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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/32025-h.zip b/32025-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..39fb047 --- /dev/null +++ b/32025-h.zip diff --git a/32025-h/32025-h.htm b/32025-h/32025-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8f53e1 --- /dev/null +++ b/32025-h/32025-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2351 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Forget Me Nearly, by F. L. Wallace + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; background-color: #FFFFFF; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.tr {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%; padding: 2em; background-color: #f6f2f2; color: black; border: dotted black 1px;} + +.img1 {border:solid 1px; } + +.p1 { margin-left: 80%; } + +.p2 { margin-left: 5%; } + +.p3 { margin-left: 70%; } + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-right: 0.25em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft1 { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 0.25em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + + +/* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Forget Me Nearly, by Floyd L. Wallace + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Forget Me Nearly + +Author: Floyd L. Wallace + +Illustrator: Emsh + +Release Date: April 17, 2010 [EBook #32025] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORGET ME NEARLY *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="tr"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:</p> +<p class="center">This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p></div> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img class="img1" src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="537" alt="" title="" /> +</div> +<p> </p> +<h1>FORGET ME NEARLY</h1> +<p> </p> +<h2>By F. L. Wallace</h2> +<p> </p> +<h3>Illustrated by EMSH</h3> +<p> </p> +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>What sort of world was it, he puzzled, that wouldn't help +victims find out whether they had been murdered or had +committed suicide?</i></p></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image_001.jpg" width="600" height="536" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<div class="figleft1"><img src="images/image_t1.jpg" alt="T" width="45" height="50" /></div> +<p>he police counselor leaned forward and tapped the small nameplate on +his desk, which said: <i>Val Borgenese.</i> "That's my name," he said. "Who +are you?"</p> + +<p>The man across the desk shook his head. "I don't know," he said +indistinctly.</p> + +<p>"Sometimes a simple approach works," said the counselor, shoving aside +the nameplate. "But not often. We haven't found anything that's +effective in more than a small percentage of cases." He blinked +thoughtfully. "Names are difficult. A name is like clothing, put on or +taken off, recognizable but not part of the person—the first thing +forgotten and the last remembered."</p> + +<p>The man with no name said nothing.</p> + +<p>"Try pet names," suggested Borgenese. "You don't have to be sure—just +say the first thing you think of. It may be something your parents +called you when you were a child."</p> + +<p>The man stared vacantly, closed his eyes for a moment and then opened +them and mumbled something.</p> + +<p>"What?" asked Borgenese.</p> + +<p>"Putsy," said the man more distinctly. "The only thing I can think of +is Putsy."</p> + +<p>The counselor smiled. "That's a pet name, of course, but it doesn't +help much. We can't trace it, and I don't think you'd want it as a +permanent name." He saw the expression on the man's face and added +hastily: "We haven't given up, if that's what you're thinking. But +it's not easy to determine your identity. The most important source of +information is your mind, and that was at the two year level when we +found you. The fact that you recalled the word Putsy is an +indication."</p> + +<p>"Fingerprints," said the man vaguely. "Can't you trace me through +fingerprints?"</p> + +<p>"That's another clue," said the counselor. "Not fingerprints, but the +fact that you thought of them." He jotted something down. "I'll have +to check those re-education tapes. They may be defective by now, we've +run them so many times. Again, it may be merely that your mind refused +to accept the proper information."</p> + +<p>The man started to protest, but Borgenese cut him off. "Fingerprints +were a fair means of identification in the Twentieth Century, but this +is the Twenty-second Century."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> +<p>he counselor then sat back. "You're confused now. You have a lot of +information you don't know how to use yet. It was given to you fast, +and your mind hasn't fully absorbed it and put it in order. Sometimes +it helps if you talk out your problems."</p> + +<p>"I don't know if I have a problem." The man brushed his hand slowly +across his eyes. "Where do I start?"</p> + +<p>"Let me do it for you," suggested Borgenese. "You ask questions when +you feel like it. It may help you."</p> + +<p>He paused, "You were found two weeks ago in the Shelters. You know +what those are?"</p> + +<p>The man nodded, and Borgenese went on: "Shelter and food for anyone +who wants or needs it. Nothing fancy, of course, but no one has to ask +or apply; he just walks in and there's a place to sleep and +periodically food is provided. It's a favorite place to put people +who've been retroed."</p> + +<p>The man looked up. "Retroed?"</p> + +<p>"Slang," said Borgenese. "The retrogression gun ionizes animal tissue, +nerve cells particularly. Aim it at a man's legs and the nerves in +that area are drained of energy and his muscles won't hold him up. He +falls down.</p> + +<p>"Aim it at his head and give him the smallest charge the gun is +adjustable to, and his most recent knowledge is subtracted from his +memory. Give him the full charge, and he is swept back to a childish +or infantile age level. The exact age he reaches is dependent on his +physical and mental condition at the time he's retroed.</p> + +<p>"Theoretically it's possible to kill with the retrogression gun. The +person can be taken back to a stage where there's not enough nervous +organization to sustain the life process.</p> + +<p>"However, life is tenacious. As the lower levels are reached, it takes +increasing energy to subtract from anything that's left. Most people +who want to get rid of someone are satisfied to leave the victim +somewhere between the mental ages of one and four. For practical +purposes, the man they knew is dead—or retroed, as they say."</p> + +<p>"Then that's what they did to me," said the man. "They retroed me and +left me in the Shelter. How long was I there?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_b.jpg" alt="B" width="35" height="40" /></div> + +<p>orgenese shrugged. "Who knows? That's what makes it difficult. A day, +or two months. A child of two or three can feed himself, and no record +is kept since the place is free. Also, it's cleaned automatically."</p> + +<p>"I know that now that you mention it," said the man. "It's just that +it's hard to remember."</p> + +<p>"You see how it is," said the counselor. "We can't check our files +against a date when someone disappeared, because we don't know that +date except within very broad limits." He tapped his pen on the desk. +"Do you object to a question?"</p> + +<p>"Go ahead."</p> + +<p>"How many people in the Solar System?"</p> + +<p>The man thought with quiet desperation. "Fourteen to sixteen billion."</p> + +<p>The counselor was pleased. "That's right. You're beginning to use some +of the information we've put back into your mind. Earth, Mars and +Venus are the main population centers. But there are also Mercury and +the satellites of Jupiter and Saturn, as well as the asteroids. We can +check to see where you might have come from, but there are so many +places and people that you can imagine the results."</p> + +<p>"There must be <i>some</i> way," the man said painfully. "Pictures, +fingerprints, something."</p> + +<p>"Something," Borgenese nodded. "But probably not for quite a while. +There's another factor, you see. It's a shock, but you've got to face +it. And the funny thing is that you'll never be better able to than +now."</p> + +<p>He rocked back. "Take the average person, full of unsuspected anxiety, +even the happiest and most successful. Expose him to the retrogression +gun. Tensions and frustrations are drained away.</p> + +<p>"The structure of an adult is still there, but it's empty, waiting to +be filled. Meanwhile the life of the organism goes on, but it's not +the same. Lines on the face disappear, the expression alters +drastically, new cell growth occurs here and there throughout the +body. Do you see what that means?"</p> + +<p>The man frowned. "I suppose no one can recognize me."</p> + +<p>"That's right. And it's not only your face that changes. You may grow +taller, but never shorter. If your hair was gray, it may darken, but +not the reverse."</p> + +<p>"Then I'm younger too?"</p> + +<p>"In a sense, though it's actually not a rejuvenation process at all. +The extra tension that everyone carries with him has been removed, and +the body merely takes up the slack.</p> + +<p>"Generally, the apparent age is made less. A person of middle age or +under seems to be three to fifteen years younger than before. You +appear to be about twenty-seven, but you may actually be nearer forty. +You see, we don't even know what age group to check.</p> + +<p>"And it's the same with fingerprints. They've been altered by the +retrogression process. Not a great deal, but enough to make +identification impossible."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> + +<p>he nameless man stared around the room—at Val Borgenese, perhaps +fifty, calm and pleasant, more of a counselor than a policeman—out of +the window at the skyline, and its cleanly defined levels of air +traffic.</p> + +<p>Where was his place in this?</p> + +<p>"I guess it's no use," he said bleakly. "You'll never find out who I +am."</p> + +<p>The counselor smiled. "I think we will. Directly, there's not much we +can do, but there are indirect methods. In the last two weeks we've +exposed you to all the organized knowledge that can be put on +tapes—physics, chemistry, biology, math, astrogation, the works.</p> + +<p>"It's easy to remember what you once knew. It isn't learning; it's +actually relearning. One fact put in your mind triggers another into +existence. There's a limit, of course, but usually a person comes out +of re-education with slightly more formal knowledge than he had in his +prior existence." The counselor opened a folder on his desk. "We gave +you a number of tests. You didn't know the purpose, but I can tell you +the results."</p> + +<p>He leafed slowly through the sheets. "You may have been an +entrepreneur of some sort. You have an excellent sense of power +ethics. Additionally, we've found that you're physically alert, and +your reactions are well coordinated. This indicates you may have been +an athlete or sportsman."</p> + +<p>Val Borgenese laid down the tests. "In talking with you, I've learned +more. The remark you made about fingerprints suggests you may have +been a historian, specializing in the Twentieth Century. No one else +is likely to know that there was a time in which fingerprints were a +valid means of identification."</p> + +<p>"I'm quite a guy, I suppose. Businessman, sportsman, historian." The +man smiled bitterly. "All that ... but I still don't know who I am. +And you can't help me."</p> + +<p>"Is it important?" asked the counselor softly. "This happens to many +people, you know, and some of them do find out who they were, with or +without our help. But this is not simple amnesia. No one who's been +retroed can resume his former identity. Of course, if we had tapes of +the factors which made each person what he is...." He shrugged. "But +those tapes don't exist. Who knows, really, what caused him to develop +as he has? Most of it isn't at the conscious level. At best, if you +should learn who you were, you'd have to pick up the thread of your +former activities and acquaintances slowly and painfully.</p> + +<p>"Maybe it would be better if you start from where you are. You know as +much as you once did, and the information is up to date, correct and +undistorted. You're younger, in a sense—in better physical condition, +not so tense or nervous. Build up from that."</p> + +<p>"But I don't have a name."</p> + +<p>"Choose one temporarily. You can have it made permanent if it suits +you."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> + +<p>he man was silent, thinking. He looked up, not in despair, but not +accepting all that the counselor said either. "What name? All I know +is yours, and those of historical figures."</p> + +<p>"That's deliberate. We don't put names on tapes, because the effects +can be misleading. Everyone has thousands of associations, and can +mistake the name of a prominent scientist for his own. Names +unconsciously arrived at are usually no help at all."</p> + +<p>"What do I do?" the man said. "If I don't know names, how can I choose +one?"</p> + +<p>"We have a list made up for this purpose. Go through it slowly and +consciously. When you come to something you like, take it. If you +chance on one that stirs memories, or rather where memories ought to +be but aren't, let me know. It may be a lead I can have traced."</p> + +<p>The man gazed at the counselor. His thought processes were fast, but +erratic. He could race along a chain of reasoning and then stumble +over a simple fact. The counselor ought to know what he was talking +about—this was no isolated occurrence. The police had a lot of +experience to justify the treatment they were giving him. Still, he +felt they were mistaken in ways he couldn't formulate.</p> + +<p>"I'll have to accept it, I suppose," he said. "There's nothing I can +do to learn who I was."</p> + +<p>The counselor shook his head. "Nothing that <i>we</i> can do. The clues are +in the structure of your mind, and you have better access to it than +we do. Read, think, look. Maybe you'll run across your name. We can +take it from there." He paused. "That is, if you're determined to go +ahead."</p> + +<p>That was a strange thing for a police counselor to say.</p> + +<p>"Of course I want to know who I am," he said in surprise. "Why +shouldn't I?"</p> + +<p>"I'd rather not mention this, but you ought to know." Borgenese +shifted uncomfortably. "One third of the lost identity cases that we +solve are self-inflicted. In other words, suicides."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="41" height="40" /></div> +<p>is head rumbled with names long after he had decided on one and put +the list away. Attractive names and odd ones—but which were +significant he couldn't say. There was more to living than the +knowledge that could be put on tapes and played back. There was more +than choosing a name. There was experience, and he lacked it. The +world of personal reactions for him had started two weeks previously; +it was not enough to help him know what he wanted to do.</p> + +<p>He sat down. The room was small but comfortable. As long as he stayed +in retro-therapy, he couldn't expect much freedom.</p> + +<p>He tried to weigh the factors. He could take a job and adapt himself +to some mode of living.</p> + +<p>What kind of a job?</p> + +<p>He had the ordinary skills of the society—but no outstanding +technical ability had been discovered in him. He had the ability of an +entrepreneur—but without capital, that outlet was denied him.</p> + +<p>His mind and body were empty and waiting. In the next few months, no +matter what he did, some of the urge to replace the missing sensations +would be satisfied.</p> + +<p>The more he thought about that, the more powerfully he felt that he +had to know who he was. Otherwise, proceeding to form impressions and +opinions might result in a sort of betrayal of himself.</p> + +<p>Assume the worst, that he was a suicide. Maybe he had knowingly and +willingly stepped out of his former life. A suicide would cover +himself—would make certain that he could never trace himself back to +his dangerous motive for the step. If he lived on Earth, he would go +to Mars or Venus to strip himself of his unsatisfactory life. There +were dozens of precautions anyone would take.</p> + +<p>But if it weren't suicide, then who had retroed him and why? That was +a question he couldn't answer now, and didn't need to. When he found +out who he was, the motivation might be clear; if it wasn't, at least +he would have a basis on which to investigate that.</p> + +<p>If someone else had done it to him, deliberately or accidentally, that +person would have taken precautions too. The difference was this: as a +would-be suicide, he could travel freely to wherever he wished to +start over again; while another person would have difficulty enticing +him to a faroff place, or, assuming that the actual retrogression had +taken place elsewhere, wouldn't find it easy to transport an inert and +memory-less body any distance.</p> + +<p>So, if he weren't a suicide, there was a good chance that there were +clues in this city. He might as well start with that idea—it was all +he had to go on.</p> + +<p>He was free to stay in retro-therapy indefinitely, but with the +restricted freedom he didn't want to. The first step was to get out. +He made the decision and felt better. He switched on the screen.</p> + +<p>Borgenese looked up. "Hello. Have you decided?"</p> + +<p>"I think so."</p> + +<p>"Good. Let's have it. It's bound to touch on your former life in some +way, though perhaps so remotely we can't trace it. At least, it's +something."</p> + +<p>"Luis Obispo." He spelled it out.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> + +<p>he police counselor looked dubious as he wrote the name down. "It's +not common, nor uncommon either. The spelling of the first name is a +little different, but there must be countless Obispos scattered over +the System."</p> + +<p>It was curious. Now he almost did think of himself as Luis Obispo. He +wanted to be that person. "Another thing," he said. "Did I have any +money when I was found?"</p> + +<p>"You're thinking of leaving? A lot of them do." Val Borgenese flipped +open the folder again. "You did have money, an average amount. It +won't set you up in business, if that's what you're thinking."</p> + +<p>"I wasn't. How do I get it?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't think you were." The counselor made another notation. "I'll +have the desk release it—you can get it any time. By the way, you get +the full amount, no deductions for anything."</p> + +<p>The news was welcome, considering what he had ahead of him.</p> + +<p>Borgenese was still speaking. "Whatever you do, keep in touch with us. +It'll take time to run down this name, and maybe we'll draw a blank. +But something significant may show up. If you're serious, and I think +you are, it's to your advantage to check back every day or so."</p> + +<p>"I'm serious," said Luis. "I'll keep in touch."</p> + +<p>There wasn't much to pack. The clothing he wore had been supplied by +the police. Ordinary enough; it would pass on the street without +comment. It would do until he could afford to get better.</p> + +<p>He went down to the desk and picked up his money. It was more than +he'd expected—the average man didn't carry this much in his pocket. +He wondered about it briefly as he signed the receipt and walked out +of retro-therapy. The counselor had said it was an average amount, but +it wasn't.</p> + +<p>He stood in the street in the dusk trying to orient himself.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the money wasn't so puzzling. An average amount for those +brought into therapy for treatment, perhaps. Borgenese had said a high +proportion were suicides. Such a person would want to start over again +minus fears and frustrations, but not completely penniless. If he had +money he'd want to take it with him, though not so much that it could +be traced, since that would defeat the original purpose.</p> + +<p>The pattern was logical—suicides were those with a fair sum of money. +This was the fact which inclined Borgenese to the view he obviously +held.</p> + +<p>Luis Obispo stood there uncertainly. Did he want to find out? His lips +thinned—he did. In spite of Borgenese, there were other ways to +account for the money he had. One of them was this: he was an +important man, accustomed to handling large sums of money.</p> + +<p>He started out. He was in a small city of a few hundred thousand on +the extreme southern coast of California. In the last few days he'd +studied maps of it; he knew where he was going.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_w.jpg" alt="W" width="51" height="40" /></div> +<p>hen he got there, the Shelters were dark. He didn't know what he had +expected, but it wasn't this. Reflection showed him that he hadn't +thought about it clearly. The mere existence of Shelters indicated an +economic level in which few people would either want or need to make +use of that which was provided freely.</p> + +<p>He skirted the area. He'd been found in one of the Shelters—which one +he didn't know. Perhaps he should have checked the record before he +came here.</p> + +<p>No, this was better. Clues, he was convinced, were almost +non-existent. He had to rely on his body and mind; but not in the +ordinary way. He was particularly sensitive to impressions he had +received before; the way he had learned things in therapy proved that; +but if he tried to force them, he could be led astray. The wisest +thing was to react naturally, almost without volition. He should be +able to recognize the Shelter he'd been found in without trouble. From +that, he could work back.</p> + +<p>That was the theory—but it wasn't happening. He circled the area, and +there was nothing to which he responded more than vaguely.</p> + +<p>He would have to go closer.</p> + +<p>He crossed the street. The plan of the Shelters was simple; an area +two blocks long and one block wide, heavily planted with shrubs and +small trees. In the center was an S-shaped continuous structure +divided into a number of small dwelling units.</p> + +<p>Luis walked along one wing of the building, turned at the corner and +turned again. It was quite dark. He supposed that was why he wasn't +reacting to anything. But his senses were sharper than he realized. +There was a rustle behind him, and instinctively he flung himself +forward, flat on the ground.</p> + +<p>A pink spot appeared, low on the wall next to him. It had been aimed +at his legs. The paint crackled faintly and the pink spot faded. He +rolled away fast.</p> + +<p>A dark body loomed past him and dropped where he'd been. There was an +exclamation of surprise when the unknown found there was no one there. +Luis grunted with satisfaction—this might be only a stickup, but he +was getting action faster than he'd expected. He reached out and took +hold of a leg and drew the assailant to him. A hard object clipped the +side of his head, and he grasped that too.</p> + +<p>The shape of the gun was familiar. He tore it loose. This wasn't any +stickup! Once was enough to be retrogressed, and he'd had his share. +Next time it was going to be the other guy. Physically, he was more +than a match for his attacker. He twisted his body and pinned the +struggling form to the ground.</p> + +<p>That was what it was—a form. A woman, very much so; even in the +darkness he was conscious of her body.</p> + +<p>Now she was trying to get loose, and he leaned his weight more +heavily on her. Her clothing was torn—he could feel her flesh against +his face. He raised the gun butt, and then changed his mind and +instead fumbled for a light. It wasn't easy to find it and still keep +her pinned.</p> + +<p>"Be quiet or I'll clip you," he growled.</p> + +<p>She lay still.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="41" height="40" /></div> +<p>e found the light and shone it on her face. It was good to look at, +that face, but it wasn't at all familiar. He had trouble keeping his +eyes from straying. Her dress was torn, and what she wore underneath +was torn too.</p> + +<p>"Seen enough?" she asked coldly.</p> + +<p>"Put that way, I haven't." He couldn't force his voice to be +matter-of-fact—it wouldn't behave.</p> + +<p>She stared angrily at the light in her eyes. "I knew you'd be back," +she said. "I thought I could get you before you got me, but you're too +fast." Her mouth trembled. "This time make it permanent. I don't want +to be tormented again like this."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/image_002.jpg" width="500" height="399" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>He let her go and sat up. He was trembling, too, but not for the same +reason. He turned the light away from her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Ever consider that you could be mistaken?" he asked. "You're not the +only one it happens to."</p> + +<p>She lay there blinking at him, eyes adjusting to the changed light. +She fumbled at the torn dress, which wouldn't stay where she put it. +"You too?" she said with a vast lack of surprise. "When?"</p> + +<p>"They found me here two weeks ago. This is the first time I've come +back."</p> + +<p>"Patterns," she said. "There are always patterns in what we do." Her +attitude toward him had changed drastically, he could see it in her +face. "I've been out three weeks longer." She sat up and leaned +closer. She didn't seem to be thinking about the same things that had +been on her mind only seconds before.</p> + +<p>He stood up and helped her to her feet. She was near and showed no +inclination to move away. This was something Borgenese hadn't +mentioned, and there was nothing in his re-education to prepare him +for this sensation, but he liked it. He couldn't see her very well, +now that the light was turned off, but she was almost touching him.</p> + +<p>"We're in the same situation, I guess." She sighed. "I'm lonely and a +little afraid. Come into my place and we'll talk."</p> + +<p>He followed her. She turned into a dwelling that from the outside +seemed identical to the others. Inside, it wasn't quite the same. He +couldn't say in what way it was different, but he didn't think it was +the one he'd been found in.</p> + +<p>That torn dress bothered him—not that he wanted her to pin it up. The +tapes hadn't been very explicit about the beauties of the female body, +but he thought he knew what they'd left out.</p> + +<p>She was conscious of his gaze and smiled. It was not an invitation, it +was a request, and he didn't mind obeying. She slid into his arms and +kissed him. He was glad about the limitations of re-education. There +were some things a man ought to learn for himself.</p> + +<p>She looked up at him. "Maybe you should tell me your name," she said. +"Not that it means much in our case."</p> + +<p>"Luis Obispo," he said, holding her.</p> + +<p>"I had more trouble, I couldn't choose until two days ago." She kissed +him again, hard and deliberately. It gave her enough time to jerk the +gun out of his pocket.</p> + +<p>She slammed it against his ribs. "Stand back," she said, and meant +it.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_l.jpg" alt="L" width="33" height="40" /></div> +<p>uis stared bewilderedly at her. She was desirable, more than he had +imagined and for a variety of reasons. Her emotions had been real, he +was sure of that, not feigned for the purpose of taking the gun away. +But she had changed again in a fraction of a second. Her face was +twisted with an effort at self-control.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" he asked. He tried to make his voice gentle, but +it wouldn't come out that way. The retrogression process had sharpened +all his reactions—this one too.</p> + +<p>"The name I finally arrived at was—Luise Obispo," she said.</p> + +<p>He started. The same as his, except feminine! This was more than he'd +dared hope for. A clue—and this girl, who he suddenly realized, +without any cynicism about "love at first sight," because the tapes +hadn't included it, meant something to him.</p> + +<p>"Maybe you're my wife," he said tentatively.</p> + +<p>"Don't count on it," she said wearily. "It would have been better if +we were strangers—then it wouldn't matter what we did. Now there are +too many factors, and I can't choose."</p> + +<p>"It has to be," he argued. "Look—the same name, and so close together +in time and place, and we were attracted instantly—"</p> + +<p>"Go away," she said, and the gun didn't waver. It was not a threat +that he could ignore. He left.</p> + +<p>She was wrong in making him leave, completely wrong. He couldn't say +how he knew, but he was certain. But he couldn't prove it, and she +wasn't likely to accept his unsubstantiated word.</p> + +<p>He leaned weakly against the door. It was like that. Retrogression had +left him with an adult body and sharper receptiveness. And after that +followed an urge to live fully. He had a lot of knowledge, but it +didn't extend to this sphere of human behavior.</p> + +<p>Inside he could hear her moving around faintly, an emotional +anticlimax. It wasn't just frustrated sex desire, though that played a +part. They had known each other previously—the instant attraction +they'd had for each other was proof, leaving aside the names. Lord, +he'd trade his unknown identity to have her. He should have taken +another name—any other name would have been all right.</p> + +<p>It wasn't because she was the first woman he'd seen, or the woman he +had first re-seen. There had been nurses, some of them beautiful, and +he'd paid no attention to them. But Luise Obispo was part of his +former life—and he didn't know what part. The reactions were there, +but until he could find out why, he was denied access to the +satisfactions.</p> + +<p>From a very narrow angle, and only from that angle, he could see that +there was still a light inside. It was dim, and if a person didn't +know, he might pass by and not notice it.</p> + +<p>His former observation about the Shelters was incorrect. Every +dwelling might be occupied and he couldn't tell unless he examined +them individually.</p> + +<p>He stirred. The woman was a clue to his problem, but the clue itself +was a far more urgent problem. Though his identity was important, he +could build another life without it and the new life might not be +worse than the one from which he had been forcibly removed.</p> + +<p>Perhaps he was over-reacting, but he didn't think so: <i>his new life +had to include this woman</i>.</p> + +<p>He wasn't equipped to handle the emotion. He stumbled away from the +door and found an unoccupied dwelling and went in without turning on +the lights and lay down on the bed.</p> + +<p>In the morning, he knew he had been here before. In the darkness he +had chosen unknowingly but also unerringly. This was the place in +which he had been retrogressed.</p> + +<p>It was here that the police had picked him up.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> + +<p>he counselor looked sleepily out of the screen. "I wish you people +didn't have so much energy," he complained. Then he looked again and +the sleepiness vanished. "I see you found it the first time."</p> + +<p>Luis knew it himself, because there was a difference from the dwelling +Luise lived in—not much, but perceptible to him. The counselor, +however, must have a phenomenal memory to distinguish it from hundreds +of others almost like it.</p> + +<p>Borgenese noticed the expression and smiled. "I'm not an eidetic, if +that's what you think. There's a number on the set you're calling from +and it shows on my screen. You can't see it."</p> + +<p>They would have something like that, Luis thought. "Why didn't you +tell me this was it before I came?"</p> + +<p>"We were pretty sure you'd find it by yourself. People who've just +been retroed usually do. It's better to do it on your own. Our object +is to have you recover your personality. If we knew who you were, we +could set up a program to guide you to it faster. As it is, if we help +you too much, you turn into a carbon copy of the man who's advising +you."</p> + +<p>Luis nodded. Give a man his adult body and mind and turn him loose on +the problems which confronted him, and he would come up with adult +solutions. It was better that way.</p> + +<p>But he hadn't called to discuss that. "There's another person living +in the Shelters," he said. "You found her three weeks before you found +me."</p> + +<p>"So you've met her already? Fine. We were hoping you would." Borgenese +chuckled. "Let's see if I can describe her. Apparent age, about +twenty-three; that means that she was originally between twenty-six or +thirty-eight, with the probability at the lower figure. A good body, +as you are probably well aware, and a striking face. Somewhat +oversexed at the moment, but that's all right—so are you."</p> + +<p>He saw the expression on Luis's face and added quickly: "You needn't +worry. Draw a parallel with your own experience. There were pretty +nurses all around you in retro-therapy, and I doubt that you noticed +that they were female. That's normal for a person in your position, +and it's the same with her.</p> + +<p>"It works this way: you're both unsure of yourselves and can't react +to those who have some control over their emotions. When you meet each +other, you can sense that neither has made the necessary adjustments, +and so you are free to release your true feelings."</p> + +<p>He smiled broadly. "At the moment, you two are the only ones who have +been retroed recently. You won't have any competition for six months +or so, until you begin to feel comfortable in your new life. By then, +you should know how well you really like each other.</p> + +<p>"Of course tomorrow, or even today, we might find another person in +the Shelter. If it's a man, you'll have to watch out; if a woman, +you'll have too much companionship. As it is, I think you're very +lucky."</p> + +<p>Yeah, he was lucky—or would be if things were actually like that. +Yesterday he would have denied it; but today, he'd be willing to +settle for it, if he could get it.</p> + +<p>"I don't think you understand," he said. "She took the same name that +I did."</p> + +<p>Borgenese's smile flipped over fast, and the other side was a frown. +For a long time he sat there scowling out of the screen. "That's a +hell of a thing to tell me before breakfast," he said. "Are you sure? +She couldn't decide on a name before she left."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure," said Luis, and related all the details of last night.</p> + +<p>The counselor sat there and didn't say anything.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_l.jpg" alt="L" width="33" height="40" /></div> +<p>uis waited as long as he could. "You can trace <i>us</i> now," he said. +"One person might be difficult. But two of us with nearly the same +name, that should stick out big, even in a population of sixteen +billion. Two people are missing from somewhere. You can find that."</p> + +<p>The counselor's face didn't change. "You understand that if you were +killed, we'd find the man who did it. I can't tell you how, but you +can be sure he wouldn't escape. In the last hundred years there's been +no unsolved murder."</p> + +<p>He coughed and turned away from the screen. When he turned back, his +face was calm. "I'm not supposed to tell you this much. I'm breaking +the rule because your case and that of the girl is different from any +I've ever handled." He was speaking carefully. "Listen. I'll tell you +once and won't repeat it. If you ever accuse me, I'll deny I said it, +and I have the entire police organization behind me to make it stick."</p> + +<p>The counselor closed his eyes as if to see in his mind the principle +he was formulating. "If we can catch a murderer, no matter how clever +he may be, it ought to be easier to trace the identity of a person who +is still alive. It is. <i>But we never try.</i> Though it's all right if +the victim does.</p> + +<p>"<i>If I should ask the cooperation of other police departments, they +wouldn't help. If the solution lies within an area over which I have +jurisdiction and I find out who is responsible, I will be dismissed +before I can prosecute the man.</i>"</p> + +<p>Luis stared at the counselor in helpless amazement. "Then you're not +doing anything," he said shakily. "You lied to me. You don't intend to +do anything."</p> + +<p>"You're overwrought," said Borgenese politely. "If you could see how +busy we are in your behalf—" He sighed. "My advice is that if you +can't convince the girl, forget her. If the situation gets emotionally +unbearable, let me know and I can arrange transportation to another +city where there may be others who are—uh—more compatible."</p> + +<p>"But she's my wife," he said stubbornly.</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?"</p> + +<p>Actually Luis wasn't—but he wanted <i>her</i> to be, or any variation +thereof she would consent to. He explained.</p> + +<p>"As she says, there are a lot of factors," commented the counselor. +"I'd suggest an examination. It may remove some of her objections."</p> + +<p>He hadn't thought of it, but he accepted it eagerly. "What will that +do?"</p> + +<p>"Not much, unfortunately. It will prove that you two can have healthy +normal children, but it won't indicate that you're not a member of +her genetic family. And, of course, it won't touch on the question of +legal family, brother-in-law and the like. I don't suppose she'd +accept that."</p> + +<p>She wouldn't. He'd seen her for only a brief time and yet he knew that +much. He was in an ambiguous position; he could make snap decisions he +was certain were right, but he had to guess at facts. He and the girl +were victims, and the police refused to help them in the only way that +would do much good. And the police had, or thought they had, official +reasons for their stand.</p> + +<p>Luis told the counselor just exactly what he thought of that.</p> + +<p>"It's too bad," agreed the counselor. "These things often have an +extraordinary degree of permanency if they ever get started."</p> + +<p>If they ever got started! Luis reached out and turned off the screen. +It flickered unsteadily—the counselor was trying to call him back. He +didn't want to talk to the man; it was painful, and Borgenese had +nothing to add but platitudes, and fuel to his anger. He swung open +the panel and jerked the wiring loose and the screen went blank.</p> + +<p>There was an object concealed in the mechanism he had exposed. It was +a neat, vicious, little retrogression gun.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="41" height="40" /></div> +<p>e got it out and balanced it gingerly in his hand. Now he had +something else to work on! It was <i>the</i> weapon, of course. It had been +used on him and then hidden behind the screen.</p> + +<p>It was a good place to hide it. The screens never wore out or needed +adjustment, and the cleaning robots that came out of the wall never +cleaned there. The police should have found it, but they hadn't +looked. He smiled bitterly. They weren't interested in solving +crimes—merely in ameliorating the consequences.</p> + +<p>Though the police had failed, he hadn't. It could be traced back to +the man who owned it, and that person would have information. He +turned the retro gun over slowly; it was just a gun; there were +countless others like it.</p> + +<p>He finished dressing and dropped the gun in his pocket. He went +outside and looked across the court. He hesitated and then walked over +and knocked.</p> + +<p>"Occupied," said the door. "But the occupant is out. No definite time +of return stated, but she will be back this evening. Is there any +message?"</p> + +<p>"No message," he said. "I'll call back when she's home."</p> + +<p>He hoped she wouldn't refuse to speak to him. She'd been away from +retro-therapy longer than he and possibly had developed her own +leads—very likely she was investigating some of them now. Whatever +she found would help him, and vice versa. The man who'd retroed her +had done the same to him. They were approaching the problem from +different angles. Between the two of them, they should come up with +the correct solution.</p> + +<p>He walked away from the Shelters and caught the belt to the center of +town; the journey didn't take long. He stepped off, and wandered in +the bright sunshine, not quite aimlessly. At length he found an +Electronic Arms store, and went inside.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_a.jpg" alt="A" width="37" height="40" /></div> +<p> robot came to wait on him. "I'd like to speak to the manager," he +said and the robot went away.</p> + +<p>Presently the manager appeared, middle aged, drowsy. "What can I do +for you?"</p> + +<p>Luis laid the retrogression gun on the counter. "I'd like to know who +this was sold to."</p> + +<p>The manager coughed. "Well, there are millions of them, hundreds of +millions."</p> + +<p>"I know, but I have to find out."</p> + +<p>The manager picked it up. "It's a competitor's make," he said +doubtfully. "Of course, as a courtesy to a customer...." He fingered +it thoughtfully. "Do you really want to know? It's just a freezer. Not +at all dangerous."</p> + +<p>Luis looked at it with concern. Just a freezer—not a retro gun at +all! Then it couldn't have been the weapon used on him.</p> + +<p>Before he could take it back the manager broke it open. The drowsy +expression vanished.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you say so?" exclaimed the manager, examining it. "This +gun has been illegally altered." He bent over the exposed circuits and +then glanced up happily at Luis. "Come here, I'll show you."</p> + +<p>Luis followed him to the small workshop in the back of the store. The +manager closed the door behind them and fumbled among the equipment. +He mounted the gun securely in a frame and pressed a button which +projected an image of the circuit onto a screen.</p> + +<p>The manager was enjoying himself. "Everybody's entitled to +self-protection," he said. "That's why we sell so many like these. +They're harmless, won't hurt a baby. Fully charged, they'll put a man +out for half an hour, overload his nervous system. At the weakest, +they'll still keep him out of action for ten minutes. Below that, they +won't work at all." He looked up. "Are you sure you understand this?"</p> + +<p>It had been included in his re-education, but it didn't come readily +to his mind. "Perhaps you'd better go over it for me."</p> + +<p>The manager wagged his head. "As I said, the freezer is legal, won't +harm anyone. It'll stop a man or an elephant in his tracks, freeze +him, but beyond that will leave him intact. When he comes out of it, +he's just the same as before, nothing changed." He seized a pointer +and adjusted the controls so as to enlarge the image on the screen. +"However, a freezer can be converted to a retrogression gun, and +that's illegal." He traced the connections with the pointer. "If this +wire, instead of connecting as it does, is moved to here and here, the +polarity is reversed. In addition, if these four wires are +interchanged, the freezer becomes a retrogressor. As I said, it's +illegal to do that."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> + +<p>he manager scrutinized the circuits closely and grunted in disgust. +"Whoever converted this did a sloppy job. Here." He bent over the gun +and began manipulating micro-instruments. He worked rapidly and +surely. A moment later, he snapped the weapon together and +straightened up, handing it to Luis. "There," he said proudly. "It's a +much more effective retrogressor than it was. Uses less power too."</p> + +<p>Luis swallowed. Either he was mad or the man was, or perhaps it was +the society he was trying to adjust to. "Aren't you taking a chance, +doing this for me?"</p> + +<p>The manager smiled. "You're joking. A tenth of the freezers we sell +are immediately converted into retrogressors. Who cares?" He became +serious. "Do you still want to know who bought it?"</p> + +<p>Luis nodded—at the moment he didn't trust his voice.</p> + +<p>"It will take several hours. No charge though, customer service. Tell +me where I can reach you."</p> + +<p>Luis jotted down the number of the screen at the Shelter and handed it +to the manager. As he left, the manager whispered to him: "Remember, +the next time you buy a freezer—ours can be converted easier than the +one you have."</p> + +<p>He went out into the sunlight. It didn't seem the same. What kind of +society was he living in? The reality didn't fit with what he had +re-learned. It had seemed an orderly and sane civilization, with +little violence and vast respect for the law.</p> + +<p>But the fact was that any school child—well, not quite <i>that</i> young, +perhaps—but anyone older could and did buy a freezer. And it was +ridiculously easy to convert a freezer into something far more +vicious. Of course, it was illegal, but no one paid any attention to +that.</p> + +<p>This was wrong; it wasn't the way he remembered....</p> + +<p>He corrected himself: he didn't actually remember anything. His +knowledge came from tapes, and was obviously inadequate. Certain +things he just didn't understand yet.</p> + +<p>He wanted to talk to someone—but who? The counselor had given him all +the information he intended to. The store manager had supplied some +additional insight, but it only confused him. Luise—at the moment she +was suspicious of him.</p> + +<p>There was nothing to do except to be as observant as he could. He +wandered through the town, just looking. He saw nothing that seemed +familiar. Negative evidence, of course, but it indicated he hadn't +lived here before.</p> + +<p>Before what? Before he had been retrogressed. He had been brought here +from elsewhere, the same as Luise.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image_003.jpg" width="600" height="307" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>He visited the spaceport. Again the evidence was negative; there was +not a ship the sight of which tripped his memory. It had been too much +to hope for; if he had been brought in by spaceship, it wouldn't still +be around for him to recognize.</p> + +<p>Late in the afternoon, he headed toward the center of town. He was +riding the belt when he saw Luise coming out of a tall office +building.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="41" height="40" /></div> +<p>e hopped off and let her pass, boarding it again and following her at +a distance. As soon as they were out of the business district, he +began to edge closer.</p> + +<p>A few blocks from the Shelter she got off the belt and waited, turning +around and smiling directly at him. In the interim her attitude toward +him had changed, evidently—for the better, as far as he was +concerned. He couldn't ignore her and didn't want to. He stepped off +the belt.</p> + +<p>"Hello," she said. "I think you were following me."</p> + +<p>"I was. Do you mind?"</p> + +<p>"I guess I don't." She walked along with him. "Others followed me, but +I discouraged them."</p> + +<p>She was worth following, but it was not that which was strange. Now +she seemed composed and extraordinarily friendly, a complete reversal +from last night. Had she learned something during the day which +changed her opinion of him? He hoped she had.</p> + +<p>She stopped at the edge of the Shelter area. "Do you live here?"</p> + +<p>Learned something? She seemed to have forgotten.</p> + +<p>He nodded.</p> + +<p>"For the same reason?"</p> + +<p>His throat tightened. He had told her all that last night. Couldn't +she remember?</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said.</p> + +<p>"I thought so. That's why I didn't mind your following me."</p> + +<p>Here was the attraction factor that Borgenese had spoken of; it was +functioning again, for which he was grateful. But still, why? And why +didn't she remember last night?</p> + +<p>They walked on until she came to her dwelling. She paused at the door. +"I have a feeling I should know who you are, but I just can't recall. +Isn't that terrible?"</p> + +<p>It was—frightening. Her identity was apparently incompletely +established; it kept slipping backward to a time she hadn't met him. +He couldn't build anything enduring on that; each meeting with her +would begin as if nothing had happened before.</p> + +<p>Would the same be true of him?</p> + +<p>He looked at her. The torn dress hadn't been repaired, as he'd thought +at first; it had been replaced by the robots that came out of the wall +at night. They'd done a good job fitting her, but with her body that +was easy.</p> + +<p>It was frightening and it wasn't. At least this time he didn't have a +handicap. He opened his mouth to tell her his name, and then closed +it. He wasn't going to make that mistake again. "I haven't decided on +a name," he said.</p> + +<p>"It was that way with me too." She gazed at him and he could feel his +insides sloshing around. "Well, man with no name, do you want to come +in? We can have dinner together."</p> + +<p>He entered. But dinner was late that night. He had known it would be.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_i.jpg" alt="I" width="19" height="40" /></div> +<p>n the morning light, he sat up and put his hand on her. She smiled in +her sleep and squirmed closer. There were compensations for being +nobody, he supposed, and this was one of them. He got up quietly and +dressed without waking her. There were a number of things he wanted to +discuss, but somehow there hadn't been time last night. He would have +to talk to her later today.</p> + +<p>He slipped out of the house and went across the court into his own. +The screen he had ripped apart had been repaired and put back in +place. A voice chimed out as he entered: "A call came while you were +gone."</p> + +<p>"Let's have it."</p> + +<p>The voice descended the scale and became that of the store manager. +"The gun you brought in was sold six months ago to Dorn Starret, +resident of Ceres and proprietor of a small gallium mine there. That's +all the information on record. I trust it will be satisfactory."</p> + +<p>Luis sat down. It was. He could trace the man or have him traced, +though the last might not be necessary.</p> + +<p>The name meant something to him—just what he couldn't say. Dorn +Starret, owner of a gallium mine on Ceres. The mine might or might not +be of consequence; gallium was used in a number of industrial +processes, but beyond that was not particularly valuable.</p> + +<p>He closed his eyes to concentrate. The name slid into vacant nerve +cells that were responsive; slowly a picture formed, nebulous and +incomplete at first. There was a mouth and then there were eyes, each +feature bringing others into focus, unfolding as a germ cell divides +and grows, calling into existence an entire creature. The picture was +nearly complete.</p> + +<p>Still with eyes closed, he looked at the man he remembered. Dorn +Starret, five-eleven, one hundred and ninety, flesh that had once been +muscular and firm. Age, thirty-seven; black hair that was beginning to +recede from his forehead. The face was harder to define—strong, +though slightly hard, it was perhaps good looking. It was the eyes +which were at fault, Luis decided—glinting often—and there were +lines on the face that ought not to be there.</p> + +<p>There was another thing that set the man apart. Not clothing; that was +conventional, though better than average. Luis stared into his memory +until he was able to see it. <i>Unquestionably the man was +left-handed.</i> The picture was too clear to permit a mistake on that +detail.</p> + +<p>He knew the man, had seen him often. How and in what context? He +waited, but nothing else came.</p> + +<p>Luis opened his eyes. He would recognize the man if he ever saw him. +This was the man who owned the gun, presumably had shot him with it, +and then had hidden it here in this room.</p> + +<p>He thought about it vainly. By itself, the name couldn't take him back +through all past associations with the man, so he passed from the man +to Ceres. Here he was better equipped; re-education tapes had replaced +his former knowledge of the subject.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> + +<p>he asteroid belt was not rigidly policed; if there was a place in the +System in which legal niceties were not strictly observed, it was +there. What could he deduce from that? Nothing perhaps; there were +many people living in the belt who were engaged in legitimate work: +miners, prospectors, scientific investigators. But with rising +excitement, he realized that Dorn Starret was not one of these.</p> + +<p>He was a criminal. The gallium mine was merely an attempt to cover +himself with respectability. How did Luis know that? He wasn't sure; +his thought processes were hidden and erratic; but he knew.</p> + +<p>Dorn Starret was a criminal—but the information wasn't completely +satisfactory. What had caused the man to retrogress Luis and Luise +Obispo? That still had to be determined.</p> + +<p>But it did suggest this: as a habitual criminal, the man was more than +ordinarily dangerous.</p> + +<p>Luis sat there a while longer, but he had recalled everything that +would come out of the original stimulus. If he wanted more, he would +have to dig up other facts or make further contacts. But at least it +wasn't hopeless—even without the police, he had learned this much.</p> + +<p>He went over the room thoroughly once more. If there was anything +hidden, he couldn't find it.</p> + +<p>He crossed the court to Luise's dwelling. She was gone, but there was +a note on the table. He picked it up and read it:</p> + +<p class="p2"><i>Dear man with no name:</i></p> + +<p><i>I suppose you were here last night, though I'm so mixed up I can't be +sure; there's so little of memory or reality to base anything on. I +wanted to talk to you before I left but I guess, like me, you're out +investigating.</i></p> + +<p><i>There's always a danger that neither of us will like what we find. What +if I'm married to another person and the same with you? Suppose ... but +there are countless suppositions—these are the risks we take. It's +intolerable not to know who I am, especially since the knowledge is so +close. But of course you know that.</i></p> + +<p><i>Anyway I'll be out most of the day. I discovered a psychologist who +specializes in restoring memory; you can see the possibilities in +that. I went there yesterday and have an appointment again today. It's +nice of him, considering that I have no money, but he says I'm more or +less an experimental subject. I can't tell you when I'll be back but +it won't be late.</i></p> + +<p class="p1"><i>Luise.</i></p> + +<p>He crumpled the note in his hand. Memory expert. Her psychologist was +that—in reverse. Yesterday he had taken a day out of her life, and +that was why Luise hadn't recognized him and might not a second time.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="41" height="40" /></div> +<p>e leaned against the table. After a moment, he straightened out the +note. A second reading didn't help. There it was, if he could make +sense from it.</p> + +<p>Luise and himself, probably in that order. There was no proof, but it +seemed likely that she had been retrogressed first, since she had been +discovered first.</p> + +<p>There was also Dorn Starret, the criminal from Ceres who had hidden +the gun in the Shelter that he, Luis, had been found in. And there was +now a fourth person: the psychologist who specialized in depriving +retrogression victims of what few memories they had left.</p> + +<p>Luis grimaced. Here was information which, if the police would act on +it properly ... but it was no use, they wouldn't. Any solution which +came out of this would have to arise out of his own efforts.</p> + +<p>He folded the note carefully. It would be handy to have if Luise came +back and didn't know who he was.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the psychologist. Luise hadn't said who he was, but it +shouldn't be difficult to locate him. He went to the screen and dialed +the directory. There were many psychologists in it, but no name that +was familiar.</p> + +<p>He pondered. The person who had retroed Luise and himself—what would +he do? First he would take them as far from familiar scenes as he +could. That tied in with the facts. Dorn Starret came from Ceres.</p> + +<p>Then what? He would want to make certain that his victims did not +trace their former lives. And he would be inconspicuous in so doing.</p> + +<p>Again Luis turned to the screen, but this time he dialed the news +service. He found what he was looking for in the advertisements of an +issue a month old. It was very neat:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><b>DO YOU REMEMBER EVERYTHING—or is your mind hazy? Perhaps my +system can help you recall those little details you find it +so annoying to forget. MEMORY LAB.</b></p></div> + +<p>That was all. No name. But there was an address. Hurriedly Luis +scanned every succeeding issue. The advertisement was still there.</p> + +<p>He was coming closer, very close. The ad was clever; it would attract +the attention of Luise and himself and others like them, and almost no +one else. There was no mention of fees, no claim that it was operated +by a psychologist, nothing that the police would investigate.</p> + +<p>Night after night Luise had sat alone; sooner or later, watching the +screen, she had to see the ad. It was intriguing and she had answered +it. Normally, so would he have: but now he was forewarned.</p> + +<p>Part of the cleverness was this: that she went of her own volition. +She would have suspected an outright offer of help—but this seemed +harmless. She went to him as she would to anyone in business. A very +clever setup.</p> + +<p>But who was behind MEMORY LAB? Luis thought he knew. A trained +psychologist with a legitimate purpose would attach his name to the +advertisement.</p> + +<p>Luis patted the retro gun in his pocket. Dorn Starret, criminal, and +inventor of a fictitious memory system, was going to have a visitor. +It wasn't necessary to go to Ceres to see him.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_i.jpg" alt="I" width="19" height="40" /></div> +<p>t was the only conclusion that made sense. Dorn Starret had retroed +him—the gun proved that—and Luise as well. Until a few minutes ago, +he had thought that she had been first and he later, but that was +wrong. They had been retrogressed together and Dorn Starret had done +it; now he had come back to make certain that they didn't trace him.</p> + +<p>Neat—but it wasn't going to work. Luis grinned wryly to himself. He +had a weapon in his pocket that was assurance it wouldn't work.</p> + +<p>He got off the belt near the building he had seen Luise leaving +yesterday. He went into the lobby and located MEMORY LAB, a suite on +the top floor. It wasn't necessary, but he checked rental dates. The +lab had been there exactly three weeks. This tied in with Luise's +release from retro-therapy. Every connection he had anticipated was +there.</p> + +<p>He rode up to the top floor. There wasn't a chance that Starret would +recognize him; physically he must have changed too much since the +criminal had last seen him. And while Luise hadn't concealed that she +was a retro and so had given herself away, he wasn't going to make +that mistake.</p> + +<p>The sign on the door stood out as he came near and disappeared as he +went by. MEMORY LAB, that was all—no other name, even here. +Naturally. A false name would be occasion for police action. The right +one would evoke Luise's and his own memories.</p> + +<p>He turned back and went into the waiting room. No robot receptionist. +He expected that; the man didn't intend to be around very long.</p> + +<p>"Who's there?" The voice came from a speaker in the wall; the screen +beside it remained blank, though obviously the man was in the next +room. For a commercial establishment, the LAB was not considerate of +potential clients.</p> + +<p>Luis smiled sourly and loosened the weapon in his pocket. "I saw your +advertisement," he said. No name; let him guess.</p> + +<p>"I'm very busy. Can you come back tomorrow?"</p> + +<p>Luis frowned. This was not according to plan. First, he didn't +recognize the voice, though the speaker could account for that if it +were intentionally distorted. Second, Luise was inside and he had to +protect her. He could break in, but he preferred that the man come +out.</p> + +<p>He thought swiftly. "I'm Chals Putsyn, gallium importer," he called. +"Tomorrow I'll be away on business. Can you give me an appointment for +another time?"</p> + +<p>There was a long silence. "Wait. I'll be out."</p> + +<p>He'd <i>thought</i> the mention of gallium would do it. True, the mine +Starret owned was probably worthless, but he couldn't restrain his +curiosity.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_t.jpg" alt="T" width="36" height="40" /></div> + +<p>he door swung open and a man stepped out, closing the door before +Luis could see inside.</p> + +<p>He had erred—the man was not Dorn Starret.</p> + +<p>The other eyed him keenly. "Mr. Chals Putsyn? Please sit down."</p> + +<p>Luis did so slowly, giving himself time to complete a mental +inventory. The man <i>had</i> to be Dorn Starret—and yet he wasn't. No +disguise could be that effective. At least three inches shorter; the +shape of his head was different; his body was slighter. Moreover, he +was right-handed, not left, as Starret was.</p> + +<p>Luis had a story ready—names, dates, and circumstances. It sounded +authentic even to himself.</p> + +<p>The man listened impatiently. "I may not be able to help you," he +said, interrupting. "Oddly enough, light cases are hardest. It's the +serious memory blocks that I specialize in." There was something +strange about his eyes—his voice too. "However, if you can come back +in two days, late in the afternoon, I'll see what I can do."</p> + +<p>Luis took the appointment card and found himself firmly ushered to the +door. It was disturbing; Luise was in the next room, but the man gave +him no opportunity to see her.</p> + +<p>He stood uncertainly in the hall. The whole interview had taken only a +few minutes, and during that time all his previous ideas had been +upset. If the man was not Dorn Starret, who was he and what was his +connection? The criminal from Ceres was not so foolish as to attempt +to solve his problems by assigning them to another person. This was a +one-man job from beginning to end, or ought to be.</p> + +<p>Luis took the elevator to the ground floor and walked out aimlessly on +the street. There was something queer about the man on the top floor. +It took time to discover what it was.</p> + +<p>The man was not Starret—but he was disguised. His irises were stained +another color and the voice was not his own—or rather it was, but +filtered through an artificial larynx inserted painfully in his +throat. And his face had been recently swabbed with a chemical +irritant which caused the tissues beneath his skin to swell, making +his face appear plumper.</p> + +<p>Luis took a deep breath. Unconsciously he had noticed details too +slight for the average person to discern. This suggested something +about his own past—that he was trained to recognize disguises.</p> + +<p>But more important was this: that the man was disguised at all. The +reason was obvious—to avoid evoking memories.</p> + +<p>The man's name—what was it? It hadn't even been registered in the +building—he'd asked on his way out. And Luise couldn't tell him. She +was no longer a reliable source of information. He had to find out, +and there was only one way that suggested itself.</p> + +<p>Luise was still in there, but not in physical danger. The police were +lax about other things, but not about murder, and the man knew that. +She might lose her memories of the past few weeks; regrettable if it +happened, but not a catastrophe.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/image_004.jpg" width="600" height="434" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p>But who was the man and what was his connection?</p> + +<p>He spent the rest of the day buying equipment—not much, but his money +dwindled rapidly. He considered going back to the Shelter and then +decided against it. By this time Luise would be back, and he would be +tempted not to leave her.</p> + +<p>After dark, when the lights in the offices went out, he rented an +aircar and set it down on the top of the building.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="41" height="40" /></div> +<p>e walked across the roof, estimating the distances with practiced +ease, as if he'd undergone extensive training and the apprenticeship +period had been forgotten and only the skill remained. He knelt and +fused two small rods to a portion of the roof, and then readjusted the +torch and cut a small circular hole. He listened, and when there was +no alarm, lifted out the section. There was nothing but darkness +below.</p> + +<p>He fastened a rope to the aircar. He dropped the rope through the hole +and slid down. Unless he had miscalculated, he was where he wanted to +be, having bypassed all alarm circuits. There were others inside, he +was reasonably certain of that, but with ordinary precautions he +could avoid them.</p> + +<p>He flashed on a tiny light. He had guessed right; this was MEMORY +LAB—the room he'd wanted to see this afternoon but hadn't been able +to. In front of him was the door to the waiting room, and beyond that +the hall. He swung the light in an arc, flashing it over a desk and a +piece of equipment the nature of which he didn't know. Behind him was +still another door.</p> + +<p>The desk was locked, but he took out a small magnetic device and +jiggled it expertly over the concealed mechanism and then it was +unlocked. He went hurriedly through papers and documents, but there +was nothing with a name on it. He rifled the desk thoroughly and then +went to the machine.</p> + +<p>He didn't expect to learn anything, but he might as well examine it. +There was a place for a patient to sit, and a metal hood to fit over +the patient's head. He snapped the hood open and peered into it. It +seemed to have two functions. One circuit was far larger and more +complicated, and he couldn't determine what it did. But he recognized +the other circuit; essentially it was a retrogressor, but whereas the +gun was crude and couldn't be regulated, this was capable of fine +adjustment—enough, say, to slice a day out of the patient's life, and +no more.</p> + +<p>That fitted with what had happened to Luise. She had been experimented +on in some way, and then the memory of that experiment had been +erased. But the man had grown careless and had taken away one day too +many.</p> + +<p>He snapped the mechanism closed. This was the method, but he still +didn't know who the man was nor why he found it necessary to do all +this.</p> + +<p>There was a door behind him and the answer might lie beyond it. He +listened carefully, then swung the door open and went through.</p> + +<p>The blow that hit him wasn't physical; nothing mechanical could take +his nerves and jerk them all at once. A freezer. As he fell to the +floor, he was grateful it was that and not a retro gun.</p> + +<p>Lights flooded the place, and the man of the afternoon interview was +grinning at him.</p> + +<p>"I thought you'd be back," he said, pleased. "In fact, I knew you +would."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_s.jpg" alt="S" width="26" height="40" /></div> + +<p>omewhere he had blundered; but he didn't know how. Experimentally he +wriggled his fingers. They moved a fraction of an inch, but no more. +He was helpless and couldn't say anything. He wasn't quite sure at the +moment that he wanted to.</p> + +<p>"You were right, I didn't recognize you physically," continued the +man. "Nevertheless, you gave yourself away. The name you used this +afternoon, Chals Putsyn, is <i>my</i> name. Do you remember now?"</p> + +<p>Of course. He'd chosen Chals Putsyn at random, because he'd had to say +something, and everything would have been all right—except it +actually hadn't been a random choice. The associations had triggered +the wrong words into existence.</p> + +<p>His mind flashed back to the time he'd discussed names with Borgenese. +What had he said?</p> + +<p>Putsy. But it wasn't Putsy—it was Putsyn.</p> + +<p>"You're very much improved," said the real Chals Putsyn, staring +curiously at him. "Let me recommend the retro treatment to you. In +fact I'd take it myself, but there are a few inconveniences."</p> + +<p>Yeah, there were inconveniences—like starting over again and not +knowing who you were.</p> + +<p>But Putsyn was right: he was physically improved. A freezer knocked a +man down and kept him there for half an hour. But Luis had only been +down a few minutes, and already he could move his feet, though he +didn't. It was a phenomenally fast recovery, and perhaps Putsyn wasn't +aware of it.</p> + +<p>"The question is, what to do with you?" Putsyn seemed to be thinking +aloud. "The police are intolerant of killing. Maybe if I disposed of +every atom...." He shook his head and sighed. "But that's been tried, +and it didn't make any difference. So you'll have to remain +alive—though I don't think you'll approve of my treatment."</p> + +<p>Luis didn't approve—it would be the same kind of treatment that Luise +had been exposed to, but more drastic in his case, because he was +aware of what was going on.</p> + +<p>Putsyn came close to drag him away. It was time to use the energy he'd +been saving up, and he did.</p> + +<p>Startled, Putsyn fired the freezer, but he was aiming at a twisting +target and the invisible energy only grazed Luis's leg. The leg went +limp and had no feeling, but his two hands were still good and that +was all he needed.</p> + +<p>He tore the freezer away and put his other hand on Putsyn's throat. He +could feel the artificial larynx inside. He squeezed.</p> + +<p>He lay there until Putsyn went limp.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_w.jpg" alt="W" width="51" height="40" /></div> +<p>hen there was no longer any movement, he sat up and pried open the +man's jaws, thrusting his fingers into the mouth and jerking out the +artificial larynx. The next time he would hear Putsyn's real voice, +and maybe that would trigger his memory.</p> + +<p>He crawled to the door and pulled himself up, leaning against the +wall. By the time Putsyn moved, he had regained partial use of his +leg.</p> + +<p>"Now we'll see," he said. He didn't try to put anger in his voice; it +was there. "I don't have to tell you that I can beat answers out of +you."</p> + +<p>"You don't know?" Putsyn laughed and there was relief in the sound. +"You can kick me around, but you won't get your answers!"</p> + +<p>The man had physical courage, or thought he did, and sometimes that +amounted to the same thing. Luis shifted uneasily. It was the first +time he'd heard Putsyn's actual voice; it was disturbing, but it +didn't arouse concrete memories.</p> + +<p>He stepped on the outstretched hand. "Think so?" he said. He could +hear the fingers crackle.</p> + +<p>Putsyn paled, but didn't cry out. "Don't think you can kill me and get +away with it," he said.</p> + +<p>He didn't sound too certain.</p> + +<p>Slightly sick, Luis stepped off the hand. He couldn't kill the +man—and not just because of the police. He just couldn't do it. He +felt for the other gun in his pocket.</p> + +<p>"This isn't a freezer," he said. "It's been changed over. I think I'll +give you a sample."</p> + +<p>Putsyn blinked. "And lose all chance of finding out? Go ahead."</p> + +<p>Luis had thought of that; but he hadn't expected Putsyn to.</p> + +<p>"You see, there's nothing you can do," said Putsyn. "A man has a right +to protect his property, and I've got plenty of evidence that you +broke in."</p> + +<p>"I don't think you'll go to the police," Luis said.</p> + +<p>"You think not? My memory system isn't a fraud. Admittedly, I didn't +use it properly on Luise, but in a public demonstration I can prove +that it does work."</p> + +<p>Luis nodded wearily to himself. He'd half suspected that it did work. +Here he was, with the solution so close—this man knew his identity +and that of Luise, and where Dorn Starret came into the tangle—and he +couldn't force Putsyn to tell.</p> + +<p>He couldn't go to the police. They would ignore his charges, because +they were based on unprovable suspicions ... ignore him or arrest him +for breaking and entering.</p> + +<p>"Everything's in your favor," he said, raising the gun. "But there's +one way to make you leave us alone."</p> + +<p>"Wait," cried Putsyn, covering his face with his uninjured hand, as +if that would shield him. "Maybe we can work out an agreement."</p> + +<p>Luis didn't lower the gun. "I mean it," he said.</p> + +<p>"I know you mean it—I can't let you take away my life's work."</p> + +<p>"Talk fast," Luis said, "and don't lie."</p> + +<p>He stood close and listened while Putsyn told his story.</p> + +<p>This is what had happened, he thought. This is what he'd tried so hard +to learn.</p> + +<p>"I had to do it that way," Putsyn finished. "But if you're willing to +listen to reason, I can cut you in—more money than you've dreamed +of—and the girl too, if you want her."</p> + +<p>Luis was silent. He wanted her—but now the thought was foolish. +Hopeless. This must be the way people felt who stood in the blast area +of a rocket—but for them the sensation lasted only an instant, while +for him the feeling would last the rest of his life.</p> + +<p>"Get up," he said.</p> + +<p>"Then it's all right?" asked Putsyn nervously. "We'll share it?"</p> + +<p>"Get up."</p> + +<p>Putsyn got to his feet, and Luis hit him. He could have used the +freezer, but that wasn't personal enough.</p> + +<p>He let the body fall to the floor.</p> + +<p>He dragged the inert form into the waiting room and turned on the +screen and talked to the police. Then he turned off the screen and +kicked open the door to the hall. He shouldered Putsyn and carried him +up to the roof and put him in the aircar.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_l.jpg" alt="L" width="33" height="40" /></div> +<p>uise was there, puzzled and sleepy. For reasons of his own, Borgenese +had sent a squad to bring her in. Might as well have her here and get +it over with, Luis thought. She smiled at him, and he knew that Putsyn +hadn't lied about that part. She remembered him and therefore Putsyn +hadn't had time to do much damage.</p> + +<p>Borgenese was at the desk as he walked in. Luis swung Putsyn off his +shoulder and dropped him into a chair. The man was still unconscious, +but wouldn't be for long.</p> + +<p>"I see you brought a visitor," remarked Borgenese pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"A customer," he said.</p> + +<p>"Customers are welcome too," said the police counselor. "Of course, +it's up to us to decide whether he <i>is</i> a customer."</p> + +<p>Luise started to cross the room, but Borgenese motioned her back. "Let +him alone. I think he's going to have a rough time."</p> + +<p>"Yeah," said Luis.</p> + +<p>It was nice to know that Luise liked him now—because she wouldn't +after this was over.</p> + +<p>He wiped the sweat off his forehead; all of it hadn't come from +physical exertion.</p> + +<p>"Putsyn here is a scientist," he said. "He worked out a machine that +reverses the effects of the retro gun. He intended to go to everyone +who'd been retrogressed, and in return for giving them back their +memory, they'd sign over most of their property to him.</p> + +<p>"Naturally, they'd agree. They all want to return to their former +lives that bad, and, of course, they aren't aware of how much money +they had. He had it all his way. He could use the machine to +investigate them, and take only those who were really wealthy. He'd +give them a partial recovery in the machine, and when he found out who +they were, give them a quick shot of a built-in retro gun, taking them +back to the time they'd just entered his office. They wouldn't suspect +a thing.</p> + +<p>"Those who measured up he'd sign an agreement with, and to the other +poor devils he'd say that he was sorry but he couldn't help them."</p> + +<p>Putsyn was conscious now. "It's not so," he said sullenly. "He can't +prove it."</p> + +<p>"I don't think he's trying to prove that," said Borgenese, still calm. +"Let him talk."</p> + +<p>Luis took a deep breath. "He might have gotten away with it, but he'd +hired a laboratory assistant to help him perfect the machine. She +didn't like his ideas; she thought a discovery like that should be +given to the public. He didn't particularly care what she thought, but +now the trouble was that she could build it too, and since he couldn't +patent it and still keep it secret, she was a threat to his plans." He +paused. "Her name was Luise Obispo."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_h.jpg" alt="H" width="41" height="40" /></div> +<p>e didn't have to turn his head. From the corner of his eye, he could +see startlement flash across her face. She'd got her name right; and +it was he who had erred in choosing a name.</p> + +<p>"Putsyn hired a criminal, Dorn Starret, to get rid of her for him," he +said harshly. "That was the way Starret made his living. He was an +expert at it.</p> + +<p>"Starret slugged her one night on Mars. He didn't retro her at once. +He loaded her on a spaceship and brought her to Earth. During the +passage, he talked to her and got to like her a lot. She wasn't as +developed as she is now, kind of mousy maybe, but you know how those +things are—he liked her. He made love to her, but didn't get very +far.</p> + +<p>"He landed in another city on Earth and left his spaceship there; he +drugged her and brought her to the Shelter here and retroed her. +That's what he'd been paid to do.</p> + +<p>"Then he decided to stick around. Maybe she'd change her mind after +retrogression. He stayed in a Shelter just across from the one she was +in. And he made a mistake. He hid the retro gun behind the screen.</p> + +<p>"Putsyn came around to check up. He didn't like Starret staying +there—a key word or a familiar face sometimes triggers the memory. He +retroed Starret, who didn't have a gun he could get to in a hurry. +Maybe Putsyn had planned to do it all along. He'd built up an airtight +alibi when Luise disappeared, so that nobody would connect him with +that—and who'd miss a criminal like Starret?</p> + +<p>"Anyway, that was only part of it. He knew that people who've been +retroed try to find out who they are, and that some of them succeed. +He didn't want that to happen. So he put an advertisement in the paper +that she'd see and answer. When she did, he began to use his machine +on her, intending to take her from the present to the past and back +again so often that her mind would refuse to accept anything, past or +present.</p> + +<p>"But he'd just started when Starret showed up, and he knew he had to +get him too. So he pulled what looked like a deliberate slip and got +Starret interested, intending to take care of both of them in the same +way at the same time."</p> + +<p>He leaned against the wall. It was over now and he knew what he could +expect.</p> + +<p>"That's all, but it didn't work out the way Putsyn wanted it. Starret +was a guy who knew how to look after his own interests."</p> + +<p>Except the biggest and most important one; there he'd failed.</p> + +<p>Borgenese was tapping on the desk, but it wasn't really tapping—he +was pushing buttons. A policeman came in and the counselor motioned to +Putsyn: "Put him in the pre-trial cells."</p> + +<p>"You can't prove it," said Putsyn. His face was sunken and frightened.</p> + +<p>"I think we can," said the counselor indifferently. "You don't know +the efficiency of our laboratories. You'll talk."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_w.jpg" alt="W" width="51" height="40" /></div> +<p>hen Putsyn had been removed, Borgenese turned. "Very good work, Luis. +I'm pleased with you. I think in time you'd make an excellent +policeman. Retro detail, of course."</p> + +<p>Luis stared at him.</p> + +<p>"Didn't you listen?" he said. "I'm Dorn Starret, a cheap crook."</p> + +<p>In that mental picture of Starret he'd had, he should have seen it at +once. Left-handed? Not at all—that was the way a man normally saw +himself in a mirror. And in mirror images, the right hand becomes the +left.</p> + +<p>The counselor sat up straight, not gentle and easygoing any longer. +"I'm afraid you can't prove that," he said. "Fingerprints? Will any of +Starret's past associates identify you? There's Putsyn, but he won't +be around to testify." He smiled. "As final evidence let me ask you +this: when he offered you a share in his crooked scheme, did you +accept? You did not. Instead, you brought him in, though you thought +you were heading into certain retrogression."</p> + +<p>Luis blinked dazedly. "But—"</p> + +<p>"There are no exceptions, Luis. For certain crimes there is a +prescribed penalty, retrogression. The law makes no distinction as to +how the penalty is applied, and for a good reason. If there was such a +person, Dorn Starret ceased to exist when Putsyn retroed him—and not +only legally."</p> + +<p>Counselor Borgenese stood up. "You see, retroing a person wipes him +clean of almost everything he ever knew—<i>right and wrong</i>. It leaves +him with an adult body, and we fill his mind with adult facts. Given +half a chance, he acts like an adult."</p> + +<p>Borgenese walked slowly to stand in front of his desk. "We protect +life. Everybody's life. <i>Including those who are not yet victims.</i> We +don't have the death penalty and don't want it. The most we can do to +anyone is give him a new chance, via retrogression. We have the same +penalty for those who deprive another of his memory as we do for those +who kill—with this difference: the man who retrogresses another knows +he has a good chance to get away with it. The murderer is certain that +he won't.</p> + +<p>"That's an administrative rule, not a law—that we don't try to trace +retrogression victims. It channels anger and greed into +non-destructive acts. There are a lot of unruly emotions floating +around, and as long as there are, we have to have a safety valve for +them. Retrogression is the perfect instrument for that."</p> + +<p>Luise tried to speak, but he waved her into silence.</p> + +<p>"Do you know how many were killed last year?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Luis shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Four," said the counselor. "Four murders in a population of sixteen +billion. That's quite a record, as anyone knows who reads Twentieth +Century mystery novels." He glanced humorously at Luis. "You did, +didn't you?"</p> + +<p>Luis nodded mutely.</p> + +<p>Borgenese grinned. "I thought so. There are only three types of +people who know about fingerprints today, historians and policemen +being two. And I didn't think you were either."</p> + +<p>Luise finally broke in. "Won't Putsyn's machine change things?"</p> + +<p>"Will it?" The counselor pretended to frown. "Do you remember how to +build it?"</p> + +<p>"I've forgotten," she confessed.</p> + +<p>"So you have," said Borgenese. "And I assure you Putsyn is going to +forget too. As a convicted criminal, and he will be, we'll provide him +with a false memory that will prevent his prying into the past.</p> + +<p>"That's one machine we don't want until humans are fully and +completely civilized. It's been invented a dozen times in the last +century, and it always gets lost."</p> + +<p>He closed his eyes momentarily, and when he opened them, Luise was +looking at Luis, who was staring at the floor.</p> + +<p>"You two can go now," he said. "When you get ready, there are jobs for +both of you in my department. No hurry, though; we'll keep them open."</p> + +<p>Luis left, went out through the long corridors and into the night.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="figleft"><img src="images/image_s.jpg" alt="S" width="26" height="40" /></div> + +<p>he caught up with him when he was getting off the belt that had taken +him back to the Shelters.</p> + +<p>"There's not much you can say, I suppose," she murmured. "What can you +tell a girl when she learns you've stopped just short of killing her?"</p> + +<p>He didn't know the answer either.</p> + +<p>They walked in silence.</p> + +<p>She stopped at her dwelling, but didn't go in. "Still, it's an +indication of how you felt—that you forgot your own name and took +mine." She was smiling now. "I don't see how I can do less for you."</p> + +<p>Hope stirred and he moved closer. But he didn't speak. She might not +mean what he thought she did.</p> + +<p>"Luis and Luise Obispo," she said softly. "Very little change for +me—just add Mrs. to it." She was gazing at him with familiar +intensity. "Do you want to come in?"</p> + +<p>She opened the door.</p> + +<p>Crime was sometimes the road to opportunity, and retrogression could +be kind.</p> + +<p class="p3"><b>—F. L. WALLACE</b></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Forget Me Nearly, by Floyd L. 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Wallace + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Forget Me Nearly + +Author: Floyd L. Wallace + +Illustrator: Emsh + +Release Date: April 17, 2010 [EBook #32025] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORGET ME NEARLY *** + + + + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1954. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. + + + FORGET ME NEARLY + + + By F. L. Wallace + + + Illustrated by EMSH + + + _What sort of world was it, he puzzled, that wouldn't help + victims find out whether they had been murdered or had + committed suicide?_ + + * * * * * + + + + +The police counselor leaned forward and tapped the small nameplate on +his desk, which said: _Val Borgenese._ "That's my name," he said. "Who +are you?" + +[Illustration] + +The man across the desk shook his head. "I don't know," he said +indistinctly. + +"Sometimes a simple approach works," said the counselor, shoving aside +the nameplate. "But not often. We haven't found anything that's +effective in more than a small percentage of cases." He blinked +thoughtfully. "Names are difficult. A name is like clothing, put on or +taken off, recognizable but not part of the person--the first thing +forgotten and the last remembered." + +The man with no name said nothing. + +"Try pet names," suggested Borgenese. "You don't have to be sure--just +say the first thing you think of. It may be something your parents +called you when you were a child." + +The man stared vacantly, closed his eyes for a moment and then opened +them and mumbled something. + +"What?" asked Borgenese. + +"Putsy," said the man more distinctly. "The only thing I can think of +is Putsy." + +The counselor smiled. "That's a pet name, of course, but it doesn't +help much. We can't trace it, and I don't think you'd want it as a +permanent name." He saw the expression on the man's face and added +hastily: "We haven't given up, if that's what you're thinking. But +it's not easy to determine your identity. The most important source of +information is your mind, and that was at the two year level when we +found you. The fact that you recalled the word Putsy is an +indication." + +"Fingerprints," said the man vaguely. "Can't you trace me through +fingerprints?" + +"That's another clue," said the counselor. "Not fingerprints, but the +fact that you thought of them." He jotted something down. "I'll have +to check those re-education tapes. They may be defective by now, we've +run them so many times. Again, it may be merely that your mind refused +to accept the proper information." + +The man started to protest, but Borgenese cut him off. "Fingerprints +were a fair means of identification in the Twentieth Century, but this +is the Twenty-second Century." + + * * * * * + +The counselor then sat back. "You're confused now. You have a lot of +information you don't know how to use yet. It was given to you fast, +and your mind hasn't fully absorbed it and put it in order. Sometimes +it helps if you talk out your problems." + +"I don't know if I have a problem." The man brushed his hand slowly +across his eyes. "Where do I start?" + +"Let me do it for you," suggested Borgenese. "You ask questions when +you feel like it. It may help you." + +He paused, "You were found two weeks ago in the Shelters. You know +what those are?" + +The man nodded, and Borgenese went on: "Shelter and food for anyone +who wants or needs it. Nothing fancy, of course, but no one has to ask +or apply; he just walks in and there's a place to sleep and +periodically food is provided. It's a favorite place to put people +who've been retroed." + +The man looked up. "Retroed?" + +"Slang," said Borgenese. "The retrogression gun ionizes animal tissue, +nerve cells particularly. Aim it at a man's legs and the nerves in +that area are drained of energy and his muscles won't hold him up. He +falls down. + +"Aim it at his head and give him the smallest charge the gun is +adjustable to, and his most recent knowledge is subtracted from his +memory. Give him the full charge, and he is swept back to a childish +or infantile age level. The exact age he reaches is dependent on his +physical and mental condition at the time he's retroed. + +"Theoretically it's possible to kill with the retrogression gun. The +person can be taken back to a stage where there's not enough nervous +organization to sustain the life process. + +"However, life is tenacious. As the lower levels are reached, it takes +increasing energy to subtract from anything that's left. Most people +who want to get rid of someone are satisfied to leave the victim +somewhere between the mental ages of one and four. For practical +purposes, the man they knew is dead--or retroed, as they say." + +"Then that's what they did to me," said the man. "They retroed me and +left me in the Shelter. How long was I there?" + + * * * * * + +Borgenese shrugged. "Who knows? That's what makes it difficult. A day, +or two months. A child of two or three can feed himself, and no record +is kept since the place is free. Also, it's cleaned automatically." + +"I know that now that you mention it," said the man. "It's just that +it's hard to remember." + +"You see how it is," said the counselor. "We can't check our files +against a date when someone disappeared, because we don't know that +date except within very broad limits." He tapped his pen on the desk. +"Do you object to a question?" + +"Go ahead." + +"How many people in the Solar System?" + +The man thought with quiet desperation. "Fourteen to sixteen billion." + +The counselor was pleased. "That's right. You're beginning to use some +of the information we've put back into your mind. Earth, Mars and +Venus are the main population centers. But there are also Mercury and +the satellites of Jupiter and Saturn, as well as the asteroids. We can +check to see where you might have come from, but there are so many +places and people that you can imagine the results." + +"There must be _some_ way," the man said painfully. "Pictures, +fingerprints, something." + +"Something," Borgenese nodded. "But probably not for quite a while. +There's another factor, you see. It's a shock, but you've got to face +it. And the funny thing is that you'll never be better able to than +now." + +He rocked back. "Take the average person, full of unsuspected anxiety, +even the happiest and most successful. Expose him to the retrogression +gun. Tensions and frustrations are drained away. + +"The structure of an adult is still there, but it's empty, waiting to +be filled. Meanwhile the life of the organism goes on, but it's not +the same. Lines on the face disappear, the expression alters +drastically, new cell growth occurs here and there throughout the +body. Do you see what that means?" + +The man frowned. "I suppose no one can recognize me." + +"That's right. And it's not only your face that changes. You may grow +taller, but never shorter. If your hair was gray, it may darken, but +not the reverse." + +"Then I'm younger too?" + +"In a sense, though it's actually not a rejuvenation process at all. +The extra tension that everyone carries with him has been removed, and +the body merely takes up the slack. + +"Generally, the apparent age is made less. A person of middle age or +under seems to be three to fifteen years younger than before. You +appear to be about twenty-seven, but you may actually be nearer forty. +You see, we don't even know what age group to check. + +"And it's the same with fingerprints. They've been altered by the +retrogression process. Not a great deal, but enough to make +identification impossible." + + * * * * * + +The nameless man stared around the room--at Val Borgenese, perhaps +fifty, calm and pleasant, more of a counselor than a policeman--out of +the window at the skyline, and its cleanly defined levels of air +traffic. + +Where was his place in this? + +"I guess it's no use," he said bleakly. "You'll never find out who I +am." + +The counselor smiled. "I think we will. Directly, there's not much we +can do, but there are indirect methods. In the last two weeks we've +exposed you to all the organized knowledge that can be put on +tapes--physics, chemistry, biology, math, astrogation, the works. + +"It's easy to remember what you once knew. It isn't learning; it's +actually relearning. One fact put in your mind triggers another into +existence. There's a limit, of course, but usually a person comes out +of re-education with slightly more formal knowledge than he had in his +prior existence." The counselor opened a folder on his desk. "We gave +you a number of tests. You didn't know the purpose, but I can tell you +the results." + +He leafed slowly through the sheets. "You may have been an +entrepreneur of some sort. You have an excellent sense of power +ethics. Additionally, we've found that you're physically alert, and +your reactions are well coordinated. This indicates you may have been +an athlete or sportsman." + +Val Borgenese laid down the tests. "In talking with you, I've learned +more. The remark you made about fingerprints suggests you may have +been a historian, specializing in the Twentieth Century. No one else +is likely to know that there was a time in which fingerprints were a +valid means of identification." + +"I'm quite a guy, I suppose. Businessman, sportsman, historian." The +man smiled bitterly. "All that ... but I still don't know who I am. +And you can't help me." + +"Is it important?" asked the counselor softly. "This happens to many +people, you know, and some of them do find out who they were, with or +without our help. But this is not simple amnesia. No one who's been +retroed can resume his former identity. Of course, if we had tapes of +the factors which made each person what he is...." He shrugged. "But +those tapes don't exist. Who knows, really, what caused him to develop +as he has? Most of it isn't at the conscious level. At best, if you +should learn who you were, you'd have to pick up the thread of your +former activities and acquaintances slowly and painfully. + +"Maybe it would be better if you start from where you are. You know as +much as you once did, and the information is up to date, correct and +undistorted. You're younger, in a sense--in better physical condition, +not so tense or nervous. Build up from that." + +"But I don't have a name." + +"Choose one temporarily. You can have it made permanent if it suits +you." + + * * * * * + +The man was silent, thinking. He looked up, not in despair, but not +accepting all that the counselor said either. "What name? All I know +is yours, and those of historical figures." + +"That's deliberate. We don't put names on tapes, because the effects +can be misleading. Everyone has thousands of associations, and can +mistake the name of a prominent scientist for his own. Names +unconsciously arrived at are usually no help at all." + +"What do I do?" the man said. "If I don't know names, how can I choose +one?" + +"We have a list made up for this purpose. Go through it slowly and +consciously. When you come to something you like, take it. If you +chance on one that stirs memories, or rather where memories ought to +be but aren't, let me know. It may be a lead I can have traced." + +The man gazed at the counselor. His thought processes were fast, but +erratic. He could race along a chain of reasoning and then stumble +over a simple fact. The counselor ought to know what he was talking +about--this was no isolated occurrence. The police had a lot of +experience to justify the treatment they were giving him. Still, he +felt they were mistaken in ways he couldn't formulate. + +"I'll have to accept it, I suppose," he said. "There's nothing I can +do to learn who I was." + +The counselor shook his head. "Nothing that _we_ can do. The clues are +in the structure of your mind, and you have better access to it than +we do. Read, think, look. Maybe you'll run across your name. We can +take it from there." He paused. "That is, if you're determined to go +ahead." + +That was a strange thing for a police counselor to say. + +"Of course I want to know who I am," he said in surprise. "Why +shouldn't I?" + +"I'd rather not mention this, but you ought to know." Borgenese +shifted uncomfortably. "One third of the lost identity cases that we +solve are self-inflicted. In other words, suicides." + + * * * * * + +His head rumbled with names long after he had decided on one and put +the list away. Attractive names and odd ones--but which were +significant he couldn't say. There was more to living than the +knowledge that could be put on tapes and played back. There was more +than choosing a name. There was experience, and he lacked it. The +world of personal reactions for him had started two weeks previously; +it was not enough to help him know what he wanted to do. + +He sat down. The room was small but comfortable. As long as he stayed +in retro-therapy, he couldn't expect much freedom. + +He tried to weigh the factors. He could take a job and adapt himself +to some mode of living. + +What kind of a job? + +He had the ordinary skills of the society--but no outstanding +technical ability had been discovered in him. He had the ability of an +entrepreneur--but without capital, that outlet was denied him. + +His mind and body were empty and waiting. In the next few months, no +matter what he did, some of the urge to replace the missing sensations +would be satisfied. + +The more he thought about that, the more powerfully he felt that he +had to know who he was. Otherwise, proceeding to form impressions and +opinions might result in a sort of betrayal of himself. + +Assume the worst, that he was a suicide. Maybe he had knowingly and +willingly stepped out of his former life. A suicide would cover +himself--would make certain that he could never trace himself back to +his dangerous motive for the step. If he lived on Earth, he would go +to Mars or Venus to strip himself of his unsatisfactory life. There +were dozens of precautions anyone would take. + +But if it weren't suicide, then who had retroed him and why? That was +a question he couldn't answer now, and didn't need to. When he found +out who he was, the motivation might be clear; if it wasn't, at least +he would have a basis on which to investigate that. + +If someone else had done it to him, deliberately or accidentally, that +person would have taken precautions too. The difference was this: as a +would-be suicide, he could travel freely to wherever he wished to +start over again; while another person would have difficulty enticing +him to a faroff place, or, assuming that the actual retrogression had +taken place elsewhere, wouldn't find it easy to transport an inert and +memory-less body any distance. + +So, if he weren't a suicide, there was a good chance that there were +clues in this city. He might as well start with that idea--it was all +he had to go on. + +He was free to stay in retro-therapy indefinitely, but with the +restricted freedom he didn't want to. The first step was to get out. +He made the decision and felt better. He switched on the screen. + +Borgenese looked up. "Hello. Have you decided?" + +"I think so." + +"Good. Let's have it. It's bound to touch on your former life in some +way, though perhaps so remotely we can't trace it. At least, it's +something." + +"Luis Obispo." He spelled it out. + + * * * * * + +The police counselor looked dubious as he wrote the name down. "It's +not common, nor uncommon either. The spelling of the first name is a +little different, but there must be countless Obispos scattered over +the System." + +It was curious. Now he almost did think of himself as Luis Obispo. He +wanted to be that person. "Another thing," he said. "Did I have any +money when I was found?" + +"You're thinking of leaving? A lot of them do." Val Borgenese flipped +open the folder again. "You did have money, an average amount. It +won't set you up in business, if that's what you're thinking." + +"I wasn't. How do I get it?" + +"I didn't think you were." The counselor made another notation. "I'll +have the desk release it--you can get it any time. By the way, you get +the full amount, no deductions for anything." + +The news was welcome, considering what he had ahead of him. + +Borgenese was still speaking. "Whatever you do, keep in touch with us. +It'll take time to run down this name, and maybe we'll draw a blank. +But something significant may show up. If you're serious, and I think +you are, it's to your advantage to check back every day or so." + +"I'm serious," said Luis. "I'll keep in touch." + +There wasn't much to pack. The clothing he wore had been supplied by +the police. Ordinary enough; it would pass on the street without +comment. It would do until he could afford to get better. + +He went down to the desk and picked up his money. It was more than +he'd expected--the average man didn't carry this much in his pocket. +He wondered about it briefly as he signed the receipt and walked out +of retro-therapy. The counselor had said it was an average amount, but +it wasn't. + +He stood in the street in the dusk trying to orient himself. + +Perhaps the money wasn't so puzzling. An average amount for those +brought into therapy for treatment, perhaps. Borgenese had said a high +proportion were suicides. Such a person would want to start over again +minus fears and frustrations, but not completely penniless. If he had +money he'd want to take it with him, though not so much that it could +be traced, since that would defeat the original purpose. + +The pattern was logical--suicides were those with a fair sum of money. +This was the fact which inclined Borgenese to the view he obviously +held. + +Luis Obispo stood there uncertainly. Did he want to find out? His lips +thinned--he did. In spite of Borgenese, there were other ways to +account for the money he had. One of them was this: he was an +important man, accustomed to handling large sums of money. + +He started out. He was in a small city of a few hundred thousand on +the extreme southern coast of California. In the last few days he'd +studied maps of it; he knew where he was going. + + * * * * * + +When he got there, the Shelters were dark. He didn't know what he had +expected, but it wasn't this. Reflection showed him that he hadn't +thought about it clearly. The mere existence of Shelters indicated an +economic level in which few people would either want or need to make +use of that which was provided freely. + +He skirted the area. He'd been found in one of the Shelters--which one +he didn't know. Perhaps he should have checked the record before he +came here. + +No, this was better. Clues, he was convinced, were almost +non-existent. He had to rely on his body and mind; but not in the +ordinary way. He was particularly sensitive to impressions he had +received before; the way he had learned things in therapy proved that; +but if he tried to force them, he could be led astray. The wisest +thing was to react naturally, almost without volition. He should be +able to recognize the Shelter he'd been found in without trouble. From +that, he could work back. + +That was the theory--but it wasn't happening. He circled the area, and +there was nothing to which he responded more than vaguely. + +He would have to go closer. + +He crossed the street. The plan of the Shelters was simple; an area +two blocks long and one block wide, heavily planted with shrubs and +small trees. In the center was an S-shaped continuous structure +divided into a number of small dwelling units. + +Luis walked along one wing of the building, turned at the corner and +turned again. It was quite dark. He supposed that was why he wasn't +reacting to anything. But his senses were sharper than he realized. +There was a rustle behind him, and instinctively he flung himself +forward, flat on the ground. + +A pink spot appeared, low on the wall next to him. It had been aimed +at his legs. The paint crackled faintly and the pink spot faded. He +rolled away fast. + +A dark body loomed past him and dropped where he'd been. There was an +exclamation of surprise when the unknown found there was no one there. +Luis grunted with satisfaction--this might be only a stickup, but he +was getting action faster than he'd expected. He reached out and took +hold of a leg and drew the assailant to him. A hard object clipped the +side of his head, and he grasped that too. + +The shape of the gun was familiar. He tore it loose. This wasn't any +stickup! Once was enough to be retrogressed, and he'd had his share. +Next time it was going to be the other guy. Physically, he was more +than a match for his attacker. He twisted his body and pinned the +struggling form to the ground. + +That was what it was--a form. A woman, very much so; even in the +darkness he was conscious of her body. + +Now she was trying to get loose, and he leaned his weight more +heavily on her. Her clothing was torn--he could feel her flesh against +his face. He raised the gun butt, and then changed his mind and +instead fumbled for a light. It wasn't easy to find it and still keep +her pinned. + +"Be quiet or I'll clip you," he growled. + +She lay still. + + * * * * * + +He found the light and shone it on her face. It was good to look at, +that face, but it wasn't at all familiar. He had trouble keeping his +eyes from straying. Her dress was torn, and what she wore underneath +was torn too. + +"Seen enough?" she asked coldly. + +"Put that way, I haven't." He couldn't force his voice to be +matter-of-fact--it wouldn't behave. + +She stared angrily at the light in her eyes. "I knew you'd be back," +she said. "I thought I could get you before you got me, but you're too +fast." Her mouth trembled. "This time make it permanent. I don't want +to be tormented again like this." + +[Illustration] + +He let her go and sat up. He was trembling, too, but not for the same +reason. He turned the light away from her eyes. + +"Ever consider that you could be mistaken?" he asked. "You're not the +only one it happens to." + +She lay there blinking at him, eyes adjusting to the changed light. +She fumbled at the torn dress, which wouldn't stay where she put it. +"You too?" she said with a vast lack of surprise. "When?" + +"They found me here two weeks ago. This is the first time I've come +back." + +"Patterns," she said. "There are always patterns in what we do." Her +attitude toward him had changed drastically, he could see it in her +face. "I've been out three weeks longer." She sat up and leaned +closer. She didn't seem to be thinking about the same things that had +been on her mind only seconds before. + +He stood up and helped her to her feet. She was near and showed no +inclination to move away. This was something Borgenese hadn't +mentioned, and there was nothing in his re-education to prepare him +for this sensation, but he liked it. He couldn't see her very well, +now that the light was turned off, but she was almost touching him. + +"We're in the same situation, I guess." She sighed. "I'm lonely and a +little afraid. Come into my place and we'll talk." + +He followed her. She turned into a dwelling that from the outside +seemed identical to the others. Inside, it wasn't quite the same. He +couldn't say in what way it was different, but he didn't think it was +the one he'd been found in. + +That torn dress bothered him--not that he wanted her to pin it up. The +tapes hadn't been very explicit about the beauties of the female body, +but he thought he knew what they'd left out. + +She was conscious of his gaze and smiled. It was not an invitation, it +was a request, and he didn't mind obeying. She slid into his arms and +kissed him. He was glad about the limitations of re-education. There +were some things a man ought to learn for himself. + +She looked up at him. "Maybe you should tell me your name," she said. +"Not that it means much in our case." + +"Luis Obispo," he said, holding her. + +"I had more trouble, I couldn't choose until two days ago." She kissed +him again, hard and deliberately. It gave her enough time to jerk the +gun out of his pocket. + +She slammed it against his ribs. "Stand back," she said, and meant +it. + + * * * * * + +Luis stared bewilderedly at her. She was desirable, more than he had +imagined and for a variety of reasons. Her emotions had been real, he +was sure of that, not feigned for the purpose of taking the gun away. +But she had changed again in a fraction of a second. Her face was +twisted with an effort at self-control. + +"What's the matter?" he asked. He tried to make his voice gentle, but +it wouldn't come out that way. The retrogression process had sharpened +all his reactions--this one too. + +"The name I finally arrived at was--Luise Obispo," she said. + +He started. The same as his, except feminine! This was more than he'd +dared hope for. A clue--and this girl, who he suddenly realized, +without any cynicism about "love at first sight," because the tapes +hadn't included it, meant something to him. + +"Maybe you're my wife," he said tentatively. + +"Don't count on it," she said wearily. "It would have been better if +we were strangers--then it wouldn't matter what we did. Now there are +too many factors, and I can't choose." + +"It has to be," he argued. "Look--the same name, and so close together +in time and place, and we were attracted instantly--" + +"Go away," she said, and the gun didn't waver. It was not a threat +that he could ignore. He left. + +She was wrong in making him leave, completely wrong. He couldn't say +how he knew, but he was certain. But he couldn't prove it, and she +wasn't likely to accept his unsubstantiated word. + +He leaned weakly against the door. It was like that. Retrogression had +left him with an adult body and sharper receptiveness. And after that +followed an urge to live fully. He had a lot of knowledge, but it +didn't extend to this sphere of human behavior. + +Inside he could hear her moving around faintly, an emotional +anticlimax. It wasn't just frustrated sex desire, though that played a +part. They had known each other previously--the instant attraction +they'd had for each other was proof, leaving aside the names. Lord, +he'd trade his unknown identity to have her. He should have taken +another name--any other name would have been all right. + +It wasn't because she was the first woman he'd seen, or the woman he +had first re-seen. There had been nurses, some of them beautiful, and +he'd paid no attention to them. But Luise Obispo was part of his +former life--and he didn't know what part. The reactions were there, +but until he could find out why, he was denied access to the +satisfactions. + +From a very narrow angle, and only from that angle, he could see that +there was still a light inside. It was dim, and if a person didn't +know, he might pass by and not notice it. + +His former observation about the Shelters was incorrect. Every +dwelling might be occupied and he couldn't tell unless he examined +them individually. + +He stirred. The woman was a clue to his problem, but the clue itself +was a far more urgent problem. Though his identity was important, he +could build another life without it and the new life might not be +worse than the one from which he had been forcibly removed. + +Perhaps he was over-reacting, but he didn't think so: _his new life +had to include this woman_. + +He wasn't equipped to handle the emotion. He stumbled away from the +door and found an unoccupied dwelling and went in without turning on +the lights and lay down on the bed. + +In the morning, he knew he had been here before. In the darkness he +had chosen unknowingly but also unerringly. This was the place in +which he had been retrogressed. + +It was here that the police had picked him up. + + * * * * * + +The counselor looked sleepily out of the screen. "I wish you people +didn't have so much energy," he complained. Then he looked again and +the sleepiness vanished. "I see you found it the first time." + +Luis knew it himself, because there was a difference from the dwelling +Luise lived in--not much, but perceptible to him. The counselor, +however, must have a phenomenal memory to distinguish it from hundreds +of others almost like it. + +Borgenese noticed the expression and smiled. "I'm not an eidetic, if +that's what you think. There's a number on the set you're calling from +and it shows on my screen. You can't see it." + +They would have something like that, Luis thought. "Why didn't you +tell me this was it before I came?" + +"We were pretty sure you'd find it by yourself. People who've just +been retroed usually do. It's better to do it on your own. Our object +is to have you recover your personality. If we knew who you were, we +could set up a program to guide you to it faster. As it is, if we help +you too much, you turn into a carbon copy of the man who's advising +you." + +Luis nodded. Give a man his adult body and mind and turn him loose on +the problems which confronted him, and he would come up with adult +solutions. It was better that way. + +But he hadn't called to discuss that. "There's another person living +in the Shelters," he said. "You found her three weeks before you found +me." + +"So you've met her already? Fine. We were hoping you would." Borgenese +chuckled. "Let's see if I can describe her. Apparent age, about +twenty-three; that means that she was originally between twenty-six or +thirty-eight, with the probability at the lower figure. A good body, +as you are probably well aware, and a striking face. Somewhat +oversexed at the moment, but that's all right--so are you." + +He saw the expression on Luis's face and added quickly: "You needn't +worry. Draw a parallel with your own experience. There were pretty +nurses all around you in retro-therapy, and I doubt that you noticed +that they were female. That's normal for a person in your position, +and it's the same with her. + +"It works this way: you're both unsure of yourselves and can't react +to those who have some control over their emotions. When you meet each +other, you can sense that neither has made the necessary adjustments, +and so you are free to release your true feelings." + +He smiled broadly. "At the moment, you two are the only ones who have +been retroed recently. You won't have any competition for six months +or so, until you begin to feel comfortable in your new life. By then, +you should know how well you really like each other. + +"Of course tomorrow, or even today, we might find another person in +the Shelter. If it's a man, you'll have to watch out; if a woman, +you'll have too much companionship. As it is, I think you're very +lucky." + +Yeah, he was lucky--or would be if things were actually like that. +Yesterday he would have denied it; but today, he'd be willing to +settle for it, if he could get it. + +"I don't think you understand," he said. "She took the same name that +I did." + +Borgenese's smile flipped over fast, and the other side was a frown. +For a long time he sat there scowling out of the screen. "That's a +hell of a thing to tell me before breakfast," he said. "Are you sure? +She couldn't decide on a name before she left." + +"I'm sure," said Luis, and related all the details of last night. + +The counselor sat there and didn't say anything. + + * * * * * + +Luis waited as long as he could. "You can trace _us_ now," he said. +"One person might be difficult. But two of us with nearly the same +name, that should stick out big, even in a population of sixteen +billion. Two people are missing from somewhere. You can find that." + +The counselor's face didn't change. "You understand that if you were +killed, we'd find the man who did it. I can't tell you how, but you +can be sure he wouldn't escape. In the last hundred years there's been +no unsolved murder." + +He coughed and turned away from the screen. When he turned back, his +face was calm. "I'm not supposed to tell you this much. I'm breaking +the rule because your case and that of the girl is different from any +I've ever handled." He was speaking carefully. "Listen. I'll tell you +once and won't repeat it. If you ever accuse me, I'll deny I said it, +and I have the entire police organization behind me to make it stick." + +The counselor closed his eyes as if to see in his mind the principle +he was formulating. "If we can catch a murderer, no matter how clever +he may be, it ought to be easier to trace the identity of a person who +is still alive. It is. _But we never try._ Though it's all right if +the victim does. + +"_If I should ask the cooperation of other police departments, they +wouldn't help. If the solution lies within an area over which I have +jurisdiction and I find out who is responsible, I will be dismissed +before I can prosecute the man._" + +Luis stared at the counselor in helpless amazement. "Then you're not +doing anything," he said shakily. "You lied to me. You don't intend to +do anything." + +"You're overwrought," said Borgenese politely. "If you could see how +busy we are in your behalf--" He sighed. "My advice is that if you +can't convince the girl, forget her. If the situation gets emotionally +unbearable, let me know and I can arrange transportation to another +city where there may be others who are--uh--more compatible." + +"But she's my wife," he said stubbornly. + +"Are you sure?" + +Actually Luis wasn't--but he wanted _her_ to be, or any variation +thereof she would consent to. He explained. + +"As she says, there are a lot of factors," commented the counselor. +"I'd suggest an examination. It may remove some of her objections." + +He hadn't thought of it, but he accepted it eagerly. "What will that +do?" + +"Not much, unfortunately. It will prove that you two can have healthy +normal children, but it won't indicate that you're not a member of +her genetic family. And, of course, it won't touch on the question of +legal family, brother-in-law and the like. I don't suppose she'd +accept that." + +She wouldn't. He'd seen her for only a brief time and yet he knew that +much. He was in an ambiguous position; he could make snap decisions he +was certain were right, but he had to guess at facts. He and the girl +were victims, and the police refused to help them in the only way that +would do much good. And the police had, or thought they had, official +reasons for their stand. + +Luis told the counselor just exactly what he thought of that. + +"It's too bad," agreed the counselor. "These things often have an +extraordinary degree of permanency if they ever get started." + +If they ever got started! Luis reached out and turned off the screen. +It flickered unsteadily--the counselor was trying to call him back. He +didn't want to talk to the man; it was painful, and Borgenese had +nothing to add but platitudes, and fuel to his anger. He swung open +the panel and jerked the wiring loose and the screen went blank. + +There was an object concealed in the mechanism he had exposed. It was +a neat, vicious, little retrogression gun. + + * * * * * + +He got it out and balanced it gingerly in his hand. Now he had +something else to work on! It was _the_ weapon, of course. It had been +used on him and then hidden behind the screen. + +It was a good place to hide it. The screens never wore out or needed +adjustment, and the cleaning robots that came out of the wall never +cleaned there. The police should have found it, but they hadn't +looked. He smiled bitterly. They weren't interested in solving +crimes--merely in ameliorating the consequences. + +Though the police had failed, he hadn't. It could be traced back to +the man who owned it, and that person would have information. He +turned the retro gun over slowly; it was just a gun; there were +countless others like it. + +He finished dressing and dropped the gun in his pocket. He went +outside and looked across the court. He hesitated and then walked over +and knocked. + +"Occupied," said the door. "But the occupant is out. No definite time +of return stated, but she will be back this evening. Is there any +message?" + +"No message," he said. "I'll call back when she's home." + +He hoped she wouldn't refuse to speak to him. She'd been away from +retro-therapy longer than he and possibly had developed her own +leads--very likely she was investigating some of them now. Whatever +she found would help him, and vice versa. The man who'd retroed her +had done the same to him. They were approaching the problem from +different angles. Between the two of them, they should come up with +the correct solution. + +He walked away from the Shelters and caught the belt to the center of +town; the journey didn't take long. He stepped off, and wandered in +the bright sunshine, not quite aimlessly. At length he found an +Electronic Arms store, and went inside. + + * * * * * + +A robot came to wait on him. "I'd like to speak to the manager," he +said and the robot went away. + +Presently the manager appeared, middle aged, drowsy. "What can I do +for you?" + +Luis laid the retrogression gun on the counter. "I'd like to know who +this was sold to." + +The manager coughed. "Well, there are millions of them, hundreds of +millions." + +"I know, but I have to find out." + +The manager picked it up. "It's a competitor's make," he said +doubtfully. "Of course, as a courtesy to a customer...." He fingered +it thoughtfully. "Do you really want to know? It's just a freezer. Not +at all dangerous." + +Luis looked at it with concern. Just a freezer--not a retro gun at +all! Then it couldn't have been the weapon used on him. + +Before he could take it back the manager broke it open. The drowsy +expression vanished. + +"Why didn't you say so?" exclaimed the manager, examining it. "This +gun has been illegally altered." He bent over the exposed circuits and +then glanced up happily at Luis. "Come here, I'll show you." + +Luis followed him to the small workshop in the back of the store. The +manager closed the door behind them and fumbled among the equipment. +He mounted the gun securely in a frame and pressed a button which +projected an image of the circuit onto a screen. + +The manager was enjoying himself. "Everybody's entitled to +self-protection," he said. "That's why we sell so many like these. +They're harmless, won't hurt a baby. Fully charged, they'll put a man +out for half an hour, overload his nervous system. At the weakest, +they'll still keep him out of action for ten minutes. Below that, they +won't work at all." He looked up. "Are you sure you understand this?" + +It had been included in his re-education, but it didn't come readily +to his mind. "Perhaps you'd better go over it for me." + +The manager wagged his head. "As I said, the freezer is legal, won't +harm anyone. It'll stop a man or an elephant in his tracks, freeze +him, but beyond that will leave him intact. When he comes out of it, +he's just the same as before, nothing changed." He seized a pointer +and adjusted the controls so as to enlarge the image on the screen. +"However, a freezer can be converted to a retrogression gun, and +that's illegal." He traced the connections with the pointer. "If this +wire, instead of connecting as it does, is moved to here and here, the +polarity is reversed. In addition, if these four wires are +interchanged, the freezer becomes a retrogressor. As I said, it's +illegal to do that." + + * * * * * + +The manager scrutinized the circuits closely and grunted in disgust. +"Whoever converted this did a sloppy job. Here." He bent over the gun +and began manipulating micro-instruments. He worked rapidly and +surely. A moment later, he snapped the weapon together and +straightened up, handing it to Luis. "There," he said proudly. "It's a +much more effective retrogressor than it was. Uses less power too." + +Luis swallowed. Either he was mad or the man was, or perhaps it was +the society he was trying to adjust to. "Aren't you taking a chance, +doing this for me?" + +The manager smiled. "You're joking. A tenth of the freezers we sell +are immediately converted into retrogressors. Who cares?" He became +serious. "Do you still want to know who bought it?" + +Luis nodded--at the moment he didn't trust his voice. + +"It will take several hours. No charge though, customer service. Tell +me where I can reach you." + +Luis jotted down the number of the screen at the Shelter and handed it +to the manager. As he left, the manager whispered to him: "Remember, +the next time you buy a freezer--ours can be converted easier than the +one you have." + +He went out into the sunlight. It didn't seem the same. What kind of +society was he living in? The reality didn't fit with what he had +re-learned. It had seemed an orderly and sane civilization, with +little violence and vast respect for the law. + +But the fact was that any school child--well, not quite _that_ young, +perhaps--but anyone older could and did buy a freezer. And it was +ridiculously easy to convert a freezer into something far more +vicious. Of course, it was illegal, but no one paid any attention to +that. + +This was wrong; it wasn't the way he remembered.... + +He corrected himself: he didn't actually remember anything. His +knowledge came from tapes, and was obviously inadequate. Certain +things he just didn't understand yet. + +He wanted to talk to someone--but who? The counselor had given him all +the information he intended to. The store manager had supplied some +additional insight, but it only confused him. Luise--at the moment she +was suspicious of him. + +There was nothing to do except to be as observant as he could. He +wandered through the town, just looking. He saw nothing that seemed +familiar. Negative evidence, of course, but it indicated he hadn't +lived here before. + +Before what? Before he had been retrogressed. He had been brought here +from elsewhere, the same as Luise. + +[Illustration] + +He visited the spaceport. Again the evidence was negative; there was +not a ship the sight of which tripped his memory. It had been too much +to hope for; if he had been brought in by spaceship, it wouldn't still +be around for him to recognize. + +Late in the afternoon, he headed toward the center of town. He was +riding the belt when he saw Luise coming out of a tall office +building. + + * * * * * + +He hopped off and let her pass, boarding it again and following her at +a distance. As soon as they were out of the business district, he +began to edge closer. + +A few blocks from the Shelter she got off the belt and waited, turning +around and smiling directly at him. In the interim her attitude toward +him had changed, evidently--for the better, as far as he was +concerned. He couldn't ignore her and didn't want to. He stepped off +the belt. + +"Hello," she said. "I think you were following me." + +"I was. Do you mind?" + +"I guess I don't." She walked along with him. "Others followed me, but +I discouraged them." + +She was worth following, but it was not that which was strange. Now +she seemed composed and extraordinarily friendly, a complete reversal +from last night. Had she learned something during the day which +changed her opinion of him? He hoped she had. + +She stopped at the edge of the Shelter area. "Do you live here?" + +Learned something? She seemed to have forgotten. + +He nodded. + +"For the same reason?" + +His throat tightened. He had told her all that last night. Couldn't +she remember? + +"Yes," he said. + +"I thought so. That's why I didn't mind your following me." + +Here was the attraction factor that Borgenese had spoken of; it was +functioning again, for which he was grateful. But still, why? And why +didn't she remember last night? + +They walked on until she came to her dwelling. She paused at the door. +"I have a feeling I should know who you are, but I just can't recall. +Isn't that terrible?" + +It was--frightening. Her identity was apparently incompletely +established; it kept slipping backward to a time she hadn't met him. +He couldn't build anything enduring on that; each meeting with her +would begin as if nothing had happened before. + +Would the same be true of him? + +He looked at her. The torn dress hadn't been repaired, as he'd thought +at first; it had been replaced by the robots that came out of the wall +at night. They'd done a good job fitting her, but with her body that +was easy. + +It was frightening and it wasn't. At least this time he didn't have a +handicap. He opened his mouth to tell her his name, and then closed +it. He wasn't going to make that mistake again. "I haven't decided on +a name," he said. + +"It was that way with me too." She gazed at him and he could feel his +insides sloshing around. "Well, man with no name, do you want to come +in? We can have dinner together." + +He entered. But dinner was late that night. He had known it would be. + + * * * * * + +In the morning light, he sat up and put his hand on her. She smiled in +her sleep and squirmed closer. There were compensations for being +nobody, he supposed, and this was one of them. He got up quietly and +dressed without waking her. There were a number of things he wanted to +discuss, but somehow there hadn't been time last night. He would have +to talk to her later today. + +He slipped out of the house and went across the court into his own. +The screen he had ripped apart had been repaired and put back in +place. A voice chimed out as he entered: "A call came while you were +gone." + +"Let's have it." + +The voice descended the scale and became that of the store manager. +"The gun you brought in was sold six months ago to Dorn Starret, +resident of Ceres and proprietor of a small gallium mine there. That's +all the information on record. I trust it will be satisfactory." + +Luis sat down. It was. He could trace the man or have him traced, +though the last might not be necessary. + +The name meant something to him--just what he couldn't say. Dorn +Starret, owner of a gallium mine on Ceres. The mine might or might not +be of consequence; gallium was used in a number of industrial +processes, but beyond that was not particularly valuable. + +He closed his eyes to concentrate. The name slid into vacant nerve +cells that were responsive; slowly a picture formed, nebulous and +incomplete at first. There was a mouth and then there were eyes, each +feature bringing others into focus, unfolding as a germ cell divides +and grows, calling into existence an entire creature. The picture was +nearly complete. + +Still with eyes closed, he looked at the man he remembered. Dorn +Starret, five-eleven, one hundred and ninety, flesh that had once been +muscular and firm. Age, thirty-seven; black hair that was beginning to +recede from his forehead. The face was harder to define--strong, +though slightly hard, it was perhaps good looking. It was the eyes +which were at fault, Luis decided--glinting often--and there were +lines on the face that ought not to be there. + +There was another thing that set the man apart. Not clothing; that was +conventional, though better than average. Luis stared into his memory +until he was able to see it. _Unquestionably the man was +left-handed._ The picture was too clear to permit a mistake on that +detail. + +He knew the man, had seen him often. How and in what context? He +waited, but nothing else came. + +Luis opened his eyes. He would recognize the man if he ever saw him. +This was the man who owned the gun, presumably had shot him with it, +and then had hidden it here in this room. + +He thought about it vainly. By itself, the name couldn't take him back +through all past associations with the man, so he passed from the man +to Ceres. Here he was better equipped; re-education tapes had replaced +his former knowledge of the subject. + + * * * * * + +The asteroid belt was not rigidly policed; if there was a place in the +System in which legal niceties were not strictly observed, it was +there. What could he deduce from that? Nothing perhaps; there were +many people living in the belt who were engaged in legitimate work: +miners, prospectors, scientific investigators. But with rising +excitement, he realized that Dorn Starret was not one of these. + +He was a criminal. The gallium mine was merely an attempt to cover +himself with respectability. How did Luis know that? He wasn't sure; +his thought processes were hidden and erratic; but he knew. + +Dorn Starret was a criminal--but the information wasn't completely +satisfactory. What had caused the man to retrogress Luis and Luise +Obispo? That still had to be determined. + +But it did suggest this: as a habitual criminal, the man was more than +ordinarily dangerous. + +Luis sat there a while longer, but he had recalled everything that +would come out of the original stimulus. If he wanted more, he would +have to dig up other facts or make further contacts. But at least it +wasn't hopeless--even without the police, he had learned this much. + +He went over the room thoroughly once more. If there was anything +hidden, he couldn't find it. + +He crossed the court to Luise's dwelling. She was gone, but there was +a note on the table. He picked it up and read it: + +_Dear man with no name:_ + +_I suppose you were here last night, though I'm so mixed up I can't be +sure; there's so little of memory or reality to base anything on. I +wanted to talk to you before I left but I guess, like me, you're out +investigating._ + +_There's always a danger that neither of us will like what we find. What +if I'm married to another person and the same with you? Suppose ... but +there are countless suppositions--these are the risks we take. It's +intolerable not to know who I am, especially since the knowledge is so +close. But of course you know that._ + +_Anyway I'll be out most of the day. I discovered a psychologist who +specializes in restoring memory; you can see the possibilities in +that. I went there yesterday and have an appointment again today. It's +nice of him, considering that I have no money, but he says I'm more or +less an experimental subject. I can't tell you when I'll be back but +it won't be late._ + +_Luise._ + +He crumpled the note in his hand. Memory expert. Her psychologist was +that--in reverse. Yesterday he had taken a day out of her life, and +that was why Luise hadn't recognized him and might not a second time. + + * * * * * + +He leaned against the table. After a moment, he straightened out the +note. A second reading didn't help. There it was, if he could make +sense from it. + +Luise and himself, probably in that order. There was no proof, but it +seemed likely that she had been retrogressed first, since she had been +discovered first. + +There was also Dorn Starret, the criminal from Ceres who had hidden +the gun in the Shelter that he, Luis, had been found in. And there was +now a fourth person: the psychologist who specialized in depriving +retrogression victims of what few memories they had left. + +Luis grimaced. Here was information which, if the police would act on +it properly ... but it was no use, they wouldn't. Any solution which +came out of this would have to arise out of his own efforts. + +He folded the note carefully. It would be handy to have if Luise came +back and didn't know who he was. + +Meanwhile, the psychologist. Luise hadn't said who he was, but it +shouldn't be difficult to locate him. He went to the screen and dialed +the directory. There were many psychologists in it, but no name that +was familiar. + +He pondered. The person who had retroed Luise and himself--what would +he do? First he would take them as far from familiar scenes as he +could. That tied in with the facts. Dorn Starret came from Ceres. + +Then what? He would want to make certain that his victims did not +trace their former lives. And he would be inconspicuous in so doing. + +Again Luis turned to the screen, but this time he dialed the news +service. He found what he was looking for in the advertisements of an +issue a month old. It was very neat: + + DO YOU REMEMBER EVERYTHING--or is your mind hazy? Perhaps my + system can help you recall those little details you find it + so annoying to forget. MEMORY LAB. + +That was all. No name. But there was an address. Hurriedly Luis +scanned every succeeding issue. The advertisement was still there. + +He was coming closer, very close. The ad was clever; it would attract +the attention of Luise and himself and others like them, and almost no +one else. There was no mention of fees, no claim that it was operated +by a psychologist, nothing that the police would investigate. + +Night after night Luise had sat alone; sooner or later, watching the +screen, she had to see the ad. It was intriguing and she had answered +it. Normally, so would he have: but now he was forewarned. + +Part of the cleverness was this: that she went of her own volition. +She would have suspected an outright offer of help--but this seemed +harmless. She went to him as she would to anyone in business. A very +clever setup. + +But who was behind MEMORY LAB? Luis thought he knew. A trained +psychologist with a legitimate purpose would attach his name to the +advertisement. + +Luis patted the retro gun in his pocket. Dorn Starret, criminal, and +inventor of a fictitious memory system, was going to have a visitor. +It wasn't necessary to go to Ceres to see him. + + * * * * * + +It was the only conclusion that made sense. Dorn Starret had retroed +him--the gun proved that--and Luise as well. Until a few minutes ago, +he had thought that she had been first and he later, but that was +wrong. They had been retrogressed together and Dorn Starret had done +it; now he had come back to make certain that they didn't trace him. + +Neat--but it wasn't going to work. Luis grinned wryly to himself. He +had a weapon in his pocket that was assurance it wouldn't work. + +He got off the belt near the building he had seen Luise leaving +yesterday. He went into the lobby and located MEMORY LAB, a suite on +the top floor. It wasn't necessary, but he checked rental dates. The +lab had been there exactly three weeks. This tied in with Luise's +release from retro-therapy. Every connection he had anticipated was +there. + +He rode up to the top floor. There wasn't a chance that Starret would +recognize him; physically he must have changed too much since the +criminal had last seen him. And while Luise hadn't concealed that she +was a retro and so had given herself away, he wasn't going to make +that mistake. + +The sign on the door stood out as he came near and disappeared as he +went by. MEMORY LAB, that was all--no other name, even here. +Naturally. A false name would be occasion for police action. The right +one would evoke Luise's and his own memories. + +He turned back and went into the waiting room. No robot receptionist. +He expected that; the man didn't intend to be around very long. + +"Who's there?" The voice came from a speaker in the wall; the screen +beside it remained blank, though obviously the man was in the next +room. For a commercial establishment, the LAB was not considerate of +potential clients. + +Luis smiled sourly and loosened the weapon in his pocket. "I saw your +advertisement," he said. No name; let him guess. + +"I'm very busy. Can you come back tomorrow?" + +Luis frowned. This was not according to plan. First, he didn't +recognize the voice, though the speaker could account for that if it +were intentionally distorted. Second, Luise was inside and he had to +protect her. He could break in, but he preferred that the man come +out. + +He thought swiftly. "I'm Chals Putsyn, gallium importer," he called. +"Tomorrow I'll be away on business. Can you give me an appointment for +another time?" + +There was a long silence. "Wait. I'll be out." + +He'd _thought_ the mention of gallium would do it. True, the mine +Starret owned was probably worthless, but he couldn't restrain his +curiosity. + + * * * * * + +The door swung open and a man stepped out, closing the door before +Luis could see inside. + +He had erred--the man was not Dorn Starret. + +The other eyed him keenly. "Mr. Chals Putsyn? Please sit down." + +Luis did so slowly, giving himself time to complete a mental +inventory. The man _had_ to be Dorn Starret--and yet he wasn't. No +disguise could be that effective. At least three inches shorter; the +shape of his head was different; his body was slighter. Moreover, he +was right-handed, not left, as Starret was. + +Luis had a story ready--names, dates, and circumstances. It sounded +authentic even to himself. + +The man listened impatiently. "I may not be able to help you," he +said, interrupting. "Oddly enough, light cases are hardest. It's the +serious memory blocks that I specialize in." There was something +strange about his eyes--his voice too. "However, if you can come back +in two days, late in the afternoon, I'll see what I can do." + +Luis took the appointment card and found himself firmly ushered to the +door. It was disturbing; Luise was in the next room, but the man gave +him no opportunity to see her. + +He stood uncertainly in the hall. The whole interview had taken only a +few minutes, and during that time all his previous ideas had been +upset. If the man was not Dorn Starret, who was he and what was his +connection? The criminal from Ceres was not so foolish as to attempt +to solve his problems by assigning them to another person. This was a +one-man job from beginning to end, or ought to be. + +Luis took the elevator to the ground floor and walked out aimlessly on +the street. There was something queer about the man on the top floor. +It took time to discover what it was. + +The man was not Starret--but he was disguised. His irises were stained +another color and the voice was not his own--or rather it was, but +filtered through an artificial larynx inserted painfully in his +throat. And his face had been recently swabbed with a chemical +irritant which caused the tissues beneath his skin to swell, making +his face appear plumper. + +Luis took a deep breath. Unconsciously he had noticed details too +slight for the average person to discern. This suggested something +about his own past--that he was trained to recognize disguises. + +But more important was this: that the man was disguised at all. The +reason was obvious--to avoid evoking memories. + +The man's name--what was it? It hadn't even been registered in the +building--he'd asked on his way out. And Luise couldn't tell him. She +was no longer a reliable source of information. He had to find out, +and there was only one way that suggested itself. + +Luise was still in there, but not in physical danger. The police were +lax about other things, but not about murder, and the man knew that. +She might lose her memories of the past few weeks; regrettable if it +happened, but not a catastrophe. + +[Illustration] + +But who was the man and what was his connection? + +He spent the rest of the day buying equipment--not much, but his money +dwindled rapidly. He considered going back to the Shelter and then +decided against it. By this time Luise would be back, and he would be +tempted not to leave her. + +After dark, when the lights in the offices went out, he rented an +aircar and set it down on the top of the building. + + * * * * * + +He walked across the roof, estimating the distances with practiced +ease, as if he'd undergone extensive training and the apprenticeship +period had been forgotten and only the skill remained. He knelt and +fused two small rods to a portion of the roof, and then readjusted the +torch and cut a small circular hole. He listened, and when there was +no alarm, lifted out the section. There was nothing but darkness +below. + +He fastened a rope to the aircar. He dropped the rope through the hole +and slid down. Unless he had miscalculated, he was where he wanted to +be, having bypassed all alarm circuits. There were others inside, he +was reasonably certain of that, but with ordinary precautions he +could avoid them. + +He flashed on a tiny light. He had guessed right; this was MEMORY +LAB--the room he'd wanted to see this afternoon but hadn't been able +to. In front of him was the door to the waiting room, and beyond that +the hall. He swung the light in an arc, flashing it over a desk and a +piece of equipment the nature of which he didn't know. Behind him was +still another door. + +The desk was locked, but he took out a small magnetic device and +jiggled it expertly over the concealed mechanism and then it was +unlocked. He went hurriedly through papers and documents, but there +was nothing with a name on it. He rifled the desk thoroughly and then +went to the machine. + +He didn't expect to learn anything, but he might as well examine it. +There was a place for a patient to sit, and a metal hood to fit over +the patient's head. He snapped the hood open and peered into it. It +seemed to have two functions. One circuit was far larger and more +complicated, and he couldn't determine what it did. But he recognized +the other circuit; essentially it was a retrogressor, but whereas the +gun was crude and couldn't be regulated, this was capable of fine +adjustment--enough, say, to slice a day out of the patient's life, and +no more. + +That fitted with what had happened to Luise. She had been experimented +on in some way, and then the memory of that experiment had been +erased. But the man had grown careless and had taken away one day too +many. + +He snapped the mechanism closed. This was the method, but he still +didn't know who the man was nor why he found it necessary to do all +this. + +There was a door behind him and the answer might lie beyond it. He +listened carefully, then swung the door open and went through. + +The blow that hit him wasn't physical; nothing mechanical could take +his nerves and jerk them all at once. A freezer. As he fell to the +floor, he was grateful it was that and not a retro gun. + +Lights flooded the place, and the man of the afternoon interview was +grinning at him. + +"I thought you'd be back," he said, pleased. "In fact, I knew you +would." + + * * * * * + +Somewhere he had blundered; but he didn't know how. Experimentally he +wriggled his fingers. They moved a fraction of an inch, but no more. +He was helpless and couldn't say anything. He wasn't quite sure at the +moment that he wanted to. + +"You were right, I didn't recognize you physically," continued the +man. "Nevertheless, you gave yourself away. The name you used this +afternoon, Chals Putsyn, is _my_ name. Do you remember now?" + +Of course. He'd chosen Chals Putsyn at random, because he'd had to say +something, and everything would have been all right--except it +actually hadn't been a random choice. The associations had triggered +the wrong words into existence. + +His mind flashed back to the time he'd discussed names with Borgenese. +What had he said? + +Putsy. But it wasn't Putsy--it was Putsyn. + +"You're very much improved," said the real Chals Putsyn, staring +curiously at him. "Let me recommend the retro treatment to you. In +fact I'd take it myself, but there are a few inconveniences." + +Yeah, there were inconveniences--like starting over again and not +knowing who you were. + +But Putsyn was right: he was physically improved. A freezer knocked a +man down and kept him there for half an hour. But Luis had only been +down a few minutes, and already he could move his feet, though he +didn't. It was a phenomenally fast recovery, and perhaps Putsyn wasn't +aware of it. + +"The question is, what to do with you?" Putsyn seemed to be thinking +aloud. "The police are intolerant of killing. Maybe if I disposed of +every atom...." He shook his head and sighed. "But that's been tried, +and it didn't make any difference. So you'll have to remain +alive--though I don't think you'll approve of my treatment." + +Luis didn't approve--it would be the same kind of treatment that Luise +had been exposed to, but more drastic in his case, because he was +aware of what was going on. + +Putsyn came close to drag him away. It was time to use the energy he'd +been saving up, and he did. + +Startled, Putsyn fired the freezer, but he was aiming at a twisting +target and the invisible energy only grazed Luis's leg. The leg went +limp and had no feeling, but his two hands were still good and that +was all he needed. + +He tore the freezer away and put his other hand on Putsyn's throat. He +could feel the artificial larynx inside. He squeezed. + +He lay there until Putsyn went limp. + + * * * * * + +When there was no longer any movement, he sat up and pried open the +man's jaws, thrusting his fingers into the mouth and jerking out the +artificial larynx. The next time he would hear Putsyn's real voice, +and maybe that would trigger his memory. + +He crawled to the door and pulled himself up, leaning against the +wall. By the time Putsyn moved, he had regained partial use of his +leg. + +"Now we'll see," he said. He didn't try to put anger in his voice; it +was there. "I don't have to tell you that I can beat answers out of +you." + +"You don't know?" Putsyn laughed and there was relief in the sound. +"You can kick me around, but you won't get your answers!" + +The man had physical courage, or thought he did, and sometimes that +amounted to the same thing. Luis shifted uneasily. It was the first +time he'd heard Putsyn's actual voice; it was disturbing, but it +didn't arouse concrete memories. + +He stepped on the outstretched hand. "Think so?" he said. He could +hear the fingers crackle. + +Putsyn paled, but didn't cry out. "Don't think you can kill me and get +away with it," he said. + +He didn't sound too certain. + +Slightly sick, Luis stepped off the hand. He couldn't kill the +man--and not just because of the police. He just couldn't do it. He +felt for the other gun in his pocket. + +"This isn't a freezer," he said. "It's been changed over. I think I'll +give you a sample." + +Putsyn blinked. "And lose all chance of finding out? Go ahead." + +Luis had thought of that; but he hadn't expected Putsyn to. + +"You see, there's nothing you can do," said Putsyn. "A man has a right +to protect his property, and I've got plenty of evidence that you +broke in." + +"I don't think you'll go to the police," Luis said. + +"You think not? My memory system isn't a fraud. Admittedly, I didn't +use it properly on Luise, but in a public demonstration I can prove +that it does work." + +Luis nodded wearily to himself. He'd half suspected that it did work. +Here he was, with the solution so close--this man knew his identity +and that of Luise, and where Dorn Starret came into the tangle--and he +couldn't force Putsyn to tell. + +He couldn't go to the police. They would ignore his charges, because +they were based on unprovable suspicions ... ignore him or arrest him +for breaking and entering. + +"Everything's in your favor," he said, raising the gun. "But there's +one way to make you leave us alone." + +"Wait," cried Putsyn, covering his face with his uninjured hand, as +if that would shield him. "Maybe we can work out an agreement." + +Luis didn't lower the gun. "I mean it," he said. + +"I know you mean it--I can't let you take away my life's work." + +"Talk fast," Luis said, "and don't lie." + +He stood close and listened while Putsyn told his story. + +This is what had happened, he thought. This is what he'd tried so hard +to learn. + +"I had to do it that way," Putsyn finished. "But if you're willing to +listen to reason, I can cut you in--more money than you've dreamed +of--and the girl too, if you want her." + +Luis was silent. He wanted her--but now the thought was foolish. +Hopeless. This must be the way people felt who stood in the blast area +of a rocket--but for them the sensation lasted only an instant, while +for him the feeling would last the rest of his life. + +"Get up," he said. + +"Then it's all right?" asked Putsyn nervously. "We'll share it?" + +"Get up." + +Putsyn got to his feet, and Luis hit him. He could have used the +freezer, but that wasn't personal enough. + +He let the body fall to the floor. + +He dragged the inert form into the waiting room and turned on the +screen and talked to the police. Then he turned off the screen and +kicked open the door to the hall. He shouldered Putsyn and carried him +up to the roof and put him in the aircar. + + * * * * * + +Luise was there, puzzled and sleepy. For reasons of his own, Borgenese +had sent a squad to bring her in. Might as well have her here and get +it over with, Luis thought. She smiled at him, and he knew that Putsyn +hadn't lied about that part. She remembered him and therefore Putsyn +hadn't had time to do much damage. + +Borgenese was at the desk as he walked in. Luis swung Putsyn off his +shoulder and dropped him into a chair. The man was still unconscious, +but wouldn't be for long. + +"I see you brought a visitor," remarked Borgenese pleasantly. + +"A customer," he said. + +"Customers are welcome too," said the police counselor. "Of course, +it's up to us to decide whether he _is_ a customer." + +Luise started to cross the room, but Borgenese motioned her back. "Let +him alone. I think he's going to have a rough time." + +"Yeah," said Luis. + +It was nice to know that Luise liked him now--because she wouldn't +after this was over. + +He wiped the sweat off his forehead; all of it hadn't come from +physical exertion. + +"Putsyn here is a scientist," he said. "He worked out a machine that +reverses the effects of the retro gun. He intended to go to everyone +who'd been retrogressed, and in return for giving them back their +memory, they'd sign over most of their property to him. + +"Naturally, they'd agree. They all want to return to their former +lives that bad, and, of course, they aren't aware of how much money +they had. He had it all his way. He could use the machine to +investigate them, and take only those who were really wealthy. He'd +give them a partial recovery in the machine, and when he found out who +they were, give them a quick shot of a built-in retro gun, taking them +back to the time they'd just entered his office. They wouldn't suspect +a thing. + +"Those who measured up he'd sign an agreement with, and to the other +poor devils he'd say that he was sorry but he couldn't help them." + +Putsyn was conscious now. "It's not so," he said sullenly. "He can't +prove it." + +"I don't think he's trying to prove that," said Borgenese, still calm. +"Let him talk." + +Luis took a deep breath. "He might have gotten away with it, but he'd +hired a laboratory assistant to help him perfect the machine. She +didn't like his ideas; she thought a discovery like that should be +given to the public. He didn't particularly care what she thought, but +now the trouble was that she could build it too, and since he couldn't +patent it and still keep it secret, she was a threat to his plans." He +paused. "Her name was Luise Obispo." + + * * * * * + +He didn't have to turn his head. From the corner of his eye, he could +see startlement flash across her face. She'd got her name right; and +it was he who had erred in choosing a name. + +"Putsyn hired a criminal, Dorn Starret, to get rid of her for him," he +said harshly. "That was the way Starret made his living. He was an +expert at it. + +"Starret slugged her one night on Mars. He didn't retro her at once. +He loaded her on a spaceship and brought her to Earth. During the +passage, he talked to her and got to like her a lot. She wasn't as +developed as she is now, kind of mousy maybe, but you know how those +things are--he liked her. He made love to her, but didn't get very +far. + +"He landed in another city on Earth and left his spaceship there; he +drugged her and brought her to the Shelter here and retroed her. +That's what he'd been paid to do. + +"Then he decided to stick around. Maybe she'd change her mind after +retrogression. He stayed in a Shelter just across from the one she was +in. And he made a mistake. He hid the retro gun behind the screen. + +"Putsyn came around to check up. He didn't like Starret staying +there--a key word or a familiar face sometimes triggers the memory. He +retroed Starret, who didn't have a gun he could get to in a hurry. +Maybe Putsyn had planned to do it all along. He'd built up an airtight +alibi when Luise disappeared, so that nobody would connect him with +that--and who'd miss a criminal like Starret? + +"Anyway, that was only part of it. He knew that people who've been +retroed try to find out who they are, and that some of them succeed. +He didn't want that to happen. So he put an advertisement in the paper +that she'd see and answer. When she did, he began to use his machine +on her, intending to take her from the present to the past and back +again so often that her mind would refuse to accept anything, past or +present. + +"But he'd just started when Starret showed up, and he knew he had to +get him too. So he pulled what looked like a deliberate slip and got +Starret interested, intending to take care of both of them in the same +way at the same time." + +He leaned against the wall. It was over now and he knew what he could +expect. + +"That's all, but it didn't work out the way Putsyn wanted it. Starret +was a guy who knew how to look after his own interests." + +Except the biggest and most important one; there he'd failed. + +Borgenese was tapping on the desk, but it wasn't really tapping--he +was pushing buttons. A policeman came in and the counselor motioned to +Putsyn: "Put him in the pre-trial cells." + +"You can't prove it," said Putsyn. His face was sunken and frightened. + +"I think we can," said the counselor indifferently. "You don't know +the efficiency of our laboratories. You'll talk." + + * * * * * + +When Putsyn had been removed, Borgenese turned. "Very good work, Luis. +I'm pleased with you. I think in time you'd make an excellent +policeman. Retro detail, of course." + +Luis stared at him. + +"Didn't you listen?" he said. "I'm Dorn Starret, a cheap crook." + +In that mental picture of Starret he'd had, he should have seen it at +once. Left-handed? Not at all--that was the way a man normally saw +himself in a mirror. And in mirror images, the right hand becomes the +left. + +The counselor sat up straight, not gentle and easygoing any longer. +"I'm afraid you can't prove that," he said. "Fingerprints? Will any of +Starret's past associates identify you? There's Putsyn, but he won't +be around to testify." He smiled. "As final evidence let me ask you +this: when he offered you a share in his crooked scheme, did you +accept? You did not. Instead, you brought him in, though you thought +you were heading into certain retrogression." + +Luis blinked dazedly. "But--" + +"There are no exceptions, Luis. For certain crimes there is a +prescribed penalty, retrogression. The law makes no distinction as to +how the penalty is applied, and for a good reason. If there was such a +person, Dorn Starret ceased to exist when Putsyn retroed him--and not +only legally." + +Counselor Borgenese stood up. "You see, retroing a person wipes him +clean of almost everything he ever knew--_right and wrong_. It leaves +him with an adult body, and we fill his mind with adult facts. Given +half a chance, he acts like an adult." + +Borgenese walked slowly to stand in front of his desk. "We protect +life. Everybody's life. _Including those who are not yet victims._ We +don't have the death penalty and don't want it. The most we can do to +anyone is give him a new chance, via retrogression. We have the same +penalty for those who deprive another of his memory as we do for those +who kill--with this difference: the man who retrogresses another knows +he has a good chance to get away with it. The murderer is certain that +he won't. + +"That's an administrative rule, not a law--that we don't try to trace +retrogression victims. It channels anger and greed into +non-destructive acts. There are a lot of unruly emotions floating +around, and as long as there are, we have to have a safety valve for +them. Retrogression is the perfect instrument for that." + +Luise tried to speak, but he waved her into silence. + +"Do you know how many were killed last year?" he asked. + +Luis shook his head. + +"Four," said the counselor. "Four murders in a population of sixteen +billion. That's quite a record, as anyone knows who reads Twentieth +Century mystery novels." He glanced humorously at Luis. "You did, +didn't you?" + +Luis nodded mutely. + +Borgenese grinned. "I thought so. There are only three types of +people who know about fingerprints today, historians and policemen +being two. And I didn't think you were either." + +Luise finally broke in. "Won't Putsyn's machine change things?" + +"Will it?" The counselor pretended to frown. "Do you remember how to +build it?" + +"I've forgotten," she confessed. + +"So you have," said Borgenese. "And I assure you Putsyn is going to +forget too. As a convicted criminal, and he will be, we'll provide him +with a false memory that will prevent his prying into the past. + +"That's one machine we don't want until humans are fully and +completely civilized. It's been invented a dozen times in the last +century, and it always gets lost." + +He closed his eyes momentarily, and when he opened them, Luise was +looking at Luis, who was staring at the floor. + +"You two can go now," he said. "When you get ready, there are jobs for +both of you in my department. No hurry, though; we'll keep them open." + +Luis left, went out through the long corridors and into the night. + + * * * * * + +She caught up with him when he was getting off the belt that had taken +him back to the Shelters. + +"There's not much you can say, I suppose," she murmured. "What can you +tell a girl when she learns you've stopped just short of killing her?" + +He didn't know the answer either. + +They walked in silence. + +She stopped at her dwelling, but didn't go in. "Still, it's an +indication of how you felt--that you forgot your own name and took +mine." She was smiling now. "I don't see how I can do less for you." + +Hope stirred and he moved closer. But he didn't speak. She might not +mean what he thought she did. + +"Luis and Luise Obispo," she said softly. "Very little change for +me--just add Mrs. to it." She was gazing at him with familiar +intensity. "Do you want to come in?" + +She opened the door. + +Crime was sometimes the road to opportunity, and retrogression could +be kind. + + --F. L. WALLACE + + * * * * * + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Forget Me Nearly, by Floyd L. Wallace + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FORGET ME NEARLY *** + +***** This file should be named 32025.txt or 32025.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/0/2/32025/ + +Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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