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Cover design by Oleg Volk ©

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ISBN 0 7552 0266

Authors OnLine Ltd

19 The Cinques

Gamlingay, Sandy

Bedfordshire SG19 3NU

England

This book is also available in e-book format, details of which are available at

www.authorsonline.co.uk

Anthony G Williams is a military technology historian. He is the author of

'Rapid Fire: The Development of Automatic Cannon, Heavy Machine Guns

and their Ammunition for Armies, Navies and Air Forces', and the co-author

of 'Assault Rifle: the Development of the Modern Military Rifle and its

Ammunition' (with Maxim Popenker) and the three-volume series 'Flying

Guns: Development of Aircraft Guns, Ammunition and Installations' (with

Emmanuel Gustin).

'Scales' is his second novel. His first was 'The Foresight War', set in an

alternative Second World War, which is also published by Authors OnLine.

He maintains a website at:

http://www.quarry.nildram.co.uk

Oleg Volk, who produced the cover design, is a photographer and graphic

designer. His website is at:

http://www.olegvolk.net/

iii

PROLOGUE

A story has to start somewhere. When the story is autobiographical,

the logical place to start is with birth. Except that to understand the

context, the reader may need to learn about parents, even grandparents;

was the subject born into wealth or poverty, privilege or obscurity? My

case is rather different in that this story starts, in explosion and fire,

when I was already past my forty-fifth birthday.

Picture the scene: a flat, fenland landscape typical of East Anglia.

The endless farmland stretching to the horizon, dissected by the ruler-

straight dykes and smaller drainage ditches planned by the Dutch when

this part of England was reclaimed from marshland centuries before.

The fields beginning to turn green with the first leaves of the vegetable

crops; later, they would be full of potatoes and sugar beet, carrots and

cabbage. Overhead, a vast open sky just dimming into dusk, a few

wispy clouds high above still glowing in the sun. A straggle of red-

brick houses along each side of a straight, narrow road running well

above a land sunken by drainage. A white-painted pub, red Bateman's

sign swaying slightly in the breeze. At one end of the small village, a

house a little detached from the rest, three stories tall but shallow from

front to back, set in a square plot bordered by tall poplars to screen the

cold north wind, a few remaining daffodils nodding over the lawn. A

late spring scene of rural tranquillity, disturbed only by birdsong.

Inside the house a man is sitting in his study. He is approaching a

sedentary middle age and casually dressed, the study furnished in a

comfortably old-fashioned style, with several packed wooden

bookcases and worn chairs. In complete contrast is the latest style of

portable computer which the man is using to finish an article.

The arguments in favour of Intelligent Design have

therefore been systematically countered by scientists such

as Dr. Miller. More fundamentally, the principles

underlying it have been attacked as unscientific. The

scientific method is an objective process which depends

upon observation and analysis. The proposition that life

was designed by some superior intelligence, intervening

in an undetectable way, is the very antithesis of science.

It explains nothing, and cannot even explain itself.

Despite this, and the devastating verdict of the judge at

the Dover school board trial, the religious basis for ID

means that its true believers will not be shaken. They

continue to press for it to be taught as an 'alternative

theory' in schools both in the USA and the UK. Those

who care about the integrity of science need to remain on

their guard.

He reviewed the final paragraph, saved it, and made a back-up copy.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He would email the

article to a journal in the morning; not one of the science ones, of

course – their subscribers would already be familiar with the issues –

but one aimed at a more general readership.

In the meantime, he deserved his usual small celebration after

completing a project. He contemplated a glass of wine before deciding

in favour of the grain rather than the grape, as he planned to walk to the

pub for his evening meal and a jar or two of ale with the regulars. He

went to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of Straffe Hendrik from the

fridge. The strong Bruges beer poured pale yellow and frothy into its

wide-mouthed glass. The man walked into the lounge, selected his

favourite Dave Brubeck LP, and settled in his old leather armchair to

enjoy the combined pleasures of mellow jazz and fine ale.

He was just beginning to relax when he became aware of a rising

tension in the room, like a strong electrical field. Puzzled, he turned to

look around the room. At that instant, his world came to an end.

The explosion sent tiles flying from the roof and bricks spilling

outwards. The blaze followed immediately, flames roaring through the

wreckage. Sounds of alarm, of dogs barking; doors opening and

villagers rushing to the scene, only to be held back by the ferocity of

the fire. A blackened, charred, figure, crawling from the ruins. The man

heard gasps of horror and cries of concern from the villagers: 'For

God's sake, call an ambulance!' Then silence, darkness and oblivion.

BOOK 1 – THE SCALED MAN

For a long time, all was dark. All I was conscious of were the smells

and sounds which marked out my location as a hospital, the occasional

murmurs of voices, sounding concerned and grave. And pain. The pain

was universal, inside and out, and at a level which I had never before

experienced or even imagined possible. Every now and then the pain

receded for a while and I drifted into a hazy sleep, only to be woken

again as the pain slowly regaining its ground. I did not know whether it

was night or day; the pain cycle determined my timescale. I thought of

nothing, remembered nothing, not even who I was.

An indeterminate period of time passed, a relentless cycle of more

pain, less pain. An odd little monorhyme started running through my

mind, as if on an endless loop:

Too much pain

Fries the brain

Let cocaine

Take the strain

I had no idea whether I had remembered this, or just invented it.

Eventually, at a time when the pain had woken me but had not yet

become unbearable, I heard the scrape of a chair and a louder voice,

clearly directed at me:

'Well, good morning! And congratulations – I must say you have

astonished us all!' The man's voice had the underlying strain of one

who is trying to sound cheerful while feeling exactly the opposite. 'Are

you able to talk?'

A direct question, requiring a response. My mental cogs slowly

turned, grinding with rust. I found I could open my mouth, but only a

croak emerged when I tried to speak.

'Let me give you something to drink; it might ease your throat.'

I felt my head lifted, something bumping against my mouth, then

cool pleasure slipping down my throat. I swallowed greedily. A second

attempt, barely audible: 'Yes.'

'Good! Do you remember what happened to you?'

I thought back, but could only remember pain. 'No.'

'It seems that there was a fire at your home. You have been badly

burned, but you're going to be alright now.'

A major effort to construct a sentence: 'Why can't I see?'

'Your eyes are covered at the moment. We're hoping to put that right

in a few days.'

I thought about that. 'Will I be able to see?'

'Well, we won't know for certain until it happens. But we're hopeful,

as you seem to be making a remarkable recovery.' Definitely hope

rather than expectation, it was clear.

The pain, momentarily held back by the distraction of conversation,

returned with a vengeance after the doctor had left. Another voice, with

a soft, feminine lilt which a random flicker of memory vaguely

associated with a place called West Africa, intruded on my suffering.

'Bad again is it? Would you like some relief?'

All I could manage was a hoarse croak, which she evidently

interpreted correctly. I heard her fiddling with something by the bed,

felt the soft wash of oblivion spreading through my body, and slept.

For several pain cycles, the pattern remained the same. Each time I

woke I would hear the soft voice as she tended me, encouraging and

comforting. My frozen imagination began to melt, focusing on her,

wondering what she looked like. Sometimes there were deeper male

voices murmuring in the background, sounding puzzled, even excited.

They seemed to be intensely debating something; I was afraid that it

was probably me. I grew stronger and the general pain reduced, leaving

some specific areas of agony behind, like a flood slowly revealing the

landscape as it recedes. One of those areas was my mouth; my gums

screamed with the pain of universal toothache.

'What's the matter with my teeth?'

A hesitation, before the soft voice replied. 'It's really quite

astonishing; you seem to be growing new ones.'

'New ones?'

'Yes, they're pushing your old teeth out. You lucky man, I wish I had

a new set of teeth; I'd take better care of them this time!'

I thought about that. I'd never heard of such a thing as growing new

teeth, although I remembered from somewhere that scientists had been

talking about using stem cells to grow new teeth – in a few decades'

time. 'What's happened to me?'

'You were burned, all over. One hundred percent, first degree burns.

It's amazing really, most people don't survive even when partially

burned as badly as you were, and no-one thought you would last the

hour when you were brought in. But look at you now, getting better

every day!'

'I can't look at me now.'

'You'll be able to soon, I'm sure. The doctor wants to open your eyes

tomorrow.'

'Open my eyes?' I was puzzled at the curious phrase. 'You mean, take

the bandages off?'

'Something like that, yes.' She sounded hesitant. 'Your eyes have a

protective cover at the moment.'

Tomorrow came, and obediently brought the doctor, who I learned

was a burns specialist called Brian. I realised for the first time that I

always knew when he was there, and whether others were with him. I

had no time to puzzle over this before he spoke, his voice showing the

usual mixture of heartiness and strain.

'Before we begin, there are some things I need to explain to you. As

you know, you suffered severe and extensive burns. When you first

arrived we didn't expect you to survive for more than a day. However,

you confounded all of us. Your skin formed some kind of thick

protective layer, all over, like a kind of giant scab – I've never seen

anything like it before. We've left it alone so far, but it's beginning to

break up and there are indications that it may be ready to peel off,

particularly over your face. Your eyes have been glued shut by the

protective layer, but given these promising signs and your return to

consciousness we think this means that we can now clear this layer out

of the way.'

I began to understand the tension in his voice and felt my anxiety

growing to match his. While I wasn't an expert on medical science I

was reasonably well up on current developments, but had never heard

about anything like this before.

Gentle hands held my head and I felt picking and rubbing sensations

over my eyes. Sudden cold struck my eyelids as the fresh air hit them.

There was a puzzled murmur, sounding rather shocked.

'Can you open your eyes?'

A definite sound of strain in the voice: something was wrong. With

great reluctance, I forced my eyes to open. Light flared into my head,

glaring and painful. I barely registered the gasps from the small group

clustered around my bed. There was a long silence. I concentrated on

the light, gradually made out the shape of heads looming over me. One

of them spoke.

'Can you see?' The strain was close to breaking point.

I looked at the speaker, whose features slowly swam into focus. An

apprehensive face, something like panic in his expression.

'Yes. What's the matter?'

'What colour were your eyes?'

Were? I thought about that. 'Brown, more or less.'

'Well, they aren't now. Bring a mirror, please nurse.' One of the

heads disappeared, returned with a circular mirror which was held in

front of my face. I looked at the face, an unrecognisable mask

completely covered with dark scabs except for the holes for my nostrils

and mouth, and my eyes. I looked at those eyes in disbelief, felt my

hold on reality slipping. Around the black pupil, the iris and the white

sclera had merged into one. And it was all a vivid gold. They were

alien eyes, nothing to do with me.

'Then there's your eyelids.' His voice was shaking. I slowly closed

one eye. The skin of the lid was a gleaming, greenish purple. And

covered with fine scales, like a lizard's.

I was sedated for most of the next few days, remembering only the

occasional appearance of the nurse, anxiety visible in her warm brown

face. After a while, I recovered enough of my sanity to begin thinking

again. 'What's your name?'

She turned and looked at me. 'Zara. Are you feeling better?'

'As well as can be expected. Musn't grumble.'

She giggled suddenly, a flash of white teeth. 'I'll tell the doctor. He

wants to talk to you.'

'I'll bet he does, but not just yet – bring me the mirror, please.'

She duly obliged, and I looked again at that scabbed face, the alien

eyes. I felt my hold on reality slipping again and dragged my mind

back with a furious effort of will. There was no point in kidding myself,

this was real and it was happening to me. A part of my mind went away

into a corner, gibbering quietly.

My skin itched suddenly, so I rubbed at my face. The surface shifted,

and I rubbed some more. Part of the scabs started to come away. I put

the mirror down and rubbed harder with both hands, suddenly anxious

to know the worst. The scabs peeled off my face and my hands, and I

heard Zara gasp. I rubbed until I could feel no more of the hard, crusty

scabs, then I picked up the mirror again, took a deep breath, and

looked.

This time I could tell there was quite a crowd of them before they

entered the private room I had been put in. My doctor, Brian the ginger-

haired burns specialist, eyes worried behind their thick-rimmed glasses,

was accompanied by heavier firepower in the form of several older,

dark-suited figures, all covered by the obligatory white coats. They all

stared at me in fascinated silence as I continued to rub at my body,

shedding the thick layer of scabs as if I was clearing off a dried, allover

mudpack.

It was the same all over my body; the healing was complete, the skin

intact. But it was all in various shades of greenish purple, and all

covered with scales. They varied in size, being small and fine on the

palms of my hand and my face, almost disappearing on my fingertips

and lips, larger over my body. I rolled over, with some help, and Zara

got to work on my back, tentatively at first, then rubbing vigorously.

She revealed a shallow crest of scales running up my spine and over the

top of my bare scalp. When she had finished, I realised that I had no

hair, anywhere. I rubbed my hand over my chest. The fingers seemed

quite sensitive, the scales on my chest surprisingly smooth. My nipples

had disappeared, somewhere.

'How are you feeling?' One of the grey-suits spoke.

I thought about it. I realised suddenly that the pain had gone, leaving

behind only a feeling of weakness, muscles itching from lack of

exercise. I turned to the mirror and opened my mouth. A new set of

teeth gleamed confidently back at me. They seemed normal enough, no

extra-long canines. The inside of my mouth was even pink.

'Very well, thank you. Considering.'

He coughed. 'Yes, well. Do you have any idea what happened to

you?'

'Do you know who you are?' A second suit added intensely.

I thought some more. My memory had been returning in fits and

starts, as if a flashlight were being shone around a dusty attic. I began

slowly. 'I'm beginning to remember. My name is Matthew Cade

Johnson. I write, I think. About science, yes. Popular articles and

books, that sort of thing. I live in a village, in the Fens, in my parents'

old house.'

'By yourself?'

'Yes, for some months.' Since Ros had left me, I recalled, a city girl

bored with life in the empty countryside.

'What happened to you?'

'I have no idea. I understand there was a fire, but I don't remember

anything about that.'

'It was more than just a fire. Your house blew up. There's nothing left

but rubble.'

I sat up with difficulty, Zara helping with an arm around my back,

then turned and looked out of the window. The room was light and airy,

with large windows giving views of a nearby clump of silver birch.

Their leaves were turning brown. Brown?

'How long have I been here?'

'Almost six months. You've been in a coma until recently.'

While I absorbed that, another suit coughed. 'The police want to

interview you about the fire, when you're ready.'

I grinned wryly at him, conscious of the bizarre impression I must

make, an alien nightmare come to life. 'Oh, I suppose I'm ready; do you

think they are?'

Looking back, I am impressed with the speed of my recovery, and

even more by the calm acceptance that I seemed to feel. By rights I

should have been losing my mind, crazed with horror at what had

happened to me, but I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if it was all

happening to someone else and I was merely an interested observer.

How and why it had happened was a problem my mind was still only

prepared to skirt around, cautiously.

The muscular itch became a burning need to exercise, fuelled by an

equally burning hunger. But not for just any food; the first solid meal

presented to me – a traditional hospital meat and two veg – made me

feel sick just to smell it and I could not bring myself to pick up the

knife and fork. Puzzled, Zara went hunting for alternative foods, and

came back with a selection. After some experimentation, I discovered

that I could eat only fresh fruit and raw nuts. I was even more appalled

to find that I could drink only water: alcohol was definitely out.

My one remaining consolation from my former life was jazz. After a

remote tussle with my bank – I could hardly turn up in person to prove

my identity – I got access to my account. Zara managed to secure an

internet-linked computer for me, plus an MP3 player, and I spent hours

downloading and listening to as much as I could. I went through all the

classics like a voyage of rediscovery, and have the shades of Bix

Beiderbecke, Duke Ellington and many others to thank for my

continued sanity.

The itch in my muscles refused to go away. I cajoled Zara into

arranging some exercise equipment in my room, and pounded it with

ever-increasing energy and determination. As I seemed to need little

sleep, I exercised a lot and my wasted muscles gradually filled out. One

day, I complained to Zara that a machine had broken. She looked at it

in puzzlement, then returned with some complicated device of springs

and levers, and asked me to push and pull it in various ways, as hard as

I could, while she took measurements. I obliged, banging the grips

against their stops until the metal frame bent. She looked at it in silence

for a moment. 'Do me a favour will you? Just be careful how you

handle things. And especially people.'

Handling people. Now there was an interesting problem. After they

had recovered from the initial shock of my appearance, it was evident

that the hospital hierarchy was flummoxed about how to handle me, or

to be precise how to handle others dealing with me. To their credit, they

were primarily concerned with my welfare, most anxious to delay

subjecting me to the kind of attention which would inevitably occur as

soon as news of this weird changeling leaked out.

For the police interview (which achieved as little as I expected), I

was dressed in an all-covering robe, my face was wrapped in bandages

and I was given dark glasses to wear.

Access to my room was severely restricted, those in the know sworn

to silence. Brian, usually accompanied by other doctors, came to see

me on most days to check on my progress. I had the impression that he

was rather proud of me; his private freak show, brought out to amaze

trusted visitors. But inevitably, rumours spread. Zara had become my

friend as well as my nurse, my link to the outside world, filling me in

with the human details of life in the hospital to supplement the

impersonality of the news media, which were frequently filled with the

usual gloom about impending environmental disasters.

'The word going round is that there's a monster in this room. So I've

been telling them that you're just horribly deformed by the fire, and

desperate not to be looked at.'

'Close enough.'

'Not really. You know, you're quite beautiful, in a strange sort of

way.'

I looked at her in astonishment. 'Zara, you've been doing this job far

too long. It's seriously distorting your judgement.'

She laughed, and went out of the room to return a few minutes later

wheeling a full-length mirror. 'Just look at yourself!'

I looked. As usual, I was wearing only shorts; my new skin seemed

oblivious to outside temperatures and I felt comfortable however cold

or hot it became. I saw a figure from the cover of a fantasy paperback,

gold eyes glaring from a rugged, scaled face, the low crest prominent

over my scalp. My body was lean but powerfully muscled, very

different from the rather flabby middle age I had been sliding into in

consequence of an over-fondness for food and alcohol and a general

avoidance of exercise. My skin was in fact not all the same colour; it

was more greenish over my chest, and a darker purple on my back.

When I moved it shone, iridescent in the light. As I looked at it, the

colour seemed to shift. Puzzled, I concentrated on it and heard Zara

gasp. My chest slowly changed from greenish purple to pure green.

More concentration, and it shaded into red. After a few seconds, I got

the hang of it and was able to shift up and down the spectrum, changing

colour at will. More effort enabled me to produce crude patterns of

varied colours across my body.

Zara laughed. 'A chameleon! Is there no end to your talents?'

'Probably not. By the way, you should see a dentist – that toothache

won't go away by itself.'

She looked at me strangely. 'How do you know about that? I haven't

told anyone.'

I shrugged. 'The same way that I know when you're close, that I

know when the doctor is coming, and who's coming with him. I just

pick it up, somehow.'

She looked thoughtful and went away. Shortly afterwards, the usual

"Consultation" of doctors and other specialists arrived, trailing behind

Brian like a comet's tail, and eager as always to try new tests and take

new measurements while they tried to work out what had happened to

me and what I had become. They had examined and X-rayed my new

teeth (flawless), measured the performance of my new eyes

(considerably improved in all respects: I no longer needed the glasses I

had recently had to start wearing), assessed my strength (very

impressive) and speed of reaction (even more so). I had a suspicion that

several articles for the medical journals plus a couple of doctoral theses

were being worked on. I did my chameleon trick to excited murmurs,

concluding with plans for yet more tests.

I gathered that they were now in something of a dilemma, prizing

their exclusive access to such an oddity while recognising that there

was no medical reason to keep me in hospital any longer. Sooner or

later, I would have to face the public. However, they first wanted to pin

down this sensitivity to people which I claimed to have. They ran some

tests, hovering outside the door in various combinations while I

identified who was there. They were fascinated by my claimed ability

to detect when something was wrong with someone, and debated how

to test that. After a while, they conceived a plan to take me secretly

around a children's ward in the middle of the night, when they would

all be asleep.

I walked around with my little posse, scarcely needing to pause as I

passed the end of each bed. I was initially uncertain how to link what I

sensed with the medical terms for their ailments, so described the

symptoms for the doctors to translate, murmured voices in

counterpoint.

'Something badly inflamed, down in the digestive tract below the

stomach.'

'Appendicitis; being operated on tomorrow.'

'Something feels wrong with the blood; it seems to be connected with

the bones – something not working properly.'

'Leukaemia; awaiting a bone marrow transplant.'

'Part of the brain is damaged, it's affecting the use of some of the

muscles.'

'Cerebral palsy.'

As we approached one bed, a small girl moaned; I sensed she was

awake. I walked closer to her head, relying on the dim night lighting to

hide my appearance. Her eyes were closed.

'Massive headache, affecting much of the brain.'

'She suffers from frequent and severe migraine attacks; she's in for

observation.'

I bent over her head, sensing the strain within her nervous system,

the agony she was feeling. I instinctively reached out a hand and placed

it on her head. The flow of nervous energy was clear to me, the

pressure points glaring as if red-hot. I focused on these, absorbing their

details, willing them to cool while rerouting the flow to release the

pressure. The moans quietened and she relaxed into sleep.

'What did you do?' An urgent whisper.

I shrugged. 'Just untied some knots.'

The tests became even more frantic, the doctors suddenly realising

that I was more than a medical curiosity; I had become a major asset.

My ward tours became nightly, I learned which symptoms were

associated with which ailment and was soon able to diagnose with

precision. I also learned which problems I could help with; they were

essentially ones of the nervous system. I discovered that I could stop

pain instantly, relax patients and send them to sleep at a touch. I could

cure tinnitus (easily), epilepsy (with some effort), and a host of minor

afflictions. There was little I could do about most diseases or physical

injuries, but I could usually ameliorate the symptoms and speed the

recovery. The hospital authorities were overjoyed – I was enabling

them to comprehensively shatter their government targets for patient

turnover.

Eventually the inevitable happened; one elderly lady (sciatica)

awoke before I could reach her, took one look and screamed and

screamed.

'There will have to be a press conference.' The hospital manager, a

plump, bald man with a perpetual and probably justified air of carrying

more than the usual weight of care on his shoulders, was glum but

resigned. A crisis meeting was being held in the conference room. The

Consultation nodded in agreement, with varying degrees of enthusiasm

depending, I suspected, on how ready their articles were for

publication. He turned to me. 'Is there anyone you want to warn first?'

I had thought about this before. 'No. I have a kind of brother, but we

haven't spoken in years.'

'A kind of brother?'

'We were adopted as babies by the same couple, but we're not blood

relatives.'

'Very well then, the sooner we get it over with, the better.'

I'm not sure exactly what the hospital manager said to the news

media (or whether Mrs Sciatica's relatives had alerted them first), but

they were there in force on the appointed morning, packing the lecture

theatre amid a buzz of excited speculation. Television lights glared,

technicians frantically gaffer-taped cables to the floor, microphones

were tested amid much crackling and feedback whine, the table on the

dais had been covered with a cloth onto which some alert PR man had

imprinted the name of the hospital trust. Eventually all was ready. I

watched from the sidelines, out of sight of the press.

The hospital manager said a few words of introduction, announcing

an important development in his ability to help patients and

commendably working in the name of his hospital three times in five

sentences. All wasted effort; from my experience with news editors,

they would cut that bit out. Then the HM introduced Brian, who gave a

dry but gruesome description of what had happened to me in the fire,

illustrated by some photographs which I had not seen before. Even a

few of the less-hardened hacks gasped at the sight; I was totally

unrecognisable, just the charred form of a man. He went on to describe

my miraculous recovery from what should have been certain death, and

the strange transformation which took place under my all-over scabs.

The photos (discreetly edited in the interests of decency) caused a

murmur of astonishment and speculation around the audience.

Attention became even more rapt when he described my sensitivity to

people and their afflictions, and my ability to heal some of them. He

paused for a few moments, the press so stunned that it took at least

three seconds before they dived into the gap and started a clamour of

questions. He forestalled them with raised hands. 'I'd now like to

introduce Cade to you.' He turned to face me and beckoned.

Zara, who was watching from just behind me, had decided to take

over responsibility for my clothing and had put much effort into my

appearance.

'You can't go in there just wearing shorts. And you'd look silly in

conventional clothes. My sister is doing a course in textiles and fashion,

I'll work on something with her.'

"Something" turned out to be a sleeveless tee-shirt with a deep veeneck,

in an open weave cloth of a metallic grey material. Loose jogging

pants in a similar cloth were complemented by silver-grey trainers: I

looked like nothing so much as one of the aliens from an episode of

Star Trek. Zara gave me an encouraging little push and I realised that I

had been hanging back, dreading this moment. I took a deep breath,

squared my shoulders and marched to the dais to a stunned silence from

the press. I sat down between the HM and Brian, and smiled. 'Good

morning', I said. Then all hell broke loose.

After a while, the HM managed to establish some sort of order and

an agreed sequence for questioning. The first hack stood up. 'Cade, I

don't wish to be rude but you really don't look human. How can you

prove you are who you say you are, and aren't some alien from outer

space?' There was nervous laughter from his colleagues.

I smiled. 'An understandable question. All I can say is that my

memories of before the fire are intact, comprehensive and accurate. The

only thing I can't remember is the explosion and fire itself.'

The HM leaned forwards. 'We did, of course, have some initial

doubts about this ourselves, but after draining Cade's memory of all he

could recall we checked it out exhaustively and were able to confirm

the accuracy of his account. We also did some DNA tests and I can

assure you that he is no alien.' I hadn't known about that bit.

The next part of the press conference was predictable. I did my

chameleon trick and answered some learned questions from science

journalists, one of whom I recognised from my previous life.

'Hello Stephen, good to see you again.'

He smiled rather thinly. 'I'm relieved that you recognise me. But I

used to call you Matthew. Should I now call you Cade?'

I shrugged. 'I used to use my first and last names, but so much has

happened that to some extent I don't feel the same person that I used to

be, so I prefer to use my middle name now.'

Stephen continued. 'What explanation do you have for what has

happened to you?'

This was the key question and I could sense interest rising to an even

higher pitch. 'Obviously, I've thought about it a lot, and identified some

theoretical possibilities. Maybe it's natural; perhaps I'm some earlier or

alternative form of humanity and the stress of the fire switched on some

dormant genes. But there's no evidence that such a form ever existed,

and nothing like that has ever happened before. It could be a new

mutation brought on by the fire, but it's very hard to believe so many

changes happening at once, all of them functional; mutations don't

happen like that. So it seems more likely to be artificial; some scientists

somewhere might have been playing with genetic modifications to

people, and I somehow got involved. But the science of genetics is

decades if not centuries short of being able to achieve this.' I spread my

arms wide, then smiled. 'Perhaps I have been got at by little green men

in flying saucers.' There was nervous laughter. 'But I don't believe in

earth visitations by such creatures for very good reasons, as I've

emphasised in articles I've written before.'

'Perhaps they're getting their own back,' came a voice from the back,

to general laughter.

I smiled wryly, 'Perhaps, but I don't believe so. So I've thought of

these four possible reasons, none of which I think is feasible. I believe

it was Sherlock Holmes who said something like "eliminate the

impossible, then whatever you are left with, however unlikely, must be

the truth". The problem is that as far as I'm concerned, they're all

impossible, so I've just parked the problem until I have more evidence.

If any of you have better ideas, please let me know.'

Next came a series of rather trivial questions, the press groping for

themes and possible headlines. An example: 'Does your skin sweat?'

'No. In fact, apart from hygiene considerations I hardly need to wash;

just a dust and polish every now and then.'

Then came a hackette from one of the less elevated tabloids: 'You

say that you can direct someone else's nervous system, so you can

switch off pain. And presumably switch it on?'

I nodded cautiously, not sure where she was leading. Radio

journalists anxiously gestured for me to reply verbally. 'That's right.'

'So you can do the same for pleasure, too?'

'I expect so.'

'Could you give us a demonstration?'

I smiled. 'Are you volunteering?'

'Certainly!' She stepped forward promptly, and I had to admire the

way she had engineered her moment in the limelight. She was young

and attractive, and clearly ambitious. I stood up as she approached, and

after a bit of shuffling at the pleading of the cameramen, we were

standing side by side.

'Give me your hand.'

She complied promptly, curiously feeling my scaly skin. 'It's much

smoother and softer than it looks.'

'Now I'm going to fool your nervous system. First, that it's cold.'

She gasped and shivered.

'Now that it's hot.'

'Wow!'

'Now it feels wet, and now it feels dry.'

She gave an amazed laugh. 'How do you do that?'

'Now you've got pins sticking in'

'Ouch!'

'Now you've got toothache.'

'Pleeease…'

'And this should make up for it.' I carelessly triggered the pleasure

centre in her brain, something I'd not tried before. The effect was

electric. She gave a loud, gasping cry and slumped against me, head

back, mouth slack, eyes staring and pupils dilated. I hastily held her to

prevent her collapse, and turned off the pleasure. She came around with

a shuddering gasp, unsteadily regained her feet, then visibly collected

herself, looking down and nervously tidying her hair, as her colleagues

watched in a rather embarrassed silence.

'I...I…' She took a deep breath, 'you are right,' she managed faintly,

'you've proved your point.' She walked shakily back to her seat.

The only other interesting question came at the end. 'Cade, how does

it feel to be you, compared with the way you felt before the accident?

Are you sorry or pleased that it happened?'

I thought about that for a moment, and responded slowly. 'It's hard to

say. At first, I was horrified of course. If I hadn't been sedated for some

time I don't know what I would have done. But I seemed to get used to

it surprisingly quickly. They tried providing me with counsellors, but

that didn't help – the counsellors needed counselling themselves after

they'd seen me.' I paused for the laughter to die down. 'Now my

feelings are much less clear. There are many things that I miss.

Everyday pleasures like a pint of ale in my local, and of course above

all the anonymity of ordinary life, the freedom to go where I wish

without anyone noticing. But there are some positive sides to my

situation as well. As a science journalist, I'm obviously as fascinated as

anyone else by what's happened to me. I have to say that I feel better

than I have for years, if not decades; healthy, fit and strong. And above

all, I'm able to help people in a unique way. That counts for a lot.'

We all sat in the hospital's conference room that evening, flipping

between the news broadcasts on the radio and TV. For once, the world

had not been afflicted with too many disasters or political scandals that

day so there was extensive coverage of my press conference, but the

networks were clearly nervous and uncertain how to play the item,

afraid it might be a complex hoax. Some took it seriously, but covered

themselves against future ridicule with lots of distancing remarks ("the

hospital claims that…"). Others lost their nerve and went for laughs, as

an "and finally…" item. One brought in a pundit from rent-a-don who

explained why what had happened was impossible.

However, one consequence rapidly became evident; the hospital's

phone system became jammed with callers. Some were journalists,

especially from abroad, who had missed the press conference.

Invitations to appear on television talk shows flooded in from around

the world.

As reports of the apparently miraculous cures which I had effected

were circulated, it gradually became accepted that I was genuine. The

local MP and councillors, plus all government ministers associated in

the remotest way with the Health Service, started forming a disorderly

queue to be photographed with me. I felt a burn of impatience with

such self-serving time-wasting and firmly vetoed visits from any and

all politicians, somewhat to the discomfiture of the HM.

'But the Prime Minister!'

'No!'

Some callers were cranks, acclaiming me as the saviour from outer

space or some such. Some were women – and a few men – wanting

private consultations about their "pleasure centres". But most calls were

from the sick, desperate for help. It was clear that something had to be

organised.

That "something" took a little while to put into place but eventually a

system was instituted. By this time, the hospital was under siege from

prospective patients camping out in the car park despite the chilly

winter weather and refusing to move until they had received their

miraculous cures. Careful public explanations about what I could and

couldn't do had no effect – many of the people were so desperate that

they would clutch at any straw of hope.

The system we devised between us involved an insistence on referral

by the patients' family doctors to the hospital, coupled with an

exhaustive briefing note for the doctors and a strict injunction only to

refer patients whom I stood some chance of helping, on pain of having

future referrals ignored. Those referred to the hospital then went

through a further vetting procedure by the staff to check that the referral

was genuine. Then they went on my waiting list.

Foreign patients were more complex to deal with, as the referral

system couldn't work for them. However, as they were not entitled to

free treatment on the NHS, the solution I proposed was simple. 'Charge

them.'

'But how much?' The HM was keen but cautious.

'Ten percent of their annual income. In advance.'

'But how will we know what that is?'

'Tell them to bring their previous year's income tax return, plus proof

of identity. That should reduce the risk that they will waste my time.'

It was agreed that I would continue to live at the hospital, as it

provided some protection from the mobs of people who wanted to see

me. It was a 1960s building, not exactly classical architecture but with

big and airy rooms. I was given a rapidly-adapted suite on the highest

of the three floors, with wide windows providing a view over the gently

rolling countryside on the edge of the fenlands. Whatever crops had

flourished in the summer had been harvested and the fields were brown

and corrugated with plough-lines. The windows were covered with a

silver film against solar gain, which conveniently afforded more

privacy. The access to my room was convoluted, through restricted

parts of the building. It was about as private and protected as I could

hope for.

There was one downside for the HM; his staffing budget was hit by

the need for extra security to stop people from invading the place. All

of my mail – which rapidly built up to sackfulls a day, increasingly

from abroad – was dealt with by hospital staff. Zara sometimes told me

about the choicest letters, which included some astonishingly spicy

suggestions. 'And you should see the photographs they send!'

Curiously, such letters continued to arrive even after we broadcast the

fact that I had no time to deal with them.

The hospital organised two adjacent consulting rooms for me, so one

patient could be made ready while I was dealing with another. I spent

the days walking from one to the other, assessing conditions, easing

pain, sometimes effecting an instant cure. Some were more difficult.

'This is a sad case, and I'm not sure if you can help.' Zara was

reading the case notes as she walked into the empty consulting room at

the start of the day. 'An eight-year-old American girl, Sally, mad about

horses, fell off and broke her neck. She's tetraplegic.' The rest of her

life spent completely paralysed and helpless, dependent on others for

every detail.

'Let's go and see.' The girl was face-down on the consulting table, her

spine uncovered, her parents sitting beside her, radiating anxiety,

sorrow and hope. I greeted them, then crouched down beside the girl,

turned my face the same way as hers, and grinned. 'Hi Sally! This is

your friendly local monster here!' Her lips twitched. 'Let's take a look at

you.' I ran my fingers over her neck and spine. Neck vertebrae crushed

together, as I expected; nowhere for the spinal cord to find a way

through. The nerves on each side of the break were intact, though, so I

had an idea. I closed my eyes and focused on those nerves, knew them,

became them. And grew.

I concentrated intensely on growing, on directing growth around and

behind the break, both sides working towards each other. There was a

flicker of response; very slowly, a micron at a time, the nerves were

beginning to grow. I opened my eyes and had to steady myself against

the table, my head suddenly swimming. Zara looked on anxiously. I

drew a deep breath. 'That'll do for now. Come back in a couple of day's

time and we'll see how you're getting on.'

I sat down and waited until the girl was wheeled out, parents

whispering reassuring words.

'Are you all right?' Concern glowed from Zara.

'I think so, it's just that such an intense mental effort is tiring. In fact,

I've been noticing it even with simpler tasks, if I do too many of them.'

'You need a break every now and again. They're working you into

the ground.'

'Maybe. But the ones they send, I can really help.'

'Then make sure you can keep helping them, by pacing yourself.'

'All right, all right. I'll build in some days off, if that makes you

happier.'

She frowned. 'I'm not sure that will be enough, but it's a start. I think

that you really need to get away from this place for a while. I'll see if I

can organise something. Is there anything you'd like to do?'

I thought about it. 'Oddly enough, I've been dreaming a lot about

swimming lately. I don't know why, I was never much of a swimmer.'

Two days later, I was transported in the dead of night to the local

swimming baths in the back of a van, with Zara and the muscular and

mainly silent Max, who had been appointed chauffeur/minder, in the

front. I entered the building to find a fifty metre competition pool, still

water reflecting the ceiling lights. As soon as I saw it, I felt an

overpowering urge and dived straight in, feeling an inexpressible thrill

of sensual pleasure as the cool water flowed caressingly along my

body. I glided to the bottom and opened my eyes. To my astonishment,

I found that with a slight effort I could focus sharply. Evidently, my

eyes had altered in even more ways than I had realised. I pushed off the

bottom and swam strongly underwater, loving the buoyancy and the

feel of the water, enjoying the strange perspectives caused by the

water's different refractive index. I put on a spurt, kicking hard,

seemingly flying from one end of the pool to the other.

Eventually, I surfaced and drew breath, to find Zara and Max peering

anxiously down at me. 'Are you all right?'

'Never better. I think I was designed for this. What's the problem?'

'You've been underwater for nearly ten minutes, without coming up

for air.'

I absorbed that for a moment. 'Then I was definitely designed for

this.'

'What's more,' Zara added, 'I timed your last few lengths. I used to do

some competitive swimming at one time, and I've never seen anything

like it. I think a few world records just tumbled.'

I laughed. 'They don't give any for swimming underwater.'

I stayed in the pool for a long time, feeling completely at home and

at ease for the first time since the accident. I found that I could swim

underwater for twenty minutes before needing to come up for air. I

couldn't imagine what enabled that; I must be storing oxygen

somewhere, which implied some novel internal changes. Eventually,

Zara's entreaties about the coming dawn persuaded me to leave. I felt

no ill-effects from my long immersion; my eyes were clear, my scales

unwrinkled, and I returned to the hospital both relaxed and invigorated.

That was only the first of many nocturnal visits to that beautiful pool.

The physical activity of swimming somehow eased my mental tiredness

and kept me functioning to meet the relentless demands of the sick. For

the time being, talk of a holiday was abandoned.

After few weeks of this routine, I had a call from reception during

my lunch break (a tasty mix of macadamias and pecans, with an orange

starter): 'there's a man here, he says he's your brother'.

I paused in surprise, then mentally shrugged. 'What does he look

like?'

'Early forties, medium height, lean build, light-brown wavy hair,

rimless glasses.'

I laughed. 'Were you in the police?'

'No, but we have to be observant these days.'

'Anyway, that sounds like him so you'd better escort him up.'

A knock on my door, and Luke walked in, looking much the same as

ever, only leaner and rather more suntanned. He was casually dressed,

in well-worn clothes chosen for practicality rather than style. He

stopped and stared. 'Is that really you, Matt?'

'More or less.'

'I really am finding that hard to believe.'

I thought for a moment. 'We last met at Mum's funeral. We didn't say

much then, as usual. You talked about your last mission – in

Afghanistan, I think.'

He nodded. 'Yes, we did some disaster relief work there.'

'Then you said something about your next task – in Burundi, wasn't

it?'

'Right again, we're carrying out a major educational assistance

programme. That's why it took me some time to get to you; I've only

just arrived home on leave.' He paused for a moment, then asked, 'do

you recall the last time we were together with Dad, and what we said?'

I could hardly have forgotten, it was a turning point in both of our

lives. 'We were arguing, about religion and science as usual. You were

taking Dad's side and announced that you were determined to follow

him in working for the Church – not as a priest, but for their charity

organisation. I ended up telling both of you that I was an atheist and I

thought your beliefs were – let me get it right – "the result of a mental

virus which has plagued mankind throughout civilised history".'

He nodded slowly. 'Word perfect. OK, you're Matt. I remember the

tone of arrogant superiority as much as the words.'

I grimaced. 'It seemed to me that the arrogant superiority was more

on your side, with a lot less justification.'

He sighed. 'I didn't some here to start all that again. I just wanted to

check that you really are Matt, and – well, to see if there is anything I

can do.'

I was curious. 'In what way? Pray for my damned soul?'

He grinned wryly. 'The closest thing to a lost cause I know. No, I just

thought that you might be suffering some psychological problems, and

it might be helpful to see someone who once knew you well.'

'Thanks for the thought. I won't pretend that it has been easy. For a

while I thought I was losing my sanity, but I'm gradually getting

adjusted to my new self.' I smiled, 'for the first time in my life, I may

even be fitter than you! Run any good marathons lately?'

He gave a small smile, said, 'no, no time for that. I stay slim because

rations are tight.' Then he held out his hand. Rather surprised, I took it.

'I don't have much time now, the project needs me back,' he said, 'but

I'd like to keep in touch.'

'Fine. Do that.'

He hesitated. 'You are different, you know, apart from the obvious.

You were always very enthusiastic and excitable, but now you're much

calmer and more deliberate, and you seem – not colder, exactly, I think

that "dispassionate" is the word I'm looking for.'

I shrugged, 'I feel much the same as ever.'

He nodded doubtfully, then left. We parted on better terms than we

had enjoyed in over twenty years.

One morning, I sensed an unusual diffidence about Zara; by then, I

could read her moods with ease.

'Can I ask you something?'

'Of course.'

'My twin daughters go a local primary school, and I've been asked to

go in next week to talk to the children about you – you can imagine the

level of interest. The trouble is I'm not sure that I should, so I thought

I'd better ask if you minded.'

'Not at all.' I had a sudden inspiration; 'in fact, I'll come with you.'

Her face lit up. 'Really?'

'Why not? Just as long as you don't warn them in advance, I don't

want the place swamped by the press!'

So a week later, Zara and I were transported in the anonymous white

van to the school. Max drove at the high velocity traditional for such

vehicles, grumbling when he was caught for a while behind a slow

estate car proudly displaying a "Drive Carefully – Baby on Board" sign.

'What difference is that supposed to make? They think I deliberately

drive into cars unless they ask me not to?'

I grinned. 'It's illogical anyway. In terms of human life, babies are no

more valuable than anyone else. And economically, considerably less

so – after all, not much time or resources have been devoted to them.

Now a sign which said "Drive carefully – expensively trained and

newly qualified doctor on board" would be much more logical!'

We drove into a village and pulled up outside an old school building,

with tall multi-paned windows in the traditional brick and flint walls.

Christmas decorations were stuck on the windows, reminding me of

how much time had passed since my accident. As agreed, Zara went

into the school first to collect her twins – nine-year-olds whose initial

shyness at meeting me was soon overcome by fascination – and I

walked in holding each by the hand. The headteacher was flustered and

seemed close to panic at first, but rapidly realised her opportunity and I

was soon absorbed with the children, struggling to answer their

questions. The young ones were the most natural and, once they learned

I didn't mind having my strange skin felt, they were all over me. The

older children were more reticent, and I sensed traces of doubt and

caution in some of them. Afterwards, I asked a beaming Zara about

that.

'Well, there have been some mixed reactions to you,' she admitted,

'so they're just picking that up from their parents. People are still rather

unsure about what happened to you, what kind of person you are.'

That was the first indication to me of the difficulties which lay

ahead.

The next day, I met with Brian and the rest of the Consultation at my

request, in the conference room; it had padded chairs around a large

table in pale wood, and enjoyed a view into a courtyard with a few

neglected plants straggling over concrete paving. The Consultation

included a diverse group of specialists, still keen to find any excuse to

probe me further.

'At that press conference, the HM said that my DNA had been

checked and that I wasn't alien. But if I recall correctly, he didn't

actually say I was completely human either. What did the tests show?'

They shuffled a bit and looked at the geneticist, a thin, grey-haired

man with the studious look of a priest or philosopher. He steepled his

hands. 'Well, your DNA is certainly basically human but there are some

irregularities; some genes switched on, others off, and quite a few

additions that we can't account for. A rather different pattern from

normal in various respects.'

'And I'll bet you've been tracking those changes against the human

genome map. What areas are affected, exactly?'

'Well, we don't have a complete understanding yet about what each

gene does, of course. We do know that there is a lot of apparently nonfunctional

rubbish in human chromosomes, but rather less so in yours.

Sorry to be so imprecise, but we're groping in the dark here.'

Brian coughed in a rather embarrassed way. 'I was wondering if

you'd agree to another conference? Just of the scientific community,

invitation only. You have no idea of the level of curiosity about you.'

Actually, I had. I was no longer frontline news, even the tabloids had

tired of repeating stories of "miracle cures", but the scientific journals

seemed able to support an apparently endless stream of articles; some

well informed, others more speculative. And I was as curious as anyone

else to find out what had happened to me. 'All right then, set it up will

you?'

A few weeks later, after Max's usual white van heroics, I arrived at

the venue: a college on the edge of a nearby town, whose much larger

lecture theatre had been booked for the occasion. It was a dull, wet,

winter day and the college looked appropriately gloomy, dark streaks of

water running down the concrete-faced building.

When I walked in, the theatre was packed, the sense of anticipation

electric. Brian chaired the meeting and had obviously established some

form of precedence, as the scientists each dutifully waited their turn to

ask questions. One TV camera was visible and a few members from the

specialist scientific end of the press corps were present, but their

uncharacteristic silence indicated that they had probably been told to

shut up and listen, or leave.

To start with, the members of my Consultation took it in turns to

give short presentations of their findings. I was able to follow much of

the discussion, but some was beyond me. The ophthalmologist's

speculation about "changes to the amino-acid sequences of opsins in

the photoreceptor cells" was something I had to look up later. My ears

did prick up at the mention of high levels of myoglobin in my muscle

cells. I knew that some seals had this and that it enabled them to stay

underwater for long periods as it was much more efficient at storing

oxygen than haemoglobin. My skin caused most interest: in some ways

it was similar to a lizard's – with elements like a chameleon's – but with

a number of other modifications. It was very tough and an excellent

insulator but could also channel blood close to the surface for radiative

cooling. There was information about the efficiency of my metabolism,

evidenced by the small quantity of food I needed, but only baffled

speculation about my drastic change in diet. There was also great

interest in the revelation that my body seemed to have become 'zerotimed';

restored at a cellular level to that of a young adult. But no-one

had any idea of the mechanism by which I had become so sensitive to

people's moods and state of health, let alone how I was able to cure

ailments, although there were some impressive-looking brain scans

showing a massive level of mental activity while healing.

The presentations caused so much interest and questioning that I

began to wonder if my presence was really necessary. Then they turned

their attention to me. Most of the questioning was straightforward and

factual, trying to elicit as much information as possible about what I

could and couldn't do. I performed various tests at their request, but

found it hard to explain how I could do what I did; after all, how do you

describe what you do when you lift your arm? You just do it.

Eventually the focus switched to the causes of my transformation,

and the debate grew more heated. No-one had produced any more

likely explanation than the four I had identified from the start, but some

of the audience had assembled impressive structures of argument to

support their viewpoints and rubbish the alternatives, in the true

academic spirit. One conclusion they (nearly) all eventually agreed on:

there was no way that the changes could possibly have happened by

accident. They were too specific, too effective, and outside the normal

human genome. As one said, 'It's as if some extremely advanced

geneticist sat down to redesign the human body in order to improve

various aspects of our efficiency.' The problem being that the current

state of knowledge about genetics was – at least – many decades away

from being able to formulate the genetic changes required, let alone to

re-engineer an existing adult body.

Finally, they remembered me again, and asked my views. 'I don't

think that any of them ranks as more than a minus three probability,

which puts them all in the bracket of unsupported speculation.'

Some confused looks for a few seconds. Academics hate

demonstrating ignorance of something they should know about, so it

was one of the journalists who broke ranks and put them out of their

misery. 'What scale of probability is that, Cade?'

I smiled smugly. 'You evidently haven't been reading my articles. If

you had, you would have found the one I wrote a few years ago called,

rather ironically in retrospect, "Scales of Belief". It was prompted by

the attempt in some states of the USA to accord equal status to the

teaching of creationism and Darwinism, on the grounds that both are

unproven hypotheses and are therefore equally valid. I thought that

was ridiculous so I looked for a way of classifying beliefs in order to

provide a scale of relative probability. So I devised a numerical scale

running from plus five for beliefs which are based on incontrovertible,

demonstrable fact – that the Earth is a spheroid, for example - to minus

five for the flat-earthers. The midpoint – zero on the scale – would

indicate a belief for which there is no evidence one way or the other

and which may be inherently unprovable, such as the existence of God.'

I was enjoying getting into my lecture; what communicator doesn't

appreciate an attentive audience? The words flowed as I found I could

remember the article perfectly. 'So plus four would represent a belief

backed by massive evidence, but for which there is a rival explanation

which cannot be completely disproved. Conversely, minus four

indicates a proposition which cannot be disproved, despite there being

overwhelming evidence in favour of an alternative explanation. So to

apply this to the creationist debate, the cumulative mass of evidence

from many areas of research that life, the Universe and all that, have

developed over a huge period of time is strong enough to score plus

four; the belief that all of this was created in six days about six

thousand years ago is therefore clearly a minus four proposition. To

continue down the scale, plus three covers propositions for which there

is strong evidence. Darwin's theory of evolution is well evidenced and

generally accepted. However, the status of natural selection as the sole

driving force for evolution is still challenged by some scientists who

fully accept that evolution occurred but dispute the relative importance

of the mechanisms involved. Darwinism therefore scores plus three.

Plus two beliefs would be those for which there is some evidence but

not yet enough to make a generally accepted case, while plus one

would refer to beliefs for which there is no evidence, but which seem

very likely on the basis of probability, for example the existence of life

elsewhere in the Universe. Minus one beliefs are those for which there

is no direct or indirect evidence for or against, but appear unlikely on

the basis of our understanding at this time. Minus two would involve

an idea under attack from some evidence but not yet completely

dismissed – this could encompass much of parapsychology – while

minus three beliefs would be those which are countered by solid,

generally accepted evidence, but which can't entirely be ruled out. In

the case of what happened to me, every explanation suggested so far

runs head-on into strong evidence that it just isn't possible, which is

why I classify them as "minus three" probabilities.'

There was a thoughtful pause, before the emboldened journalist

asked: 'you don't believe in God?'

'Believe? No. Admit the possibility? Theoretically, yes, but I don't

think it helps us.'

'Why not?'

'I think of human knowledge as being like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle.

In prehistory, it was an incomprehensible, jumbled mass. When people

started to wonder about life, the Universe and so on, they had no

information to help them so made it up, inventing a god or gods to

explain it all. Over time, the best thinkers of each age began to

assemble bits of the jigsaw, so little patterns of knowledge emerged.

Unfortunately, the jigsaw is a tricky one so they sometimes assembled

bits in the wrong way, but in fits and starts they made progress. As they

did so, the scope for a divine creator gradually diminished. Now, we

have assembled enough of the jigsaw to have a good idea of its overall

shape, and many parts of it have been completed. Thousands of

scientists are beavering away, fitting piece after piece. Despite this, the

puzzle is so huge that it will be a very long time before it's entirely

finished – maybe the human race won't survive that long. But it's

already clear that in principle it can be finished, right back to the Big

Bang around fourteen billion years ago which started it all off.

Potentially, we can understand everything in the physical Universe

which has happened since then. Of course, you can argue that it was

some supremely powerful being from another dimension – God, if you

wish – who initiated the Big Bang, ensuring that the initial conditions

were suitable for the development of the Universe as we know it. Since

we have absolutely no idea what happened before the Big Bang – and

may never know – that's as likely or unlikely as any other possibility.

But where does that get you? It only raises a whole set of unanswerable

questions about where God came from, and so on. And all of the

evidence of the human condition – the randomness, pain and unfairness

– suggest strongly that if there is such a God, He cares no more about

what happens to any individual person than a forester does about what

happens to a leaf from one of the trees in his forest.' I spotted a glass of

water in front of me and swallowed gratefully, glad of the break. No-

one jumped in with more questions, so the chairman took the

opportunity to close the meeting, which had already overrun its

scheduled time by a considerable margin.

Over the next few days I studied the specialist press with interest.

Most of the accounts of the conference were straightforwardly factual,

but the additional information also sparked another series of speculative

pieces. Some of them were fascinatingly ingenious, but none gave me

any feeling of insight into what had happened to me. Disappointed, I

turned to the broadsheets to see what kind of coverage they provided.

One item caught my eye; a reference to a strong religious reaction from

the USA.

I switched on the one luxury in my room – a high-end computer with

a broadband internet connection – and searched for sites containing the

words 'Cade' and 'religion'. A torrent of hits flowed down the screen. I

clicked on an American one at random. The headline hit me between

the eyes:

THE MONSTER REVEALED!!!

At last! The scaly monster pretending to be a human has

finally revealed his true colours!! I have warned ever

since he first appeared that we should not be taken in by

his soft words and deceitful attempts to fool us by so-

called miracles – and now he is condemned from his own

mouth!!!

'Do you believe in God?' He was asked. 'No!' came the

reply!!! Now we know the truth! He is an unbeliever, the

spawn of Satan, here on Earth to try to destroy our belief

in the Almighty God with his clever words!

Has it not always been obvious? His scaly skin shows him

to be the Devil's get! He is evil beyond imagining, and his

existence cannot be tolerated!!!

I scanned several more such sites, and discovered that the first was

one of the milder ones. Many of them were calling for my total

annihilation, some enthusiastically demanding a nuclear missile strike

against the small town close to my hospital.

I tried some more sensible American news sites, and found mixed

reviews. Most just reported the outburst of religious fervour, but many

added their own critical commentary. A protest march on the British

Embassy in Washington was being organised to persuade them to do

something about this monster in their midst.

A knock on the door disturbed my bleak thoughts. Zara popped her

cheerful face around the corner. 'Someone to see you!'

She opened the door to show a shyly smiling Sally, standing for the

first time with the aid of crutches. Several weeks of treatment had

completed the new links in her spinal cord, and she would soon be back

to normal. Her parents hovered rather nervously behind her. 'We're

leaving soon', the father said, 'but we couldn't go without thanking you

for all that you've done. You've given our Sally her life back, and ours

too.'

The mother stepped forward and impulsively hugged me. 'I don't

care what they say about you, you'll always be an angel to us!'

Zara gave me a puzzled look as the door closed behind them. 'What

did she mean by that?'

I showed her the American websites and she gasped. 'But that's

horrible!'

'Maybe, but that's what they're thinking. I've always found it bizarre

that the most scientifically advanced nation on Earth should have so

many religious fundamentalists; you'd think they'd suffer from some

sort of collective national schizophrenia.'

She turned away from the screen shaking her head in disgust, then

looked at me worriedly. 'Doesn't this bother you?'

I grimaced. 'Sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering what kind of

monster I have become. There are times when I wish it were all a

nightmare that I could wake up from. But then my days are filled with

helping people like Sally, and that makes it all feel worthwhile. But no,

these sites don't particularly bother me; I just find them rather sad.'

Zara turned and headed for the door. 'Janet was saying that there's an

article in a paper about different countries' attitudes to you. I'll go and

find it.'

She returned in a few minutes brandishing a page from the review

section of one of the more serious broadsheets. We sat together on the

sofa and read through it. The writer had been tapping into polls carried

out world-wide, with interesting results.

Most North Europeans were unconcerned about the religious issue. I

expected this, as they are in my experience a pleasantly heathen lot

whatever faith they technically profess. They regarded me with interest

and generally speaking without hostility, despite the more-in-sorrowthan-

in-anger criticism from the established churches.

Further east, views changed. The fundamentalist mullahs and imams

of Islam were predictably opposed – I pondered briefly whether they

had ever welcomed anything new since medieval times, but soon gave

up – with the more extreme ones pronouncing fatwas against me. The

Hindis, however, were surprisingly positive, at least in part because of

my involuntary vegetarianism. Some even wanted to add me to the

pantheon of their colourful gods.

More remarkable to me was the Far Eastern reaction, especially from

the Chinese – or at least, those living outside the People's Republic. I

should have remembered that dragons retained a special place in their

mythology, and the advent of "Dragon Man", as they called me, had

stimulated all sorts of new cults, with "Dragon Preachers" gathering

disciples by purporting to be in some kind of rapport with me. Some of

them encouraged decidedly peculiar practices in my name (the common

factor being, of course, that the fact that I had no material goods meant

that their followers should hand over all of their belongings – to them)

and I decided that I would have to do something about that.

Saddest of all was the response from central Africa, in much of

which I was regarded with fear and used as an icon of terror, especially

to frighten children. I resolved to do something about that, too.

In light relief, those groups in the USA which weren't condemning

me as the devil incarnate apparently regarded me as an alien visitor

from another planet. Some of the more paranoid warned that I was on a

reconnaissance mission to plan an invasion, but most pleaded for me to

be welcomed with honour, and were extremely concerned that I would

be insulted by the reaction of their more belligerent countrymen.

Zara produced one of her giggles, together with another article from

a rather less intellectual publication. 'This one might amuse you!'

It was from a women's magazine, and devoted to the possibilities for

pleasure which my control of nervous systems promised. They had

found a doctor able to pontificate in a mildly salacious way on the

advantages of direct sensory stimulation in comparison with

conventional lovemaking or various drugs. Somewhat surprisingly, the

hackette who had been the sole recipient of such treatment had proved

reticent about her experience, but despite this I was voted 'best buy'. It

was even suggested, half seriously, that the NHS should authorise

sessions with me for women suffering from frigidity.

''I've been summoning up the nerve to ask – why haven't you been

interested in any of these women who have been trying to attract your

attention? Haven't you seen the intense looks you get whenever you

walk around the hospital?'

'Well, yes, but I always suspect they're thinking my skin would make

a wicked pair of shoes with a matching handbag.'

Zara laughed. 'Oh no, it's much more basic than that.'

'More basic than shoes and handbags? Is there any such thing?' I

thought about it for a moment. Despite my joke, it had been something

that I had wondered about myself; I would not in my previous life have

turned down such opportunities. 'This may sound odd coming from a

man, but I don't like the idea of being regarded as some kind of trophy,

or a diverting novelty for jaded women who have tried everything else.

Also, I have to admit that the nervous energy I burn up in healing

people doesn't leave me with much for any other purpose!'

'They will be disappointed!' Zara was still laughing as she left.

The winter passed, filled with the steady routine of hospital work.

This was interrupted one spring morning when a formally-dressed man

of indeterminate middle age, calm demeanour and instantly forgettable

appearance was ushered into my lodgings by a rather harassed-looking

HM, who promptly departed.

The stranger, who had been introduced as "Mr Richards from the

Home Office" accepted my invitation to sit down and spent a few

seconds studying me. I did likewise. He looked smooth, well-fed and

well-groomed, but his eyes were hard. I was impressed by the calm

certainty in his mind; he was clearly used to being in complete control.

He smiled suddenly. 'I'm not quite sure of protocol here – do I call you

Mr Johnson, Mr Cade or just Cade?'

'Cade will do nicely.'

'I'm here, as the saying goes, on a mission of some delicacy. I

understand that you are able to sense the state of mind of people in

close proximity.' He had a precise, rather pedantic way of speaking.

'That's right.'

'Does that extend to knowing whether they are lying or telling the

truth?'

'I will know if they are deliberately lying, but not necessarily if they

are telling the truth – after all, they could be genuinely mistaken.'

'Indeed. I think that will suffice.' He pursed his lips, then continued

slowly and deliberately; I wondered if he was ever rushed.

'What I am about to tell you is, of course, strictly confidential. It is a

matter of national security.'