The Restorer
It was quiet in the waiting room. It was not the silence that reigns in libraries, but the deafening vacuum silence of a sterile operating room before the first incision. Adrian Weiss sat in a deep armchair, twirling an empty bottle of "Restorer No. 4" in his hands. That was the name of the shampoo. His hair, sparse and gray just a month ago, now fell onto his shoulders in a thick raven mane, the likes of which he didn't have even at twenty. His teeth, restored by " Enamel-Plus " toothpaste, shone with blinding whiteness. His vision, corrected by disposable " Truth Glasses ," allowed him to spot a speck of dust on a conversational partner's lapel from three meters away. But Adrian had not come to give thanks. He had come for the final remedy. The office door opened. On the threshold stood the Creator—a man without age and without a name, whom the world simply knew as the Doctor. He looked ordinary. Even too ordinary. There were wrinkles on his ...