The mists cleared quickly now, and the voices formed words. He recognized Martha Rice's voice. "--anoxia. I can't determine how severe. Have to wait and see. He may be all right when he gets over the headache. Then again there may be permanent brain damage." Duncan hurt too much to care. He passed out again. When he regained consciousness he realized the pressure was reduced, for his lungs were pumping hard again. Then the coffin clanked apart, the sides dropped and he was trying to focus on the ring of female faces that surrounded him. "Hiya, Mister?" Martha's face settled down to a recognizable fuzz-ball. His head was clear now, but his throat was too tight to consider speaking. He stared back blankly. The physician shook her head, misunderstanding his failure to respond. A nurse rigged an intravenous bottle, and they left him to his thoughts. He slept again, restlessly this time. He dreamed of the accident, the wrench floating with terrible slowness toward Porter. Abruptly, he was back on earth. His mother was rubbing his neck and shoulders. Her hands were soft and reassuring. They kneaded down over his pectoral muscles and massaged his whole chest. But how did his mother know his chest hurt. You don't hurt your chest playing tennis. But this chest did hurt, and the firm, supple hands brought it warmth and life. His mother understood-- His eyes flipped open, and he stared into the inverted face of a nurse, stubby blonde curls bobbing crazily as her body swayed over him. "He's up," she said aloud. Dr. Martha Rice moved into view. "I'll take over. Save yourself for tonight, Muriel. It's getting rougher." The physician's hands replaced the nurse's, but the gentle, rhythmic touch was the same. Duncan relaxed in an orgy of tactile ecstasy. "You are Peter Duncan. Do you understand?" she asked. He blinked, and she took that for affirmation. "In fact," she continued, "you are now Hero Peter Duncan." This didn't register right. Hero? They must have saved Porter's life, but they didn't realize how it happened. And now she was misconstruing his puzzled expression. "I am Dr. Martha Rice. Remember me?" All Duncan could think of now was the hands. _Loving hands._ What was the right answer? If he answered wrong the hands would stop. He closed his eyes. _Loving hands._ He remembered his mission. How could he have better arranged it? This was ideal. By feigning slow recovery he could-- The hands stopped. A finger peeled back an eyelid. "You are awake. Come to, mister!" Duncan opened the other eye and stared at her and let his lips part. "Thuh!" he grunted. * * * * * It was night. Duncan was detached from the intravenous needle and tube, and a small compress bandage covered the throbbing vein where his blood had boiled out when the needle was withdrawn. He had decided to reveal enough recovery to take oral nourishment.