"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.