BRAINCHILD
BY HENRY SLESAR
Ron definitely didn't like what
had happened. But who can blame him?
How would you like to wake and find
your body had been switched for a child's?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, April 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ron Carver's day was beginning strangely.
For one thing, the legs he swung off the narrow bed wouldn't touch the floor. And his hands, whose ten strong fingers could manipulate the controls of any ship ever launched into space, were weak and clumsy.
He looked at the hands first, looked at them for a long time. Then he screamed.
He screamed until footsteps were loud in the corridor outside his room; shrill, piping screams that didn't stop even when the giant woman-face was bending over him, speaking gentle, soothing words, stroking his thin shoulders with giant, comforting gestures.