Frescura took the folder from her. Talbot knew what was coming but curiously it relieved him. At least Randy wasn’t responsible. “You can leave now,” Frescura said sharply to her. Talbot knew she would continue to listen outside the door, and was glad he would not have to see her face. “His right hand was badly burned,” Frescura was saying. “New skin was grafted on. We can’t prove anything from that.” “Fingerprints?” said Taft. “It’s an old method of identification, but I’ve often wondered why it has fallen into disrepute.” “Because of the prevalence of skin grafts,” said Frescura. “But for certain purposes it’s still the most accurate method.” He smiled. “It’s in the hospital record that his left hand wasn’t burned. No skin was grafted on. The prints on that hand will show us who he really is.” He shook the folder at Talbot. “This man signed an authorization shortly before you came. When I heard what he said to you my suspicions were confirmed. I sent Randy down to plant protection for a comparison of prints. Here are the results.” He opened the folder, and looked at the three typed pages within. He stood there motionless, staring in consternation until the papers slid out and fluttered to the floor. His face was ashen. He reached out for support and lowered himself into a chair. “What does it say?” said Taft impatiently. “My God, what’s happening around this place anyway?” He scooped up the papers and read them silently. He passed them over to Talbot. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly sorry. I should never have had even the slightest doubt about you.” Talbot’s sight blurred as he read the comment from plant protection: “Comparison of prints with those in our file reveals that Evan Soleri signed this authorization. The left hand prints match perfectly. The right hand indicates a skin graft from which no identification can be made.” Empathy had saved him. It had collapsed the difference between one person and another to nothing--zero. It had changed more than his face to match the subject identity. To the tips of his fingers he was now Soleri. The change hadn’t been made all at once; perhaps it had taken a week to reach completion. But here he was, safely Soleri--or trapped in the other identity. For the moment he preferred to think of it as safety. “There are other tests,” he said to Frescura. “I’ll take them all, including the empathy index.” Frescura stirred dully. “It will be zero point ninety-five,” he said. “Don’t bait him,” said Taft sharply. “He made a mistake, granted. He accused you unjustly. But you must remember that you attacked a project he has devoted his life to. He’s emotionally upset. What he did was understandable.” Frescura’s eyes roamed across the ceiling. “I couldn’t let you stop me,” he whispered.