"Stanley G. Weinbaum - The Adaptive Ultimate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weinbaum Stanley G)

"An empty wallet, you say?" asked the defense lawyer. "What of the money found in your own bag,
which my eminent colleague believes stolen?"

"It was mine," said the girl, "about seven hundred dollars."

Bach hissed, "That's a lie! She had two dollars and thirty-three cents on her when we took her in."

"Do you mean you think she's the same Kyra Zelas we had at the hospital?" gasped Scott.

"I don't know. I don't know anything, but if I ever touch that damned serum of yoursтАФLook! Look,
Dan!" This last was a tense whisper.

"What?"

"Her hair! When the sun strikes it!"

Scott peered more closely. A vagrant ray of noon sunlight filtered through a high window, and now and
again the swaying of a shade permitted it to touch the metallic radiance of the girl's hair. Scott stared and
saw; slightly but unmistakable, whenever the light touched that glowing aureole, her hair darkened from
bright aluminum to golden blond!

Something clicked in his brain. There was a clue somewhereтАФif he could but find it. The pieces of the
puzzle were there, but they were woefully hard to fit together. The girl in the hospital and her reaction to
incisions; this girl and her reaction to light.

"I've got to see her," he whispered. "There's something I have to findтАФListen!"

The speaker was orating. "And we ask the dismissal of the whole case, your honor, on the grounds that
the prosecution has utterly failed even to identify the defendant."

The judge's gavel crashed. For a moment his aging eyes rested on the girl with the silver eyes and,
incredible hair, then: "Case dismissed!" he snapped. "Jury discharged!"

There was a tumult of voices. Flashlights shot instantaneous sheets of lightning. The girl on the witness
stand rose with perfect poise, smiled with lovely, innocent lips, and moved away. Scott waited until she
passed close at hand then:

"Miss Zelas!" he called.

She paused. Her strange silver eyes lighted with unmistakable recognition. "Dr. Scott!" said the voice of
tinkling metal. "And Dr. Bach!"

She was, then. She was the same girl. This was the drab sloven of the isolation ward, this weirdly
beautiful creature of exotic coloring. Staring, Scott could trace now the very identity of her features, but
changed as by a miracle.

He pushed through the mob of photographers, press men, and curiosity seekers. "Have you a place to
stay?" he asked. "Dr. Bach's offer still stands."

She smiled. "I am very grateful," she murmured, and then, to the crowd of reporters. "The doctor is an