WILFRED G. MINTON, M.D.
He rattled the knob. When he found the door locked, he let out an adult oath. It was Sunday, of course. Dr. Minton wouldn't be in on Sunday. And Ron had never known his home address.
He returned to the elevator and went to the ground floor. There was an information booth, and the woman behind the glass was a motherly type. Her eyes softened at his approach.
"Dr. Minton?" she said, lifting an eyebrow. "Why, I guess I do have his address. But who sent you, young man?"
"Nobody," Ron said. "I was supposed to see him, that's all."
She kept her eyes on his face while her hand leafed through the directory on her desk. "Of course, Dr. Minton doesn't use his office anymore. He gave up his practice here almost a year ago. He was put on an important government project. Dr. Jurgens, his assistant, handles all his patients now. Would you like Dr. Jurgens' number?"
"No," Ron said. "Please. I must see Dr. Minton."
"All right. But I don't know if you can see him without an appointment. He's staying at the Government Medical Center in Washington." She smiled. "That's a long way for a little boy...."
"Thank you," Ron said curtly, and walked off.
His mind was racing, tripping over his thoughts. A year ago! But that was impossible! It seemed only days since he had returned from Andromeda, after a five-year absence. One of his first visits had been to Dr. Minton's office—not just to renew an old friendship, but to allow the physician to examine him thoroughly for traces of the varied and deadly diseases that man was subject to on alien worlds. Could it have been a whole year ago? Where had he spent the time between? And what had happened to give him the body of a twelve-year-old child?