He was a good six inches taller than he ought to be. But there must be some explanation for the added height. He glanced down at his legs. They were the same length from hip bone to the soles of his feet, but the proportions differed from one side to the other. His knees didn't match. _Be-dum, be-dum, be-dumdum, but your knees don't match_--the snatch of an ancient song floated through his head. Quickly, he scanned himself. It was the same elsewhere. The upper right arm was massive, too big for the shoulder it merged with. And the forearm, while long, was slender. He blinked and looked again. While they were patching him up, did they really think he needed black, red and brown hair? He wondered how a beagle felt. * * * * * What were they, a bunch of humorists? Did they, for comic effect, piece together a body out of bits and scraps left over from a chopping block? It was himself he was looking at, otherwise he'd say the results were neither hideous nor horrible, but merely--well, what? Ludicrous and laughable--and there were complications in that too. Who wants to be an involuntary clown, a physical buffoon that Mother Nature hadn't duplicated since Man began? He felt the stubble on his face with his left hand--he _thought_ it was his left hand--at least it was on that side. The emerging whiskers didn't feel like anything he remembered. Wait a minute--was it _his_ memory? He leaned against the wall and nearly fell down. The length of that arm was unexpectedly different. He hobbled over to a chair and sat down, staring miserably at Erica as she began dressing. There was quite a contrast between the loveliness of her body and the circus comedy of his own. "Difficult, isn't it?" she said, tugging her bra together and closing the last snap, which took considerable effort. She was a small girl generally, though not around the chest. It was difficult and in addition to his physique there were the memories he couldn't account for. Come to think of it, he must have been awfully busy to have so many careers in such a short time--_and_ all those wives too. Erica came close and leaned comfortingly against him, but he wasn't comforted. "I waited till I was sure. I didn't want to upset you." He wasn't as sure as she seemed to be now. Somehow, maybe he was still Dan Merrol--but he wasn't going to insist on it--not after looking at himself. Not after trying to sort out those damned memories. She was too kind, pretending to be a little attracted to him, to the scrambled face, to the mismatched lumps and limbs and shapes that, stretching the term, currently formed his body. It was clear what he had to do. * * * * *