"I think so."
"Good. Let's have it. It's bound to touch on your former life in some
way, though perhaps so remotely we can't trace it. At least, it's
something."
"Luis Obispo." He spelled it out.
* * * * *
The police counselor looked dubious as he wrote the name down. "It's
not common, nor uncommon either. The spelling of the first name is a
little different, but there must be countless Obispos scattered over
the System."
It was curious. Now he almost did think of himself as Luis Obispo. He
wanted to be that person. "Another thing," he said. "Did I have any
money when I was found?"
"You're thinking of leaving? A lot of them do." Val Borgenese flipped
open the folder again. "You did have money, an average amount. It
won't set you up in business, if that's what you're thinking."
"I wasn't. How do I get it?"
"I didn't think you were." The counselor made another notation. "I'll
have the desk release it--you can get it any time. By the way, you get
the full amount, no deductions for anything."
The news was welcome, considering what he had ahead of him.
Borgenese was still speaking. "Whatever you do, keep in touch with us.
It'll take time to run down this name, and maybe we'll draw a blank.
But something significant may show up. If you're serious, and I think
you are, it's to your advantage to check back every day or so."
"I'm serious," said Luis. "I'll keep in touch."
There wasn't much to pack. The clothing he wore had been supplied by
the police. Ordinary enough; it would pass on the street without
comment. It would do until he could afford to get better.
He went down to the desk and picked up his money. It was more than
he'd expected--the average man didn't carry this much in his pocket.
He wondered about it briefly as he signed the receipt and walked out
of retro-therapy. The counselor had said it was an average amount, but
it wasn't.
He stood in the street in the dusk trying to orient himself.
Perhaps the money wasn't so puzzling. An average amount for those
brought into therapy for treatment, perhaps. Borgenese had said a high
proportion were suicides. Such a person would want to start over again
minus fears and frustrations, but not completely penniless. If he had
money he'd want to take it with him, though not so much that it could
be traced, since that would defeat the original purpose.
The pattern was logical--suicides were those with a fair sum of money.
This was the fact which inclined Borgenese to the view he obviously
held.
Luis Obispo stood there uncertainly. Did he want to find out? His lips
thinned--he did. In spite of Borgenese, there were other ways to
account for the money he had. One of them was this: he was an
important man, accustomed to handling large sums of money.
He started out. He was in a small city of a few hundred thousand on
the extreme southern coast of California. In the last few days he'd
studied maps of it; he knew where he was going.
* * * * *
When he got there, the Shelters were dark. He didn't know what he had
expected, but it wasn't this. Reflection showed him that he hadn't
thought about it clearly. The mere existence of Shelters indicated an
economic level in which few people would either want or need to make
use of that which was provided freely.
He skirted the area. He'd been found in one of the Shelters--which one
he didn't know. Perhaps he should have checked the record before he
came here.
No, this was better. Clues, he was convinced, were almost
non-existent. He had to rely on his body and mind; but not in the
ordinary way. He was particularly sensitive to impressions he had
received before; the way he had learned things in therapy proved that;
but if he tried to force them, he could be led astray. The wisest
thing was to react naturally, almost without volition. He should be
able to recognize the Shelter he'd been found in without trouble. From
that, he could work back.
That was the theory--but it wasn't happening. He circled the area, and
there was nothing to which he responded more than vaguely.
He would have to go closer.
He crossed the street. The plan of the Shelters was simple; an area
two blocks long and one block wide, heavily planted with shrubs and
small trees. In the center was an S-shaped continuous structure
divided into a number of small dwelling units.
Luis walked along one wing of the building, turned at the corner and
turned again. It was quite dark. He supposed that was why he wasn't
reacting to anything. But his senses were sharper than he realized.
There was a rustle behind him, and instinctively he flung himself
forward, flat on the ground.
A pink spot appeared, low on the wall next to him. It had been aimed
at his legs. The paint crackled faintly and the pink spot faded. He
rolled away fast.
A dark body loomed past him and dropped where he'd been. There was an
exclamation of surprise when the unknown found there was no one there.
Luis grunted with satisfaction--this might be only a stickup, but he
was getting action faster than he'd expected. He reached out and took
hold of a leg and drew the assailant to him. A hard object clipped the
side of his head, and he grasped that too.
The shape of the gun was familiar. He tore it loose. This wasn't any
stickup! Once was enough to be retrogressed, and he'd had his share.
Next time it was going to be the other guy. Physically, he was more
than a match for his attacker. He twisted his body and pinned the
struggling form to the ground.
That was what it was--a form. A woman, very much so; even in the
darkness he was conscious of her body.
Now she was trying to get loose, and he leaned his weight more
heavily on her. Her clothing was torn--he could feel her flesh against
his face. He raised the gun butt, and then changed his mind and
instead fumbled for a light. It wasn't easy to find it and still keep
her pinned.
"Be quiet or I'll clip you," he growled.
She lay still.
* * * * *
He found the light and shone it on her face. It was good to look at,
that face, but it wasn't at all familiar. He had trouble keeping his
eyes from straying. Her dress was torn, and what she wore underneath
was torn too.
"Seen enough?" she asked coldly.
"Put that way, I haven't." He couldn't force his voice to be
matter-of-fact--it wouldn't behave.
She stared angrily at the light in her eyes. "I knew you'd be back,"
she said. "I thought I could get you before you got me, but you're too
fast." Her mouth trembled. "This time make it permanent. I don't want
to be tormented again like this."
[Illustration]
He let her go and sat up. He was trembling, too, but not for the same
reason. He turned the light away from her eyes.
"Ever consider that you could be mistaken?" he asked. "You're not the
only one it happens to."
She lay there blinking at him, eyes adjusting to the changed light.
She fumbled at the torn dress, which wouldn't stay where she put it.
"You too?" she said with a vast lack of surprise. "When?"
"They found me here two weeks ago. This is the first time I've come
back."
"Patterns," she said. "There are always patterns in what we do." Her
attitude toward him had changed drastically, he could see it in her
face. "I've been out three weeks longer." She sat up and leaned
closer. She didn't seem to be thinking about the same things that had
been on her mind only seconds before.
He stood up and helped her to her feet. She was near and showed no
inclination to move away. This was something Borgenese hadn't
mentioned, and there was nothing in his re-education to prepare him
for this sensation, but he liked it. He couldn't see her very well,
now that the light was turned off, but she was almost touching him.
"We're in the same situation, I guess." She sighed. "I'm lonely and a
little afraid. Come into my place and we'll talk."
He followed her. She turned into a dwelling that from the outside
seemed identical to the others. Inside, it wasn't quite the same. He
couldn't say in what way it was different, but he didn't think it was
the one he'd been found in.
That torn dress bothered him--not that he wanted her to pin it up. The
tapes hadn't been very explicit about the beauties of the female body,
but he thought he knew what they'd left out.
She was conscious of his gaze and smiled. It was not an invitation, it
was a request, and he didn't mind obeying. She slid into his arms and
kissed him. He was glad about the limitations of re-education. There
were some things a man ought to learn for himself.
She looked up at him. "Maybe you should tell me your name," she said.
"Not that it means much in our case."
"Luis Obispo," he said, holding her.
"I had more trouble, I couldn't choose until two days ago." She kissed
him again, hard and deliberately. It gave her enough time to jerk the
gun out of his pocket.
She slammed it against his ribs. "Stand back," she said, and meant
it.
* * * * *
Luis stared bewilderedly at her. She was desirable, more than he had
imagined and for a variety of reasons. Her emotions had been real, he
was sure of that, not feigned for the purpose of taking the gun away.
But she had changed again in a fraction of a second. Her face was
twisted with an effort at self-control.
"What's the matter?" he asked. He tried to make his voice gentle, but
it wouldn't come out that way. The retrogression process had sharpened
all his reactions--this one too.
"The name I finally arrived at was--Luise Obispo," she said.
He started. The same as his, except feminine! This was more than he'd
dared hope for. A clue--and this girl, who he suddenly realized,
without any cynicism about "love at first sight," because the tapes
hadn't included it, meant something to him.
"Maybe you're my wife," he said tentatively.
"Don't count on it," she said wearily. "It would have been better if
we were strangers--then it wouldn't matter what we did. Now there are
too many factors, and I can't choose."
"It has to be," he argued. "Look--the same name, and so close together
in time and place, and we were attracted instantly--"
"Go away," she said, and the gun didn't waver. It was not a threat
that he could ignore. He left.
She was wrong in making him leave, completely wrong. He couldn't say
how he knew, but he was certain. But he couldn't prove it, and she
wasn't likely to accept his unsubstantiated word.
He leaned weakly against the door. It was like that. Retrogression had
left him with an adult body and sharper receptiveness. And after that
followed an urge to live fully. He had a lot of knowledge, but it
didn't extend to this sphere of human behavior.
Inside he could hear her moving around faintly, an emotional
anticlimax. It wasn't just frustrated sex desire, though that played a
part. They had known each other previously--the instant attraction
they'd had for each other was proof, leaving aside the names. Lord,
he'd trade his unknown identity to have her. He should have taken
another name--any other name would have been all right.
It wasn't because she was the first woman he'd seen, or the woman he
had first re-seen. There had been nurses, some of them beautiful, and
he'd paid no attention to them. But Luise Obispo was part of his
former life--and he didn't know what part. The reactions were there,
but until he could find out why, he was denied access to the
satisfactions.
From a very narrow angle, and only from that angle, he could see that
there was still a light inside. It was dim, and if a person didn't
know, he might pass by and not notice it.
His former observation about the Shelters was incorrect. Every
dwelling might be occupied and he couldn't tell unless he examined
them individually.
He stirred. The woman was a clue to his problem, but the clue itself
was a far more urgent problem. Though his identity was important, he
could build another life without it and the new life might not be
worse than the one from which he had been forcibly removed.
Perhaps he was over-reacting, but he didn't think so: _his new life
had to include this woman_.
He wasn't equipped to handle the emotion. He stumbled away from the
door and found an unoccupied dwelling and went in without turning on
the lights and lay down on the bed.
In the morning, he knew he had been here before. In the darkness he
had chosen unknowingly but also unerringly. This was the place in
which he had been retrogressed.
It was here that the police had picked him up.
* * * * *
The counselor looked sleepily out of the screen. "I wish you people
didn't have so much energy," he complained. Then he looked again and
the sleepiness vanished. "I see you found it the first time."
Luis knew it himself, because there was a difference from the dwelling
Luise lived in--not much, but perceptible to him. The counselor,
however, must have a phenomenal memory to distinguish it from hundreds
of others almost like it.
Borgenese noticed the expression and smiled. "I'm not an eidetic, if
that's what you think. There's a number on the set you're calling from
and it shows on my screen. You can't see it."
They would have something like that, Luis thought. "Why didn't you
tell me this was it before I came?"
"We were pretty sure you'd find it by yourself. People who've just
been retroed usually do. It's better to do it on your own. Our object
is to have you recover your personality. If we knew who you were, we
could set up a program to guide you to it faster. As it is, if we help
you too much, you turn into a carbon copy of the man who's advising
you."
Luis nodded. Give a man his adult body and mind and turn him loose on
the problems which confronted him, and he would come up with adult
solutions. It was better that way.
But he hadn't called to discuss that. "There's another person living
in the Shelters," he said. "You found her three weeks before you found
me."
"So you've met her already? Fine. We were hoping you would." Borgenese
chuckled. "Let's see if I can describe her. Apparent age, about
twenty-three; that means that she was originally between twenty-six or
thirty-eight, with the probability at the lower figure. A good body,
as you are probably well aware, and a striking face. Somewhat
oversexed at the moment, but that's all right--so are you."
He saw the expression on Luis's face and added quickly: "You needn't
worry. Draw a parallel with your own experience. There were pretty
nurses all around you in retro-therapy, and I doubt that you noticed
that they were female. That's normal for a person in your position,
and it's the same with her.
"It works this way: you're both unsure of yourselves and can't react
to those who have some control over their emotions. When you meet each
other, you can sense that neither has made the necessary adjustments,
and so you are free to release your true feelings."
He smiled broadly. "At the moment, you two are the only ones who have
been retroed recently. You won't have any competition for six months
or so, until you begin to feel comfortable in your new life. By then,
you should know how well you really like each other.
"Of course tomorrow, or even today, we might find another person in
the Shelter. If it's a man, you'll have to watch out; if a woman,
you'll have too much companionship. As it is, I think you're very
lucky."
Yeah, he was lucky--or would be if things were actually like that.
Yesterday he would have denied it; but today, he'd be willing to
settle for it, if he could get it.
"I don't think you understand," he said. "She took the same name that
I did."
Borgenese's smile flipped over fast, and the other side was a frown.
For a long time he sat there scowling out of the screen. "That's a
hell of a thing to tell me before breakfast," he said. "Are you sure?
She couldn't decide on a name before she left."
"I'm sure," said Luis, and related all the details of last night.
The counselor sat there and didn't say anything.
* * * * *
Luis waited as long as he could. "You can trace _us_ now," he said.
"One person might be difficult. But two of us with nearly the same
name, that should stick out big, even in a population of sixteen
billion. Two people are missing from somewhere. You can find that."
The counselor's face didn't change. "You understand that if you were
killed, we'd find the man who did it. I can't tell you how, but you
can be sure he wouldn't escape. In the last hundred years there's been
no unsolved murder."
He coughed and turned away from the screen. When he turned back, his
face was calm. "I'm not supposed to tell you this much. I'm breaking
the rule because your case and that of the girl is different from any
I've ever handled." He was speaking carefully. "Listen. I'll tell you
once and won't repeat it. If you ever accuse me, I'll deny I said it,
and I have the entire police organization behind me to make it stick."
The counselor closed his eyes as if to see in his mind the principle
he was formulating. "If we can catch a murderer, no matter how clever
he may be, it ought to be easier to trace the identity of a person who
is still alive. It is. _But we never try._ Though it's all right if
the victim does.
"_If I should ask the cooperation of other police departments, they
wouldn't help. If the solution lies within an area over which I have
jurisdiction and I find out who is responsible, I will be dismissed
before I can prosecute the man._"
Luis stared at the counselor in helpless amazement. "Then you're not
doing anything," he said shakily. "You lied to me. You don't intend to
do anything."
"You're overwrought," said Borgenese politely. "If you could see how
busy we are in your behalf--" He sighed. "My advice is that if you
can't convince the girl, forget her. If the situation gets emotionally
unbearable, let me know and I can arrange transportation to another
city where there may be others who are--uh--more compatible."
"But she's my wife," he said stubbornly.
"Are you sure?"
Actually Luis wasn't--but he wanted _her_ to be, or any variation
thereof she would consent to. He explained.
"As she says, there are a lot of factors," commented the counselor.
"I'd suggest an examination. It may remove some of her objections."
He hadn't thought of it, but he accepted it eagerly. "What will that
do?"
"Not much, unfortunately. It will prove that you two can have healthy
normal children, but it won't indicate that you're not a member of
her genetic family. And, of course, it won't touch on the question of
legal family, brother-in-law and the like. I don't suppose she'd
accept that."
She wouldn't. He'd seen her for only a brief time and yet he knew that
much. He was in an ambiguous position; he could make snap decisions he
was certain were right, but he had to guess at facts. He and the girl
were victims, and the police refused to help them in the only way that
would do much good. And the police had, or thought they had, official
reasons for their stand.
Luis told the counselor just exactly what he thought of that.
"It's too bad," agreed the counselor. "These things often have an
extraordinary degree of permanency if they ever get started."
If they ever got started! Luis reached out and turned off the screen.
It flickered unsteadily--the counselor was trying to call him back. He
didn't want to talk to the man; it was painful, and Borgenese had
nothing to add but platitudes, and fuel to his anger. He swung open
the panel and jerked the wiring loose and the screen went blank.
There was an object concealed in the mechanism he had exposed. It was
a neat, vicious, little retrogression gun.
* * * * *
He got it out and balanced it gingerly in his hand. Now he had
something else to work on! It was _the_ weapon, of course. It had been
used on him and then hidden behind the screen.
It was a good place to hide it. The screens never wore out or needed
adjustment, and the cleaning robots that came out of the wall never
cleaned there. The police should have found it, but they hadn't
looked. He smiled bitterly. They weren't interested in solving
crimes--merely in ameliorating the consequences.
Though the police had failed, he hadn't. It could be traced back to
the man who owned it, and that person would have information. He
turned the retro gun over slowly; it was just a gun; there were
countless others like it.
He finished dressing and dropped the gun in his pocket. He went
outside and looked across the court. He hesitated and then walked over
and knocked.
"Occupied," said the door. "But the occupant is out. No definite time
of return stated, but she will be back this evening. Is there any
message?"
"No message," he said. "I'll call back when she's home."
He hoped she wouldn't refuse to speak to him. She'd been away from
retro-therapy longer than he and possibly had developed her own
leads--very likely she was investigating some of them now. Whatever
she found would help him, and vice versa. The man who'd retroed her
had done the same to him. They were approaching the problem from
different angles. Between the two of them, they should come up with
the correct solution.
He walked away from the Shelters and caught the belt to the center of
town; the journey didn't take long. He stepped off, and wandered in
the bright sunshine, not quite aimlessly. At length he found an
Electronic Arms store, and went inside.
* * * * *
A robot came to wait on him. "I'd like to speak to the manager," he
said and the robot went away.
Presently the manager appeared, middle aged, drowsy. "What can I do
for you?"
Luis laid the retrogression gun on the counter. "I'd like to know who
this was sold to."
The manager coughed. "Well, there are millions of them, hundreds of
millions."
"I know, but I have to find out."
The manager picked it up. "It's a competitor's make," he said
doubtfully. "Of course, as a courtesy to a customer...." He fingered
it thoughtfully. "Do you really want to know? It's just a freezer. Not
at all dangerous."
Luis looked at it with concern. Just a freezer--not a retro gun at
all! Then it couldn't have been the weapon used on him.
Before he could take it back the manager broke it open. The drowsy
expression vanished.
"Why didn't you say so?" exclaimed the manager, examining it. "This
gun has been illegally altered." He bent over the exposed circuits and
then glanced up happily at Luis. "Come here, I'll show you."
Luis followed him to the small workshop in the back of the store. The
manager closed the door behind them and fumbled among the equipment.
He mounted the gun securely in a frame and pressed a button which
projected an image of the circuit onto a screen.
The manager was enjoying himself. "Everybody's entitled to
self-protection," he said. "That's why we sell so many like these.
They're harmless, won't hurt a baby. Fully charged, they'll put a man
out for half an hour, overload his nervous system. At the weakest,
they'll still keep him out of action for ten minutes. Below that, they
won't work at all." He looked up. "Are you sure you understand this?"
It had been included in his re-education, but it didn't come readily
to his mind. "Perhaps you'd better go over it for me."
The manager wagged his head. "As I said, the freezer is legal, won't
harm anyone. It'll stop a man or an elephant in his tracks, freeze
him, but beyond that will leave him intact. When he comes out of it,
he's just the same as before, nothing changed." He seized a pointer
and adjusted the controls so as to enlarge the image on the screen.
"However, a freezer can be converted to a retrogression gun, and
that's illegal." He traced the connections with the pointer. "If this
wire, instead of connecting as it does, is moved to here and here, the
polarity is reversed. In addition, if these four wires are
interchanged, the freezer becomes a retrogressor. As I said, it's
illegal to do that."
* * * * *
The manager scrutinized the circuits closely and grunted in disgust.
"Whoever converted this did a sloppy job. Here." He bent over the gun
and began manipulating micro-instruments. He worked rapidly and
surely. A moment later, he snapped the weapon together and
straightened up, handing it to Luis. "There," he said proudly. "It's a
much more effective retrogressor than it was. Uses less power too."
Luis swallowed. Either he was mad or the man was, or perhaps it was
the society he was trying to adjust to. "Aren't you taking a chance,
doing this for me?"
The manager smiled. "You're joking. A tenth of the freezers we sell
are immediately converted into retrogressors. Who cares?" He became
serious. "Do you still want to know who bought it?"
Luis nodded--at the moment he didn't trust his voice.
"It will take several hours. No charge though, customer service. Tell
me where I can reach you."
Luis jotted down the number of the screen at the Shelter and handed it
to the manager. As he left, the manager whispered to him: "Remember,
the next time you buy a freezer--ours can be converted easier than the
one you have."
He went out into the sunlight. It didn't seem the same. What kind of
society was he living in? The reality didn't fit with what he had
re-learned. It had seemed an orderly and sane civilization, with
little violence and vast respect for the law.
But the fact was that any school child--well, not quite _that_ young,
perhaps--but anyone older could and did buy a freezer. And it was
ridiculously easy to convert a freezer into something far more
vicious. Of course, it was illegal, but no one paid any attention to
that.
This was wrong; it wasn't the way he remembered....
He corrected himself: he didn't actually remember anything. His
knowledge came from tapes, and was obviously inadequate. Certain
things he just didn't understand yet.
He wanted to talk to someone--but who? The counselor had given him all
the information he intended to. The store manager had supplied some
additional insight, but it only confused him. Luise--at the moment she
was suspicious of him.
There was nothing to do except to be as observant as he could. He
wandered through the town, just looking. He saw nothing that seemed
familiar. Negative evidence, of course, but it indicated he hadn't
lived here before.
Before what? Before he had been retrogressed. He had been brought here
from elsewhere, the same as Luise.
[Illustration]
He visited the spaceport. Again the evidence was negative; there was
not a ship the sight of which tripped his memory. It had been too much
to hope for; if he had been brought in by spaceship, it wouldn't still
be around for him to recognize.
Late in the afternoon, he headed toward the center of town. He was
riding the belt when he saw Luise coming out of a tall office
building.
* * * * *
He hopped off and let her pass, boarding it again and following her at
a distance. As soon as they were out of the business district, he
began to edge closer.
A few blocks from the Shelter she got off the belt and waited, turning
around and smiling directly at him. In the interim her attitude toward
him had changed, evidently--for the better, as far as he was
concerned. He couldn't ignore her and didn't want to. He stepped off
the belt.
"Hello," she said. "I think you were following me."
"I was. Do you mind?"
"I guess I don't." She walked along with him. "Others followed me, but
I discouraged them."
She was worth following, but it was not that which was strange. Now
she seemed composed and extraordinarily friendly, a complete reversal
from last night. Had she learned something during the day which
changed her opinion of him? He hoped she had.