"How's the patient?" she asked. Behind her briskness he thought he could detect a flicker of concern.
"You can take back that skin you gave me," he said. "It itches."
She frowned. "I told you it was very new. We aren't able to anticipate all the reactions." She paused. "However, it shouldn't itch. By now it ought to be well integrated with your body and new cell growth should be occurring with the synthetic substance as the matrix."
"Thanks," he said dryly. "That doesn't explain how I feel."
Unperturbed, she looked down at a desk he could imagine, but could not see. She got up and walked out of the field of vision. She was gone for quite some time.
A disturbing thought formed in his mind. Was she calling elsewhere for instructions? There was no reason why she should, yet the thought persisted.
She came back. "Get a detergent. What kind doesn't matter. Put it in the autobath and take a hot bath, plenty of lather. Soak in it for at least fifteen minutes."
Her prescription was primitive in the extreme. Did she really expect it to be effective, or did she have something else in mind?
"Do you think I'm going to trust myself to that machine?" he said. "I've got myself a little enamel basin. Had to steal it out of a museum."