CHAPTER I_A Trace of Memory

A TRACE OF MEMORY

KEITH LAUMER

TOR

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events

portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance

to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A TRACE OF MEMORY

reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A short version of this novel appeared serially in

_Amazing_, July-August-September, 1962.

A TOR Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates,

8-10 West 36 Street,

New York, N.Y. 10018

Cover art by Bob Layzell

First TOR printing: November 1984

ISBN: O-812-54373-4

CAN. ED.: O-812-54374-2

Printed in the United States of America

[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any

evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

* * * * *

"Let's get out of here fast," I said. "We've probably set off an alarm

already."

As if in answer, a low chime cut across our talk. Pearly light sprang

up on a square panel. Foster and I stared at it.

"What do you make of it?" he said.

"I'm no expert on stone-age relics," I said. "But if that's not a radar

screen, I'll eat it."

I sat down in the single chair before the dusty control console, and

watched a red blip creep across the screen.

"That blip is either a mighty slow airplane--or it's at one hell of an

altitude." I sat upright, eyes on the screen. "Look at this, Foster,"

I snapped. A pattern of dots flashed across the screen, faded, flashed

again....

"I don't like that thing blinking at us," I said. "It makes me feel

conspicuous." I looked at the big red button beside the screen. "Maybe

if I pushed that...." Without waiting to think it over, I jabbed at it.

"I'm not sure you should have done that," Foster said.

"There _is_ room for doubt," I said in a strained voice. "It looks like

I've launched a bomb from the ship overhead."

A TRACE OF MEMORY

Look for these other TOR books by Keith Laumer:

THE BREAKING EARTH

THE GLORY GAME

THE INFINITE CAGE

KNIGHT OF DELUSIONS

THE MONITORS

THE HOUSE IN NOVEMBER AND THE OTHER SKY

ONCE THERE WAS A GIANT

PLANET RUN

WORLDS OF THE IMPERIUM

A TRACE OF MEMORY

PROLOGUE

He awoke and lay for a moment looking up at a low ceiling, dimly

visible in a faint red glow, feeling the hard mat under his back. He

turned his head, saw a wall and a panel on which a red indicator light

glared.

He swung his legs over the side of the narrow couch and sat up. The

room was small, grey-painted, unadorned. Pain throbbed in his forearm.

He shook back the loose sleeve of the strange purple garment, saw a

pattern of tiny punctures in the skin. He recognized the mark of a

feeding Hunter.... Who would have dared?

A dark shape on the floor caught his eye. He slid from the couch, knelt

by the still body of a man in a purple tunic stained black with blood.

Gently he rolled the body onto its back.

Ammaerln!

He seized the limp wrist. There was a faint pulse. He rose--and saw a

second body and, near the door, two more. Quickly he went to each....

All three were dead, hideously slashed. Only Ammaerln still breathed,

faintly.

He went to the door, shouted into the darkness. The ranged shelves of

a library gave back a brief echo. He turned back to the grey-walled

room, noticed a recording monitor against a wall. He fitted the

neurodes to the dying man's temples. But for this gesture of recording

Ammaerln's life's memories, there was nothing he could do. He must get

him to a therapist--and quickly.

He crossed the library, found a great echoing hall beyond. This

was not the Sapphire Palace beside the Shallow Sea. The lines were

unmistakeable: he was aboard a ship, a far-voyager. Why? How? He stood

uncertain. The silence was absolute.

He crossed the Great Hall and entered the observation lounge. Here

lay another dead man, by his uniform a member of the crew. He touched

a knob and the great screens glowed blue. A giant crescent swam into

focus, locked; soft blue against the black of space. Beyond it a

smaller companion hung, gray-blotched, airless. What worlds were these?

* * * * *

An hour later he had ranged the vast ship from end to end. In all,

seven corpses, cruelly slashed, peopled the silent vessel. In the

control sector the communicator lights glowed, but to his call there

was no answer from the strange world below.

He turned to the recording room. Ammaerln still breathed weakly. The

memory recording had been completed; all that the dying man remembered

of his long life was imprinted now in the silver cylinder. It remained

only to color-code the trace.

His eyes was caught by a small cylinder projecting from the aperture at

the side of the high couch where he had awakened his own memory-trace!

So he himself had undergone the Change. He took the color-banded

cylinder, thrust it into a pocket--then whirled at a sound. A nest of

Hunters, swarming globes of pale light, clustered at the door. Then

they were on him. They pressed close, humming in their eagerness.

Without the proper weapon he was helpless.

He caught up the limp body of Ammaerln. With the Hunters trailing in a

luminous stream he ran with his burden to the shuttle-boat bay.

Three shuttles lay in their cradles. He groped to a switch, his head

swimming with the sulphurous reek of the Hunters; light flooded the

bay, driving them back. He entered the lifeboat, placed the dying man

on a cushioned couch.

It had been long since he had manned the controls of a ship, but he had

not forgotten.

* * * * *

Ammaerln was dead when the lifeboat reached the planetary surface. The

vessel settled gently and the lock cycled. He looked out at a vista of

ragged forest.

This was no civilized world. Only the landing ring and the clearing

around it showed the presence of man.

There was a hollow in the earth by a square marker block at the eastern

perimeter of the clearing. He hoisted the body of Ammaerln to his back

and moved heavily down the access ladder. Working bare-handed, he

deepened the hollow, placed the body in it, scraped earth over it. Then

he rose and turned back toward the shuttle boat.

Forty feet away, a dozen men, squat, bearded, wrapped in the shaggy

hides of beasts, stood between him and the access ladder. The tallest

among them shouted, raised a bronze sword threateningly. Behind these,

others clustered at the ladder. Motionless he watched as one scrambled

up, reached the top, disappeared into the boat. In a moment the savage

reappeared at the opening and hurled down handfuls of small bright

objects. Shouting, others clambered up to share the loot. The first man

again vanished within the boat. Before the foremost of the others had

gained the entry, the port closed, shutting off a terrified cry from

within.

Men dropped from the ladder as it swung up. The boat rose slowly,

angling toward the west, dwindling. The savages shrank back, awed.

The man watched until the tiny blue light was lost against the sky.

CHAPTER I

The ad read: _Soldier of fortune seeks companion in arms to share

unusual adventure. Foster, Box 19, Mayport._

I crumpled the newspaper and tossed it in the general direction of the

wire basket beside the park bench, pushed back a slightly frayed cuff,

and took a look at my bare wrist. It was just habit; the watch was in

a hock shop in Tupelo, Mississippi. It didn't matter. I didn't have to

know what time it was.

Across the park most of the store windows were dark along the side

street. There were no people in sight; they were all home now, having

dinner. As I watched, the lights blinked off in the drug store with the

bottles of colored water in the window; the left the candy and cigar

emporium at the end of the line. I fidgeted on the hard bench and felt

for a cigarette I didn't have. I wished the old boy back of the counter

would call it a day and go home. As soon as it was dark enough, I was

going to rob his store.

* * * * *

I wasn't a full-time stick-up artist. Maybe that's why that nervous

feeling was playing around under my rib cage. There was really nothing

to it. The wooden door with the hardware counter lock that would open

almost as easily without a key as with one; the sardine-can metal box

with the day's receipts in it. I'd be on my way to the depot with fare

to Miami in my pocket ten minutes after I cracked the door. I'd learned

a lot harder tricks than petty larceny back when I had a big future

ahead with Army Intelligence. That was a long time ago, and I'd had a

lot of breaks since then--none good.

I got up and took another turn around the park. It was a warm evening,

and the mosquitoes were out. I caught a whiff of frying hamburger from

the Elite Cafe down the street. It reminded me that I hadn't eaten

lately. There were lights on at the Commercial Hotel and one in the

ticket office at the station. The local police force was still sitting

on a stool at the Rexall talking to the counter girl. I could see the

.38 revolver hanging down in a worn leather holster at his hip. All of

a sudden, I was in a hurry to get it over with.

I took another look at the lights. All the stores were dark now. There

was nothing to wait for. I crossed the street, sauntered past the cigar

store. There were dusty boxes of stogies in the window and piles of

homemade fudge stacked on plates with paper doilies under them. Behind

them, the interior of the store looked grim and dead. I looked around,

then turned down the side street toward the back door--

A black sedan eased around the corner and pulled in to the curb. A face

leaned over to look at me through lenses like the bottoms of tabasco

bottles. The hot evening air stirred, and I felt my damp shirt cold

against my back.

"Looking for anything in particular, Mister?" the cop said.

I just looked at him.

"Passing through town, are you?" he asked.

For some reason I shook my head.

"I've got a job here," I said. "I'm going to work--for Mr. Foster."

"What Mr. Foster?" The cop's voice was wheezy, but relentless; a voice

used to asking questions.

I remembered the ad--something about an adventure; Foster, Box 19. The

cop was still staring at me.

"Box nineteen," I said.

He looked me over some more, then reached across and opened the door.

"Better come on down to the station house with me, Mister," he said.

* * * * *

At Police Headquarters, the cop motioned me to a chair, sat down behind

a desk, and pulled a phone to him. He dialed slowly, then swiveled his

back to me to talk. Insects danced around the bare light bulb. There

was an odor of leather and unwashed bedding. I sat and listened to a

radio in the distance wailing a sad song.

It was half an hour before I heard a car pull up outside. The man who

came through the door was wearing a light suit that was neither new

nor freshly pressed, but had that look of perfect fit and taste that

only the most expensive tailoring can achieve. He moved in a relaxed

way, but gave an impression of power held in reserve. At first glance I

thought he was in his middle thirties, but when he looked my way I saw

the fine lines around the blue eyes. I got to my feet. He came over to

me.

"I'm Foster," he said, and held out his hand. I shook it.

"My name is Legion," I said.

The desk sergeant spoke up. "This fellow says he come here to Mayport

to see you, Mr. Foster."

Foster looked at me steadily. "That's right, Sergeant. This gentleman

is considering a proposition I've made."

"Well, I didn't know, Mr. Foster," the cop said.

"I quite understand, Sergeant," Foster said. "We all feel better,

knowing you're on the job."

"Well, you know," the cop said.

"We may as well be on our way then," Foster said. "If you're ready, Mr.

Legion."

"Sure, I'm ready," I said. Mr. Foster said goodnight to the cop and we

went out. On the pavement in front of the building I stopped.

"Thanks, Mr. Foster," I said. "I'll comb myself out of your hair now."

Foster had his hand on the door of a deceptively modest-looking

cabriolet. I could smell the solid leather upholstery from where I

stood.

"Why not come along to my place, Legion," he said. "We might at least

discuss my proposition."

I shook my head. "I'm not the man for the job, Mr. Foster," I said. "If

you'd like to advance me a couple of bucks, I'll get myself a bite to

eat and fade right out of your life."

"What makes you so sure you're not interested?"

"Your ad said something about adventure. I've had my adventures. Now

I'm just looking for a hole to crawl into."

"I don't believe you, Legion." Foster smiled at me, a slow, calm smile.

"I think your adventures have hardly begun."

I thought about it. If I went along, I'd at least get a meal--and maybe

even a bed for the night. It was better than curling up under a tree.

"Well," I said, "a remark like that demands time for an explanation." I

got into the car and sank back in a seat that seemed to fit me the way

Foster's jacket fit him.

"I hope you won't mind if I drive fast," Foster said. "I want to be

home before dark." We started up and wheeled away from the curb like a

torpedo sliding out of the launching tube.

* * * * *

I got out of the car in the drive at Foster's house, and looked around

at the wide clipped lawn, the flower beds that were vivid even by

moonlight, the line of tall poplars and the big white house.

"I wish I hadn't come," I said. "This kind of place reminds me of all

the things I haven't gotten out of life."

"Your life's still ahead of you," Foster said. He opened the slab of

mahogany that was the front door, and I followed him inside. At the end

of a short hall he flipped a switch that flooded the room before us

with soft light. I stared at an expanse of pale grey carpet about the

size of a tennis court, on which rested glowing Danish teak furniture

upholstered in rich colors. The walls were a rough-textured grey; here

and there were expensively framed abstractions. The air was cool with

the heavy coolness of air conditioning. Foster crossed to a bar that

looked modest in the setting, in spite of being bigger than those in

most of the places I'd seen lately.

"Would you care for a drink?" he said.

I looked down at my limp, stained suit and grimy cuffs.

"Look, Mr. Foster," I said. "I just realized something. If you've got a

stable, I'll go sleep in it--"

Foster laughed. "Come on; I'll show you the bath."

* * * * *

I came downstairs, clean, showered, and wearing a set of Foster's

clothes. I found him sitting, sipping a drink and listening to music.

"The _Liebestodt_," I said. "A little gloomy, isn't it?"

"I read something else into it," Foster said. "Sit down and have a bite

to eat and a drink."

I sat in one of the big soft chairs and tried not to let my hand shake

as I reached for one of the sandwiches piled on the coffee table.

"Tell me something, Mr. Legion," Foster said. "Why did you come here,

mention my name--if you didn't intend to see me?"

I shook my head. "It just worked out that way."

"Tell me something about yourself," Foster said.

"It's not much of a story."

"Still, I'd like to hear it."

"Well, I was born, grew up, went to school----"

"What school?"

"University of Illinois."

"What was your major?"

"Music."

Foster looked at me, frowning slightly.

"It's the truth," I said. "I wanted to be a conductor. The army

had other ideas. I was in my last year when the draft got me. They

discovered I had what they considered an aptitude for intelligence

work. I didn't mind it. I had a pretty good time for a couple of years."

"Go on," Foster said. Well, I'd had a bath and a good meal. I owed him

something. If he wanted to hear my troubles, why not tell him?

"I was putting on a demonstration. A defective timer set off a charge

of H-E fifty seconds early on a one-minute setting. A student was

killed; I got off easy with a busted eardrum and a pound or two of

gravel imbedded in my back. When I got out of the hospital, the army

felt real bad about letting me go--but they did. My terminal leave pay

gave me a big weekend in San Francisco and set me up in business as a

private investigator.

"I had enough left over after the bankruptcy proceedings a few months

later to get me to Las Vegas. I lost what was left and took a job with

a casino operator named Gonino.

"I stayed with Gonino for nearly a year. Then one night a visiting bank

clerk lost his head and shot him eight times with a .22 target pistol.

I left town the same night.

"After that I sold used cars for a couple of months in Memphis; then I

made like a life guard at Daytona; baited hooks on a thirty-foot tuna

boat out of Key West; all the odd jobs with low pay and no future. I

spent a couple of years in Cuba; all I got out of that was two bullet

scars on the left leg, and a prominent position on a CIA blacklist.

"After that things got tough. A man in my trade can't really hope to

succeed in a big way without the little blue card in the plastic cover

to back his play. I was headed south for the winter, and I picked

Mayport to run out of money."

I stood up. "I sure enjoyed the bath, Mr. Foster, and the meal,

too--I'd like real well to get into that bed upstairs and have a

night's sleep just to make it complete; but I'm not interested in the

job." I turned away and started across the room.

"Legion," Foster said. I turned. A beer bottle was hanging in the air

in front of my face. I put a hand up fast and the bottle slapped my

palm.

"Not bad set of reflexes for a man whose adventures are all behind

him," Foster said.

I tossed the bottle aside. "If I'd missed, that would have knocked my

teeth out," I said angrily.

"You didn't miss--even though you're weaving a little from the beer.

And a man who can feel a pint or so of beer isn't an alcoholic--so

you're clean on that score."

"I didn't say I was ready for the rummy ward," I said. "I'm just not

interested in your proposition--whatever it is."

"Legion," Foster said, "maybe you have the idea I put that ad in the

paper last week on a whim. The fact is, I've been running it--in one

form or another--for over eight years."

I looked at him and waited.

"Not only locally--I've run it in the big-city papers, and in some of

the national weekly and monthly publications. All together, I've had

perhaps fifty responses."

Foster smiled wryly. "About three quarters of them were from women who

thought I wanted a playmate. Several more were from men with the same

idea. The few others were hopelessly unsuitable."

"That's surprising," I said. "I'd have thought you'd have brought half

the nuts in the country out of the woodwork by now."

Foster looked at me, not smiling. I realized suddenly that behind the

urbane façade there was a hint of tension, a trace of worry in the

level blue eyes.

"I'd like very much to interest you in what I have to say, Legion. I

think you lack only one thing--confidence in yourself."

I laughed shortly. "What are the qualifications you think I have? I'm a

jack of no trades----"

"Legion, you're a man of considerable intelligence and more than a

little culture; you've travelled widely and know how to handle yourself

in difficult situations--or you wouldn't have survived. I'm sure your

training includes techniques of entry and fact-gathering not known to

the average man; and perhaps most important, although you're an honest

man, you're capable of breaking the law--when necessary."

"So that's it," I said.

"No, I'm not forming a mob, Legion. As I said in the ad--this is an

unusual adventure. It may--probably will--involve infringing various

statutes and regulations of one sort or another. After you know the

full story I'll leave you to judge whether it's justifiable."

If Foster was trying to arouse my curiosity, he was succeeding. He was

dead serious about whatever it was he was planning. It sounded like

something no one with good sense would want to get involved in--but on

the other hand, Foster didn't look like the sort of man to do anything

foolish....

"Why don't you tell me what this is all about?" I said. "Why would a

man with all this--" I waved a hand at the luxurious room--"want to

pick a hobo like me out of the gutter and talk him into taking a job?"

"Your ego has taken a severe beating, Legion--that's obvious. I think

you're afraid that I'll expect too much of you--or that I'll be shocked

by some disclosure you may make. Perhaps if you'd forget yourself and

your problems for the moment, we could reach an understanding----"

"Yeah," I said. "Just forget my problems...."

"Chiefly money problems, of course. Most of the problems of this

society involve the abstraction of values that money represents."

"Okay," I said. "I've got my problems, you've got yours. Let's leave it

at that."

"You feel that because I have material comfort, my problems must of

necessity be trivial ones," Foster said. "Tell me, Mr. Legion: have you

ever known a man who suffered from amnesia?"

* * * * *

Foster crossed the room to a small writing desk, took something from a

drawer, then looked at me.

"I'd like you to examine this," he said.

I went over and took the object from his hand. It was a small book,

with a cover of drab-colored plastic, unornamented except for an

embossed design of two concentric rings. I opened the cover. The pages

were as thin as tissue, but opaque, and covered with extremely fine

writing in strange foreign characters. The last dozen pages were in

English. I had to hold the book close to my eyes to read the minute

script:

_January 19, 1710. Having come nigh to calamity with the near lofs[1]

of the key, I will henceforth keep this journal in the English

tongue...._

[Footnote 1: Transcriber's Note: Sections of this text used "long s"

typeface. Text left as printed with the letter "f" substituted for the

"long s".]

"If this is an explanation of something, it's too subtle for me," I

said.

"Legion, how old would you say I am?"

"That's a hard one," I said. "When I first saw you I would have said

the late thirties, maybe. Now, frankly, you look closer to fifty."

"I can show you proof," Foster said, "that I spent the better part of a

year in a military hospital in France. I awakened in a ward, bandaged

to the eyes, and with no memories whatever of my life before that day.

According to the records made at the time, I appeared to be about

thirty years of age."

"Well," I said, "amnesia's not so unusual among war casualties, and you

seem to have done pretty well since."

Foster shook his head impatiently. "There's nothing difficult about

acquiring material wealth in this society, though the effort kept me

well occupied for a number of years--and diverted my thoughts from

the question of my past life. The time came, however, when I had the

leisure to pursue the matter. The clues I had were meagre enough; the

notebook I've shown you was found near me, and I had a ring on my

finger." Foster held out his hand. On the middle finger was a massive

signet, engraved with the same design of concentric circles I had seen

on the cover of the notebook.

"I was badly burned; my clothing was charred. Oddly enough, the

notebook was quite unharmed, though it was found among burned debris.

It's made of very tough stuff."

"What did you find out?"

"In a word--nothing. No military unit claimed me. I spoke English, from

which it was deduced that I was English or American----"

"They couldn't tell which, from your accent?"

"Apparently not; it appears I spoke a sort of hybrid dialect."

"Maybe you're lucky. I'd be happy to forget my first thirty years."

"I spent a considerable sum of money in my attempts to discover my

past," Foster went on. "And several years of time. In the end I gave it

up. And it wasn't until then that I found the first faint inkling."

"So you did find something," I said.

"Nothing I hadn't had all along. The notebook."

"I'd have thought you would have read that before you did anything

else," I said. "Don't tell me you put it in the bureau drawer and

forgot it."

"I read it, of course--what I could read of it. Only a relatively small

section is in English. The rest is a cipher. And what I read seemed

meaningless--quite unrelated to me. You've glanced through it; it's no

more than a journal, irregularly kept, and so cryptic as to be little

better than a code itself. And of course the dates; they range from the

early eighteenth century through the early twentieth."

"A sort of family record, maybe," I said. "Carried on generation after

generation. Didn't it mention any names, or places?"

"Look at it again, Legion," Foster said. "See if you notice anything

odd--other than what we've already discussed."

I thumbed through the book again. It was no more than an inch thick,

but it was heavy--surprisingly heavy. There were a lot of pages--I

shuffled through hundreds of closely written sheets, and yet the book

was less than half used. I read bits here and there:

_"May 4, 1746. The Voyage was not a Succefs. I must forsake this avenue

of Enquiry...._"

"_October 23, 1790. Builded the weft Barrier a cubit higher. Now

the fires burn every night. Is there no limit to their infernal

perfiftence?_"

"_January 19, 1831. I have great hopes for the Philadelphia enterprise.

My greatest foe is impatience. All preparations for the Change are

made, yet I confefs I am uneasy...._"

"There are plenty of oddities," I said. "Aside from the entries

themselves. This is supposed to be old--but the quality of the paper

and binding beats anything I've seen. And that handwriting is pretty

fancy for a quill pen----"

"There's a stylus clipped to the spine of the book," Foster said. "It

was written with that."

I looked, pulled out a slim pen, then looked at Foster. "Speaking of

odd," I said. "A genuine antique early colonial ball-point pen doesn't

turn up every day----"

"Suspend your judgement until you've seen it all," Foster said.

"And two hundred years on one refill--that's not bad." I riffled

through the pages, then I tossed the book onto the table. "Who's

kidding who, Foster?" I said.

"The book was described in detail in the official record, of which I

have copies. They mention the paper and binding, the stylus, even quote

some of the entries. The authorities worked over it pretty closely,

trying to identify me. They reached the same conclusion as you--that it

was the work of a crackpot; but they saw the same book you're looking

at now."

"So what? So it was faked up some time during the war--what does that

prove? I'm ready to concede it's forty years old----"

"You don't understand, Legion," Foster said. "I told you I woke up in

a military hospital in France. But it was an AEF hospital and the year

was 1918."