Ron dropped the PF to earth as soon as his eyes spotted the first sign of a settled community. He landed the small machine in the shadow of a hillside, and dragged it into the thick underbrush for concealment. Then he trekked to the main highway, until he reached a road sign that informed him of his location. He was in a town called Spring Harbor, just fifteen miles outside of the city. He looked down at the waxy newness of his gray Roverwood coverall, and wondered if it was a familiar uniform to the residents. But he had to take the chance. He covered the cloth with dust, and rolled up the trouser legs almost to his knees. Then he broke off a long branch from a sapling and used it as a walking stick. Casually, he strolled into the town proper.
The pose worked. Some people on the porches looked after him with mild curiosity, but no one stopped him. Then he paused at a gas station, and asked the owner of the automatic pump if there was transportation available to the city.
The owner scratched his face and looked at the boy curiously. Ron told a plausible story about being separated from a scouting group, and the man seemed satisfied. He had a pick-up copter going into the city at ten o'clock; he invited Ron to wait inside his house, and even served him a sandwich.
The copter pilot, a genial red-faced man, asked him some gentle questions. Ron answered them guardedly, and told him that his destination was Fordham Terrace. The copter dropped him on the rooftop of the massive office building, and the pilot left with a friendly wave of his hand.
When he was gone, Ron rolled down his trouser legs, brushed his uniform clean, and descended to the fourteenth floor of the building. He walked rapidly along the corridors until he came to the door marked:
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?
He fought off the questions. He had no time for the puzzle now; there weren't enough pieces to make sense. He had only one thought: to find the doctor.
But that was a major problem all by itself. Washington was a good hour away by fast copter service. And in this big, suspicious city, it wouldn't be as easy to obtain free transport to his destination. He could do nothing—not without money.
When he thought of money, he thought of Adrian.
Adrian....
Of course! Adrian would know what to do next. Adrian always seemed to know what to do. Her father's money had opened every conceivable door in this city, and she herself had often suggested that it open doors for him. Doors to the executive heights of the Space Transport Company. Doors to the plush offices in the sky tower, doors to the select circle of cigar-smoking men who controlled the transportation empire of which Ron had been only a spare part. But Ron Carver had been young (he thought now, sourly) and his head had been stuffed with ideals. He detested the groundworms who stayed home and counted the profits of space travel. He wanted the stars.
So he had become a pilot, one of the best in her father's fleet. She had sworn at him for his decision, and turned away from his embrace. But on the night of their parting, the night before the dawn ascent towards the speck of light that was Andromeda, she had softened, and cried in his arms.
He thought now of that moment, and his small fingers rolled into fists.
Adrian, he thought. I must go to her....
The doorman was magnificent and imposing in his braided uniform, but his eyes were cold when he saw Ron.
"What do you want, son?"
"I—I have a message for Miss Walder. It's very important."
"Okay, son. You just give your message to me."
"No! I'm supposed to deliver it in person!"
The doorman grunted. "Wait a minute." He put in a call to the penthouse apartment. The idea of a twelve-year-old visitor must have amused the girl. He brought back an invitation for Ron to enter her home.
Ron stepped off the elevator, and his stomach was churning. What would she say when she saw him? Would she believe his story? Would she help him find an answer?
Adrian came to the door herself, and the amusement was evident on her long, smoothly-planed face. Her auburn hair was swept back in Grecian ringlets, and the gown she wore was blindingly white. "Come in, dear," she said, smiling.
The effect of looking up at the girl, now a sort of giantess in his eyes, made Ron dizzy. He swayed against the doorframe, and her cool fingers steadied him.
"You poor boy," she crooned. "Come inside."
She half-carried him to the downy sofa. For a full minute, he was too choked to speak. She offered him a glass of milk, but he asked for water. She brought some to him, and he coughed.
"Now," the girl said, spreading the wide skirt over her knees, "just what was it you wanted to tell me?"
"I—"
"Come now." She smiled endearingly, and brushed back the hair from his forehead. "You must have had something on your mind."
"Yes," he said at last, his voice strained. "Yes, Adrian. I—I'm Ron...."
"What?"
"I'm Ron Carver! No, listen, I'm not mad. It's really me, Ron!"
She had stood up, shocked. Then she laughed.
"Adrian, listen to me! Something happened to me when I returned from Andromeda. I don't know what. I found myself at a boy's home near Spring Harbor."
"Now, really! This is the craziest—"
"I know it's crazy!" He wiped his forehead in an adult gesture. "But it's true, Adrian. I've been—changed somehow. I don't know why. But it's something to do with Dr. Minton."
She sat down again, limply. Then she studied his face, and for a moment, Ron thought she was seriously considering his predicament. But then the laugh started again, the same slightly off-key laugh Ron remembered.
"Adrian, you must believe me! I can prove it! Just listen to me for a moment!"
She stopped the laugh and grew serious, her eyes caught by the intensity of his own. "All right," she whispered. "I'll listen...."
"My name is Ronald Carver. I'm thirty years old. I'm a Captain of the Walder Space Transport Company. I have been in the Andromeda system for the past five years. I returned to Earth—" he stopped, and swallowed hard. "I don't know exactly when. I went to see Dr. Minton, an old friend and a physician. He examined me, and then—"
She stared, fascinated.
"And then I was a child! A child of twelve, in a home for boys. I ran away from there this morning, and came looking for Dr. Minton. I've been told that he's in Washington. I must get to him. I must find out what's happened to me—"
She was shaking her head, slowly, eyes still fixed on his face. He got up from the sofa and came towards her. His small hand reached out and patted the fine bones of hers.
"You must remember," he said. "You must believe me, Adrian. Remember our last night together? Right here? We stood by that window, and you cried in my arms. And then we...."
She tore her hand away, as if burned. Then she stood up, looking horrified.
"Get out of here!" she shrieked. "You little monster!"
"Adrian—" Only now did he realize what it must have been like to her, to hear those words from his childish lips, to feel the touch of his tiny hand as he spoke of the night they....
"Get out!" she cried, covering her face. "Get out before I call the police!"
"Adrian!"
She screamed, piercingly. This time, the sound brought heavy foot-side clumping outside her front door. It was thrown open, and a uniformed man with bouncing epaulets was striding towards him.
"No," Ron said. "You must listen—"
"Get him out of here!"
"Sure, Miss Walder!"
He struggled in the big man's grip, while the girl turned her head aside. He managed to squirm from his hold, and broke for the door. The houseman started after him, cursing. Ron's hand went out and grasped a solid metal ash tray. He threw it without thought or aim, but it crashed squarely into the man's face and sent him thudding to the carpet.
Adrian screamed again. He looked at her once more, imploringly. Then he ran for the door, just before she reached for the house telephone.
In the elevator cage, he punched the button marked roof, and fell against the wall, panting.
On the rooftop, he galloped across the metallic surface towards the ledge. He peered over it, and his heart sank when he saw that his stratagem had deceived no one. Police were entering the building, and some were pointing fingers in his direction. With a sigh, he dropped to his knees and rested his head against the cool aluminum surface.
"It's no use," he said aloud.
Then he heard the copter overhead.
He looked up, thinking it was a police vehicle. But then he saw the outmoded design of its fuselage, and the young face at the controls.
It hovered over his head, and a rope ladder unfolded. The youthful pilot said: "Quick! Climb in!"
He blinked at the voice, unbelievingly. Then he scrambled to his feet, and grabbed the dangling ladder. He barely made it into the copter; the pilot had to help.
"Who are you?" he said, gasping.
The boy laughed. "I hate cops, too."
Then they were in the air, and speeding towards the west.