He turned west at the first opportunity and left the area as quickly as possible. After about ten minutes the itching waned. Within a half-hour it had vanished completely. His hands and face felt as if they were chapped, however.
At about four in the morning he stopped in an all-night diner off Times Square, where he ate slowly and steadily and read a copy of Time magazine which someone had left in a booth. It's medical section contained an article on suicide among jokers, which depressed him considerably. The quotations it contained reminded him of things he had heard said by many people with whom he was acquainted, causing him to wonder whether any of them were among the interviewees. He understood the feelings too well, though he could not share them fully, knowing that no matter what he drew he would always be dealt a new wild card the next time aroundand that more often than not it was an ace.
All of his joints creaked when he rose, and he felt a sharp pain between his shoulder blades. His feet felt swollen, also. He returned home before daybreak, feeling feverish. In the bathroom, he soaked a washcloth to hold against his forehead. He noted in the mirror that his face seemed swollen. He sat in the easy chair in his bedroom until he heard Carl and Claudia moving about. When he rose to join them for breakfast his limbs felt leaden, and his joints creaked again as he descended the stairway.
Claudia, slim and blond, embraced him when he entered the kitchen. Then she studied his new face.
"You look tired, Croyd," she said.
"Don't say that," he responded. "I can't get tired this soon. It's two days till your wedding, and I'm going to make it."
"You can rest without sleeping, though, can't you?" He nodded.
"Then, take it easy. I know it must be hard… Come on, let's eat."
As they were sipping their coffee, Carl asked, "You want to come into the office with me, see the setup I've got now?"
"Another time," Croyd answered. "I've got some errands."
"Sure. Maybe tomorrow"
"Maybe so."
Carl left shortly after that. Claudia refilled Croyd's cup. "We hardly see you anymore," she said.
"Yeah. Well, you know how it is. I sleep-sometimes months. When I wake up I'm not always real pretty. Other times, I have to hustle to pay the bills."
"We've appreciated it," she said. "It's hard to understand. You're the baby, but you look like a grown man. You act like one. You didn't get your full share of being a kid."
He smiled.
"So what are you-an old lady? Here you are just seventeen, and you're getting married."
She smiled back.
"He's a nice guy, Croyd. I know we're going to be happy."
"Good. I hope so. Listen, if you ever want to reach me I'm going to give you the name of a place where you can leave a message. I can't always be prompt, though."
"I understand. What is it that you do, anyway?"
"I've been in and out of a lot of different businesses. Right now I'm between jobs. I'm taking it easy this time, for your wedding. What's he like, anyhow?"
"Oh, very respectable and proper. Went to Princeton. Was a captain in the Army."
"Europe? The Pacific?"
"Washington."
"Oh. Well-connected." She nodded.
"Old family," she said.
"Well… Good," he said. "You know I wish you happiness."
She rose and embraced him again. "I've missed you," she said.
"Me, too."
"I've got errands to run, too, now. I'll see you later."
"Yes."
"You take it easy today."
When she left he stretched his arms as far as they would go, trying to relieve the ache in his shoulders. His shirt tore down the back as he did this. He looked in the hall mirror. His shoulders were wider today than they had been yesterday. In fact, his entire body looked wider, huskier. He returned to his room and stripped. Most of his torso was covered with a red rash. Just looking at it made him want to scratch, but he restrained himself. Instead, he filled the bathtub and soaked in it for a long while. The water level had lowered itself visibly by the time he got out. When he studied himself in the bathroom mirror he seemed even larger. Could he have absorbed some of the water through his skin? At any rate, the inflammation seemed to have vanished, though his skin was still rough in those areas where it had been prominent.
He dressed himself in clothing he had left from an earlier time when he had been larger. Then he went out and rode the subways to the clothing store he had visited the previous day.
There, he re-outfitted himself completely and rode back, feeling vaguely nauseous as the car jounced and swayed. He noted that his hands looked dry and rough. When he rubbed them, flakes of dead skin fell off like dandruff.
After he left the subway he walked on until he came to the Sarzannos' apartment building. The woman who opened the door was not Joe's mother, Rose, however.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I'm looking for Joe Sarzanno," he said.
"Nobody here by that name. Must be someone who moved out before we moved in."
"So you wouldn't know where they went?"
"No. Ask the manager. Maybe he knows." She closed the door.
He tried the manager's apartment, but there was no answer. So he made his way home, feeling heavy and bloated. The second time that he yawned he was abruptly fearful. It seemed too soon to be going back to sleep. This transformation was more puzzling than usual.
He put a fresh pot of coffee on the stove and paced while he waited for it to percolate. While there was no certainty that he would awaken with a special power on each occasion, the one thing that had been constant was change. He thought back over all of the changes he had undergone since he had been infected. This was the only one where he had seemed neither joker nor ace, but normal. Still…
When the coffee was ready, he sat down with a cup and became aware that he had been scratching his right thigh, halfconsciously. He rubbed his hands together and more dry skin flaked off. He considered his increased girth. He thought of all the little twinges and creaks, of the fatigue. It was obvious that he was not completely normal this time, but as to what his abnormality actually constituted, he was uncertain. Could Dr. Tachyon help him? he wondered. Or at least give him some idea as to what was going on?
He called the number that he had committed to memory. A woman with a cheerful voice told him that Tachyon was out but would be back that afternoon. She took Croyd's name, seemed to recognize it, and told him to come in at three. He finished the pot of coffee; the itching had increased steadily all over his body as he sat drinking the final cup. He went upstairs and ran the water in the bathtub again. While the tub was filling he undressed and studied his body. All of his skin now had the dry, flaky appearance of his hands. Wherever he brushed himself a small flurry occurred.
He soaked for a long while. The warmth and the wetness felt good. After a time he leaned back and closed his eyes. Very good…
He sat up with a start. He had begun dozing. He had almost drifted off to sleep just then. He seized the washcloth and began rubbing himself vigorously, not only to remove all of the detritus. When he had finished he toweled himself briskly as the tub drained, then rushed to his room. He located the pills at the back of a clothing drawer and took two of them. Whatever games his body was playing, sleep was very much his enemy now.
He returned to the bathroom, cleaned the tub, dressed. It would feel good to stretch out on his bed for a time. To rest, as Claudia had suggested. But he knew that he couldn't.
Tachyon took a blood sample and fed it to his machine. On his first attempt, the needle had only gone in a short distance and stopped. The third needle, backed with considerable force, penetrated a subdermal layer of resistance and the blood was drawn.
While awaiting the machine's findings, Tachyon conducted a gross examination.