_THE IMPERSONATOR_ By ROBERT WICKS _First he had to know what he was, then who he was and why he was--but who was relying on the answers?_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He opened his eyes. He couldn't remember having ever seen humans before, but he recognized them instantly. Nor could he remember having seen anything before, yet he felt a warm familiarity with all that fell into view--the light panels set flush with the ceiling, the gleaming laboratory paraphernalia erected around the table on which he lay, electronic scanners probing his mind with invisible beams--but, most of all, the two men in white lab coats bending over him. "Clench your fingers," ordered the shorter of the two humans. Muscles tightened. Fingers clenched. "Blink your eyes." A quick reflex action. The taller man leaned closer. "What is your name?" Something tripped deep inside. "Paul Chandler." The tall man smiled, but somehow the smile never reached his eyes. "Occupation?" Again something tripped. "Geophysicist." "And your specialty?" "Glaciology." "Your present assignment?" "I have been appointed by the President of the World Council to head up Project Ice Thaw." "Which is?" "A program of weather control to combat the extensive glaciation threatening to plunge the Earth into another ice age. We meet next month in New San Francisco to get final approval on a plan of action." "And if the project fails?" asked the tall man. "Catastrophe." "Clench your fingers," said the shorter man. Chandler could feel the energy pulse from his brain to his fingers. "Blink your eyes." He did so. "Sit up." Stiffly he obeyed. "What manner of creature are you?" asked the tall man. Something whirred deep in the recesses of Chandler's mind. "A man," he said at last. But he knew he was not. The tall man depressed a series of buttons on a master control panel. There was a rushing in Chandler's ears, a blurring before his eyes. The voice of the shorter man floated across a gray void. "Clench your fingers," it said. "Blink your eyes." The odd sensation passed and Paul Chandler found himself looking into the eyes of Marta Neilson. She half stood at the far end of the conference table. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked. "Just a moment's dizziness," he said, "It's gone now." Marta, partially reassured, sat down again. * * * * * As Chandler poured himself a glass of water, he studied her clean features as he would a mathematical problem in topology. Add in her blue eyes and white skin, subtract her hair pulled back in a severe bun and her lack of makeup, and she approached the Swedish ideal of beauty.