"Do I get some kind of a guarantee on their health? I mean, what if ... if I should pick one of them with an incurable disease or something?" Although he asked this very practical question, Horner still hardly expected to go through with anything as incredible as switching bodies with one of the young men on the other side of the glass partition. After all, he told himself for the tenth time, such things just weren't possible. This was either an elaborate joke or an elaborate dream. He decided--hopefully--that it was the latter. He recalled that the doctor had given him reserprine to calm his nerves recently, and the doctor had told him that one of the side effects of reserprine was an abundance of nightmare. "That's it," he said. "Reserprine." "What did you say?" the girl asked him, an amused look on her face. "Er, I said, that one's fine," Horner blurted, pointing at random at one of the men on the other side of the glass partition. "Good," the girl said. "Then everything is ready." She touched a section of the wall and the dazzling glass sheet abruptly went opaque. This lasted for some five seconds, then the wall became transparent again. * * * * * All but one of the men had disappeared. Horner assumed it was the individual he had singled out quite at random. "Now really ..." he began. "Look at me," the girl said. That was easy. She was beautiful. Her eyes grew very large. Incredibly large. They filled her entire head. They filled the room. They were two enormous blue pits. Horner jumped into both of them just before he fell into a deep hypnotic sleep. * * * * * His hands were raw and bleeding. His first thought was that the guards would know something was wrong when they saw his hands. He was down on his knees in foul-smelling dirt, but his head scraped the low ceiling. He was digging mechanically with his bare hands. He had had a shovel, but it had been lost in a slight cave-in. "Hey, Lonnie!" a harsh whispering voice called. "Stop dreaming, for cryin' out loud. If we don't do it tonight, we'll never get another chance. Forbish is out." "What do you mean he's out?" called back Horner, whose name now seemed to be Lonnie. "You know what I mean. Out. Another cell-block. Forbish got a mouth like the Holland Tunnel. What I mean, if he ain't here to cash in on the deal, he's gonna spill it. And fast. How you comin'?" "I'm digging," Horner responded. "I'm digging ... and digging." He was doing that, all right. The work should have been tremendously tiring, should have exhausted Hugh Horner in his run-down forty-seven-year-old body. But he found it almost exhilarating. He looked at his hands. Dirty hands, and bloody. But large--larger than they should have been. Horner had had small hands, almost delicate hands. He dug and dug, thinking. Either it was another reserprine dream--or he wasn't Hugh Horner.