He had depended on the test to get him out of a jam, but the stratagem had failed. If he had passed, he'd have been another experienced pilot for the _Interplanet_ string and that meant something. Experienced men were valuable and I. P. would have gone to bat for him. Not everyone could pass the test and, while it didn't prove that the man who did was one hundred per cent sane, it was a big argument in that direction. It was evidence that would have to be respected publicly, whatever private doubts a psychotherapist might have. Unwittingly, he had provided additional ammunition against himself. When the results of the test sifted through the layers of red tape to the front office, _Interplanet_ would contact the hospital, which would then really want to orient him to a frazzle. Orientation sounded nice but it was not for Merrol. If they could orient everyone he would come in contact with as well--but how much insulation could a man build up against involuntary laughter? It was fine to be a comedian on the screen and then step out of character and relax--but what if you couldn't stop? Nobody could adjust to the constant expectation of hysterical mirth. But wasn't that a reason to undergo psychotherapy, so they could blunt the edges of his own reactions? It ought to be, but somehow it wasn't. He didn't dare submit. There was a difference, apparently determined by sex, in the way people behaved toward him. No man had thus far done more than smile respectfully while he was near. What they did later, he could guess. Face to face, they seemed to be reserved and incredulous until they learned to accept him as a member of their species and sex and then--how _did_ they act? It would take more than casual thinking to puzzle _that_ out. Women saw the big joke instantly and giggled, and he couldn't blame them. Seconds later, they smirked contritely and tried to touch him, as if contact could atone for their behavior. _They_ noticed appearance at all times, whereas men didn't as a rule of their own sex. He paused to re-examine his thoughts. Something seemed to be missing in his analysis. What it was, he couldn't tell. It would have to come out later, as he mingled more with people--if he ever did. * * * * * And that wasn't all. He had been a pilot, but never would be one again. His skill had been destroyed by the intrusion of five other personalities, who each brought his own odd bit of useless knowledge to the whole Merrol. He should have expected it, but he hadn't, nor had the doctors. It was obvious--the brain slices that had replaced his own damaged tissues had to be in healthy condition or they'd never have functioned properly--and what did those medical fools think was the function of any brain? He was in command of the group brain because his was the dominant fraction, but when he sat down and thought about it, what good did it do? He was sitting down and it didn't do any good, so he got up.