"Yours is one of the most interesting cases I've seen so far. In all of the others it's simply run its course and either killed the person or changed him-for better or worse. With you-Well, the nearest a.n.a.logy is an earth disease called malaria. The virus you harbor seems to reinfect you periodically."

"I drew a joker once. . . ."

"Yes, and it could happen again. But unlike anyone else to whom it's happened, all you have to do is wait. You can sleep it off."

"I don't ever want to be a monster again. Is there some way you could change just that much of it?"

"I'm afraid not. It's part of your total syndrome. I can only go after the whole thing."

"And the odds against a cure are three or four to one?"

"Who told you that?"

"A joker named Bentley. He looked sort of like a dog."

"Bentley was one of my successes. He's back to normal now. Just left here fairly recently, in fact."

"Really! It's good to know that someone made it."

Tachyon looked away.

"Yes," he answered, a moment later.

"Tell me something."

"What?"

"If I only change when I sleep, then I could put off a change by staying awake-right?"

"I see what you mean. Yes, a stimulant would put it off a bit. If you feel it coming on while you're out somewhere, the caffeine in a couple of cups of coffee would probably hold it off long enough for you to get back home."

"Isn't there something stronger? Something that would put it off for a longer time?"

"Yes, there are powerful stimulants-amphetamines, for example. But they can be dangerous if you take too many or take them for too long."

"In what ways are they dangerous?"

"Nervousness, irritability, combativeness. Later on, a toxic psychosis, with delusions, hallucinations, paranoia."

"Crazy?"

"Yes."

"Well, you could just stop them if it gets near that point, couldn't you?"

"I don't believe it's that easy."

"I'd hate to be a monster again, or-You didn't say it, but isn't it possible that I could just die during one of the comas?"

"There is that possibility. It's a nasty virus. But you've come through several attacks now, which leads me to believe that your body knows what it is doing. I wouldn't worry myself unduly on that. . . ."

"It's the joker part that really bothers me."

"That is a possibility you simply have to live with."

"All right. Thank you, Doctor."

"I wish you would come to Mt. Sinai the next time you feel it coming on. I'd really like to observe the process in you."

"I'd rather not."

Tachyon nodded.

"Or right away after you awaken . . . ?"

"Maybe," Croyd said, and he shook his hand. "By the way, Doctor . . . How do you spell 'amphetamine'?"

Croyd stopped by the Sarzannos' apartment later, for he had not seen Joe since that day in September when they had made their way home from school together, the exigencies of making a living have limited his spare time since then.

Mrs. Sarzanno opened the door a crack and stared at him. After he had identified himself and tried to explain his changed appearance, she still refused to open the door farther.

"My Joe, he is changed, too," she said.

"Uh, how is he changed?" he asked.

"Changed. That's all. Changed. Go away."

She closed the door.

He knocked again, but there was no response.

Croyd went away then and ate three steaks, because there was nothing else he could do.

Croyd studied Bentley-a small foxy-featured man with dark hair and shifty eyes-feeling that his earlier transformation had actually been in keeping with his general demeanor. Bentley returned the compliment for several seconds, then said, "That's really you, Croyd?"

"Yep."

"Come on in. Sit down. Have a beer. We've got a lot to talk about."

He stepped aside, and Croyd entered the brightly furnished apartment.

"I got cured and I'm back in business. Business is lousy," Bentley said, after they had seated themselves. "What's your story?"

Croyd told him, of the changes and powers he'd experienced and of his talk with Tachyon. The one thing he never told him was his age, since all of his transformations bore the appearance of adulthood. He feared that Bentley might not trust him in the same fashion as he had if he knew otherwise.

"You went about those other jobs wrong," the small man said, lighting a cigarette and coughing. "Hit or miss is never good. You want a little planning, and it should be tailored to whatever your special talent is, each time around. Now, you say that this time you can fly?"

"Yes."

"Okay. There are lots of places high up in skysc.r.a.pers that people think are pretty secure. This is the time we hit those. You know, you've got the best setup of anyone there is. Even if someone sees you, it don't matter. You're going to look different next time around. . . ."

"And you'll get me the amphetamines?"

"All you want. You come back here tomorrow-same time, same station. Maybe I'll have a job worked out for us. And I'll have your pills for you."

"Thanks, Bentley."

"It's the least I can do. If we stick together we'll both get rich."

Bentley did plan a good job, and three days later Croyd brought home more money than he had ever held before. He took most of it to Carl, who had been handling the family's finances.

"Let's take a walk," Carl said, securing the money behind a row of books and glancing significantly toward the living room where their mother sat with Claudia.

Croyd nodded.

"Sure."

"You seem a lot older these days," said Carl-who would be eighteen in a few months-as soon as they were on the street.

"I feel a lot older."

"I don't know where you keep getting the money. . . ."

"Better you don't."

"Okay. I can't complain, since I'm living off it, too. But I wanted you to know about Mom. She's getting worse. Seeing Dad torn apart that way. . . . She's been slipping ever since. You missed the worst of it so far, the last time you were asleep. Three different nights she just got up and went outside in her nightgown-barefoot yet, in February, for crissake!-and she wandered around like she was looking for Dad. Fortunately, someone we knew spotted her each time and brought her back. She kept asking her-Mrs. Brandt-if she'd seen him. Anyhow, what I'm trying to say is she's getting worse. I've already talked to a couple of doctors. They think she should be in a rest home for a while. Claudia and I think so, too. We can't watch her all the time, and she might get hurt. Claudia's sixteen now. The two of us can run things while she's away. But it's going to be expensive."

"I can get more money," Croyd said.

When he finally got hold of Bentley the following day and told him that they had to do another job soon, the small man seemed pleased, for Croyd had not been eager for a quick follow-up to the last one.

"Give me a day or so to line something up and work out the details," Bentley said. "I'll get back to you."

"Right."

The next day Croyd's appet.i.te began to mount, and he found himself yawning occasionally. So he took one of the pills.

It worked well. Better than well, actually. It was a fine feeling that came over him. He could not recall the last time he'd felt quite that good. Everything seemed as if it were going right for a change. And all of his movements felt particularly fluid and graceful. He seemed more alert, more aware than usual, also. And, most importantly, he was not sleepy.

It was not until nighttime, after everyone else had retired, that these feelings began to wear off. He took another pill. When it began to work he felt so fine that he went outside and levitated high above the city, drifting in the cold March night between the bright constellations of the city and those far above, feeling as if he possessed a secret key to the inner meaning of it all. Briefly, he thought of Jetboy's battle in the sky, and he flew over the remains of the Hudson Terminal which had burned when pieces of Jetboy's plane fell upon it. He had read of a plan to build a monument to him there. Was this how it felt when he fell?

He descended to swoop among buildings-sometimes resting atop one, leaping, falling, saving himself at the last moment. On one such occasion, he beheld two men watching him from a doorway. For some reason that he did not understand, this irritated him. He returned home then and began cleaning the house. He stacked old newspapers and magazines and tied them into bundles, he emptied wastebaskets, he swept and mopped, he washed all of the dishes in the sink. He flew four loads of trash out over the East River and dropped them in, trash collections still not being quite regular. He dusted everything, and dawn found him polishing the silverware. Later, he washed all of the windows.

It was quite sudden that he found himself weak and shaking. He realized what it was and he took another pill and set a pot of coffee to percolating. The minutes pa.s.sed. It was hard to remain seated, to be comfortable in any position. He did not like the tingling in his hands. He washed them several times, but it would not go away. Finally, he took another pill. He watched the clock and listened to the sounds of the coffeepot. Just as the coffee became ready the tingling and the shaking began to subside. He felt much better. While he was drinking his coffee he thought again of the two men in the doorway. Had they been laughing at him? He felt a quick rush of anger, though he had not really seen their faces, known their expressions. Watching him! If they'd had more time they might have thrown a rock. . . .

He shook his head. That was silly. They were just two guys. Suddenly, he wanted to run outside and walk all over the city, or perhaps fly again. But he might miss Bentley's call if he did. He began pacing. He tried to read but was unable to focus his attention as well as usual. Finally, he phoned Bentley.

"Have you come up with anything yet?" he asked.

"Not yet, Croyd. What's the rush?"

"I'm starting to get sleepy. You know what I mean?"

"Uh-yeah. You take any of that s.h.i.t yet?"

"Uh-huh. I had to."

"Okay. Look, go as light on it as possible. I'm working on a couple angles now. I'll try to have something lined up by tomorrow. If it's no go then, you stop taking the stuff and go to bed. We can do it next time. Got me?"

"I want to do it this time, Bentley."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow. You take it easy now."

He went out and walked. It was a cloudy day, with patches of snow and ice upon the ground. He realized suddenly that he had not eaten since the day before. That had to be bad, when he considered what had become his normal appet.i.te. It must be the pills' doing, he concluded. He sought a diner, determined to force himself to eat something. As he walked, it occurred to him that he did not care to sit down in a crowd of people and eat. The thought of having all of them around him was unsettling. No, he would get a carryout order. . . .

As he headed toward a diner he was halted by a voice from a doorway. He turned so quickly that the man who had addressed him raised an arm and drew back.

"Don't . . ." the man protested.

Croyd took a step back.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

The man had on a brown coat, its collar turned all the way up. He wore a hat, its brim drawn about as low as it would go and still permit vision. He kept his head inclined forward. Nevertheless, Croyd discerned a hooked beak, glittering eyes, an unnaturally shiny complexion.

"Would you do me a favor, sir?" the man asked in a clipped, piping voice.

"What do you want?"

"Food."

Automatically, Croyd reached for his pocket.

"No. I got money. You don't understand. I can't go in that place and get served, looking like I do. I'll pay you to go in and get me a couple hamburgers, bring them out."