

She closed the door.

He tried the manager's apartment, but there was no answer. So he made his way home, feeling heavy and bloated. The second time that he yawned he was abruptly fearful. It seemed too soon to be going back to sleep. This transformation was more puzzling than usual.

He put a fresh pot of coffee on the stove and paced while he waited for it to percolate. While there was no certainty that he would awaken with a special power on each occasion, the one thing that had been constant was change. He thought back over all of the changes he had undergone since he had been infected. This was the only one where he had seemed neither joker nor ace, but normal. Still . . .

When the coffee was ready, he sat down with a cup and became aware that he had been scratching his right thigh, half-consciously. He rubbed his hands together and more dry skin flaked off. He considered his increased girth. He thought of all the little twinges and creaks, of the fatigue. It was obvious that he was not not completely normal this time, but as to what his abnormality actually const.i.tuted, he was uncertain. Could Dr. Tachyon help him? He wondered. Or at least give him some idea as to what was going on? completely normal this time, but as to what his abnormality actually const.i.tuted, he was uncertain. Could Dr. Tachyon help him? He wondered. Or at least give him some idea as to what was going on?

He called the number that he had committed to memory. A woman with a cheerful voice told him that Tachyon was out but would be back that afternoon. She took Croyd's name, seemed to recognize it, and told him to come in at three.

He finished the pot of coffee; the itching had increased steadily all over his body as he sat drinking the final cup. He went upstairs and ran the water in the bathtub again. While the tub was filling he undressed and studied his body. All of his skin now had the dry, flaky appearance of his hands. Wherever he brushed himself a small flurry occurred.

He soaked for a long while. The warmth and the wetness felt good. After a time he leaned back and closed his eyes. Very good . . .

He sat up with a start. He had begun dozing. He had almost drifted off to sleep just then. He seized the washcloth and began rubbing himself vigorously, not only to remove all of the detritus. When he had finished he toweled himself briskly as the tub drained, then rushed to his room. He located the pills at the back of a clothing drawer and took two of them. Whatever games his body was playing, sleep was very much his enemy now.

He returned to the bathroom, cleaned the tub, dressed. It would feel good to stretch out on his bed for a time. To rest, as Claudia had suggested. But he knew that he couldn't.

Tachyon took a blood sample and fed it to his machine. On his first attempt, the needle had only gone in a short distance and stopped. The third needle, backed with considerable force, penetrated a subdermal layer of resistance and the blood was drawn.

While awaiting the machine's findings, Tachyon conducted a gross examination.

"Were your incisors that long when you awoke?" he asked, peering into Croyd's mouth.

"They looked normal when I brushed them," Croyd replied. "Have they grown?"

"Take a look."

Tachyon held up a small mirror. Croyd stared. The teeth were an inch long, and sharp looking.

"That's a new development," he stated. "I don't know when it happened."

Tachyon moved Croyd's left arm up behind his back in a gentle hammerlock, then pushed his fingers beneath the protruding scapula. Croyd screamed.

"That bad, is it?" Tachyon asked.

"My G.o.d!" Croyd said. "What is it? Is something broken back there?"

The doctor shook his head. He examined some of the skin flakes under a microscope. He studied Croyd's feet next.

"Were they this wide when you woke up?" he asked.

"No. What the h.e.l.l is happening, Doc?"

"Let's wait another minute or so for my machine to finish with your blood. You've been here three or four times in the past . . ."

"Yes," Croyd said.

"Fortunately, you came in once right after you woke up. Another time, you were in about six hours after you awoke. On the former occasion you possessed a high level of a very peculiar hormone which I thought at the time might be a.s.sociated with the change process itself. The other time-six hours after awakening-you still had traces of the hormone, but at a very low level. Those were the only two times it was evident."

"So?"

"The main test in which I am interested right now is a check for its presence in your blood. Ah! I believe we have something now."

A series of strange symbols flashed upon the screen of the small unit.

"Yes. Yes, indeed," he said, studying them. "You have a high level of the substance in your blood-higher even than it was right after awakening. Hm. You've been taking amphetamines again, too."

"I had to. I was starting to get sleepy, and I've got to make it to Sat.u.r.day. Tell me in plain words what this d.a.m.n hormone means."

"It means that the process of change is still going on within you. For some reason you awoke before it was completed. There seems to be a regular cycle of it, but this time it was interrupted."

"Why?"

Tachyon shrugged, a movement he seemed to have learned since the last time Croyd had seen him.

"Any of a whole constellation of possible biochemical events triggered by the change itself. I think you probably received some brain stimulation as a side effect of another change that was in progress at the time you were aroused. Whatever that particular change was, it is completed-but the rest of the process isn't. So your body is now trying to put you back to sleep until it finishes its business."

"In other words, I woke up too soon?"

"Yes."

"What should I do?"

"Stop taking the drugs immediately. Sleep. Let it run its course."

"I can't. I have to stay awake for two more days-a day and a half will do, actually."

"I suspect your body will fight this, and as I said once before, it seems to know what it's doing. I think you would be taking a chance to keep yourself awake much longer."

"What kind of chance? Do you mean it might kill me-or will it just make me uncomfortable?"

"Croyd, I simply do not know. Your condition is unique. Each change takes a different course. The only thing we can trust is whatever accommodation your body has made to the virus-whatever it is within you that brings you through each bout safely. If you try to stay awake by unnatural means now, this is the very thing that you will be fighting."

"I've put off sleep lots of times with amphetamines."

"Yes, but those times you were merely postponing the onset of the process. It doesn't normally begin until your brain chemistry registers a sleep state. But now it is already under way, and the presence of the hormone indicates its continuance. I don't know what will happen. You may turn an ace phase into a joker phase. You may lapse into a really lengthy coma. I simply have no way of telling."

Croyd reached for his shirt.

"I'll let you know how it all turns out," he said.