“Just one last problem,” I said as I started to leave. “What about the worthy Zina—are you going to tell her about this?”
“You crazy?” Vulff asked with undisguised surprise.
“I suppose that means you won’t tell her. Since only you and I are going to know about this operation, how are you going to explain your absence or where the money has come from?”
This was even more shocking to him. “Explain? To her? She isn’t going to see either me or the money once I leave here. Which will be no more than ten minutes from now.”
“I see,” I said, and I did. I also thought it was rather uncharitable of him since the unlucky Zina had been supporting him by practicing a trade that most women shun. I made a mental note to see what could be done to even the score a little. In the future though. Right now I had to see to the dissolution of James Bolivar diGriz.
Sparing no expense I ordered all the surgical and operating room equipment that Vulff could suggest. Whenever possible I bought robot-controlled devices since he would be working alone. Everything was loaded in a heavy carrier rented for the occasion and we drove out to the house in the country together. Neither of us would trust the other out of his sight which was of course understandable. Financial payments were the hardest to arrange since the pure-hearted Dr. Vulff was sure I would bash in his skull and take back all of my money once the job was finished—never realizing of course that as long as there were banks I would never be broke. The safeguards were finally arranged to his satisfaction and we began our solitary and important business.
The house was lonely and self contained, perched on the cliff above a far reach of the lake. What fresh food we needed was delivered once a week, along with the mail which consisted of drugs and other medical supplies. The operations began.
Modern surgical techniques being what they are there was of course no pain or shock. I was confined to bed and at times was loaded with so much sedation that days passed in a dreamy fog. Between two periods of radical surgery I took the precaution of seeing that a sleeping pill was included in Vulff’s evening drink. This drink was of course nonalcoholic since his traveling this entire course mounted on the water wagon was one of the conditions of our agreement. Whenever he found it difficult I restored his resolution with a little more money. All this continence had his nerves on edge and I thought he would appreciate a good night’s sleep. I also wanted to do a little investigating. When I was sure he was deeply under I picked the lock of his door and searched his room.
I suppose the gun was there as a matter of insurance, but you can never tell with these nervous types. My days of being a target were over if I had anything to say about it. The gun was a pocket model of a recoilless .50, neat and deadly. The mechanism worked fine and the cartridges still held all their deadly power, but there would be some difficulty in shooting the thing after I filed off the end of the firing pin.
Finding the camera was no shock since I have very little faith left in the basic wholesomeness of mankind. That I was his benefactor and financer wasn’t enough for Vulff. He was lining up some blackmail just in case. There was plenty of exposed film, no doubt filled with studies of my unconscious face Before and After. I put all the film, including the unexposed rolls, under the X-ray machine for a nice long treatment and that settled that.
Vulff did a good job in the times when he wasn’t moaning about the absence of spirituous beverages or nubile females. Bending and shortening my femurs altered my height and walk. Hands, face, skull, ears—all of these were changed permanently to build a new individual. Skillful use of the correct hormones caused a change in the pigment cells, darkening the natural color of my skin and hair, even altering the hair pattern itself. The last thing done, when Vulff’s skill was at its peak, was a delicate touch on my vocal cords that deepened and roughened my speech.
When it was all finished Slippery Jim diGriz was dead and Hans Schmidt was born. Not a very inspired name I admit, but it was just designed to cover the period before I shed Vulff and began my important enterprise.
“Very good, very good indeed,” I said, looking into the mirror and watching my fingers press a stranger’s face.
“God, I could use a drink,” Vulff gasped behind me, sitting on his already-packed bags. He had been hitting the medical alcohol the last few days, until I had spiked it with my favorite regurgitant, and he was nervously anxious to get back to some heavy drinking. “Give me the balance of the money that’s due and let’s get out of here!”
“Patience, doctor,” I murmured and slipped him the packet of bills. He broke the bank wrapper and began to count them with quick, caressing touches of his fingers. “Waste of time doing that,” I told him, but he kept right on. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing ‘Stolen’ on each bill, with ink that will fluoresce when the bank puts it under the ultraviolet.”
This stopped the counting all right, and drained him white at the same instant. I ought to warn him about the old ticker, that’s the way he would pop off if he didn’t watch out.
“What do you mean, stolen?” he choked after a bit.
“Well they were, you know. All of the money I paid you with was
