She laughed softly. "They don't," she said. "Medical science can do many things, George, but they can't really build a body."
But you said—
"They can grow one to order, almost. You know what cancer is, don't you?"
Yes.
"Well, the doctors here use what they sometimes call 'controlled cancer'—to grow the human body. That way, they can do in months what it takes Nature years to accomplish."
George puzzled over this for a moment. If he had had eyebrows, there would have been a frown on his face. If he had a face.
You mean—some other human being gives up his brain to make room for me?
"No, George. It doesn't have a brain. It's just a body, with a small lump at the top of the spinal cord that controls the muscles." Her voice was patient, yet urgent. He had to understand. "You see," she continued, "because of the enormous rate of growth of the rest of the body, the brain—or the mind—doesn't have a chance to develop. The body has no personality—no being of its own. It's your body, George. Yours alone."
He was silent for a long time, thinking. Considering the possibilities of a new body. It'll be mine, he told himself, all mine. To taste and hear and feel and smell. To get cold, or warm—to sweat! To walk, to swim, to touch her hand—to see her—to see Karen! To see Karen, who is just a voice; to take her dancing! How soon can I be in this body?
"It'll be six months, anyway, George." Her voice seemed to be saying, "Please be patient," just by the tone of it.