"Tell me, _who_ am I?"
She stared at him. "You're Dave Hanson."
"The hell I am," he told her. "Oh, that's what I remember my father
having me christened as. He hated long names. But take a good look at
me. I've been shaving my face for years now, and I should know it.
_That_ face in the mirror wasn't it! There's a resemblance. But a darned
faint one. Change the chin, lengthen my nose, make the eyes brown
instead of blue, and it might be me. But Dave Hanson's at least five
inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter, too. Maybe the face is plastic
surgery after the accident--but this isn't even my body."
The girl's expression softened. "I'm sorry, Dave Hanson," she said
gently. "We should have thought to warn you. You were a difficult
conjuration--and even the easier ones often go wrong these days. We did
our best, though it may be that the auspices were too strong on the
soma. I'm sorry if you don't like the way you look. But there's nothing
we can do about it now."
Hanson opened the door again, in spite of Nema's quick frown, and looked
at himself. "Well," he admitted, "I guess it could be worse. In fact, I
guess it was worse--once I get used to looking like this, I think I'll
get to like it. But seeing it was a heck of a thing to take for a sick
man."
Nema said sharply, "Are you sick?"
"Well--I guess not."
"Then why say you are? You shouldn't be; I told you we've entered the
House of Sagittarius now.
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