Elongated mounds of tissue sprouted tiny buds that enlarged into blobs of flesh. The rest of the man was growing back: tendon and ligament, bone and blood, heart and elbows. The brain was intact but not functioning.
They were regenerating him, stage by stage, as he lay in complete mindless tranquillity. Neither day nor night, neither yesterday nor tomorrow. There was no change of season here only the sheen of the walls, the unvarying warmth. What was left of Cassiday lay in dry dock on a somewhere table in a golden sphere of force. Did one need to be human in order to be humanitarian? Repair, yes. They had found him in the wreckage of the drifting ship as it passed through their zone, back of Iapetus. The golden ones didn’t need much to go by. The sudden implosion had taken care of the rest.
A brain-box a few ropes of nerves a limb.
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