The jacket he had worn last night didn't fit. Erica cut off the sleeve that hung far over his fingertips on one side and basted it to the sleeve that ended well above his wrist, on the other. The shoulders were narrow, but the material would stretch and after shrugging around in it, he managed to expand it so it was not too tight. The trousers were also a problem--six inches short with no material to add on, but here again Erica proved equal to the task and, using the cuffs, contrived to lengthen them. Shoes were another difficulty. For one foot the size was not bad, but he could almost step out of the other shoe. When she wasn't looking, he wadded up a spare sock and stuffed it in the toe. He looked critically at himself in the mirror. Dressed, his total effect was better than he had dared hope it would be. True, he did look _different_. Erica gazed at him with melancholy affection. "I can't understand why they let you out wearing those clothes--or for that matter, why they let you out at all." He must have given some explanation as he'd stumbled through the door. What was it? "When I brought the clothes yesterday, they told me I couldn't see you for a day or so," she mused aloud. "It was the first time you'd been out of the regrowth tank--where no one could see you--and they didn't know the clothes wouldn't fit. You were covered with a sheet, sleeping, I think. They let me peek in and I could make out a corner of your face." It was the clothes, plus the brief glimpse of his face, which had made her think she recognized him when he came in. "They told me you'd have to have psychotherapy and I'd have to have orientation before I could see you. That's why I was so surprised when you rang the bell." His head was churning with ideas, trying to sort them out. Part of last night was dim, part sharp and satisfying. "What's Wysocki's theorem?" she asked. "_Whose_ theorem?" "Wysocki's. I started to call the hospital and you wouldn't let me, because of the theorem. You said you'd explain it this morning." She glanced at the bruise on her arm. It was then he'd grabbed her, to keep her from talking to the hospital. He'd been unnecessarily rough, but that could be ascribed to lack of coordination. She could have been terrified, might have resisted--but she hadn't. At that time, she must have half-believed he was Dan Merrol, still dangerously near the edges of post-regrowth shock. * * * * *