BRAINCHILD
BY HENRY SLESAR
Ron definitely didn't like what
had happened. But who can blame him?
How would you like to wake and find
your body had been switched for a child's?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, April 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ron Carver's day was beginning strangely.
For one thing, the legs he swung off the narrow bed wouldn't touch thefloor. And his hands, whose ten strong fingers could manipulate thecontrols of any ship ever launched into space, were weak and clumsy.
He looked at the hands first, looked at them for a long time. Then hescreamed.
He screamed until footsteps were loud in the corridor outside his room;shrill, piping screams that didn't stop even when the giant woman-facewas bending over him, speaking gentle, soothing words, stroking histhin shoulders with giant, comforting gestures.
"There, there, now," the woman was saying. "You're all right, Ronnie.You're all right. It was only a nightmare... a bad old nightmare...."
She was right. Only the nightmare hadn't ended. The nightmare wasbefore his face, in her gargantuan features, in her motherly touch onhis frail body, in the sight of the small, soft appendages that werehis hands.
They were the hands of a boy of twelve. And Ron Carver was thirty yearsold.
Two men giants joined the woman at his bedside, and one of them forceda small speckled capsule past his resisting lips. Then his viewpointbecame detached and distant, and a pleasurable drowsiness overcame him.He stretched out and shut his eyes, but he could still hear the worriedtones of their speech.
"Dr. Minton warned us," one of the men said, lifting Ron's bony wristand feeling for the pulse. "The boy has suffered some severe traumaticshock..."
Dr. Minton! Ron Carver's mind grasped the familiar name—the name ofhis own physician—gratefully. But his body gave no sign.
"Maybe we better call him," the woman said nervously. "I think he'sstill in the sick bay."
"Good idea."
In another moment, a familiar hairy face was floating over Ron's headlike a captive balloon, a face grown grotesque in size.
"Doctor..." he said with his lips.
"There." Dr. Minton patted his shoulder. "You're all right now, Ronnie.You're perfectly all right. Just relax and try to sleep." The ballooncame closer, and the scraggly ends of the doctor's beard brushed hischeek. Then the doctor's mouth was covering his small ear.
"Play the game," the doctor whispered. "For your own sake. Play thegame, Ron..."
Then he was asleep.
He awoke to the sound of running feet. He sat up in bed and lookedtowards the door of the small white room in which he was confined. Itwas partly open, and the sound of clattering soles and shrill youngvoices came through clearly.
The door slammed open, startling him. A hoydenish youngster gaped athim. There was a flat lock of reddish hair over his forehead, and hisface was freckled.
"Hoy," he said. "What's the matter with you?"
Ron stared back wordlessly.
"You sick or something?" the boy said, edging into the room.
"No." His own voice, strange and reedy, frightened him. "No, I'm allright."
"Andy!" A tall man with a frowning face appeared behind the boy. "Comeon, fella. Let's not waste any time." He looked at Ron. "You the newchap?"
"Yes."
"Feel well en