And I was looking up at myself leaning over me, and the other I was saying in my voice, "Listen, I'm Margie Ames, and I'm curious to know who is in my body."
"I'm Bill," I said. "What in the—"
"Bill!" she cut in. "Where were you? This Mr. O'Graeme (he's over in Senator Weems right now) was explaining what happened and we took a roll-call and you weren't around."
I closed my eyes (or Margie's eyes) again. I should have had it by then, but I was still confused. Coming down the hallway, O'Graeme had told me that four or five drops of the fluid, in water, would cause "partial dissociation of personality." More than that would make it complete. And Mr. Ames had dropped the whole vial into the mermaid tank!
"It's temporary," Margie said. "We change around every few minutes or so and it'll all come out right when the stuff wears off, but—"
I was looking down at my—temporary—shapely arms and bare shoulders, and I started to chuckle. Suddenly—possibly it was the realization that whatever was happening was temporary—I began to see the humor of the situation. It isn't funny unexpectedly to find oneself in the body of a goldfish. But it had been a rare experience—and I'd almost kissed a mermaid!
I said, "This is a beautiful dress we have on, Margie."
She blushed and stamped her big foot on my dainty little open-toed slipper. "Bill!" she wailed. "How could you? You of all people! It isn't decent! It—it's—"
And then the funny side of it struck her too, and we were both laughing like a couple of lunatics. I saw she was waving my arms around in glee. I sobered up a moment, and warned, "Be careful of that watch-candid on your—my—wrist. It set me back a hundred credits."