Here is a fascinating novella that combines a completely fantastic situation with the sort of detailed logic usually found only in “hard science” stories.

Imagine: You’re a man who wakes up one morning in a strange room . . . and in a body that’s not your own. It’s a woman’s body, and the muscles are completely uncoordinated. You’re in a hospital. . . .

F. M. Busby, whose most recent novel is The Alien Debt, takes it from there to one surprise after another.

* * * *

FIRST PERSON PLURAL

F. M. Busby

First his awareness sneaked up on him; then it sprang and he came awake. His eyes opened. Blinking, trying to focus, he looked around him.

Nothing was right; nothing was what it should be. He saw beige walls, and a pair of french windows with a balcony outside; he saw and heard a blatting TV set. Around him, bathrobed figures huddled in wheelchairs; among them moved white uniforms.

He shook his head. Sure as hell not the motel room, a day’s drive short of home, where he had read himself to solitary sleep. Adrenaline sounded Red Alert.

All right; for starters, what time was it? He looked at his watch, or tried to. His arm moved sluggishly, only vaguely to his order; when finally he saw the wrist, he didn’t believe it. Fat and flabby and almost hairless, not thin and corded under black wiry bristle. And no watch.

Part of his mind pushed the panic button; another part assured him he had to be dreaming. For the moment he ignored both, and only tried to move the hand he saw. It did not work well; the movement was jerky and inexact.

What’s happened to me? He must not scream; that was no way to find out. But his effort, not to scream, verged on sheer pain.

He needed to look, to see, and finally his eyes came fully into focus. He tried to catalog the facts at hand. Item: he was sitting up, in a wheelchair. Item: the TV showed a soap opera, purple faces exchanging slow, breathless platitudes. Item: around him people sat or stood or moved; some spoke. Item: he wore a loose short-sleeved robe, blue and faded, bulging hugely over his chest. Bulging on each side . . . now wait a minute!

And before he could absorb that jolt, he felt, under him, a warm ooze. His anal sphincter did not take orders, either.

* * * *

When all else fails, Ed Carlain liked to say, think. Well, now was his chance, sure as God made Texas and regretted it. The burst of panic ebbed; he felt light-headed and alert at the same time, and his immediate situation became all the universe there was. Ed recognized the feeling from his combat days, in ‘Nam; it was a form of shock, and there he had learned to use it. Why not now? So, ignoring his body, he looked and listened further.

Some kind of hospital or sanitarium, that’s where he was. He? She? Again panic nibbled, but he fought it down. He’d worry about that part later; right now, the point was to get some action.

The right kind, though, it had to be. What could he say? He didn’t know who he “was,” let alone how or why. To hell with that; he needed to talk with someone. Someone who would say things to help him build sanity.

But how to start? Personal experience held no clues. He thought of books he had read, movies and TV plays he had seen. Well, how about the amnesia ploy? It was true enough, God knew! Under his breath he began rehearsing what to say—and found his tongue and lips slow and awkward, as though speech were unfamiliar.

He persisted. Goddamn it, something had to work around here. For one thing, he was tired of sitting in his own moist, cooling excrement. So before he was really prepared, he made his try—because a nurse paused nearby, and it might be a while until the next one.

Slowly, with difficulty, the words came. “Nurse? This is silly—but I can’t seem to remember—my name. Could you—help me?”

The young woman’s eyebrows rose to disappear under her blond bangs. Her lips moved, but silently. She turned and lunged away to Carlain’s right, out of the room.

What in hell did I do wrong!

* * * *

In a few minutes the blonde was back. The big man she brought with her, who did not believe a word she said, she addressed as Dr. Harkaway.

“Nurse Ahlstrom,” he said, “you must be mistaken. This patient has never spoken a word in its entire life.”

“It has now,” said Carlain. Well, it was all or nothing—but he could have wished for a few good leads to work from.

“Who said that?” Harkaway looked threatened, even betrayed.

“I did. I seem to have forgotten my name—and the date.”

Somehow, Harkaway’s dark, lean features went pale and blobby. He swallowed before he said, “You can speak?”

By main force, Carlain fought down a feeling of light-headedness and suppressed the sarcastic retort that came to mind. He said, “Yes. But I can’t seem to remember—who am I?”

“This is unbelievable!” Yow don’t know the half of it, buddy. “I don’t recall your name,” Harkaway said next. “Some of the attendants call you ‘the turnip.’ Because until this moment you’ve never made a purposeful sound or movement since the day you were born.”

The turnip, huh? How about that? All right: “How old am I?”

“A little over eighteen,” Ahlstrom said. “And your name is Melanie Blake; I remember that much about you.”

Harkaway cleared his throat, and said, “Do you remember anything?”

Thinking fast, Carlain stalled. He knew he wasn’t enough of an actor to fake total ignorance and go through the ordeal of pretending to learn everything he already knew. So he said, “I do, and I don’t. I don’t remember me at all, until today when I—well, woke up, sort of. But I know things I don’t remember learning. They’re just there, is all.” Mentally he crossed his fingers; physically he tried, too, but those fingers were too clumsy.

“TV!” The nurse said it. “TV, and people talking where she could hear. For eighteen years, and on some level it must have registered. So now—” Fervently, Carlain thanked Somebody for the woman’s quick intelligence; she had picked up the same “answer” he had thought to use. But he was glad he wouldn’t have to; the setup was tricky enough already.

“So now, what?” said Harkaway. “What’s happened? And how can we explain it?” Any irregularity here, his look said clearly, was all Melanie Blake’s fault; certainly none of Dr. Harkaway’s.

Carlain said, “What’s been wrong with me? Does anybody know?” He stopped short. Don’t push so fast, dammit! Keep it plausible.

The nurse waited; when the doctor did not answer, she spoke. “No one knows, for certain. You’re one of the cases old Dr. Reynaud used as an example to show that we don’t know everything. Body and brain perfect, he’d say—as far as we can tell. Maybe some congenital defect, just a few neuronic connections missing. The way an infant is sometimes short a bowel section, or a kidney.” She paused. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to lecture.”

Harkaway gestured; no offense. “Yes. I remember the case now. Read the file when I first came here. And old Reynaud’s notes—very well put.”

Very well indeed, Carlain thought; he could use it. “So you mean, something in my brain that’s been wrong all my life, now it’s working right? The way it’s supposed to?”

“Possibly,” the doctor said. “But what caused the change?” Frowning first, then he smiled. “Oh well—if Reynaud couldn’t identify the defect, no one can expect me to know what cured it.”

And what would the fool do, Carlain wondered, if he couldn’t get himself off the hook? Ignore the change? Pretend it hadn’t happened? This clown could be dangerous.

Obviously, though, the doctor was satisfied. “I’ll just notify Phipps,” he said. “I believe he has charge of this file.” Still smiling, Harkaway left.

Ahlstrom stayed. “Uh, Melanie—is there anything you want?”

Carlain tried to smile, but his face did not seem to know how. “I’d like to know the date, and to see what I look like. But mostly, I’m afraid, I need a change of diapers.”

* * * *

She brought an orderly, and the two first cleaned him and then got him to his feet. He could not stand alone; even with support, he felt his heart beat fast at the unaccustomed strain. But finally—nude, at his own request—he viewed himself in a wall mirror.

His eyes still refused to focus precisely, but what he did see he did not like. He was about five-nine, and big-boned; that part was all right. But the body—arms, breasts, belly, hips, and thighs—was gross and flabby with fat. The moon of fleshy face showed no expression; his attempt at a smile was grotesque. The head appeared to be stone-bald. And for now, he couldn’t afford to let himself even think about the sex of the creature he saw.

After a moment he said, “Thank you. That’s enough,” and they got him back into the blue robe and the chair. The orderly left.

Raising a clumsy hand to his scalp, Carlain felt prickly stubble. Without thinking, he said, “Very fetching hairdo.”

The young nurse blushed. “You—the ones that can’t tend themselves—clippers save a lot of work. Yesterday was the day for it. But now, of course, you won’t—”

“It’s all right.” After all, it wasn’t as though he could lose enough weight to look reasonably human in any big hurry—or develop the strength and coordination for mobility, either.

He considered the date she’d told him. June third, and the year was right, too; today followed the yesterday he remembered. Somehow he felt comforted, a little.

* * * *

The nurse had other duties; he was left to himself. For the first time he had leisure to think about his predicament. He wasn’t so sure he welcomed the chance.

For he could find no answers. The problem was that he knew the whole thing was impossible—yet here he was. How could this—ego transfer?—visit itself on Ed Carlain when it had never happened to anybody else?

Wait a minute; how could he know that for sure? Consider: what might become of someone caught in this situation? If Ed told the truth, right now, Melanie Blake would graduate from vegetable to schizo; correct? Sure; if we can’t explain you, you have to be crazy. And such a person, naturally, would never be heard from, outside.

And if the person did not speak up, but held cover through the initial shock and after, who would ever know? Ed had kept his head down by instinct; surely a fair proportion of others, in the same predicament, would do the same.

Case unproven. The thing had happened, and that was that.

He saved the kicker for dessert, testing it gingerly, a little at a time. His sex: now that the shock had worn off, how did he feel about it?

The answer was, a sense of loss. Not from being female, exactly, but from not being male. Sex was vital to Ed Carlain. He did not question his reasons; he simply liked it. And oh, damn it all!—he was going to miss the way it had always been for him.

Then he had to face his real problem: would he ever be able to accept female sexuality? No hurry; the bald moonfaced blob of fat he’d seen in the mirror was about as sexy as a two-hundred-pound beanbag. But sooner or later, a matter of months, he would work his way out of here, and by that time his weight would be down to normal. And then . . .

Would he be good-looking, he wondered, or homely? It didn’t matter. Any woman with good health and an outgoing personality could be attractive, if she wanted to. Same as a man could.

The big question was, what was he going to be? Straight, gay, or sew it up and forget it? The idea of sex with other men had always repelled him. Oddly enough, female homosexuality had not. Once when he was dating a woman who was ac-dc, her female lover had joined the fun— and he found their activities rather stimulating.

So he supposed he could go gay, all right; it wasn’t as though he had anything against standard operating procedures. Funny, to find himself conditioned toward what was now “deviant” for him, and against what would be considered “normal.” Then he thought that in a way it would be a shame if he could not adapt fully. For he had always wondered what it was like for a woman. . . .

He still couldn’t decide anything; his thinking felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. Then it came to him that he did not have to decide now, that in fact he probably couldn’t yet. His hormones might have something to say about it; wait and see.

So he shucked that problem off his mind and put thought to the body’s needs. Gently, he began to exercise his unused muscles. He flexed his hands, moved his arms, wiggled his toes. At first he was embarrassed at grimacing to loosen the muscles of his face, but decided to hell with that—most of the other patients were obviously retarded and he could explain, if need be, to any staff member.

Also he devoted considerable attention to a couple of sphincter muscles. Toilet training was a top priority. . . .

* * * *

At feeding time he tried to handle the spoon himself, but his coordination was not up to the job. He had to get Nurse Ahlstrom’s authorization before the orderly would leave a spoon so that he could use it, empty, for practice.

The nurse wheeled him out onto the balcony; he had his first look at the outdoors. Before him lay hilly, wooded country—downhill, perhaps a hundred yards, a highway—and just this side of it, for Christ’s sake, last night’s motel! He had not seen it before from this angle—his room had been on the other side—but he recognized the sign. Do I lie dead, down there? He could think of no way, without breaking cover, to find out.

In the motel’s patio a fountain caught his eye. He had not seen that before either—or any like it. An abstract sculpture, three nozzles spaced asymmetrically at the top—but the flow pattern was symmetrical, a clockwise precession of maxima and minima. One nozzle spouted higher as the one behind it slacked off, then the progression moved on. Carlain watched until he solved the pattern: it mimicked the voltage curves of a three-phase electrical system, star-connected. Satisfied, he nodded.

Another thought came to him. He had not asked where he was—with all the rest of it, location had seemed unimportant—but now of course he knew. Near the Oregon coast, close to Coos Bay. Three hundred and eighty miles from Ed Carlain’s home. Well, it still didn’t matter. . . .

His body tired easily; twilight still prevailed when he first dozed. He woke partially when someone put him to bed, but not enough to notice who had helped him. His final thought before sleep was, If I’m stuck with this, I’ll just have to make the best of it.

* * * *

He came half awake, and then—as memory struck like a hammer-woke fully. He didn’t want to open his eyes—last night’s resignation had vanished and he didn’t want to believe the day before. But he did open them.

And then he didn’t have to believe it! He was in the motel room. As he sat up, nude as he always slept, a tide of relief stopped his breath and brought him close to fainting.

For again he was Ed Carlain—wiry, hairy, thirty-eight-year-old, smoker’s-coughing, horny Ed Carlain, balding a little but not much yet, still able to party all night and work all day, if he didn’t try it too often.

His breath came back. Grinning, he ran his hands down his torso and thighs; no doubt about it, all of him was present and accounted for.

Then he remembered fully. What a dream! What a crazy spaced-out dream! He shook his head, then got up, showered, shaved, and dressed. At the coffee shop he had breakfast—scramble two with bacon, toast, OJ, and coffee-with. He read the paper, the date was correct—June third. So much for “yesterday.”

Suitcase packed—he hadn’t unpacked much of it—he checked out at the motel office and put the suitcase in his car’s trunk. He got into the car, fastened his safety harness, and inserted the ignition key. But he did not start the engine. Instead he got out and began walking around the building.

I haven’t seen the other side. And then he did see it. The fountain was there, with its three-phase star-connected flow.

* * * *

For three hundred and eighty miles, all the way to Seattle, he argued with himself. He’d had a few drinks last night—maybe he had seen the damned fountain, and forgot. But would he forget something like that? Well, he had; that was all there was to it. Except he really hadn’t been all that drunk.

Over and over he played it, until there were no more variations left; he was on reruns in his own head. An hour short of home he stopped for a drink—a tall gin and tonic, nothing heavy. He left it half-finished when he found himself wondering what would happen, now, to Melanie Blake. She doesn’t exist, damn it!

When he reached his sprawling ranch-style home he was pleased, but not surprised, to find only his wife’s car in the driveway. Open marriage was sometimes a mixed bag, but Carl Forbes, Margaret’s latest, was considerate about being unobtrusive. Sometimes Ed wished he knew Carl better.

He found Margaret—lean, sleek Margaret—in their outsized bathtub. Bubbles covered her to the upper slopes of her small, taut breasts; her hands worked in the denser foam of shampoo that crowned her head. “Hello,” he said. And “Hello,” and before they kissed he used the little shower hose attachment to help her rinse the lather away. Then he stripped, and joined her, thinking, We haven’t played the bathtub game in a long time—too long.

Afterward she said, “How was your trip?”

“All right.” The hell it was, but I can’t talk about it. Not even to you. “Any word from Chuck?”

“Nothing new. When it comes to college, sophomores are more expensive than freshmen—and my son is no exception.”

“No problem.” They went to their bedroom and began to dress. “Just as long as he keeps in mind that the one abortion last summer is the only one I intend to pay for.”

“He knows, Ed. He does listen to you; the lesson took.”

“Yeah, he’s a good kid.” Now they moved into the kitchen; he put ice and bourbon into a short glass.

He saw her looking at him. “Anything wrong, Ed?”

He paused to take a sip, thinking. “Not really. I . . . had a dream that bothered me.”

“What about?”

He shook his head. “It’s gone foggy now.” Then, remembering their need for honesty, he tried to patch it up. “It’s just that it wasn’t—I wasn’t me.”

“And that’s important, isn’t it? Of course it is.” She came to him and rubbed her short dark hair against his cheek, then moved to kiss him. “Don’t worry—you’re you, all right.” Her arms tightened around him.

He laughed. But after dinner, still jumpy from the puzzling experience, he drank heavily. At bedtime, sleep, when it came, was uneasy.

* * * *

He woke expecting hangover, and saw bare beige walls. Hope split; he worked a clumsy arm free of the covers and saw it plump and flabby. But his head was clear and free of pain.

All right, goddamn it—it’s real. His calmness surprised him, and the unexpected relief he felt; he found that he was concerned with the problems of Melanie Blake, that fat stubble-headed turnip. Even though, during sleep, her toilet training had not held up.

Later, cleaned and fed—he handled the spoon passably well—he was wheeled again onto the balcony. The thin man who approached a few minutes later reminded him of a small gray rooster.

“I’m Dr. Phipps, if you don’t remember. They tell me you don’t. This is an absolute miracle; I’m going to be wearing you out with tests, I’m afraid.” The thin face bisected itself in a grin, then pinched back to normal. “But of course you can’t read yet—can you?”

Think fast. “Yes—yes, I can—some, at least. From TV commercials, it would have to be. But there’s a lot I don’t know—and I don’t know how much.”

Phipps nodded vigorously. “Sound attitude. Maybe TV isn’t all bad, after all. But you can’t write, of course?”

“No. I don’t know the motions, and even if I did, my hands don’t do what I want, very well.”

“Of course not. Well, don’t worry. Plenty of time for everything— you’re young.”

The doctor went inside, brought out a light chair, and sat. “Now tell me, have you begun to plan ahead yet? For your own life?”

Tricky—the answer, not the doctor. “Only a little.” Carlain shifted is mind into Melanie’s situation. “I have to train my body as well as my mind. And I do know enough . . . well, that I’ll have to learn a way to support myself, outside.”

Phipps laughed, a warm, high-pitched cackle. “No you won’t. You’re rich, girl. That won’t help you walk, of course.”

“Rich?” Then, “I hadn’t even thought—why, I must have a family. Do I?”

Phipps blinked. “Your parents are dead, I’m afraid. They used to visit regularly. There’s a brother—he’s several years older.”

“Does he come to see me?”

“No. He’s in the East somewhere. But he hasn’t come here since . . . well, for some years.”

“I can understand that.”

Phipps’s eyebrows raised. “We must notify him. I’ll—”

“No! Not yet!”

“But why? Certainly he should know.”

“He might come here.” Carlain motioned, indicating his head and body. “I want to lose some weight and grow some hair before anyone sees me. Anyone from outside, I mean.”

The doctor nodded. “Yes. I see,” and he began a new subject. Relieved, Carlain enjoyed the discussion.

He liked Phipps. The man gave information freely, without dickering for it, explaining how physical therapy kept arms and legs from atrophy, “but you’ll need a thorough physical and a gradual exercise program, to get you up and walking. Your heart and lungs simply aren’t geared for it at the moment.” Carlain understood but, impatient, he didn’t like it much.

After a break for lunch and rest, Phipps administered an IQ test Carlain went along with it, but warily, on watch for things that Melanie could not know. He remembered that some children’s programs taught simple arithmetic, but he wasn’t sure how much. By deliberating, leaving blank all doubtful questions, he ran the time out before reaching the “heavy” questions at the end of each section. Phipps said, “These results won’t be accurate, of course. We’ll retest in a month or two, after you’ve had a chance to plug the gaps in your knowledge.”

Carlain balked at taking evaluative tests such as Personality Inventories. “Dr. Phipps, I don’t have a personality yet. I have no personal experience; it’s all someone else’s that I saw or heard. And didn’t even know it, at the time. I think maybe I’m just a stack of records—and I hate that.” Does it ring true? Probably; this is as new to him as it is to me.

Phipps’s face showed concern. He said, “You’re a person, Melanie, and I like you. We can do the personality tests later.”

You like this fat bald statue? I don’t. But Carlain said, “Can I have some books? I want to find out the difference between what I know and what I don’t. Dr. Harkaway is moving me out of the ward into a room tonight, so I’ll have a place to put things.”

“Certainly. Any books you want, Melanie.” Nice thought, but I’ve snowed you. How would Melanie know what she needs?

At dinner his spoon gave him no trouble, and later his bowels moved by his volition rather than their own. Then, in his room, he looked at the tides of his stack of books, deciding what he would pretend to learn first.

He had already learned the most important thing. This day had been June fourth. Like it or not, Ed Carlain was working a split shift.

* * * *

According to the terms of the contract between man and alcohol, Ed’s own June fourth came complete with hangover. He looked to the other side of the bed; Margaret was up and gone.

He rolled back and dozed for a time. When he got up, his liver had metabolized most of the overdose; his body was sluggish, but his mind functioned clearly. And he knew where he stood, now.

He spent the day catching up on business details, paper work. When Margaret came home with a huge array of bundles from a shopping spree he recognized the symptoms: anytime Margaret felt neglected, she spent money. Instead of complaining, ceremoniously he arranged the packages in a large circle and gently pulled her down in the center of it. What happened next did her dress no good at all, for they did not wait on the niceties of disrobing.

And that night in all innocence they slept cuddled together in only one of their twin beds.

* * * *

Something—somebody—on top of him, panting, hurting him. What the hell! Then he realized who he was and knew what was happening to him—but not who was doing it. He tried to grab the head above him, in the dimness relying on sound more than sight The hands didn’t go where he wanted—almost but not quite. Finally he caught a handful of hair, held it tightly while he worked his thumb down the forehead-over the brow ridge, then he jabbed! The other screamed and hit him; he jabbed again and the rapist broke free and ran.

The night nurse and orderlies asked questions, but there was not much he could tell them. Eventually the nurse gave him a sleeping pill.

* * * *

Shaken, Ed woke to deepest night. He turned the bed lamp on, the dimmest setting, and lit a cigarette. His heart beat fast; his hand trembled. He told himself that from where he was, there was nothing he could do about Melanie. After the second cigarette his nerves calmed. He turned out the light and went back to sleep.

* * * *

The morning of June fifth produced more facts than anyone wanted. Dr. Harkaway swept through the ward, muttering, “That degenerate!” Dr. Phipps moved more slowly, and said only, “Dependable help is hard to find.” Ed Carlain was most impressed by the news that he was two months pregnant—maybe by the same stud, maybe not

“I want an abortion.”

‘That would require a court order,” said Dr. Harkaway. “And your brother would have to sign a consent form.”

“Do you want my brother to know what happened here?”

“You can’t expect us to do anything illegal!”

He thought. Yes, the information would have been on TV. “Up in Washington State, it’s allowed. And eighteen’s the age of majority for it”

“But you’re not legally competent. Your brother—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harkaway!” said Phipps. “She will be declared competent as soon as we can arrange a hearing. But we haven’t time for that now. And I don’t see that there’s any problem. She turns up in a wheelchair escorted by her own doctor. What other doctor is going to ask the wrong kind of questions?” He looked at Carlain. “You’ll wear a wig, of course.”

“If you want to stick your neck out” said Harkaway, “go right ahead. Just don’t tell me anything about it”

Phipps ignored him. “I’ll round up some clothes and the wig, and make a couple of phone calls. Tomorrow, with any luck, Melanie, I’ll run you up to Vancouver in my station wagon. But right now, let’s give you the rest of that physical exam.”

“Sure, Doctor,” said Carlain.

* * * *

The results were better than he had hoped. Heart and lungs were sound; the planned exercise program could proceed. Testing the limits of his strength, they found he could stand for brief periods—first holding on to something for support and then, with practice, by himself.

So they could weigh and measure him: height, five-nine; weight, one-ninety-five. My God! At least forty pounds to go, maybe fifty! Then he had an idea.

Dr. Phipps did not own a Polaroid camera, but Nurse Ahlstrom did. He explained, “I have a long way to go; it’s going to be discouraging sometimes. But if I have a record—a picture now and maybe once a week from now on—I can see how I’m improving.”

So he stood nude against the wall and the nurse snapped the picture. At his request she marked date and weight in the margin before handing him the print

He looked and was repelled. The light-brown scalp stubble did not show in the photo. And the face still showed no expression; he had not thought to try to smile. “Well, at least this will be the worst of them. And thanks.”

* * * *

Ed Carlain as himself had a quiet day. Accepting the fact of his dual existence, now he could get back to work. He sat down to study the query from a San Francisco company, asking about something rather unusual in the way of field communications systems. Shortly he reached for a scratch pad and began doodling possibilities.

Hardware was not Ed’s specialty; he was an idea man. Once he roughed out a workable schematic, others would fill in the details. But first he had to sell it and that meant a trip to San Francisco.

His thought hit a tangent streak. Should he fly, or drive? And if he drove . . .

But what the hell could he do at Coos Bay?

* * * *

Riding to Vancouver made a pleasant change. Dr. Phipps, no speedster, drove carefully; Carlain relaxed and enjoyed the scenery. He was in no hurry; he needed the abortion but did not especially look forward to it. Eventually, they arrived.

Dr. Flores was a woman of about forty, slim and attractive, with black hair in a coiled braid. She first seemed puzzled by her patient’s appearance, even a little irritated, until Phipps told her, “Melanie is recovering from a paralytic condition; we think there was a glandular problem earlier, also. Two months from now you won’t recognize her.”

Without giving details, he implied that the pregnancy was due to contraceptive failure and that the “D. and C.”—as both doctors called it —was needed for reasons of health.

Then all too soon the preparations were done and he was on the table. As the cold metal entered him, he flinched. Dr. Flores had wanted to use general anesthesia, but that would have meant staying overnight to recover from the effects. Neither he nor Phipps wanted that delay.

It hurt afterward, but nothing like what he had feared. After an hour’s rest on the couch—perhaps longer; he had dozed—Dr. Flores pronounced him fit for travel. But during most of the return trip he lay on an air mattress in the back of the wagon.

Home again, he spent a quiet evening and retired early.

* * * *

Ed completed his schematic and copied it neatly for presentation, but Margaret was not on hand to help him celebrate; she was spending the evening and night with Carl. The liaison seldom inconvenienced Carlain, but this time, he thought, it sure as hell did.

He thought of calling a redhead he saw sometimes, but looked at his watch and shook his head. Too late in the evening.

He curbed the impulse to take bottle comfort. For one thing, he hadn’t decided whether to fly or drive next day, and he did not enjoy driving with a hangover.

* * * *

He slept well and woke in Melanie’s room, clean and dry; his toilet training was winning. At breakfast he attempted for the first time to master the use of knife and fork. Coordination came more easily each day, and after a few mishaps he coped well with the tricky tools.

Then he was introduced to a new piece of apparatus—his “walker,” a light metal framework on casters, to aid in support and balance as he stood or walked. Phipps helped him up into it the first time and was surprised at how well he did. Only for short periods, of course—but still “impressive,” the doctor said.

“I’ve been toughening my arms by rolling the wheelchair back and forth a little way until they get tired.” What Phipps must not guess, he thought, was that Carlain knew how to walk, eat with knife and fork—all the things that a restored Melanie could not know. “I think my legs have had it for now,” he said. “Back to the old chair, I guess.” After helping him sit again, the doctor left for other duties.

After lunch, Carlain dozed for a time and then wheeled out onto the balcony. A cool breeze refreshed him—off the ocean, probably, yet it brought tree scents, not salt air; a row of hills lay between him and the Pacific.

For a while he concentrated on exercise, then rested, his mind idle. From below, a flash of light caught his attention. He looked; someone by the motel fountain had a mirror—no, it was binoculars—and the afternoon sun reflected off their lenses. He looked away, blinking at the green afterimages. When he looked again he saw the person—a man—wave an arm.

His eyes worked better now; he squinted, to sharpen the focus. Even at a distance the man looked familiar. And then—

Jesus Christ! That’s ME!

He looked around, back into the ward. “Nurse Ahlstrom! Do you— does anybody have a pair of field glasses? Binoculars?”

“I believe Dr. Phipps does. Would you like to use them?”

“Please. And, if you could—right away?”

“All right, Melanie”; and the nurse left.

First he seethed with impatience. Then he realized, I’ll know, if he stays—if I stay—that the glasses are on the way. Because of course he knows whether I get them or not. If I do, he won’t leave yet. Then he could wait patiently, if not calmly.

The binoculars were big, heavy; he had to brace his elbows on the chair arms. He fumbled at the focusing adjustments a moment before he mastered them, and then the view came sharp and dear.

Suck in your gut, Ed! I’m not the only one who needs exercise. As though by telepathy, the man did. That’s better. . . .

The man lowered the binoculars; now his face could be seen fully. He smiled, then raised the glasses again. The viewer above set his own aside, and attempted a smile. The man waved and was answered in kind, then made a beckoning motion and pointed northward. This time the answer was thumb and forefinger making a circle, the other fingers straight. Right on! The man waved once more and walked away, around the building and out of sight. The one above sat, wondering, What was that all about? He knows I have to go to him as soon as I can—because I know it.

And late, just before sleep, he thought, Why am I going to do something, tomorrow, that is so totally unnecessary?

* * * *

Waking in Seattle, Ed wondered the same thing. He had not decided, the night before—his own night before—whether to drive or fly. Now somehow the decision was made for him. But by whom? Not by Ed as Ed or by Ed as Melanie.

What if I don’t do it? Before the thought was complete his breath caught; fear choked him. All right, I will—I will! Still shaky, he got up to a solitary breakfast, and packed. He left a note for Margaret: “Off to rent my brains in San Fran. Four-five days, six at the outside. Will call. Love.” Then he was ready to leave.

His preferred driving speed—eight miles over the limit, where traffic permitted—brought him near Coos Bay by midafternoon. He checked into the motel, showered and changed clothes, hung his binoculars around his neck, and walked around to the fountain.

She was up there, all right—a fat, robed shape with dull moon face and bald-looking head. If she saw him, she gave no sign. Remembering then, he moved the glasses, watching the spot of reflected light as he tilted it up the hillside. He waved his free hand.

Did she see him? Yes—now she turned to call to the nurse. He waited. The binoculars came; the girl fiddled with them, then held them steady.

What did she see, now? Oh, yes—suck in the gut! He did, lowered his own glasses and smiled, then raised them. She followed suit; was that the way it had happened? They waved to each other; he beckoned and pointed; she signed assent.

That was all he could remember; he waved again and turned back to the motel. In his room, he poured bourbon over ice.

Jesus! Is THAT how it’s going to be? Following in his own footsteps with no chance to choose their path? Trapped action! Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, after all, to meet in person.

But he had to, he just plain had to. Why? Because she was closer to him than anyone else in the world—closer than his wife or a twin could be. She was himself, one day behind himself.

And maybe in Seattle, able to talk together, they could plan ahead and avoid trapping him this way.

But until then, he decided, he would not see her again.

And that’s final!

* * * *

He went to San Francisco and sold his schematic proposal. He went home, and this time Margaret was there to help him celebrate. He did other jobs and enjoyed leisure between them, and drank not too much and did sit-ups for the gut muscles and sometimes, when Margaret was off with Carl Forbes, visited redheaded Phyllis Asaghian.

But for the most part, Ed Carlain in his own life was marking time. As days added up to weeks, then months, it was Melanie’s life he lived for.

* * * *

Waking, remembering seeing herself from the fountain, for the first time she thought of herself as “she.” Ed Carlain had seen her so, and Ed-in-Melanie now accepted it. Somehow she felt a sense of relief, of a tension vanished.

She spent the day in exercise, in the discovery and practice of bodily skills, interspersed with rest and reading. Her body hungered but she ate only what Dr. Phipps prescribed. She tired less rapidly and stayed awake later; at bedtime she slept without chemical aid and dreamed of vague and pleasant scenes.

Each day resembled the one before it. A week after Nurse Ahlstrom’s Polaroid picture a second was taken. Melanie studied it alongside the first and nodded with some satisfaction.

Weight loss was not dramatic, but the body stood more erect, better poised. The belly sagged less; overall, her posture was more alive. The face was less moonish and showed a hint of expression, of intelligence— not much, but a start. And this time the stubble on the head was clearly visible. Melanie took a pen and in the lower margin awkwardly lettered “June 12—187 pounds.”

June 19—180. Chin was narrower than cheekbones. She could walk without her “walker.” The smile looked real.

June 26—174. She had walked up and down a flight of stairs. She could do five sit-ups, but they hurt. She was learning to type; Ed Carlain typed only with two fingers.

July 3—165. The waistline was smaller than the bust. She had begun jogging, outdoors, a few minutes each day. Her face showed hints of contours waiting to be revealed. She experimented with masturbation and achieved orgasm on the third attempt. She was pleased to learn that she could.

July 10—160. A plateau, perhaps? Or maybe the Pill—she was “on” it, since the abortion, to regularize her periods. She took the Personality Inventory tests and checked out “normal” except for a tendency toward masculine attitudes. Her hair was nearly an inch long and gave her head and face a better overall shape. Her breasts and shoulders still carried too much fat but no longer looked gross to her.

July 17—155. Reaching the goal she had first set, she pinched her waistline and still found too much fat. She had endured through hunger and adjusted; she no longer felt its pangs—so why settle, just yet, for a maintenance diet? Her coordination was roughly as good as Ed Carlain’s and still improving. She smoked a cigarette; it made her sick. Who needs it?

July 24—151. She had strong features, not pretty, but striking. She learned to apply lipstick but seldom used it. With Nurse Ahlstrom’s help and instruction, her short hair became a curly, light-brown cap, more becoming than the close-lying straightness had been. She wondered how long it would grow if she didn’t cut it. She passed the state examinations for a high school diploma. Dr. Phipps said, “You’ve certainly done a lot of reading in a hurry, haven’t you?”

July 31—147. Close, she thought, to what would be her best weight —and soon now. She obtained college entrance exams from the University of Washington in Seattle and passed well. She agreed with Dr. Phipps that it was now time for her competency hearing, to make her legally a responsible adult.

“Will I need a lawyer?”

“Can’t hurt to have one. I’ll call mine.”

The lawyer, Arnold Zumwalt, was a thin man with a plump face; Melanie liked him. After they had talked for a time she said, “I’d like you to represent me in another matter, also.”

“Yes?” And she commissioned him to investigate her parents’ wills and her brother’s administration of them. “Don’t see him personally. I want to know where I stand before he learns of me.”

Dr. Phipps said, “Isn’t that being a bit paranoid?”

“Maybe it is. But this is my brother Charles who quit coming to see me since well before my parents died, since before he moved East. I don’t blame him—who wants to visit a vegetable?

“But I think I know how he’s going to feel. This money, however much it is—part of it may be legally mine but for a long time it’s been factually his. And now here comes the turnip, with her hand out You see?”

Phipps nodded, and Zumwalt. Discussion closed.

* * * *

The judge was younger than Melanie expected. He heard the briefs, then asked, “Melanie Blake, to the best of your knowledge, are the foregoing statements true?”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes.” Somehow the lie came hard.

“Your memories begin on June third of this year?”

“That is correct.” Not quite a lie, that time. Your?

“And all your knowledge at that point came from overheard conversations, television, and so forth, recorded unconsciously?”

“That is what I am told. I have no better theory to offer.”

“Well, then.” The judge tipped his gavel up on end, then laid it flat again. “I’ve seen the test results—intelligence, personality evaluation, high school and college entrance exams—I’ve heard Dr. Phipps’s testimony and I’ve seen and heard you. Obviously, at this time you are legally competent”

He leaned forward. “But what if—what if, I ask—you were to suffer a relapse. Tomorrow, for instance. Who would be responsible for you?”

“Legally, you mean?” She thought. “Well—sir, every day people suffer heart attacks or strokes that leave them helpless.”

After a moment the judge smiled. “And of course no one is given legal responsibility for any of them, in advance. Miss Blake, you’ve made your point.”

The gavel.

* * * *

August 7—144, and tomorrow Charles Blake, aged thirty-two and several times a millionaire, would arrive. He controlled the more than six million dollars he had built in ten years from the three million their parents had left them—but half was in trust for her. She could claim it. Reading the gray Xerox of the will, she could sense her parents’ stubborn, forlorn hope: “if at legal age or at any later time she is adjudged competent . . .” There were more qualifications, but that was the crucial clause.

She memorized it.

* * * *

Charles, she decided, looked ten years older than his age because he worked at it. She guessed his executive-style glasses with their heavy black frames to be “window glass,” for appearance. Dark and stocky, he was at least an inch shorter than she. His obvious embarrassment blanketed any personality he might have displayed, except for his equally obvious resentment of Zumwalt’s presence.

She tried at first to make some sort of polite conversation, but he was having none of that. Finally he said, “I don’t know who you are or what you’re up to, but one thing is clear. You are not my sister.” He looked at Zumwalt and at Dr. Phipps. “I suppose you’re all in on it. If I’d known what I was walking into, I’d have brought my own attorney. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Fine,” said Melanie Blake. The more the merrier.” She stood and loomed above him where he sat. “And now tell me why I’m not your sister. Because my fingerprints, along with the ones on my birth certificate, say I am.”

* * * *

It went on and on. She had been willing to settle for half the original legacy, leaving to Charles all the increase he had wrought. Zumwalt had disagreed. “If you had been normal all your life you’d be entitled to your full share. Correct? Why should your previous disability make any difference?” She had been undecided, but now Charles’s attitude and behavior swung her to Zumwalt’s view. Argue-argue-argue— her brother was intolerable.

But still she wanted an amicable settlement not a lawsuit Charles was holding forth nonstop; she cut into his Point Seven. “Charles! I do not intend to cause you any trouble.”

“As I have said, it is impossible for me to liquidate enough assets to give you your so-called share, without—”

“Goddamn it, shut up and listen!” And for a wonder, he did. “If you’ll just tum off your mouth for a minute—I’ve been trying to tell you—keep control; I won’t tamper. Mr. Zumwalt explained how under the terms of the wills you keep a sizable cash account in my name, to provide for my care and medical expenses.”

He started to speak; she swiped a near-slap past his face. “All right, Charles. You haven’t touched that money for yourself; you can’t. I can use it for a drawing account, quite legally, for major expenses. Right?”

She did not wait for an answer. “But I want an income, too, eventually. And the best way to get it—a way that will cost you nothing—is directly from the company you head.”

“And just how do you suggest that I rob our company?”

“Who said rob? I’m the second-largest shareholder. So appoint me to the next vacancy on the board of directors.”

His mouth fell slack; then he said, “You’re not just retarded; you’re crazy. Put the competition on the board to fight me?”

She sighed. “Businesswise you’re a genius, but with people you’re a klutz. No wonder you’ve been divorced three times. Competition, my dimpled butt! I was going to say, if you’d shut up long enough: Put me on the board and I’ll give you my proxy. I certainly don’t know enough to vote it properly.”

She saw the renewed confidence in his face, now that he was once again in a situation he knew and understood. “Do you mean that? It could work. Old Showalter’s due for retirement soon, and the man next in line isn’t exactly on my team.”

“I mean it, Charles. I don’t want your blood, for heaven’s sake. I’d just like to have some of my own.”

Luncheon was amicable, but still she was glad when Charles left.

* * * *

September 4—142, and holding. She had been as low as 140 and could do it again, anytime she wished. Dieting was no longer a problem; she came to meals with good appetite and ate as much as her active body required.

She looked at the latest—and last—of Nurse Ahlstrom’s Polaroid prints. Damned good body, if I do say so myself. Well, she had worked for it, hadn’t she?

Her two-inch growth of hair looked well enough in a mild curl, especially with the reddish rinse she had used on it. The cut was a little too pixieish for her face, she felt, especially on a big girl, but time would correct that. She’d do.

For two weeks she had owned a car; it waited in the parking lot. Her purse contained, among other things, a valid driver’s permit.

She had said good-bye to Nurse Ahlstrom and to most of the others she knew at all well. Dr. Phipps had been away for the day, but she would see him at breakfast next morning.

* * * *

The doctor fooled her. “Mind if I ride up to Seattle with you? We can trade off driving. You haven’t driven more than a few miles at a time yet; you’d get tired.”

She wouldn’t; her driving habits were Ed Carlain’s, not the newly learned ones of Melanie Blake. But his consideration touched her.

“You’re welcome, of course. But how will you get back?”

‘The puddle-jumper plane stops by, every day. We can drop my car off at the airport, on the way out.”

She nodded. “Fine. But now tell me why you really want to come along. No, it’s not just the driving—though I appreciate that, too. But I could do it in short hauls if I had to, take two days for the trip. So, why?”

“Well . . . Melanie, you—your consciousness—is really only three months old. There’s so much you don’t know, can’t know. Like a baby bird leaving the nest, and—well, maybe papa bird wants to see you settled on a safe perch.”

She felt guilt—because this kindly man could not be told that his anxiety was groundless, and why.

“I worry a little,” he said. “You’ve leased this town-house apartment and had it decorated—a little stark, I thought, when the decorator was down from Seattle with his drawings and samples, but you can change it later if you like.

“Anyway, that part’s fine. But when you get there, what’s in the refrigerator? You’ve learned some cooking but you’ve never been in a supermarket. And other things—so many daily-life things you don’t know first-hand yet—I’d like to steer you through a few of them, if I may.”

She laughed. “All right. But believe me, I won’t do the TV-commercial bit—poke into someone’s grocery cart and get nosy about their detergent.”

His answering laugh was brief. “I know; you seem to have sorted the facts from the garbage all right. But still I’m glad you’ll indulge an old man who’d like to monitor your first day of total independence.”

“So that it won’t be quite so total?”

“You got me that time! But I won’t interfere, unless . . .”

“I don’t think you’ll have to. I hope not”

* * * *

Alone, she would have driven the distance in about seven hours including stops, but to please Dr. Phipps she agreed to trade seats every fifty miles or so and take a rest stop at each exchange. Also, she drove at his speed, not Ed Carlain’s.

While she drove he talked little, but when he first took the wheel he asked her, “Have you thought much—decided yet, among the things we’ve talked about, what you intend to do?”

“You mean, like work—though I don’t have to, of course—or going to college?” She shook her head. “No, not really. Oh, I’ll probably take classes at the university, but not right away. I may get into some volunteer work—you know the kind of thing—mostly to meet people. That’s what I need, I think—to learn to live with people.” She hoped it sounded right, like Melanie, not like Ed Carlain in drag.

“And I need to get to know people of my own age.” That, at least, was true. She had forgotten what it was like to be eighteen in company, and today’s youngsters were not the same as Ed’s youthful contemporaries had been; he was often puzzled by Margaret’s son and the boy’s friends.

“Yes, I suppose so.” The doctor hesitated. “Melanie—there’s one matter—you’ve been rather evasive—your attitudes toward sex. Did the rape . . . ?”

“No. That wasn’t—it was something blind and impersonal.” She turned to face him. “I know I’m ignorant—all TV ever does about sex is talk around the edges of it—but I’ve read a lot and I think I know how people should feel about each other . . . first. Not like Hollywood, maybe, but . . . well, friends. Is that close?”

“Perhaps something more than friends, I think. I—”

“Oh, don’t worry, Doctor. I’m in no hurry about it.”

The hell I’m not. First chance I get, I’m going to try it on with my other body. Because if I can’t accept ME, I can never accept any man. And I’d better find out sooner than later.

* * * *

They lunched at a motel restaurant just short of Portland; at the beginning of the afternoon they crossed the Washington border, somewhere along the bridge over the Columbia. Dr. Phipps had the wheel when, a little ahead of rush-hour traffic, they reached Seattle.

The doctor insisted on driving to her apartment. Melanie gritted her teeth to keep from telling him easier routes—she knew the building and how to get there, because until a few months ago Phyllis Asaghian had lived in the second-floor front. But finally they arrived, and she congratulated him on his superb sense of direction. Actually, for one who did not know the city, he had done well enough.

Her apartment was second-floor rear, overlooking Lake Union and the downtown area beyond. It had nine-foot ceilings and more than eight hundred square feet of floor space, including two baths and a guest room. In the living room a fireplace was set into the tinted glass wall that faced the lake. She had chosen simple decor—solid colors, and furniture without frills. Perhaps a little on the masculine side, she conceded—but damn it, it was the kind of thing she liked. She showed Phipps around the place, leaving her luggage in the bedroom to unpack later.

She had no great desire to shop at the supermarket, but the doctor wanted to, so they went. The difficult part was trying to behave as though the experience were new; since the first few days as Melanie she had done no real acting but had merely kept cover. Now she settled for passive behavior, letting him take the lead. And eventually the ordeal ended. She was glad to get “home” again.

Once the refrigerator was stocked—and a couple of items in the liquor cabinet, for Ed’s benefit—she said, “I’m too pooped to cook. Tell you what, I’ll take you out to dinner if you’ll drive. You pick the place—okay?”

He nodded. “All right; that’s something else you haven’t done. I’ll be pleased to accept your hospitality.”

He chose a seafood restaurant on the downtown waterfront. She knew a better one, but could not say so. Well, it would do.

And it did. The restaurant situation demanded no acting; she relaxed and thoroughly enjoyed herself.

Back at the apartment, watching the lights on the water—the downtown skyline reflected, boats moving in no apparent pattern, and the occasional light aircraft taking off or landing—they talked. Past reminiscences mingled with future speculations. Finally the doctor said, “Well, I suppose you’re as ready as can be managed in so short a time to live independently.”

“I’ll be all right, really.”

“Then I’ll call a cab and find a motel.”

“You’ll do no such thing. I have a perfectly good guest room. And tomorrow I will cook breakfast. Then you can drive us to the airport and I’ll drive back here. I watched carefully this afternoon; I can find the way.” But he insisted on drawing the route for her, on a dog-eared city map from his suitcase, before she could go to bed in her own new, spacious bedroom.

* * * *

Carlain woke, thinking, Well, she’s here! Or rather, he amended, on the way—due to arrive in the afternoon.

He felt good. During the past few weeks as Melanie slimmed down to beauty, he—as himself—had avoided thinking of the sexual implications. The situation was too much like a combination of cradle-robbing and incest. He was glad the problem had surfaced, and perhaps solved itself, during the Melanie phase. Somehow his lives had diverged, had become separate entities connected only by his continuing, alternating consciousness. Now it seemed to him that Melanie was a person in herself; even though her ego was his own, it felt different

He had another worry. Subscribing to the ideal of full honesty in marriage, he was not in the habit of keeping secrets from Margaret. But for three months he had kept her ignorant of Melanie’s existence. And now push would come to shove. Not on the sexual aspect—by their agreement he had the same freedom she had. But how in the name of ten thousand blue pigs would he ever convince her that he and Melanie were the same person?

He would have to try, was all. And certainly he could not have done so earlier, without Melanie present to speak for herself.

He set the problem aside. He had another schematic to work out— and then to present and try to sell.

He worked late at it.

* * * *

Melanie’s morning omelette came out lopsided, but Dr. Phipps made no complaint. He drove them to Sea-Tac Airport and stopped at “Passenger Load.” Before he could begin his good-byes she reached and hugged him, then kissed him thoroughly—in the way that Ed Carlain liked to be kissed. She was testing herself, testing her reactions to a man, and she passed.

After a moment for catching breath he said, “I don’t know how you learned that—maybe there is more to instinct than I had thought. But, my dear child—don’t kiss a young man that way, if you intend matters to stop there.”

She laughed, and thanked him “for everything,” waved good-bye, and moved over to the driver’s seat as he walked away. On the way home she kept the speed limit, exactly. When she entered her apartment she looked at her watch.

Ten-forty. At eleven I will come here.

At one minute after eleven, she opened the door to Ed Carlain.

* * * *

Ed ate a light breakfast, not hurrying. Eleven o’clock, he thought. His watch said nine-thirty. What will it be like, from this side?

Time dragged, then speeded as he found unexpected things that needed doing before he could leave. Nervous, though he knew he would be on time, he drove fast, keeping an all-around scan for police cars.

As he rang her doorbell his watch read eleven, exactly.

She opened the door.

* * * *

Once inside, door closed again, the two embraced.

‘Was there ever such a meeting? It’s been forever.”

“Three months, really, and a little over. But I know—it was hard to wait until I knew he was gone.”

“Yes. Now stand back, let me look. You know? I think . . . from here, I’m better-looking.”

“So are you.” Laughter. “We need new pronouns, don’t we? Funny, though—it does look different, seeing from outside.”

“Yes. Do you want a drink now, or afterward?”

“There’s no choice. It was after.”

‘Trapped action? Already?”

“Not really. Or if it is, I did it myself.”

A headshake. “I—it seems so idiotic, anything I say, knowing you already remember it.”

“Not really, not in detail . . . until you actually say it. Or when I do, for that matter. We’ll get used to it. There’s a lot we’ll have to get used to.”

“Of course. I think the hardest part for me will be always wondering what you know that I don’t, yet.”

“True. But getting hooked into trapped action isn’t all that much fun, either—remember? Anyway, we may be able to switch it. I thought of a way, this morning, that might work.”

“That could be a good thing. Neither of us can afford dominance.”

“Because neither would put up with it for very long.”

“No. Even now, I don’t feel especially submissive.”

“I remember.” Undressed now, the two embraced.

“How far are you ahead of me, do you know?”

A pause. “About fifteen hours. Roughly half and half.”

‘That’s not too bad.” A laugh. “I’ll catch up.”

“You always do.”

“Except, not really.”

But when the one’s remembrance met and blended with the other’s anticipation, it didn’t matter—not any of it.

* * * *

“Don’t get up yet. I want you this way as long as you can.”

“Finest kind.”

“I was good, wasn’t I? I could tell. And you . . . well, you remember how I feel, of course.” A gusty, exuberant sigh. “Good for our ego—isn’t it, though?”

He laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing much. Remembering how we sweat this so much, from your side. And—you recall, in the Army, what people were always telling each other to do?”

She laughed too. “Yes. Little do they know. . . .”

“That anyone really could.” Ed yawned. “I’m hungry; let’s fix up some lunch.”

* * * *

After eating they sat, talking. He had a beer. She tasted it, decided she did not like it, and had tea instead.

She said, “Being together has more advantages than just the obvious. Remember when you first came in?” He nodded but raised his eyebrows. “And you know how I’d been worried, that maybe I couldn’t be heterosexual from this side. Well, the minute I saw you, smiling, I knew it was all right. Because I knew you knew.”

“I knew that you knew that she knew that he knew—”

“Stop it! Sometimes we have a disgusting sense of humor.”

“Melanie.”

“What?”

“I was just trying it on for size. Melanie. We’ll have to call ourselves by our body names, in company. I was wondering about the psychological effects.”

“Yes, I see. Ed. Ed, Ed, Ed. Ed is Melanie plus fifteen hours. Melanie is Ed minus fifteen hours. How old is Ann?”

“You said something about our sense of humor?” He grinned. “All right—we’re two personalities, serially connected by the same consciousness, now interacting in the same time and place. But we’re becoming more different, aren’t we? Is that good or bad? And will using our names hurt or help us?”

She frowned. “I think . . . the more different we get to be, the more we bring to each other. Let’s ride along for a while and see, shall we?” Then, “What about what you said at first—about maybe changing phases sometime, so I could be the one who knows what’s happened? I haven’t figured that out yet”

“I know, because I didn’t either, until this morning. Of course I’m not sure it would work, but the idea is simple enough.” On a paper napkin he drew straight parallel-line segments, zigzag-connected by diagonal dotted lines. “This first solid line is me, living Day Number One. Then dot-dot-dot I zig over and wake up next morning as you. You live Day Two, go to sleep, and zag back to wake up for my Day Two. You see?”

“Of course. And so?”

“So.” He drew more lines. “Suppose you have one long day while I have two short ones. On Day Three, for instance, you sleep in, get up late, and stay up—well into Day Four—noon, maybe, before you sleep and I get my Day Three. I get up early, take a short day, sleep again, and wake up while you’re still awake from Day Three. Then—”

“Yes—I think I see it”

“Right. After I have Day Three, who am I when I wake? Do I sleep all the way ahead to your Day Four, or to mine, which is closer in time? If it’s mine, we’ve switched phases; you’ll be ahead of me, on the memory angle. If it doesn’t, what have we lost except a little sleep?”

“Do you want to try it?”

“No hurry, I’d think. First we need to figure how to plan things, so we don’t get stuck with decisions neither of us made, like the time I had to go to Coos Bay because I had. I don’t like trapped action.”

“Yes.” She shuddered. “I remember. That was . . . frightening.”

They talked, planned, made notes. Obviously, only their meetings and communications were crucial; nothing each did separately could inflict determinism on the other. Neither mentioned the possibility of trying to change something that one had experienced and the other had not.

He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly three. Time to call Margaret.”

“Margaret? Why?”

“To get her over here and tell her, of course.”

“You’ve figured out a lot of things in the past fifteen hours, haven’t you? Tell me about this one.”

“Another circular paradox, I’m afraid—more trapped action. You didn’t do any of it; I did it all myself. Yesterday—my yesterday, as you— I watched me call Margaret and she came here. So now on my today we go through the same motions.”

“Ed! Maybe we’d better separate, not see each other anymore. This is too scary!”

“Isn’t it just? But we’re not separating, Melanie—you know better than that.” He stared at her until she nodded, then said, “But maybe after today we shouldn’t be with or talk with any third party when we’re together. Or maybe the later personality—me, at present—must not make decisions without consulting the earlier one first.”

“We’re messing with causation. That’s what scares me.”

“I’m fifteen hours more scared than you are. I’ve had that much longer to worry about it.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“Because—same old reason—I hadn’t, so I couldn’t.” He shrugged. “Look, I have to call Margaret now. When she gets here, you do most of the talking.”

He picked up the phone.

* * * *

Margaret, following Ed along the entrance hallway, did not bother to glance at the mirror she passed; she knew she looked well. Her dark hair was cropped sleek, the front brushed into brief bangs and the crown barely long enough to hold a slight wave. She dressed with understated elegance and ignored fads. Her face, like all of her, was lean and tanned; the full lips accented it. And she moved with grace.

When she saw the girl she knew her own height and slimness made the other a giantess—a healthy, attractive giantess, but still . . . Margaret nodded. She could afford the age difference.

She made the competitive assessment by instinct; she had no fear of losing Ed to any woman. But she was puzzled—why the need for a conference, just because this time he had picked a youngster? She accepted a daiquiri and sat where she could view the lake and the city beyond.

“Lovely apartment, Miss Blake.” Margaret thought the decor rather stark for a young girl, but in its own way striking.

“Thank you,” said Melanie. She looked at Ed, then back to Margaret. “I suppose ... I’d better explain. . . .”

“What’s to explain? The way you and Ed look at each other, the picture is obvious. My only question is, what’s the problem? I’m sure he’s told you the terms of our marriage. Of course you are a little young for him”—why did the girl grin? Not a smile, a grin—’”but I don’t mind if you don’t. So what is it?”

Ed spoke. “Margaret, it’s not what you think. Well, that too—but that’s not it. It’s . . . something you won’t believe, that we have to convince you of.”

“Quintuplets?” seeing their faces change, she felt shame for the jape. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

Frowning, the girl leaned forward. She turned to Ed. “Damn it, I don’t know where to start!”

“Tell her who you are—who we are.”

Ed’s daughter? No—that didn’t fit what he’d said. She saw the girl’s confusion and felt pity. “All right—I’m listening; go ahead.” She smiled. “Melanie ... if Ed cares for you, believe me, I’m not your enemy.”

The younger woman sat straight and breathed deeply. “Okay—here it is, ready or not. Except in body, there is no Melanie Blake. Until three months ago, she was a mindless vegetable.”

“But—you’re here. I don’t understand.”

“I—we don’t either. Listen—Ed Carlain went to sleep in a motel near Coos Bay, Oregon—and woke up in this body. And lived a day in it—a terrible day. The next time he woke he was back in the motel, himself again, and drove home to you. And then—”

“Ed! That trip—when you came home and began drinking so hard?”

“Yes. But let her finish.”

“He—I—thought it had been a dream, maybe. But I woke as Melanie again, and then as Ed—and ever since, I live a day first as me and then the same day as him. But we’re both the same person; there’s only the one consciousness and memory between us.” She made a lopsided smile. “Now you can call the men in the white coats.”

“Or not,” said Ed.

Margaret looked hard at her husband, then at the girl. They seemed not only serious but desperate, nothing at all like people pulling a practical joke. But, this . . . ?

Slowly she said, “You’re right. I can’t believe it. But—” She shook her head. “I can think of no reason—and take my word, I’m trying to— why you’d tell me anything like this if it weren’t true.” She paused. “Or if at the very least you didn’t think it was true.”

Neither answered. She thought there had to be another answer—one that made sense. “Ed—you haven’t been into drugs, have you? Or hypnosis—anything like that?”

“Nothing. Neither of us. It happened the way she said. We don’t know how or why, or if it has ever happened to anyone else. But it did, to us—beginning on June third.”

June third? That’s three months, and— “And you didn’t tell me, until now?”

“How could he?” said Melanie. “You can’t believe it now—you couldn’t have begun to believe it if I’d tried to tell you as Ed alone, without me here physically to back it up. Right?”

“She is right, Margaret I hated the secrecy, but there was nothing I could do. Now . . . why don’t you think of questions—anything—that Melanie couldn’t know if she were not me?”

She was not ready—not so soon, not so easily—to give in. “You could have coached her.”

“No way,” said Melanie. “You can check. I didn’t leave the sanitarium—except twice, briefly, and under a doctor’s care both times—until yesterday. I had only one visitor—my brother, Charles Blake, from New York—and no letters or phone calls in or out. So . . . when’s to coach?”

With her objection stymied, Margaret set herself to asking questions. Dates, times, places, and people; she ran out of things to ask. Ed suggested she work on trivia, personal minutiae; Melanie knew a convincing percentage. No one remembers everything, Margaret realized— and could think of no further ways to resist.

“All right,” she said, “I guess I’m convinced. Not in my gut yet, but in my head I can’t deny it. The more we talk, Melanie, the more I hear Ed in you. That impresses me, maybe more than your answers do.”

Now that she had said it, her mind cleared; she could think again. “So you are Ed and Ed is you. And it’s all right that I don’t understand it, since you don’t, either. One question, though—just what do you want me to do about it?”

Melanie’s eyes widened. “Why, accept it, is all. Let you and Ed get back to full honesty—take this load off the split-level soul we share. Okay?”

Looking from one to the other, Margaret nodded. “And of course I see why you have to be lovers. No one, not even I, can possibly be as close to Ed as you are, Melanie. Well, I’ve never been jealous—have I, Ed?—and I’ll try not to be now.”

Seeing their intent, serious faces she felt tears coming. To break the mood, she laughed. “All right, you two-in-one or vice versa, let’s go over to the Carlain abode and have dinner.”

“Why not here?” said Melanie. “I’ve been learning to cook, and there’s food. Let me—”

“Not a chance.” Margaret shook her head. “Ed and I used to go camping—remember?—and no mere three months could make him a passable cook. Give it a little time—and I’ll help, too. But not today. Let’s go.”

They went.

* * * *

Melanie thought, That was easier than I expected. Margaret liked her—no problem there. Her own feelings toward the older woman? Not quite the same as Ed’s; she could feel a difference but could not yet put her finger on it. Meanwhile . . .

Outside, she wanted to take her own car, but the other two insisted they all ride in Margaret’s. All right. On the way she lay back with eyes closed, not talking, letting her thoughts roam.

At the Carlain house, Margaret started to guide her, to tell her where things were—then stopped cold, laughed, and said, “I’m sorry; I forgot you’ve lived here too.”

Melanie said, “You can’t expect to digest the whole impossible thing in two hours; we have three months’ head start on you, remember.”

Ed spoke. “And living it, at that. No sweat, Margaret”

His wife smiled and said, “You’re right; I’ll need some time.”

Later, at dinner, the man and wife talked mostly of Carlain family matters; although these were also part of Melanie’s own recalls, she felt subtly excluded and did not know why.

When Ed poured wine she said, “You’re wasting this. So far, nothing alcoholic tastes good to me.”

He grinned. “You like this one; I remember. It’s light, white, and dry—you even have one refill.”

“You—?” She scowled. “More trapped action, Ed?”

“Not really—it just happened. But if you’d rather, I’ll try not to tell you things ahead of time, unless you ask.”

“Yes. That might be better.” She sipped the wine and found that she did like it; almost immediately she felt its glow. Midway through her second glass she looked and saw Ed’s amused smile. “Don’t worry, I can handle the rest of this okay. But no more.” The alcohol stimulated and relaxed her but did not fog her mind; she followed the conversation and occasionally contributed.

She was neither surprised nor perturbed when all three went to the master bedroom; after all, Ed was Margaret’s as well as hers. Later, without thought—out of habit and instinct and long years of loving—she reached to Margaret.

The older woman gasped. “You mustn’t—I don’t—”

“I’m still Ed—remember? Even in this package.”

A shaky laugh. “Well—anything you can do . . .”

* * * *

Ed enjoyed the dinner and the evening but was impatient, waiting. All that happened later moved him deeply.

I love them both so much. . . .

* * * *

For the first time, Melanie woke to see Ed beside her. She heard kitchen noises; Margaret was already up. She thought of something Ed had told her: “If the one of us—you, for now—who lives the day first is the one to initiate communication, we can avoid trapped action.” It sounded reasonable. She reached under the covers and initiated communication.

* * * *

The funny thing, thought Margaret, was that she did not feel left out or threatened. Closer to each other than either could be to her—but they were both Ed; both loved her. She would never have joined in woman love had Melanie been only Melanie, rather than a new Ed with new limitations, new ways.

When she heard the shower running she began cooking breakfast. When it stopped, she called, “It’s on the table, nearly. Five minutes—then you have to fight the dog for it” Both beat the deadline and the nonexistent dog.

Over coffee, Ed talked—perfectly good words, but Margaret had a hard time understanding him. “You get it, Melanie? Unless we agree together, a day ahead of time, you have to be the one to decide anything between us that affects action. Or else I’m trapped—or you would be, if we ever change phase.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“And we should know a day ahead where each of us is going to be, separately, so we don’t have chance meetings that nail the second half of us.”

“Why is that?” asked Margaret.

“I’m talking about how to avoid determinism—in a situation that springs it on us if we don’t watch out like a couple of hawks.”

“But I don’t understand. What’s so bad, that you’re trying to keep away from?”

Ed told her of the day when Melanie, at Coos Bay, had seen him from the balcony. “And I hadn’t even decided to go by that route—I halfway intended to fly down. But she saw me, so I had to be there.”

“Why? Why couldn’t you just fly, anyway?” She saw both turn pale and sag, hardly breathing. “Hey—what did I say?”

Fighting to catch breath, Ed answered. “I—I don’t know why it is, but we can’t even think of causing paradox without being practically knocked on our butts. By panic fear, damn it!” He paused. “I think maybe I can talk about it if I keep it hypothetical—yes, that way it only half scares the pants off me. Okay, I’ve read in stories—the far-out ones, with time machines and such—about things that can’t happen if they do happen. Paradoxes. One story solves it one way, somebody else writes it different. But I think I see how it really works. A person doesn’t commit a paradox—commit isn’t the right word but to hell with that—because something scares the bejesus out of him so that he can’t”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Neither did I, until I felt it. Just take my word.”

“And mine,” said Melanie.

Finally Margaret said, “Well, if that’s the case, at least you can stop worrying about it.”

* * * *

The trouble was, the two found, that the only way to fight determinism was to inflict it on themselves. Each day, almost, revealed new loopholes for “trapped action”; all they could do was to tighten further their already restrictive rules.

And their two roles chafed them. Ed resented being trapped, even when it was all his own doing and none of Melanie’s. Melanie complained at having to initiate all phone calls and most decisions. Once they came near to fighting—shouts and a flung dish. When the dish miraculously escaped breakage the fight broke down into laughter. The worst part was having to live through it twice, both times realizing the wrongness: their unity, split in conflict

* * * *

“Maybe if we did change phases we could see each other’s side of it better.”

“But we’re each on both sides, Ed. Every twice-lived day.”

“Not as each other. You as you are always a day behind on memory.”

“And always first through the grinder, of whatever happens,” she said. “It shouldn’t matter, should it? But it does.”

“Yes.” He thought about it. “It’s because we are not the same person, looking out of your skull, as out of mine. And the difference keeps growing.”

“In itself, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Of course not. I didn’t say it was, did I?”

“No.” She paused. “You know the great thing about us?”

“I know a number of them. Which one did you have in mind?”

“Ed—you and I—we can’t lie to each other.”

“Oh? Hmm—you couldn’t, to me. But I could, to you.”

“Not for long, Ed. In a few hours I’d remember, and catch you out”

“Yes, but then you’d know why I did it, so you’d do it too.”

“Determinism, you mean. Trapped action.”

“Yes,” he said. “Back where we started, aren’t we?”

“Shall we try to change phases, then?”

“I don’t know. Shall we?”

She smiled. “That’s right; it’s up to me to decide, isn’t it? Okay—then I do. If only to see if we can.”

Ed nodded. “All right. And since I’ve had a day to think about it, after you made that decision—”

“God damn you, dangling me on a string like a puppet!”

“I had to; you know that. I’m not supposed to predict your actions for you—remember?” He waited for her smile and returned it. “Anyway, I have it figured out, if you agree.”

“Tell me.”

“First, for obvious reasons we can’t see each other or be in touch, after tonight, until the change is made. Or not. . . .

“Now here’s the schedule I’ve worked out. See what you think of it”

* * * *

The next day, Tuesday, Melanie slept late. She dawdled through breakfast and did not bother to dress. Loneliness muffled her spirits; she wanted to see Ed but knew she must not

How about Margaret? If she were careful, said nothing to Margaret that might influence Ed? She dialed the number and heard the ringing signal; after twelve rings and no answer, she hung up, puzzled. Then she guessed what had happened—it was so hard to keep track of all the complications.

Ed’s there, and he remembers. So he wouldn’t answer, or let Margaret, either. I suppose he’s right, but—damn!

Automatically thinking ahead, she checked her watch. Twelve-forty. So Ed would know which call to ignore . . . and they hadn’t spoken, so her lapse didn’t really count, did it? Right!

* * * *

Everything bored her—reading, TV, records, even food. She made a sandwich for dinner but left half on the plate. She tried TV again and still found nothing that interested her. She decided to dress and—well, go out on the town. Why not?

Her hair had outgrown the short-curls treatment and straggled a little; to hell with that. Her slacks were snug, her blouse modest. The compromise satisfied her.

* * * *

She attended a rock concert and met a tall youth who called himself Barry Giles. Afterward they went—her transport, so his treat, he said— for Herfyburgers. But in the dim corner of the parking lot he put his hand on her and said, “Let’s do it first. Drop the pants, okay?”

She took his wrist and pulled the hand away. “Sorry, suggestion overruled. Let’s go get the sandwiches.”

His face was ugly as he said, “It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order.” And now he grabbed, hurting her.

Without thought, her right hand reached. The nails of her fingers dug in behind his ear; the ball of her thumb pushed hard against his eyelid. He tried to shake loose and gasped with pain and fear when he could not.

Her voice shook; she could manage only a hoarse whisper. ‘If you want out of here with two eyes, get out right now!” She relaxed her grip slightly, enough that he could pull free. For a moment he glared with the untouched eye, rubbing the other. Then, watching her clawed hands, he reached behind him and opened the door. His mouth worked as if to speak or spit, but after a moment he backed away. Outside and standing, he slammed the car door hard, looked at her a few seconds longer, and turned to saunter into the drive-in. She watched him go inside before she started the car.

Driving home, she thought, Why, that’s what I did the other time, too. Sort of. . . .

Back at the apartment, she ate the other half of her neglected sandwich. Some night out!

* * * *

Reading and records, and TV until it signed off, and a walk in the cool night when boredom pushed toward sleep. By false dawn she knew she could not continue much longer; her body, accustomed to regular hours, demanded sleep.

She had kept coffee in reserve because more than a cup or two gave her jitters and heartburn, but now was the time for it. She drank several cups, black, while she read another book. When she was finished she had no idea what the plot was about.

When the sun rose she went out to the car. Ed had once driven thirty-six hours without sleep; the act of driving kept him awake without much effort. Melanie crossed Lake Washington on the toll bridge, found her way to I-90 East, and drove to the summit of Snoqualmie Pass, about fifty-five miles from downtown Seattle. She parked and got out, and walked perhaps a mile up a hiking trail, breathing tree-scented Cascades air. She started to sit down, then realized that sitting, in this restful place, was one step nearer sleeping. She walked to the car and started back to the city, driving as she had on the way out—conservatively, in the right-hand lane. It was time, not distance, that she wanted to cover.

A little past nine she entered the apartment again. Her thoughts were fragmented, not tracking well, she knew. She looked at the schedule Ed had left her—hours yet before she was supposed to sleep. From the refrigerator she took a prepackaged salad. It tasted good enough but sat heavily in her stomach.

The coffee had worn off, but not the jitters. She stood looking out through the glass wall, down the lake toward the city skyline—the square, high-rising boxes that now passed for architecture. She found herself nodding, dozing on her feet. She squinted at her watch—oh, no! Another two hours?

She shook her head. To hell with it—schedule or no schedule, her endurance had reached its limit.

She lay, feeling the nervous irritable jerks of her body—too strained to relax—and waited for the warm blanket of sleep to cover consciousness. But each time the blanket came, the spasms pushed it away. She drifted into a limbo of not-thinking.

A stronger “jump” brought her half-alert for a moment; then she felt sleep coming on her like a tide. Relieved, she sighed.

In the last instant of consciousness she hung above a black abyss. But before she could fall, sleep came.

* * * *

The alarm clock began Ed’s Tuesday early. For most of the day he kept to himself, trying to work. He avoided Margaret because she was curious about the phase change—and some of her questions he could not answer.

If he had known how hard it would be on the kid, he thought, he would have let things alone, scratched the whole idea. My God! That creep in the parking lot! Although he remembered the scene, somehow he did not feel that it had happened to him, but only to Melanie.

That memory was one reason why he hit the bourbon harder than he had in some time. Another was that he wanted to be physically ready for bed, early. By eight o’clock he was well primed for sleep.

* * * *

At four, Wednesday morning, his alarm sounded. He turned it off, groaned, and sat up. A little hung over but not badly, he rose to endure, according to schedule, his second short day.

Only then did he think: Well, it worked! For the first time since June second, he was the same person two times running.

He hoped it would not be necessary to change phases often.

Again he kept away from Margaret, staying at his work desk but no longer working. When he heard her leave the house he gave a sigh of relief mixed with guilt. Now he could relax. . . .

He felt sleepy—the compressed schedule, like jet lag, confused his body’s processes—but he must not sleep yet. Then he thought, sure he could! For he had taken many catnaps—dozes—since Melanie began, and none of those had changed the progression of their lives.

So he lay on the couch and rested, then slept. Vaguely, he dreamed. Then the dream took him to the edge of a black gulf; he began to fall and woke in cold sweat, lunging off the couch and wordlessly shouting.

He quieted himself and looked at his watch. It read an hour past noon.

His clock, the one in his head, was upside down now. He looked for the schedule he had written in duplicate, but when he found it, it made no sense to him. Had it been coherent in the first place? Look at it, you moron!

Yes, he thought, it did make sense. But had he followed it? He could not be sure. In his mind the times jumbled, his and hers.

Suddenly he could endure no more waiting.

* * * *

Driving now, he forgot caution, ignored his own rules for keeping within limits of tolerance, kept no watch for police cars. But luck rode with him; he arrived safely and unticketed.

At her door he rang the bell. No answer; he used his key. Of course! —she would still be asleep, and God knew she needed it. But he had to see her, to talk with her. In silence he approached her bedroom and opened the door.

Even sprawled sleeping, hair tangled and mouth ajar, the look of her caught him, made him pause. Then with a quick headshake, smiling, he moved to sit gently on the bed beside her and stroked the rumpled hair. Her eyes opened, then blinked.

“It worked,” he said. “It worked. Here we are, and for the first time I have no memory of it, and you do. Tell me, did we have a good day, once you got yourself all the way woke up?”

Frowning, she shook her head. “You’re kidding me, Ed—you have to be. It didn’t work—because I don’t remember this at all.” Using her elbows, she pushed herself up, half sitting. “Why are you joking with me? What’s the point?”

“I’m not—” He leaned to hug her, fiercely, then pulled her up to sit erect. “Are you sure—you’re awake now, aren’t you?—are you sure you don’t remember this, being here, being me?”

Wide-eyed, her face showed only concern. “Of course I’m sure. And —Ed!” For a moment she put her hands to her face and closed her eyes, then looked at him again. “Ed, I went to sleep as me and woke as me— nothing of you in between. I didn’t go back and have your Tuesday at all. I-”

“Wait a minute. Sure you did—you had to. Because I did. Look, everything was normal—normal for us, I mean—through Monday. Right?” She nodded. “And then you had the long haul—I’m sorry it was so rough—and went to bed this morning. Still right?”

“Yes, I have that, of course. But then—”

“And then there was my own short Tuesday and I got up early today, skipping from me straight to me again, just as we’d planned. And here we are!”

“But I didn’t have your Tuesday. I skipped straight from me to me, too.”

He thought. “Then I guess you’re right. It didn’t work. The mechanism, whatever it is, compensated somehow. Well, it was a nice try. But I guess we’re stuck with the way things are, just as before.” He stood, and helped her to her feet. “Come on. This needs some coffee, something to eat. Never mind clothes; you look just fine, and it’s warm in here.”

She laughed, only for a moment, and followed him to the kitchen. “Eggs?” he said. She nodded, and he added, “You’re the one short of sleep; just sit while I fix stuff and think out loud. Or ... do you have any ideas?”

“One. Do you realize, Ed—here we are and neither of us remembers it? We’re both having it for the first time? How can that be?”

As he prepared food and coffee, he spoke in brief bursts. “How, you ask? I don’t know. Any more than how we happened in the first place.” He turned the eggs, broke one, and cursed, without emphasis, as though reciting someone else’s words.

He wheeled to face her. “But now what happens? Where does it go from here?”

“I don’t know. Here, the eggs will burn—let me—” She rose and rescued the eggs, slipping them neatly onto the toast he had prepared. Sitting, she said, “What do you think will happen?”

Now he felt his hunger and ate, speaking between bites. “We’ve never lived a day in parallel before, each for the first time. Maybe next we switch and do it over, each remembering.”

“How can we? Because we’re both here, and we didn’t.”

He shook off the chill of threatened paradox, ‘Then maybe one of us wakes next with both these sets of memories, and then the other picks it up from there.” He poured coffee. “In which case we still don’t know whether we managed to change phase or not. I wish I knew—it’d be a shame to go through all this for nothing.”

She looked away, then back to him. “Whatever happens, surely it hasn’t been for nothing—has it?”

He reached and clasped her hand. “What do you mean? What do you think might happen?”

“No.” She shook her head and would not answer further.

It was strange, he thought, being and talking with her when her responses were all new to him, when he had not experienced them from her side. He told her so.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve always been on the other end of it.”

He laughed. “That’s silly; we’ve both had both sides.”

“But it doesn’t feel the same, when I’m you and when I’m me. Haven’t you noticed that? But of course you have. I remember it”

“That’s good. For a minute there, you had me worried.”

But the talk lagged, for now he was acutely aware of the difference between this conversation and any other they had had.

They tidied the kitchen, showered together, and then made love. At first it went well; then came an awkwardness and he realized how much, with her, he relied on subliminal memory to tell him what to do. He rallied and both succeeded. But afterward, even as they lay smiling in embrace, he felt . . . well, a lack.

He could not tell her so and did not try. After a time, up and sitting, watching boats move on the lake below, she said, “It’s different, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“How, for you?”

“Well . . . before, I always knew.”

“Yes. That’s what I wanted to experience, from this side.”

He hugged her. “And maybe with luck you will. We don’t know yet which way it’s going to go.”

Now he felt they were closer again, the two halves of him. As he left, he said, “Tomorrow, the one who doesn’t remember past today should be the one to get in touch.”

“Yes. I hope it’s you, Ed. I want the other side.”

“I know.”

He drove home as conservatively as Dr. Phipps; Margaret greeted him. “Well, at last! Now can you tell me how your idea worked?”

He held her shoulders and kissed her. “I wish I could.” He explained, and added, “Tomorrow we should know.”

Eyes narrowed, she spoke. “Ed, you need a drink. Go sit down; I promise not to scant you.”

She didn’t; they sat, arms around each other while he sipped. She said, “If it would help any . . .” and quoted a very old joke, wrongly attributed to Confucius.

He shook his head. “Not right now—I’ll reinstall you as a fixture in the house a little later, maybe. Thanks, though.” Suddenly he realized —with Margaret, the lack of “advance” memories had never been a problem. And he said, “Honey, I wish there were some way, sometime, that we could be each other.”

“I wish I could even begin to understand how that feels.”

“And I wish there were words I could use to tell you.”

* * * *

After Ed left, Melanie read awhile, ate a snack, and went back to bed. When she woke in the night and found her identity unchanged, she buried her face in the pillow and cried.

* * * *

Ed’s first morning thought was, All right, which way is it? Then, Straight from my own yesterday; good. Satisfied, he nodded. So it had worked after all; his loss of one of Melanie’s days was not important in the long run. Margaret was up and gone; he made a quick breakfast and went to Melanie.

He could not believe her. “Nothing?”

“No. I’m still just me. For the third time, at least.”

“Yes. Me too—but I don’t see how.”

They stood in fierce embrace. “I do, Ed. But I don’t like it much.”

He pushed back, not violently but away from her. “What is it?”

“Oh, stop it! You know; you just won’t admit it.”

“Admit what? What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’re not going to be each other anymore, Ed. Not ever, ever again. We’re two now, not one any longer.” She pulled him to her and kissed him, then let him go. She tried to laugh, but a small, gulping sob came instead. “I’m going to miss you—being you—the same way you’ll miss being me. And the physical thing, that’s only a part of it.”

Nausea struck him. He turned away and fought it down, then turned back “But—but I’d only begun to learn how to be you!”

* * * *

Every day he saw her. Now there were no paradoxes, no traps, only the driving urge to be what he could not be. When they were together he watched her, totally engrossed, trying to see into her mind that had once been his.

But without success. One day he said, “It’s as if I had never been you at all. I can’t tell what you’re thinking anymore—except from what you say, I have no idea.”

Melanie smiled. “Isn’t that the way it is with everybody? At least we had more, while we did have it.” He got himself a drink—he was watering his bourbon these days—and did not answer.

She said, “I do wish we’d been able to switch precedence for a while. It doesn’t seem like much, but . . .”

“I know.” Then he had to say it. “Melanie, what are you planning to do now?”

She smiled. “You still know me, don’t you? And you’re right, of course. Because it’s your memories and attitudes I’m using—how else?— to decide that I have to cut free of my emotional dependence on you. And—and go out and build my own life.”

He saw her wince at the reaction he could not hide. She said, “You did see it coming, didn’t you, Ed?”

“Yes. But I didn’t want to.”

“No.” She reached to touch him. “Ed—I owe you—I am you, or at least built up from what you gave me. But I can’t stay around, being your juvenile alter ego when I’m really not. Can you see that?”

“I guess so.” He hunched his shoulders, brought them down again. “Hell, I know so. It’s just—I hate to lose—your part of me.” He grinned at her. “We lasted too quick, is all.”

“Maybe if we’d waited longer to try the phase shift. But we were diverging already; it might have happened anyway, splitting apart.” She paused. “Ed? Would you like-?”

Thinking about it, he brushed her trimmed bangs back to kiss her forehead, and stroked her hair down the back of her neck. He shook his head.

“No, Melanie. We’ve had the best of that, between us.”

“When we were the same, you mean?”

“And getting used to being separate. That was good, too.”

“Then why not—?”

“You just declared your independence, and you’re right. So this is no time for you to look back or step back.”

“If you say so.” She stood. “Well then—you want a good-bye kiss or a good-bye handshake?”

“How about both?” As he walked away after her warm response, as he reached the door and turned the knob, he looked back and said, “Live yourself a good life, Melanie. For both of us.”

* * * *

She heard the sound of his footsteps, outside, diminish. Was I right? Or is it too soon? She paced to the glass wall, looked out, and turned away. I could call him. She gazed around the silent room.

He had left half his drink. She sat and sipped at the watered bourbon, not liking it much. Her thoughts refused to quiet.

Memories: “the turnip,” bluffing her way through that frightening, disoriented first day. Ed’s relief at thinking it all a dream, his resignation when he found it wasn’t. Dr. Phipps. Rape, abortion. Trapped action, as Ed. The competency hearing. Brother Charles—she should get in touch with him, probably. The slow transformation of turnip into Melanie, the daily counterpoint of Ed’s life. The meeting, the time together as one, the split, the time together as two. All of it now ended. The new, unknown beginning. . . .

Remembering, she pitied the man she had been—and would miss. Was she wrong to leave him? Without him, she would have been nothing.

Then realization struck. All her feelings for Ed Carlain came from June third and after; for his earlier life she felt no emotional identification at all.

She nodded. All right, it would hurt—it did hurt—but what she was doing, she had to do.

Maybe I’ll come back sometimes—when I have a life of my own to share.

* * * *

When he got home he told Margaret, “I’m sorry, honey, but I can’t talk. Not yet, anyway. Maybe I need a drink.” She went to another room. He poured himself a very large glass of bourbon—no ice, no water. He held the glass and looked at it, took a sip, and then another.

He sat for a long time, his thoughts all of Melanie, before he rose and went to the kitchen. There he poured a little of the liquor into a smaller glass, adding ice and water, and put the larger one aside. Then he went to Margaret.

She looked up and said, “That was fast. All better now?”

“No. But maybe if I try to tell you . . .”

When he was done, she said, “You’re two different people now? There’s no more connection?”

“That’s right I’ve lost her. Lost being her, and now lost her new self, too.”

Margaret paused, then said, “What’s the worst part? You were getting to like being a double agent in the war of the sexes?”

“No. I mean, sure, that was a goddamn revelation. I—”

“Yes. I’ve noticed some differences lately. Good ones.”

“Okay—it’s too bad everybody can’t make all those rounds, and I’ll miss it. But that’s not what kills me.”

“Then what does? To me, you look pretty healthy.”

Eyes unfocused, Ed looked into a lost future. “Age, honey.” He shrugged. “We all have to face it; right?” He looked at her and pointed a finger. “But there I was, every other day, eighteen years old again. I never said anything about it, but of course Melanie remembers how I felt.”

He tried to laugh, but even to himself it did not sound right. “I wondered, you know—what would happen to Melanie and me if I died? After all, I’m twenty years older. Or if one of us got killed, for that matter—would the other just keep going?”

“So being Melanie could add twenty years to your life?”

“All right—yes. I thought maybe I had it. And more—because we were living two days for every calendar day, remember. And now it’s gone; I’ve lost it. I . . .”

He frowned, trying to put words to what he felt. “It’s like . . . when you dream how someone you loved, that died, didn’t really die after all. And then you wake up. But this time it’s me that was going to die, and then wasn’t, not so soon at least—and now I woke up.”

“And that bothers you.”

He nodded.

“Come here, Ed.”

* * * *

He woke when Margaret set an icy glass on his belly. The gambit was familiar; he flinched only a little before taking hold of the glass. He sipped; it was tomato juice, with the added tartness of some lemon squeezed in. He felt his mind coming awake.

Margaret said, “How do you feel now?”

He thought back. “I wish to hell I could have had all of it; I can’t help wishing that. But nobody ever does—and I had more than most, more than anybody I ever heard of. I’ll need a long time, I guess, to figure out what I learned. And maybe that’s good.”

She did not answer. After a time he said, “It’s—it’s like I had heaven and didn’t realize it, so they took it away from me. But I only had it by luck—I’ll never know how. Melanie. How could it happen?”

She touched his shoulder. “And how about Melanie?”

He shrugged. “She’ll make it. She has me to work from.”

“And you, Ed?”

He grinned. “Hell yes. I can’t let the kid down, can I?”