Something clicked again, and the adult Id settled into control of the youthful body. T. Arthur Johnson looked out on the situation confronting Timmy Johnson and came to a decision. It was not the decision the boy had—would—make of his own volition. But, then, the adult Johnson had one important advantage over his juvenile counterpart—he knew the certain and distasteful consequences of the boy's activities.
"Well?" demanded Danny. "Get with it, kid. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to tell Mr. Arkins—unless you let me watch too!"
"How's your hand?" asked Cavendish, as he unsnapped the electrodes.
"Hand?" Johnson looked at first one then the other. "What about my hand?"
Cavendish looked, then shook his head, puzzled. "That's funny. Now where did I get the idea that something was wrong with your hand?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Johnson, getting up and stretching. He felt tired, more tired than he could remember having been in a long time. The feeling had become alien to the desk-bound man, but it was simply physical exhaustion. He yawned. "How about a drink?"
"Of course." He retreated to the little bar and came back with a generous slug in the usual water tumbler. Johnson tossed it off, sighed, and wiped his mouth.
"Well?" demanded Cavendish.