longer than a man lying down. The mechanism itself, andthere was plenty, was effectively sealed. Short of an atomic torch,there wasn't any way to get into it.
Jadiver pryed and poked, but learned nothing. In response to the humanvoice, it automatically provided all the services necessary to humancleanliness, but there was no direct way to check on the involvedmechanism.
* * * * *
He finally called the firm that made it. The usual beautiful robotanswered: "Living Rooms, Incorporated. Can I help you?"
"Information," he said. "Autobath unit."
"Sales? New or replacement?"
"Service. I want to see about repairs."
"We have no repair department. Nothing ever wears out."
"Perhaps not, but it becomes defective and has to be replaced."
"Defective parts are a result of wear. Since nothing wears out, norepair is necessary. Occasionally an autobath is damaged, but then itdoesn't work at all, even if the damage is slight. It has to bereplaced."
That was what he thought, but it was better to be sure. "This ishypothetical," he said. "Suppose there was an accident in an autobath.Is there an alarm system which would indicate that something was wrong?"
The robot was smooth and positive. "Your question is basicallymisleading, according to our statistics. In eight hundred and forty onemillion plus installations, on all the inhabited planets of the SolarSystem, there has never been one accident.
"The autobath is run by a small atomic motor and is not connected in anyway to an outside power source. There are plumbing connections, butthese are not suitable for the transmission of a signal. To answer yourquestion specifically: There is no alarm system of any kind, local orgeneral, nor is there any provision for someone else to attach one."
"Thanks," said Jadiver, and cut the screen.
He was nearly certain now. One check remained.
* * * * *
He flipped on a switch and walked out of the room to the hall and stoodthere listening. He could hear nothing. He came closer to the door andthere was still no sound. He pressed his ear against the juncture of thedoor and jamb. Not the slightest noise.
He winced when he opened the door. The music he had switched on wasdeafening. He hurried inside and turned it off. He had known hisapartment was sound-proofed. Just how good that soundproofing was, hehadn't tested until now.
The so-called accident had happened in the autobath. The unit couldn'tsignal that anything was wrong. No one passing in the hall could hearhis yells.
The evidence indicated that no accident could happen in theautobath--yet it had.
Logically, he should have died in that accident that couldn'thappen--yet he hadn't.
What did they want? And was it the police? In the hospital he had beensure--certain, too, of what they were attempting. Now the facts wouldn'tfit.
Tiredness came back, reinforced by doubt. His skin itched--probably fromnervous tension. He finally fell into an uneasy sleep with the help of asedative.
* * * * *
In the morning, the itch was still there. He looked curiously at hisskin; it appeared normal. It was definitely not transparent, hadn't beeneven in the hospital when the bandages were removed. He'd had a glimpseof it in the original transparent stage only once, when the doctor hadexposed the tips of his fingers.
Briefly he wondered about it. Did it really itch that bad, or was it anunconscious excuse to see the doctor? She was a sullen, indifferentcreature, but without doubt worth seeing again. He didn't know her name,but he could find out easily enough.
As if in answer to the silent question, his whole body twitchedviolently. He raked his fingers across his forearm and the nails brokeoff. She was at least partly right in her predictions; his skin wasconsiderably tougher than it had been, though nothing appeareddifferent.
He didn't like communicating with the police, but he had little choice.He flipped on the screen and made a few inquiries.
The name he wanted was Doctor Doumya Filone. She was off duty atpresent. However, if it was an emergency--? His skin crawled and hedecided it was just that and identified himself. There were a number ofpersons with whom he had contacts who wouldn't approve his doing this,but they didn't have to live in his skin.
He dialed her quickly. He couldn't place the number, but figured it wasprobably across town, in one of the newer districts. He didn't fullyremember what she was like until she appeared on the screen. With thatface to put on a robot, he might make a fortune. That is, if he couldcapture the expression as well as the features.
"How's the patient?" she asked. Behind her briskness he thought he coulddetect a flicker of concern.
"You can take back that skin you gave me," he said. "It itches."
She frowned. "I told you it was very new. We aren't able to anticipateall the reactions." She paused. "However, it shouldn't itch. By now itought to be well integrated with your body and new cell growth should beoccurring with the synthetic substance as the matrix."
"Thanks," he said dryly. "That doesn't explain how I feel."
Unperturbed, she looked down at a desk he could imagine, but could notsee. She got up and walked out of the field of vision. She was gone forquite some time.
A disturbing thought formed in his mind. Was she calling elsewhere forinstructions? There was no reason why she should, yet the thoughtpersisted.
She came back. "Get a detergent. What kind doesn't matter. Put it in theautobath and take a hot bath, plenty of lather. Soak in it for at leastfifteen minutes."
* * * * *
Her prescription was primitive in the extreme. Did she really expect itto be effective, or did she have something else in mind?
"Do you think I'm going to trust myself to that machine?" he said. "I'vegot myself a little enamel basin. Had to steal it out of a museum."
Nothing was outwardly changed, but she seemed slightly sympathetic. "Ican understand how you feel, but you'll have to get over it or gopioneering in the wild lands. As long as you're in a city, you can'trent, buy or build accommodations that have no autobath. Besides, I'vebeen assured that the odds are against that happening again."
That was an understatement, if his information was correct. Actually, hehad wanted her reaction, but it didn't tell him a thing.
"Feel better already," he said.
She nodded. "Suggestion at work. Take your bath now and call me tomorrowif it doesn't work. Sooner, if you need to." She cut their connectionbefore he could answer.
In addition to physical relief, he had hoped that she would let slipsome information. She hadn't done so. Of course, she might not knowanything more than the purely medical aspects of the police plan. If itwas the police.
He left the screen and checked the autobath for supplies. Satisfactoryfor the present. He removed his clothing, stepped inside, and followedher instructions. A tub rose out of the floor, filled with water, andthe mechanism immersed him in it. Thick soapy suds billowed up and warmwater laved his skin. The rubbery hands of the autobath were soft andmassaged him gently and expertly.
He tried to relax. So far, he had suffered no irreparable harm. He triedto avoid the memory of his accident, but that was impossible. The onecomfort was that his death was not the objective. He correctedhimself--not the _immediate_ objective.
Anyway, he'd been rescued and placed under good medical care. How therescue had been effected was unknown, unless it had been included in theplan from the beginning. If so, he could assume that the autobath hadbeen tampered with and fixed with a signal that would indicate when hewas unconscious.
"Fifteen minutes and ten seconds," said the autobath. "Do you wish toremain longer?"
"That'll do," he said. "The rinse, please."
He lay back and curled up his legs, stretching his arms while clearwater flowed soothingly over him. In spite of his skepticism, thisprimitive prescription of Doumya Filone seemed to work. The itch hadstopped c
ompletely; although his skin was now mottled. No scars; thehospital and Doumya Filone had done a good job.
He scrutinized his skin carefully. The marks were not actually on hisskin; they were beneath it. So faint as to be almost invisible, it wasnevertheless a disturbing manifestation. The marks gradually became moredistinct. It looked like a shadowy web thrown over and pressed deep intohis body.
* * * * *
The autobath lifted him and he stood in front of the mirror. There wasno mistake--a network spread over his body, arms, legs, face too;perhaps on his head as well, though he couldn't see that. His skin wasnot transparent--it was translucent for a certain depth.
Disfigurement didn't concern him. Even if the condition persisted, itwasn't