But the switch-over was a shock. He had known that it would be. He had dreaded its coming, for he had known what it would mean. The agony of a new kind of life and metabolism.
In his mind he held a blueprint of his body and all its working parts…a shifting, wobbly picture that shivered and blurred and ran color into color.
But it steadied under the hardening of his mind, the driving of his will, and finally the blueprint was still and sharp and bright and he knew that the worst was over.
He clung to the ship's controls with hands clenched so fiercely they almost dented metal and perspiration poured down his body and he was limp and weak.
Nerves grew quiet and the blood pumped on and he knew that he was breathing without even thinking of it.
For a moment longer he sat quietly in the seat, relaxing. The breeze came in the shattered port and brushed against his cheek. The ground car was coming very close.
"Johnny," he whispered, "we are home. We made it. This is my home, Johnny. The place I talked about."
But there was no answer, just a stir of comfort deep inside his brain, a strange, nestling comfort such as one may know when one is eight years old and snuggles into bed.
"Johnny!" he cried.
And he felt the stir again…a self-assuring stir like the feel of a dog's muzzle against a held-down palm.