Luis did so slowly, giving himself time to complete a mental
inventory. The man _had_ to be Dorn Starret--and yet he wasn't. No
disguise could be that effective. At least three inches shorter; the
shape of his head was different; his body was slighter. Moreover, he
was right-handed, not left, as Starret was.
Luis had a story ready--names, dates, and circumstances. It sounded
authentic even to himself.
The man listened impatiently. "I may not be able to help you," he
said, interrupting. "Oddly enough, light cases are hardest. It's the
serious memory blocks that I specialize in." There was something
strange about his eyes--his voice too. "However, if you can come back
in two days, late in the afternoon, I'll see what I can do."
Luis took the appointment card and found himself firmly ushered to the
door. It was disturbing; Luise was in the next room, but the man gave
him no opportunity to see her.
He stood uncertainly in the hall. The whole interview had taken only a
few minutes, and during that time all his previous ideas had been
upset. If the man was not Dorn Starret, who was he and what was his
connection? The criminal from Ceres was not so foolish as to attempt
to solve his problems by assigning them to another person. This was a
one-man job from beginning to end, or ought to be.
Luis took the elevator to the ground floor and walked out aimlessly on
the street. There was something queer about the man on the top floor.
It took time to discover what it was.
The man was not Starret--but he was disguised. His irises were stained
another color and the voice was not his own--or rather it was, but
filtered through an artificial larynx inserted painfully in his
throat. And his face had been recently swabbed with a chemical
irritant which caused the tissues beneath his skin to swell, making
his face appear plumper.
Luis took a deep breath. Unconsciously he had noticed details too
slight for the average person to discern. This suggested something
about his own past--that he was trained to recognize disguises.
But more important was this: that the man was disguised at all. The
reason was obvious--to avoid evoking memories.
The man's name--what was it? It hadn't even been registered in the
building--he'd asked on his way out. And Luise couldn't tell him. She
was no longer a reliable source of information. He had to find out,
and there was only one way that suggested itself.
Luise was still in there, but not in physical danger. The police were
lax about other things, but not about murder, and the man knew that.
She might lose her memories of the past few weeks; regrettable if it
happened, but not a catastrophe.
[Illustration]
But who was the man and what was his connection?
He spent the rest of the day buying equipment--not much, but his money
dwindled rapidly. He considered going back to the Shelter and then
decided against it. By this time Luise would be back, and he would be
tempted not to leave her.
After dark, when the lights in the offices went out, he rented an
aircar and set it down on the top of the building.
* * * * *
He walked across the roof, estimating the distances with practiced
ease, as if he'd undergone extensive training and the apprenticeship
period had been forgotten and only the skill remained. He knelt and
fused two small rods to a portion of the roof, and then readjusted the
torch and cut a small circular hole. He listened, and when there was
no alarm, lifted out the section. There was nothing but darkness
below.
He fastened a rope to the aircar. He dropped the rope through the hole
and slid down. Unless he had miscalculated, he was where he wanted to
be, having bypassed all alarm circuits. There were others inside, he
was reasonably certain of that, but with ordinary precautions he
could avoid them.
He flashed on a tiny light. He had guessed right; this was MEMORY
LAB--the room he'd wanted to see this afternoon but hadn't been able
to. In front of him was the door to the waiting room, and beyond that
the hall. He swung the light in an arc, flashing it over a desk and a
piece of equipment the nature of which he didn't know. Behind him was
still another door.
The desk was locked, but he took out a small magnetic device and
jiggled it expertly over the concealed mechanism and then it was
unlocked. He went hurriedly through papers and documents, but there
was nothing with a name on it. He rifled the desk thoroughly and then
went to the machine.
He didn't expect to learn anything, but he might as well examine it.
There was a place for a patient to sit, and a metal hood to fit over
the patient's head. He snapped the hood open and peered into it. It
seemed to have two functions. One circuit was far larger and more
complicated, and he couldn't determine what it did. But he recognized
the other circuit; essentially it was a retrogressor, but whereas the
gun was crude and couldn't be regulated, this was capable of fine
adjustment--enough, say, to slice a day out of the patient's life, and
no more.
That fitted with what had happened to Luise. She had been experimented
on in some way, and then the memory of that experiment had been
erased. But the man had grown careless and had taken away one day too
many.
He snapped the mechanism closed. This was the method, but he still
didn't know who the man was nor why he found it necessary to do all
this.
There was a door behind him and the answer might lie beyond it. He
listened carefully, then swung the door open and went through.
The blow that hit him wasn't physical; nothing mechanical could take
his nerves and jerk them all at once. A freezer. As he fell to the
floor, he was grateful it was that and not a retro gun.
Lights flooded the place, and the man of the afternoon interview was
grinning at him.
"I thought you'd be back," he said, pleased. "In fact, I knew you
would."
* * * * *
Somewhere he had blundered; but he didn't know how. Experimentally he
wriggled his fingers. They moved a fraction of an inch, but no more.
He was helpless and couldn't say anything. He wasn't quite sure at the
moment that he wanted to.
"You were right, I didn't recognize you physically," continued the
man. "Nevertheless, you gave yourself away. The name you used this
afternoon, Chals Putsyn, is _my_ name. Do you remember now?"
Of course. He'd chosen Chals Putsyn at random, because he'd had to say
something, and everything would have been all right--except it
actually hadn't been a random choice. The associations had triggered
the wrong words into existence.
His mind flashed back to the time he'd discussed names with Borgenese.
What had he said?
Putsy. But it wasn't Putsy--it was Putsyn.
"You're very much improved," said the real Chals Putsyn, staring
curiously at him. "Let me recommend the retro treatment to you. In
fact I'd take it myself, but there are a few inconveniences."
Yeah, there were inconveniences--like starting over again and not
knowing who you were.
But Putsyn was right: he was physically improved. A freezer knocked a
man down and kept him there for half an hour. But Luis had only been
down a few minutes, and already he could move his feet, though he
didn't. It was a phenomenally fast recovery, and perhaps Putsyn wasn't
aware of it.
"The question is, what to do with you?" Putsyn seemed to be thinking
aloud. "The police are intolerant of killing. Maybe if I disposed of
every atom...." He shook his head and sighed. "But that's been tried,
and it didn't make any difference. So you'll have to remain
alive--though I don't think you'll approve of my treatment."
Luis didn't approve--it would be the same kind of treatment that Luise
had been exposed to, but more drastic in his case, because he was
aware of what was going on.
Putsyn came close to drag him away. It was time to use the energy he'd
been saving up, and he did.
Startled, Putsyn fired the freezer, but he was aiming at a twisting
target and the invisible energy only grazed Luis's leg. The leg went
limp and had no feeling, but his two hands were still good and that
was all he needed.
He tore the freezer away and put his other hand on Putsyn's throat. He
could feel the artificial larynx inside. He squeezed.
He lay there until Putsyn went limp.
* * * * *
When there was no longer any movement, he sat up and pried open the
man's jaws, thrusting his fingers into the mouth and jerking out the
artificial larynx. The next time he would hear Putsyn's real voice,
and maybe that would trigger his memory.
He crawled to the door and pulled himself up, leaning against the
wall. By the time Putsyn moved, he had regained partial use of his
leg.
"Now we'll see," he said. He didn't try to put anger in his voice; it
was there. "I don't have to tell you that I can beat answers out of
you."
"You don't know?" Putsyn laughed and there was relief in the sound.
"You can kick me around, but you won't get your answers!"
The man had physical courage, or thought he did, and sometimes that
amounted to the same thing. Luis shifted uneasily. It was the first
time he'd heard Putsyn's actual voice; it was disturbing, but it
didn't arouse concrete memories.
He stepped on the outstretched hand. "Think so?" he said. He could
hear the fingers crackle.
Putsyn paled, but didn't cry out. "Don't think you can kill me and get
away with it," he said.
He didn't sound too certain.
Slightly sick, Luis stepped off the hand. He couldn't kill the
man--and not just because of the police. He just couldn't do it. He
felt for the other gun in his pocket.
"This isn't a freezer," he said. "It's been changed over. I think I'll
give you a sample."