His mother was spending most of her time in church, and Carl and Claudia were back in school, which had reopened recently. Croyd knew that he would not be returning to school himself. The money supply was still good, but on reflecting that he had slept nine days longer this time than he had on the previous occasion he felt it would be a good idea to have some extra cash on hand. He wondered whether he could heat a hand sufficiently to burn through the metal door of a safe. He had had a very hard time tearing open that one-had almost given up, actually-and Bentley had assured him that it was a "tin can." He went outside and practiced on a piece of galvanized pipe.
He tried to plan the job carefully, but his judgment was bad. He had to open eight safes that week before he obtained much in the way of money. Most of them just held papers. He knew that he set off alarms also, and this made him nervous; he hoped that his fingerprints changed too when he slept. He worked as quickly as he could and wished that Bentley were back. The dog-man would have known what to do, he felt. He bad hinted on several occasions that his normal occupation had involved something somewhat less than legal.
The days passed more quickly than he would have wished. He purchased a large, all-purpose wardrobe. Nights, he walked the city, observing the signs of damage that still remained and the progress of repair work. He caught up on the news, of the city, the world. It was not hard to believe in a man from outer space when the results of his virus were all about him. He asked a bullet-domed man with webbed fingers where he might find Dr. Tachyon. The man gave him an address and a phone number. He kept them in his wallet and did not call or visit. What if the doctor examined him, told him there was no problem, and cured him? Nobody else in the family was able to make a living at this point.
The day came when his appetite peaked again, which he felt might mean that his body was getting ready for another change. This time, he observed his feelings more carefully, for future reference. It took him the rest of that day and night and part of the next day before the chills came and the waves of drowsiness began. He left a note saying good night to the others, for they were out when the feeling began to overwhelm him. And this time he locked his bedroom door, for he had learned that they had observed him regularly as he slept, had even brought in a doctor at one point-a woman who had prudently recommended that they simply let him sleep, once she learned his case history. She had also suggested that he see Dr. Tachyon when he awoke, but his mother had misplaced the paper on which she had written this. Mrs. Crenson's mind seemed to wander often these days.
He had the dream again-and this time he realized that it was again-and this was the first time that he remembered it: The apprehension was reminiscent of his feelings on the day of his last return home from school. He was walking down what seemed an empty twilit street. Something stirred behind him and he turned and looked back. People were emerging from doorways, windows, automobiles, manholes, and all of them were staring at him, moving toward him. He continued on his way and there came something like a collective sigh at his back. When he looked again they were all hurrying after him in a menacing fashion, expressions of hatred on their faces. He began to run, with a certainty that they intended his destruction. They pursued him…
When he awoke he was hideous, and he had no special powers. He was hairless, snouted, and covered with graygreen scales; his fingers were elongated and possessed of extra joints, his eyes yellow and slitted; he developed pains in his thighs and lower back if he stood upright for too long. It was far easier to go about his room on all fours. When he exclaimed aloud over his condition there was a pronounced sibilance to his speech.
It was early evening, and he heard voices from downstairs. He opened the door and called out, and Claudia and Carl both hurried to his room. He opened the door the barest crack and remained behind it.
"Croyd! Are you all right?" Carl asked.
"Yes and no," he hissed. "I'll be okay. Right now I'm starving. Bring me food. Lots of it."
"What's the matter?" Claudia asked. "Why won't you come out?"
"Later! Talk later. Food nowl"
He refused to leave his room or to let his family see him. They brought him food, magazines, newspapers. He listened to the radio and paced, quadrupedally. This time, sleep was something to be courted rather than feared. He lay back on the bed, hoping it would come soon. But it was denied him for the better part of a week.
The next time he woke he found himself slightly over six feet tall, dark-haired, slim, and not unpleasantly featured. He was as strong as he had been on earlier occasions, but after a while he concluded that he possessed no special powers-until he slipped on the stair in his rush to the kitchen and saved himself by levitating.
Later, he noticed a note in Claudia's handwriting, tacked to his door. It gave a phone number and told him he could reach Bentley there. He put it in his wallet. He'd another call to make first.
Dr. Tachyon looked up at him and smiled faintly. "It could be worse," he said.
Croyd was almost amused at the judgment. "How?" he asked.
"Well, you could have drawn a joker."
"Just what did I draw, sir?"
"Yours is one of the most interesting cases I've seen so far. In all of the others it's simply run its course and either killed the person or changed him-for better or worse. With you well, the nearest analogy is an earth disease called malaria. The virus you harbor seems to reinfect you periodically."
"I drew a joker once…"
"Yes, and it could happen again. But unlike anyone else to whom it's happened, all you have to do is wait. You can sleep it off."
"I don't ever want to be a monster again. Is there some way you could change just that much of it?"
"I'm afraid not. It's part of your total syndrome. I can only go after the whole thing."
"And the odds against a cure are three or four to one?"
"Who told you that?"
"A joker named Bentley. He looked sort of like a dog."
"Bentley was one of my successes. He's back to normal now. Just left here fairly recently, in fact."
"Really! It's good to know that someone made it." Tachyon looked away.
"Yes, he answered, a moment later. "Tell me something.
"What?"
"If I only change when I sleep, then I could put off a change by staying awake right?"
"I see what you mean. Yes, a stimulant would put it off a bit. If you feel it coming on while you're out somewhere, the caffeine in a couple of cups of coffee would probably hold it off long enough for you to get back home."
"Isn't there something stronger? Something that would put it off for a longer time?"
"Yes, there are powerful stimulants-amphetamines, for example. But they can be dangerous if you take too many or take them for too long."
"In what ways are they dangerous?"
"Nervousness, irritability, combativeness. Later on" a toxic psychosis, with delusions, hallucinations, paranoia. "Crazy?"
"Yes."
"Well, you could just stop them if it gets near that point, couldn't you?"
"I don't believe it's that easy."
"I'd hate to be a monster again, or- You didn't say it, but isn't it possible that I could just die during one of the comas?"
"There is that possibility. It's a nasty virus. But you've come through several attacks now, which leads me to believe that your body knows what it is doing. I wouldn't worry myself unduly on that…"
"It's the joker part that really bothers me."
"That is a possibility you simply have to live with."
"All right. Thank you, Doctor."
"I wish you would come to Mt. Sinai the next time you feel it coming on. I'd really like to observe the process in you."