"It's still me," Doc answered.
Others gathered around as we paused to talk.
"How do you feel, Doctor?" asked an elderly woman. And when he replied, "Fine!" she said, "Think of it! I'm glad!"
There was even a pooch, who began with a prolonged sniffing at Doc, which progressed to a puzzled yelp, a wrinkling of brow above soulful and humorous brown eyes, then a licking of his hand, and a caper. In my mind the thought sprouted that a dog could become android, too.
"Wouldn't the word be 'canoid?'" Jan teased, knowing me well enough to be sometimes almost clairvoyant.
"Ah, the language struggles to keep up with progress!" a bookish youth commented lightly.
One of two small boys with their father fumbled with my fingers. "Aw, it feels just like anybody's hand, Mister," he growled, disappointed.
"That's a case of mistaken identity, young fella," I pointed out. "I am anybody—yet."
Irma Tandray Lanvin took his grubby mitt, and laughed. "Is that the same, Joey?" she questioned. "It shouldn't be, but I'll bet it is."
The kid looked as if his leg was being pulled.