At first he felt only anger. The suspicion didn't come until later. It
was a cold, amorphous anger, not directed toward anyone or anything, a
wrenching, nonspecific sort of anger. He found a small place where he
could eat, set down off the Upper Level throughway, and he ordered hot
coffee and a little food, and then sank his head into his hands--
And the anger grew, as he thought of the horrible house that no longer
fit, and of Marian, and himself with the strange young-old face that
was not his face at all, but a ghost-face from the past that stared out
of the mirror at him. They had warned him, of course. Told him, rather.
It had not been a warning, for warning implies evil, and if there had
been evil in what they had told him it had been well concealed. They
had said that everything would be as he left it, that he could go back
to his old life, if that was what he wanted, if that was where he
belonged. They had told him all this, and it had had little meaning to
him.
But it had meaning now, a thousand meanings that he could not
understand. Because he had gone back, and discovered in the horror of a
single look that it was wrong, that he no longer belonged. And it was
then that he began to suspect that somehow, beyond his control and ken,
he had become the victim of a terrible, cosmic joke.
Yet he was alive. He could not deny it. There was nothing wrong with
his mind. He could think, he could remember, analyze. Just as they
said, he could go back to the desk where he had worked so many years,
and take over once again where he had left off.
But the place had repelled him. He shivered, and the suspicion
deepened. They had said he could go back, if he wanted to, but he
didn't want to. He couldn't even make a pretense of wanting to. There
were other things to do, somewhere, more important things that had no
part nor connection with the old Dan Griffin.
People were coming into the place now. They sat at tables nearby, and
he could feel their eyes drift over him, curiously. How many times
before had he watched these strange, drifting creatures with faces
that belied their years, when they had chanced to cross his path? How
often, before, had he seen the little green bar tattooed on a wrist,
and looked at the face above it, and wondered, what is he doing? How
does it feel to be a completely new man again, with a new life, and
twelve months of freedom, complete freedom of movement, of inquiry, of
thought. He wished that he had never wondered these things before.
The coffee came and he gulped it eagerly, realizing that he hadn't
eaten for several hours. The suspicion was taking form in his mind
now, and he grasped at it greedily. He had seen many Free Agents
before. They had become an accepted, harmless facet of a society
rather too hurried to be bothered much by introspection. Free Agents?
They were--well, they were around. They didn't do any harm, the news
articles had said that only psychologically safe people were accepted
for prosthesis, and then they were conditioned against criminal
activities in the course of the remodelling. Why worry about them? They
were seen here and there, and they bothered no one, and no one bothered
them.
But what happened to them? Some went back to their old lives. He knew
that. Some came back and took up their old places as if they had merely
taken a vacation trip. And others came back, and then left--
Where did they go?
Griffin tried to think. Specifically, whom did he know who had come
back permanently?
He ran over names in his mind. Jack Townsend--he'd come back. Fine boy,
Jack, and never a whisper of a change. Ted Maroneck? He'd bolted after
two weeks back, and Griffin had run into him in the city one day, with
a coarse blonde woman, slightly drunk, and very raucous. How about Phil
Steinberg? Only a week at home. Couldn't blame him, though. Ellie had
been enough to drive anybody back to the woods. They'd never heard from
him since. And Bob Whittaker--he'd been gone six months, now. And Joe
Meyer--where was Joe?
Griffin took up his coat, preparing to leave, and now suddenly he was
afraid. There was something wrong. In his own acquaintance, a couple
who had come home and stayed. And a dozen who were gone, like the month
of May.
_Where?_
He wanted to know. And something screamed in his mind that he had
better find out where they had gone. And very soon.
* * * * *
The building said Bureau of Public Records on the facade, and he
walked up the marble steps quickly, his mind now hard with suspicion.
In the center of the huge lobby he found the Directory, and read down
the lines of names and departments. Under R he found "Reading Room,
Microfilm Library," with a floor number after it. A few moments later
he was stepping off the elevator, walking into the long, narrow room
with the reading booths glassed in against the walls. He found a
place, and lifted the order-phone from its hook. "Let me have the
documentary file on Robert L. Whittaker of this city," he said.
"I'm sorry, sir." The operator's voice was harsh in his ear. "Personal
files are not available without proper authorization--"
"I'm a Free Agent," said Griffin shortly. "I'd like to see that file."
The visiphone screen came to light quite suddenly, and the girl's face
appeared. "Identification, please?"
He held up a card from his pocket. There was no name on it. It carried
a tri-di photo-impression, and a fingerprint, and said FREE AGENT in
large green letters, followed by a code number. The girl watched him
stamp his thumb on a duplicator card, and then the screen snapped off.
Then, seconds later, a microfilm spool plopped down in the groove
before him.
He took it out and threaded it into the reader, his heart pounding
wildly in his throat. "Send me the same on Philip C. Steinberg and
Joseph B. Meyer," he said. "And any other information you have on their
activities--"
The documents were there, of course. Birth certificate, baptismal
record, licensing record, application for prosthesis, application
approval. He blinked at the last frame on the spool, a chill going down
his back.
The death certificate. With Bob Whittaker's signature on it.
He snatched up the order phone again, his hand trembling. "I'd like
Robert Whittaker's Free Agent records," he snapped at the operator's
smooth voice.
There was a pause. Then the operator said, "There aren't any records,
sir."
"WHAT?"
"I'm sorry, there is no record of Robert Whittaker reapplying for his
name."
"Well then, what name did he take?"
"I'm sorry, that information is not available."
"I told you I'm a Free Agent."
"I'm sorry. Free Agent records are not available to anyone. Not even
Free Agents."
It was the chink in the wall that he had known he would find. He
slammed down the receiver with a crash, and threaded the second spool.
It had been too good, too smooth for it to be true. He had known, deep
in his mind, that somewhere he would find the flaw in the Free Agent's
freedom--and he had found it. And knowing where the flaw was only fed
his suspicions and fanned his fears into brighter flame.
It was the same with every spool. Phil Steinberg was legally dead.
Sorry, but information regarding his Free Agent period is restricted.
Ted Maroneck was legally dead. So was Joe Meyer--
_So was Dan Griffin_--
He sat there trembling, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.
He had known there would be a flaw. He wasn't supposed to know it. A
marionette wasn't supposed to know that it was only a creature on a
string, a lifeless piece of wood until hands drew the strings and made
it do its little dance of life. Like the monkey-on-a-stick he had owned
as a boy, so many years before, which would climb up, and down, and up,
and down, every time he pressed the button.
And somewhere, he had a button now. And somewhere, somebody was pushing
it. Something had happened to him quite apart from the physical
rebuilding. Neatly hidden behind a careful screen of helpfulness and
humanity and a brave new life was something else, something that he had
not been told. And he was being manipulated, like a monkey on a stick,
and he couldn't do anything about it, because he wouldn't know about it.
But now he did know.