The Man Who Was Six, F. L. Wallace [best ereader for comics TXT] 📗

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