Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net 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 the floor. And his hands, whose ten strong fingers could manipulate the controls 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 he screamed. He screamed until footsteps were loud in the corridor outside his room; shrill, piping screams that didn't stop even when the giant woman-face was bending over him, speaking gentle, soothing words, stroking his thin 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 was before his face, in her gargantuan features, in her motherly touch on his frail body, in the sight of the small, soft appendages that were his hands. They were the hands of a boy of twelve. And Ron Carver was thirty years old. Two men giants joined the woman at his bedside, and one of them forced a small speckled capsule past his resisting lips. Then his viewpoint became detached and distant, and a pleasurable drowsiness overcame him. He stretched out and shut his eyes, but he could still hear the worried tones of their speech. "Dr. Minton warned us," one of the men said, lifting Ron's bony wrist and feeling for the pulse. "The boy has suffered some severe traumatic shock..." Dr. Minton! Ron Carver's mind grasped the familiar name--the name of his own physician--gratefully. But his body gave no sign. "Maybe we better call him," the woman said nervously. "I think he's still in the sick bay." "Good idea." In another moment, a familiar hairy face was floating over Ron's head like 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 balloon came closer, and the scraggly ends of the doctor's beard brushed his cheek. Then the doctor's mouth was covering his small ear. "Play the game," the doctor whispered. "For your own sake. Play the game, Ron..." Then he was asleep. * * * * *