The new prisoners were led to a row of barracks at Square A-2. There
were nearly five hundred of them. They were not yet men; they were
entities whose true memories extended barely an hour in time. Sitting on
their bunks, the newborns looked curiously at their bodies, examined
with sharp interest their hands and feet. They stared at each other, and
saw their formlessness mirrored in each other's eyes. They were not yet
men; but they were not children either. Certain abstractions remained,
and the ghosts of memories. Maturation came quickly, born of old habit
patterns and personality traits, retained in the broken threads of their
former lives on Earth.
The new men clung to the vague recollections of concepts, ideas, rules.
Within a few hours, their phlegmatic blandness had begun to pass. They
were becoming men now. Individuals. Out of a dazed and superficial
conformity, sharp differences began to emerge. Character reasserted
itself, and the five hundred began to discover what they were.
Will Barrent stood in line for a look at himself in the barracks mirror.
When his turn came, he saw the reflection of a thin-faced, narrow-nosed,
pleasant-looking young man with straight brown hair. The young man had a
resolute, honest, unexceptional face, unmarked by any strong passion.
Barrent turned away disappointed; it was the face of a stranger.
Later, examining himself more closely, he could find no scars or
anything else to distinguish his body from a thousand other bodies. His
hands were uncallused. He was wiry rather than muscular. He wondered
what sort of work he had done on Earth.
Murder?
He frowned. He wasn't ready to accept that.