Any further investigation would have to wait until the next day,
Johnson decided. He was dead tired, and he had to have some sleep.
"Sign me up for a room, will you?" he asked.
Once up in his room, Johnson counted his money. One hundred and
fifty-four credits. Enough to buy winter clothing and pay his room and
board for a week. Maybe two. What would he do if he could learn
nothing about himself before then?
The next day Johnson left the hotel to buy warm clothes. The town's
only store was a half-block down the street--as he remembered it, one
of the big Interplanet Company stores.
Johnson waited until the storekeeper finished with two of the
hairy-eared natives before giving his order. As he paid for the
purchase, he asked: "Have you ever seen me before?"
The storekeeper glanced at him uneasily, and shifted his feet before
answering. "Am I supposed to have?"
Johnson ignored the question. "Where can I find the manager?" he
asked, slipping into the heavy coat the clerk held for him.
"Go up that stairway by the door," the clerk said. "You'll find him in
his office."
* * * * *
The manager was an old man. Old and black, with the deep blackness
only an Earth-born Negro possesses. But his eyes retained their
youthful alertness.
"Come in and sit down," he told Johnson as he looked up and saw him
standing in the doorway.
Johnson walked over and took the chair at the manager's left. "I've
had an accident," he said, without preliminary, "and I seem to have
lost my memory. Do you, by any chance, know who I am?"
"Never saw you before in my life," the manager answered. "What's your
name?"
"Don Johnson."
"Well, at least you remember something," the old man said shrewdly.
"You didn't come during the last six months, if that'll help any.
There've been only two ships in that time. Both the Company's. I meet
all Company ships. If you came in during the tourist season I wouldn't
know."
"Where else could I make inquiries?"
"Son," the old man said kindly, "there's three Earthmen on Marlock,
that I know of--besides yourself, of course--the clerk at the hotel,
my storekeeper, and myself. If you started asking questions at the
hotel, you're at the end of the line now."
Something in Johnson's expression caused the old man to go on. "How
you fixed for money, son?"
Johnson drew a deep breath. "I've got enough to last me about two
weeks."
The manager hesitated, and carefully surveyed the ceiling with his
eyes before he spoke again. "I've always felt we Earthmen should stick
together," he said. "If you want a job, I'll find something for you to
do and put you on the payroll."
Twenty minutes later Johnson took the job--and twenty years later he
was still working for the Company. He worked for them until....
* * * * *
Johnson was glad when the first twinge of fear came that it brought no
panic. Instead it washed through his body, sharpening his reflexes and
alerting his muscles for action.
He never ceased to wonder about this faculty he had acquired for
sensing the presence of danger. There was no doubt in his mind that it
had come into active function through the influence of his
environment. But it must have been an intrinsic part of him even
before that, waiting to be activated.
A moment before he had localized the source of his uneasiness--an
Earthman, following perhaps fifty paces behind him. The one quick
glance Johnson had allowed himself told him his follower was above
average in height, and lean--with the wiry, muscular command of
himself that marked him as a man capable of well-coordinated action.
He fought the rising force of the next "sand-blaster" boiling in from
the desert, until he was unable to take a step against it. Then he
moved behind a mud-packed arm projecting from the native dwelling at
his right. Every building had one of these protecting arms added on;
even the concrete buildings in the newer, Earth-built section of the
city conformed to the custom. The sandstorms raged intermittently on
Marlock through the entire nine month summer season, and could not be
ignored, either by visitors or natives.
Johnson huddled against the projection, but the sand whipped around
the corner and pounded at his back. Fine grains sifted through his
clothing and mingled with the clammy sweat of his body. He resisted
the frantic urge to scratch his itching, tormented skin, for he knew
the flesh would be rubbed raw in a minute and increase the irritation
to maddening proportions.
As the "sand-blaster" lost its intensity, he came out from his shelter
and walked away as rapidly as the diminishing force of the wind would
permit. If he could reach his office before his stalker closed in, he
would be safe.
Suddenly a second Earthman, a short length of pipe in his right hand,
came out of a doorway across the street and ran toward him.
Johnson realized that here was the source of the warning his intuition
had sent--not the man behind him.
* * * * *
For a brief instant, he weighed the situation. The man was equipped
for assault, but the chances were he was interested only in robbery.
Johnson could probably save himself a beating by surrendering his
money without resistance. He rejected the thought. A man had to live
with his pride, and his self-respect; they were more necessary than
physical well-being. Setting his shoulders firmly against the wall,
he waited.
The man slowed to a walk when he saw his intended victim on guard.
Johnson had the chance to observe him closely. He was a short and dark
man, heavy of bone, with the lower half of his face thickly bearded,
and sweat making a thin glistening film on his high cheekbones.