A TRACE OF MEMORY
By KEITH LAUMER
Illustrated by BIRMINGHAM
When Legion signed on as a soldier of fortune he did
not expect to wind up as the master of a private island.
Nor did he expect to cower in ancient Druid pits ... nor
fight for his life in the great hall at Okk-Hamiloth, on
a planet galaxies away. A master story-teller sweeps
you through time and space in a novel of retribution.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories July, August, September 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He opened his eyes and saw a grey wall where a red light gleamed
balefully in the gloom. He lay on a utility mat on a high couch, clad
in a gown of strange purple. In his arm there burned a harsh pain, and
he saw on his skin the mark of the Hunters. Who could have dared?
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the narrow cot ... and saw
the bodies of two men huddled on the floor, blood-splashed. Beyond, at
a doorway, lay another, and another.... What carnage was this? Gently
he rolled the nearest body on its back--and crouched rigid in shock.
Ammaerln, his friend.... Not dead, but the pulse was faint, too faint.
And the next corpse? That, too, wore a face that had been dear to him.
And the bodies at the entry--his faithful men. All were friends!
Beyond the door the ranged shelves of a library gave back not even an
echo when he called. He turned again to his dead. It was fresh death,
the blood still wet. Quickly he scanned the room, saw a recording
monitor against a wall. He fitted the neurodes to the dying man's
temples. But for this gesture of recording his life's memories, there
was nothing he could do. He must get him to a therapist and quickly.
But no one answered his calls. Was he alone in these chambers of death?
He ran through the library to a great echoing hall beyond. This
was not the Sapphire Palace beside the Shallow Sea. The lines were
unmistakable: 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 green against the black of space. Beyond it a
smaller companion hung, blue-blotched, airless. What worlds were these?
* * * * *
When he had ranged the vast ship from end to end he knew that he alone
still lived. 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 returned 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 silvery cylinder. It remained
only to color-code the trace; that he would do on his return.
His eye was caught by a small object still projecting from an aperture
at the side of the high couch where he had wakened. It was his own
memory-trace. So he himself had undergone the Change!
He thrust the color banded cylinder into a gown pocket--then whirled at
a sound. A nest of Hunters--the swarming globes of pale light used to
track down criminals--clustered at the door; then they were upon him.
Without a weapon, he was helpless. He must escape the ship--and
quickly! While the suffocating horde pressed close, humming in their
eagerness, he caught up the unconscious Ammaerln. The Hunters trailed
him like a luminous streamer as he ran to the shuttle boat bay.
Three shuttles lay in their cradles. He groped to a switch, his head
swimming with the sulphurous reek of his attackers. Light flooded the
bay, driving them back. He entered the lifeboat, placed the body on a
cushioned couch. Perhaps he would find help for his friend below.
It had been long since he had manned the controls of a vessel, but he
had not forgotten.
* * * * *
The last of life ebbed from the injured man long before they reached
the planetary surface. The boat 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 carried his friend there and placed him
in it, scraped earth over the body. He lingered for a moment, then he
rose and turned back toward the shuttle boat....
* * * * *
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. Others clustered at the
ladder. One scrambled up, reached the top, disappeared into the boat.
In a moment he reappeared at the opening and hurled down an armful of
small bright objects of varied shapes and textures. Others clambered up
to share the loot as the first man again vanished within the boat. But
before the foremost had gained the entry the port closed, shutting off
a terrified cry from within the shuttle boat.
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: "Soldiers of fortune seeks companion in arms to share
unusual adventure. Foster, Bos 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; that 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 mosquitos 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
home-made fudge stacked on plates with paper doilies under them. Behind
them, the interior of the store looked grim and dead. I passed, looked
around, moved toward the 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 behind a
desk, and pulled a phone to him. He dialled slowly, then swivelled his
back to me to talk. Insects danced around a bare light bulb. There was
an odor of stale beer and 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 with a sense 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's 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 get 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 in the car and sank back in a seat that seemed to fit me like
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 a pale grey carpet about the size of a
tennis court, decked out with Danish teak 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 beer joints.
"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 _Liebestod_," 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," I answered at once.
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 HE 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 took another long pull at a big pewter tankard of ale and went on.
"I had enough left over after the bankruptcy proceeding 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."
* * * * *
I swallowed some more of Foster's ale. It was the best. Foster was a
pretty good egg, too.
"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--not to mention the beer. I'd like real well to get in 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, 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 a 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 facade 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 gave a sort of laugh. "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. 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, 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 of
the key, I will henceforth keep thif journal in the Englifh tongue...."
"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. You've
done 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?"
"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 waf not a Succefs. I muft forfake thif 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 confess 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 judgment until you've seen it all," Foster said.
"And two-hundred years on one refill--that's not bad." I riffled
through the pages, 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 sixteen years old--"
"You don't understand, Legion," Foster said. "I told you I work up in
a military hospital in France. But it was an AEF hospital and the year
was 1918."