Kabanata Kabanata 2 · 第2章

"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.

Borgenese looked up. "Hello. Have you decided?"

"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.