epitome of the Hollywood dream of a heroic engineer-builder, ready to
drive a canal through an isthmus or throw a dam across a raging
river--the kind who'd build the dam while the river raged, instead of
waiting until it was quiet, a few days later. He was about as far from
the appearance of the actual blue-denim, leather-jacket engineers he had
worked with as Maori in ancient battle array.

He shook his head and went looking for the bathroom, where there might
be a mirror. He found a door, but it led into a closet, filled with
alembics and other equipment. There was a mirror hung on the back of it,
however, with a big sign over it that said "Keep Out." He threw the door
wide and stared at himself. At first, in spite of the costume, he was
pleased. Then the truth began to hit him, and he felt abruptly sure he
was still raging with fever and delirium.

He was still staring when Nema came back into the room. She pursed her
lips and shut the door quickly. But he'd already seen enough.

"Never mind where I am," he said. "Tell me, _who_ am I?"

She stared at him. "You're Dave Hanson."

"The hell I am," he told her. "Oh, that's what I remember my father
having me christened as. He hated long names. But take a good look at
me. I've been shaving my face for years now, and I should know it.
_That_ face in the mirror wasn't it! There's a resemblance. But a darned
faint one. Change the chin, lengthen my nose, make the eyes brown
instead of blue, and it might be me. But Dave Hanson's at least five
inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter, too. Maybe the face is plastic
surgery after the accident--but this isn't even my body."