Part 2

A dim, slender figure swirled dizzily in front of him. He hoped she was a nurse, but he could only see the flowing whiteness of her as she moved to the door. “You can come in, Miss Farrell,” she said.

Miss Farrell came in. She was better known to Talbot as Randy, and close up she was even more breathtaking than when he had first seen her. His vision was steadying a little now.

“Just a few minutes--not longer,” the nurse cautioned.

Randy sat down beside him, touching his face lightly. He could feel the gentle pressure of her fingers through the bandages. “Don’t try to talk,” she said. “I’ll say everything that has to be said. And it won’t take long.”

He blinked in grateful understanding. It wasn’t a wholly satisfactory form of communication, but her nearness soothed him.

“We haven’t found out how that thermal capsule got there,” she said. “We know it was hot, however. It had a temperature of at least a half million degrees, despite its extreme smallness. After you get well enough to talk freely we’ll try to reconstruct what happened.”

He nodded slightly, and the effort sent a wave of pain coursing through him.

“So much for that,” she said. “You’ll get well. There won’t even be scars. You’re lucky. Did you know it?”

He knew it. But he knew also that it wasn’t _only_ luck. Soleri had saved his life at the expense of his own.

Then she said an incredible thing. “All we found of the other poor devil was his lower arm. The card was still clutched in his hand. It was scorched but not burned. I gave it to one of our mathematicians and he has worked out two curves that might fit. The man was everything you said he was--and more. I wish he’d lived.”

Talbot closed his eyes in stunned protest. She was making a mistake, a crazy utterly incomprehensible mistake. He tried to tell her--but there was only a gurgle in his throat.

“Don’t bat your eyes at me,” she said in mock reproof. “It’s true. The lowest empathy index registered is zero point eight. Right? Well, this man was zero point five. The mathematician couldn’t be sure, but he _thought_ it might be even lower.”

She brushed the hair away from her lovely eyes. “Perhaps I should have kept it to myself. No one could possibly have the index the curve indicated. There are limits to human credulity.”

Again he tried to tell her that it was Soleri who had died. Soleri! But the bandages were too tight and his weakness too overwhelming.

But how could she have made such a mistake? True, he’d been wearing the same clothing as Soleri and the dead man had been clutching his employment card. But a woman who had been close to Soleri, who had seen him every day, would surely know--

She leaned over, brushing her lips against his eyes. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I disposed of the remains--and put him on the payroll. Roving assignment, reporting only to you. After six months we can arrange to make it appear that he was killed in an accident.”

His eyes! She’d known Soleri well enough to remember that the dead man’s eyes were dark, not gray. Women were never in error about things like that. He blinked frantically, but she failed to draw the correct conclusion.

“Why six months?” she smiled. “Because I have the company’s interest at heart. Otherwise we’d have to pay the full death benefit. If he’s on the payroll after six months the insurance company must assume the responsibility. His salary will be much less than the death benefit. He’s dead. Nothing we can do will bring him back. We may as well save some money.”

The logic was acceptable, but she had the wrong man. He groaned in frustration and the sound escaped as a muffled protest from his tortured and burned throat.

Instantly the nurse reappeared.

“That’s all, Miss Farrell. He’ll rest better for knowing what happened. But I think you’ve told him enough.”

Randy bent over. “Everything’s all right,” she whispered. “Get well.”

And then the nurse found an unbandaged region on his right shoulder and jabbed him. He ceased to feel or hear anything.

It was that way for the next few days, a dim and shadowy routine which he was vaguely and occasionally aware of. From time to time he felt stronger but the nurse had a needle ready and always used it. They intended to make certain that he did not prematurely exert himself.

Finally a day came when the nurse wasn’t there. It had apparently been decided that he was ready to rejoin the living. He lay motionless on the bed, staring down at his folded arms. His right hand was bandaged; his left was not. He raised both hands to his face. The bandages were fewer, lighter than before.

Sooner or later, he told himself, the bandages would have to come off. Then what? Then the truth would be known to everyone. Still, he wasn’t in an enviable position. He had gone at such an early hour to Soleri’s office that no one had seen him. He had only Soleri’s word as to his honesty of purpose--and Soleri was dead. Randy had made things worse with her silly attempt to hush things up. He was in a serious mess--and had no way of knowing what was going to come out of it.

He got up shakily. He had made up his mind. He must leave the hospital. He knew it was foolish, but that didn’t stop him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and found to his relief that he could stand. He teetered precariously for an instant and then stood upright.

There was a closet on the opposite side of the room. He wobbled toward it, wrenched the door open. It contained a robe but no clothes. As he braced himself in the doorway he caught sight of his face in the mirror on the back of the door. His brow was gleaming with perspiration and his eyes glittered darkly in the expanse of white. The bandages would have to come off.

It was painful but not as bad as he had thought it might be. He found an edge and pried at the masklike plaster. The bandages came off in one piece. His raw skin burned as air came in contact with it. It stung and burned, but he scarcely noticed the pain.

He stared at his reflection.

Now he knew what Randy had refused to tell him because she didn’t believe it herself. The empathy index of the man she supposed dead was not zero point five. It was much less than that.

It was zero.

And zero was identity.

The face looking back at him was not that of Hal Talbot. It was Evan Soleri. It was Evan Soleri even to the dark eyes and the stubble of black hair that was beginning to grow in on his burned scalp.

Talbot or Soleri, he went back to bed.

He lay very still. His mind raced back, to the scene in the office. He had _thought_ there were two sounds, the strange one slightly before the thermal explosion. But the first had not been a sound at all. He knew that now. It was Evan Soleri’s mental reaction to the approach of death. No one else could have heard it--no one except a man whose empathy index was zero. It was the crisis that had brought out his latent ability. He had responded by recreating himself as the identity of a person a microsecond removed from extinction.

He had done this successfully--but what came next?

He had been thinking of escape. It was no longer possible. As far as his immediate future was concerned he _was_ Evan Soleri. He might be able to prove otherwise. But it could be a dangerous undertaking. They might think he’d had his face surgically altered with the deliberate, prior intention of replacing Soleri.

Besides--well, he had liked Soleri. Without a second’s thought Soleri had given his life for a man he hardly knew. Quite possibly the person who had tossed in the thermal bomb had meant to kill Talbot. But he owed the unknown assassin something for that too.

His face hardened. In his new identity as Soleri he was in the best possible position to track down the assailant. Soleri had been powerful, wealthy, the head of the research department. The place to begin was right here, where it had started. He’d be Soleri.

Talbot-Soleri rang for the nurse. He’d been inactive long enough. He had no very definite plans, but he’d take care of things as they came up. The nurse came in. She stared at him in consternation.

“You are not supposed to sit up,” she said. “And you must have been mad to take those bandages off. Here, I’ll put them back.”

He scowled at her, and she didn’t come near. “Get Miss Farrell,” he said. “Tell her I must see her at once.”

“The doctor gave strict orders that you’re not to be disturbed,” said the nurse hesitantly. She paled as he returned her stare, for there was a dangerous light in his eyes.

“Get her,” he demanded.

When Randy entered the room there was a moment of complete silence. She seemed stunned by his aspect of well-being.

“The miracle of medicine,” he said dryly. “Randy, I want to look over the personnel records of everyone in the department. Please get them and bring them to me here.”

“Everything?” She looked at him in amazement. “You went over the technical staff last week.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he told her. “I’ve got some ideas I want to tie down.” That was true, of course, but mostly he wanted to make sure he wouldn’t slip up on anyone he was supposed to recognize. He’d get by anyway, naturally. He could always claim a slight loss of memory due to shock. But such a claim wouldn’t inspire confidence--and he didn’t want anyone to become suspicious.

“While you’re at it bring the office staff too,” he added. There was one person he’d have to know as much about as possible. Much of it wouldn’t be in any file. But he’d worry about the intangibles later.

Randy plainly thought his request was foolish, but she complied. Soon files were wheeled to his bedside. That was the nice thing about being a big wheel in a big company, and no pun intended. Everything was handy. Even the hospital was inside the plant.

But there were also disadvantages. The company was so big that there was a lot to learn. Still, he had to begin somewhere. Randy undoubtedly thought some of his requests were strange, but she brought what he asked for. Though not eidetic, his memory was good. He began industriously to absorb the information. Names, faces, facts and diagrams settled firmly in his mind.

It was a lengthy, painful process. Sometimes he became confused as to his actual identity. Was he Talbot or Soleri? The thought occurred to him that he might never be able to step out of the character he had consciously as well as unconsciously assumed.

There was no data on what might happen to him. None at all.

IV

On the day of his discharge his skin was still tender but the burns had healed. He felt weak but that was not surprising in view of the number of days he had spent in bed. The department managed without him and when difficulties developed he relayed brief orders through Randy. She was his buffer. He didn’t want to take part in running the plant until he had more insight on Soleri.

He learned many things, but there were technicalities to be mastered which he was sure he could pick up faster on the outside. The doctor wanted to send a nurse with him but he refused, finally consenting to have Randy accompany him. Perhaps he was taking a needless risk. But he was convinced he could handle Randy.

It was dark when they left the factory hospital, and took the elevator to the roof. He leaned on Randy somewhat more than he had to. It was a pleasure and a distraction. But he remained on his guard notwithstanding.

Randy was not a secretary at all. The files had revealed that much. Soleri had been so anxious to find out what was holding up the project that he had hired a first-rate psychologist and had put her in a position where she could work without being suspected. The psychologist was Randy. She wouldn’t fool easy. And that, in a sense, was a challenge. If he could get by her he could convince anyone.

An aircab was waiting. He leaned very close to her as she helped him in. He was almost sure that his empathy should tell him something and it did. Her eyes darkened, and she became obviously disturbed by his nearness. He settled back in the cab and waited.

The driver turned about, and asked: “Where to?”

He pretended not to hear. The driver repeated the question and Randy gave him the address. The information itself didn’t tell him much but his sensitivity filled in the missing details. She had been to the apartment many times, and stayed late.

They didn’t talk much on the way. The cab flitted over the city lights with a steady droning. He became uneasy. She too was sensing a strangeness in him. He regretted his decision to have her accompany him, and resolved to send her home as soon as he could reasonably do so.

They landed on the roof of a tall apartment building. She paid the driver and told him not to wait. No chance for subtlety there.

“I’m quite all right,” he said as she helped him out. “It was just a momentary touch of dizziness.”

“I know,” she said. “But you’re not going to get away. I intend to make sure you’re all right.” And that was that.

Soleri’s apartment was on the twentieth floor. It was elaborate and large, and furnished with exquisite taste. He approved of Soleri’s taste--in more than one respect. He sat down and looked it over.

“Glad to be back?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Sit and rest. I’ll punch dinner. Anything special?”

“Nothing special. Whatever you want.” She touched his arm as she went into the kitchen. He wished she hadn’t. He had enough to contend with without that.

Presently she came back. “We’ll have something light and nourishing in a few minutes,” she said.

She went to the recording system and began examining the calls that had come in during Soleri’s absence. He had to remind himself that it was an absence. Officially Soleri hadn’t died.

He watched her intently. He wished her eyes weren’t brown and wonderful.

“Anything important?” he said with an effort.

“A message from Andrew Taft. I told him you were hurt but not badly. He wants you to visit him next week.”

Andrew Taft was president of TRANSPORTATION. Everyone knew that. But there wasn’t anything in the files to give him a lead as to the duration or extent of their friendship. Perhaps Soleri had known Taft from boyhood. He didn’t want to put his newly acquired personality to such a severe test before he could be more certain of the facts.

“Make an excuse for me,” he said.

She looked at him inquiringly. “Do you think you should? Eleanor will be there. She heard about the accident and is coming in from Mars.”

He might have known there would be some such complication. Soleri was a powerful and attractive man and there had been more than one woman in his life. It was another unexpected pitfall, a further challenge to his wariness. He grimaced. “Eleanor’s a nice girl but she means nothing to me,” he said.

“Oh?” Randy’s lips tightened. “Is that why you’re going to marry her?”

* * * * *

At the moment he hated Soleri, empathy or not. If it had been at all possible he would have dropped the pretense. But he couldn’t--and he had to depend solely on his abnormal sensitivity. He told Randy what she _wanted_ to hear.

“You know how it is,” he said blandly. “I’ve got to get that motor built. It’s costing far more than we expected. Somebody’s got to play company politics.”

She seemed a trifle mollified. “You needn’t tell me. I’ve had a thorough grounding in business psychology.” She moved quickly past him. “Dinner’s ready,” she said. “You’ve got to build up your strength--for company politics.”

He would have preferred silence but Randy insisted on holding up both ends of the conversation. Nothing important was discussed, but it gave him a chance to break down her defenses, and get to know her better.

After dinner they sat over a drink, and talked. Much of his empathy was tied up in the difficult task of simply duplicating Soleri. He couldn’t get through to her with the accuracy he would have liked. But he did succeed in turning the conversation from Eleanor. She was willing. After the first flash of hatred she was completely willing to forget the girl existed.

She looked at the clock. “Time for bed,” she said.

It was awkward. He started to get up, avoiding her eyes. “I guess so,” he said, letting her assist him, thrilled by her nearness.

There was nothing else he could do. She was attractive and he wanted her for himself. But she was desperately and unhappily in love with Soleri. He couldn’t let her know.

“Randy,” he whispered softly as she clung to him. Laura seemed suddenly unreal and very far away, and he wished he’d never heard of Eleanor.

Later he awakened to find her lying beside him, tense and still. She hadn’t been sleeping. In a surge of apprehension he wondered if she had discovered the truth about him.

“Is anything the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Is that why you’re not sleeping?”

“Well, there is. I was thinking,” she said. “It was what I saw when I ran into the office right after the explosion. The smoke was very thick and you were lying behind what was left of the desk. For an instant I wondered which one of you had died.”

“How could you tell?” he said. “I was badly burned. My face--”

“Your eyes are brown,” she said. “Brown. Anyway I knew. You _couldn’t_ die.”

“Try to forget about it,” he said. “That nightmare is over. I’m alive.”

“And so is Eleanor.”

He sighed, wishing again that he could tell her everything. But Soleri would never deny the romance-shattering reality that stood between them. “You’ve always known about her.”

“So I have.” She moved closer to him. “I’m content with this brief dream of happiness.”

That was better. He caressed her lightly, tenderly. “It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “Nothing has changed between us.”

“I know, darling,” she murmured. He thought he heard her laugh before she went to sleep.

At last he fell asleep.

V

For the next few days Talbot was feverishly busy. Just what inner drives had dominated Soleri and how would he have reacted to any given situation? What had been his precise relationships with the people Talbot would be meeting daily? Fortunately there was an accumulation of recorded calls and messages. He played and re-played them. He subscribed to a clipping service and pieced together a fairly complete account of Soleri’s social activities.

* * * * *

There were other rewarding sources. He scanned minutes of TRANSPORTATION meetings. He examined financial statements to give himself another sidelight on the life he had usurped. Pictures, letters--even the apartment--added to his growing knowledge.

Handwriting presented no difficulty. He found Soleri’s signature, and duplicated it on second trial. Soon he didn’t even have to try--it became second nature to him to forge Soleri’s name on letters and documents. Mannerisms came easily too. Ways of walking, the quick thoughtful smile that appeared at intervals, the clothes he wore and how he wore them---all these distinguishing characteristics he copied with little conscious effort. He was as much Soleri as another person could be.

He rested and regained his strength, painstakingly sharpening himself until he was ready. Randy appeared frequently on the call plate, keeping him informed of what went on at the plant. But she didn’t return to the apartment. He would have rejoiced in her presence but he didn’t ask her. It would have meant taking a dangerous, unnecessary risk.

Finally he went back to work, nodding cheerfully to the receptionist in the outer office as he turned left at the stairs. There was no trace of damage in his private office. It had been rebuilt and refurnished and was now exactly as he remembered it.

Randy came in at once, cool and beautiful. “I told Frescura you’d like to see him,” she said. “He’ll be in his lab until noon.”

Frescura, the famous heat and rocket scientist! He’d have to handle that interview with care. He had no way of knowing how much technical information the man had imparted to Soleri.

“I’ll see him but I hadn’t planned on it until later,” he said. It was a false statement, but there was no need to take her completely into his confidence.

“I’m sorry,” she said with feigned meekness. “I was trying to anticipate.”

He knew that she was actively hating him for Eleanor. He’d have to find some way to ease the tension. But at the moment other problems loomed more urgently. He became expediently stern.

“Forget the secretarial pose,” he growled. “You’re a psychologist. Your job is to find out who is resorting to deliberate sabotage in the plant. What does plant protection say about the thermal bomb?”

She met his gaze candidly. “Nothing. Anyone at all might have had access to the hall.”

“Then we’ll have to work at it from the other end,” he said.

She laid a sheaf of papers on his desk. He knew they were documents of no great importance. “Shall I tell Frescura you won’t be out?” she asked.

“I’ll see him,” he said.

She looked at him oddly, and turned to go.

“Randy.”

“Yes?”

He didn’t know exactly what to say, so he tried it out for sound. “I still want to find out why we’re not getting the motor. But it’s more than simple sabotage now. A man was killed--a man I regarded as a friend, even though I didn’t know him well. We’ve got to find out who is responsible. That comes first. Do you understand?”

Her wonderful brown eyes regarded him steadily. She turned away. “I understand,” she said.

“Keep it in mind,” he said. He got up and went to see Frescura.

Fred Frescura was a big man with more hair on his face than on his head. He was nearly bald but his eyebrows and mustache were thick and black. He had an air of concentration and childlike enjoyment of his work. Neither impression, decided Talbot, was strictly accurate.

He crumpled a sheet of calculations as Talbot came in, and moved out from behind the desk. “I’m glad to see you,” he said gruffly. “For a while we weren’t sure whether you’d been cremated in the holocaust.”

“It was more like an inferno,” said Talbot. “I survived.”

“So I see,” said Frescura. “I tried to get to the hospital but Randy wouldn’t let me in. For three days she camped in the corridor.”

“She takes excellent care of me,” acknowledged Talbot. He glanced at the desk and suddenly turned pale.