THE IMPERSONATOR
By ROBERT WICKS
First he had to know what he was,
then who he was and why he was—but
who was relying on the answers?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He opened his eyes. He couldn't remember having ever seen humansbefore, but he recognized them instantly. Nor could he remember havingseen anything before, yet he felt a warm familiarity with all that fellinto view—the light panels set flush with the ceiling, the gleaminglaboratory paraphernalia erected around the table on which he lay,electronic scanners probing his mind with invisible beams—but, most ofall, the two men in white lab coats bending over him.
"Clench your fingers," ordered the shorter of the two humans.
Muscles tightened. Fingers clenched.
"Blink your eyes."
A quick reflex action.
The taller man leaned closer. "What is your name?"
Something tripped deep inside. "Paul Chandler."
The tall man smiled, but somehow the smile never reached his eyes."Occupation?"
Again something tripped. "Geophysicist."
"And your specialty?"
"Glaciology."
"Your present assignment?"
"I have been appointed by the President of the World Council to head upProject Ice Thaw."
"Which is?"
"A program of weather control to combat the extensive glaciationthreatening to plunge the Earth into another ice age. We meet nextmonth in New San Francisco to get final approval on a plan of action."
"And if the project fails?" asked the tall man.
"Catastrophe."
"Clench your fingers," said the shorter man.
Chandler could feel the energy pulse from his brain to his fingers.
"Blink your eyes."
He did so.
"Sit up."
Stiffly he obeyed.
"What manner of creature are you?" asked the tall man.
Something whirred deep in the recesses of Chandler's mind. "A man," hesaid at last. But he knew he was not.
The tall man depressed a series of buttons on a master control panel.There was a rushing in Chandler's ears, a blurring before his eyes.
The voice of the shorter man floated across a gray void.
"Clench your fingers," it said. "Blink your eyes."
The odd sensation passed and Paul Chandler found himself lookinginto the eyes of Marta Neilson. She half stood at the far end of theconference table.
"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked.
"Just a moment's dizziness," he said, "It's gone now."
Marta, partially reassured, sat down again.
As Chandler poured himself a glass of water, he studied her cleanfeatures as he would a mathematical problem in topology. Add in herblue eyes and white skin, subtract her hair pulled back in a severe bunand her lack of makeup, and she approached the Swedish ideal of beauty.
Her natural magnetism and physical attractions had always stirred anemotion in Chandler, but, strangely enough, not now. She smiled and,automatically, he returned the smile.
"Mr. Chairman." The delegate from Canada frowned at Chandler. "We'vedebated the problem of causes for nearly two hours and seem to havereached an impasse."
A lean Britisher pushed his chair back. "If you were to solicit myopinion, I'd say we'd reached an impasse before we entered this room."
A stocky Russian with weathered features shot a glance at theEnglishman. "Was that rema