The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume 2: To the Dark Star: 1962-69

by Robert Silverberg

  “Lisa says she’s beginning to remember too,” Bryce said.

  “Women under thirty,” said Kamakura. “Yes. Also the suicide rate is definitely tapering. We may be starting to come out of it.”

  “Terrific,” Bryce said hollowly.

  Haldersen was living in a ten-foot-high bubble that one of his disciples had blown for him in the middle of Golden Gate Park, just west of the Arboretum. Fifteen similar bubbles had gone up around his, giving the region the look of an up-to-date Eskimo village in plastic igloos. The occupants of the camp, aside from Haldersen, were men and women who had so little memory left that they did not know who they were or where they lived. He had acquired a dozen of these lost ones on Friday, and by late afternoon on Saturday he had been joined by some forty more. The news somehow was moving through the city that those without moorings were welcome to take up temporary residence with the group in the park. It had happened that way during the 1906 disaster, too.

  The police had been around a few times to check on them. The first time, a portly lieutenant had tried to persuade the whole group to move to Fletcher Memorial. “That’s where most of the victims are getting treatment, you see. The doctors give them something, and then we try to identify them and find their next of kin—”

  “Perhaps it’s best for these people to remain away from their next of kin for a while,” Haldersen suggested. “Some meditation in the park—and exploration of the pleasures of having forgotten—that’s all we’re doing here.” He would not go to Fletcher Memorial himself except under duress. As for the others, he felt he could do more for them in the park than anyone in the hospital could.

  The second time the police came, Saturday afternoon when his group was much larger, they brought a mobile communications system. “Dr. Bryce of Fletcher Memorial wants to talk to you,” a different lieutenant said.

  Haldersen watched the screen come alive. “Hello, doctor. Worried about me?”

  “I’m worried about everyone, Nate. What the hell are you doing in the park?”

  “Founding a new religion, I think.”

  “You’re a sick man. You ought to come back here.”

  “No, doctor. I’m not sick any more. I’ve had my therapy and I’m fine. It was a beautiful treatment: selective obliteration, just as I prayed for. The entire trauma is gone.”

  Bryce appeared fascinated by that; his frowning expression of official responsibility vanished a moment, giving place to a look of professional concern. “Interesting,” he said. “We’ve got people who’ve forgotten only nouns, and people who’ve forgotten who they married, and people who’ve forgotten how to play the violin. But you’re the first one who’s forgotten a trauma. You still ought to come back here, though. You aren’t the best judge of your fitness to face the outside environment.”

  “Oh, but I am,” Haldersen said. “I’m doing fine. And my people need me.”

  “Your people?”

  “Waifs. Strays. The total wipeouts.”

  “We want those people in the hospital, Nate. We want to get them back to their families.”

  “Is that necessarily a good deed? Maybe some of them can use a spell of isolation from their families. These people look happy, Dr. Bryce. I’ve heard there are a lot of suicides, but not here. We’re practicing mutual supportive therapy. Looking for the joys to be found in oblivion. It seems to work.”

  Bryce stared silently out of the screen for a long moment. Then he said impatiently, “All right, have it your own way for now. But I wish you’d stop coming on like Jesus and Freud combined, and leave the park. You’re still a sick man, Nate, and the people with you are in serious trouble. I’ll talk to you later.”

  The contact broke. The police, stymied, left.

  Haldersen spoke briefly to his people at five o’clock. Then he sent them out as missionaries to collect other victims. “Save as many as you can,” he said. “Find those who are in complete despair and get them into the park before they can take their own lives. Explain that the loss of one’s past is not the loss of all things.”

  The disciples went forth. And came back leading those less fortunate than themselves. The group grew to more than one hundred by nightfall. Someone found the extruder again and blew twenty more bubbles as shelters for the night. Haldersen preached his sermon of joy, looking out at the blank eyes, the slack faces of those whose identities had washed away on Wednesday. “Why give up?” he asked them. “Now is your chance to create new lives for yourself. The slate is clean! Choose the direction you will take, define your new selves through the exercise of free will—you are reborn in holy oblivion, all of you. Rest, now, those who have just come to us. And you others, go forth again, seek out the wanderers, the drifters, the lost ones hiding in the corners of the city—”

  As he finished, he saw a knot of people bustling toward him from the direction of the South Drive. Fearing trouble, Haldersen went out to meet them; but as he drew close he saw half a dozen disciples, clutching a scruffy, unshaven, terrified little man. They hurled him at Haldersen’s feet. The man quivered like a hare ringed by hounds. His eyes glistened; his wedge of a face, sharp-chinned, sharp of cheekbones, was pale.

  “It’s the one who poisoned the water supply!” someone called. “We found him in a rooming house on Judah Street. With a stack of drugs in his room, and the plans of the water system, and a bunch of computer programs. He admits it. He admits it!”

  Haldersen looked down. “Is this true?” he asked. “Are you the one?”

  The man nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Won’t say. Want a lawyer.”

  “Kill him now!” a woman shrieked. “Pull his arms and legs off!”

  “Kill him!” came an answering cry from the other side of the group. “Kill him!”

  The congregation, Haldersen realized, might easily turn into a mob.

  He said, “Tell me your name, and I’ll protect you. Otherwise I can’t be responsible.”

  “Skinner,” the man muttered miserably.

  “Skinner. And you contaminated the water supply.”

  Another nod.

  “Why?”

  “To get even.”

  “With whom?”

  “Everyone. Everybody.”

  Classic paranoid. Haldersen felt pity. Not the others; they were calling out for blood.

  A tall man bellowed, “Make the bastard drink his own drug!”

  “No, kill him! Squash him!”

  The voices became more menacing. The angry faces came closer.

  “Listen to me,” Haldersen called, and his voice cut through the murmurings. “There’ll be no killing here tonight.”

  “What are you going to do, give him to the police?”

  “No,” said Haldersen. “We’ll hold communion together. We’ll teach this pitiful man the blessings of oblivion, and then we’ll share new joys ourselves. We are human beings. We have the capacity to forgive even the worst of sinners. Where are the memory drugs? Did someone say you had found the memory drugs? Here. Here. Pass it up here. Yes. Brothers, sisters, let us show this dark and twisted soul the nature of redemption. Yes. Yes. Fetch some water, please. Thank you. Here, Skinner. Stand him up, will you? Hold his arms. Keep him from falling down. Wait a second, until I find the proper dose. Yes. Yes. Here, Skinner. Forgiveness. Sweet oblivion.”

  It was so good to be working again that Mueller didn’t want to stop. By early afternoon on Saturday his studio was ready; he had long since worked out the sketches of the first piece; now it was just a matter of time and effort, and he’d have something to show Pete Castine. He worked on far into the evening, setting up his armature and running a few tests of the sound sequences that he proposed to build into the piece. He had some interesting new ideas about the sonic triggers, the devices that would set off the sound effects when the appreciator came within range. Carole had to tell him, finally, that dinner was ready. “I didn’t want to interrupt you,” she said, “but it looks like I have to, or y
ou won’t ever stop.”

  “Sorry. The creative ecstasy.”

  “Save some of that energy. There are other ecstasies. The ecstasy of dinner, first.”

  She had cooked everything herself. Beautiful. He went back to work again afterward, but at half past one in the morning Carole again interrupted him. He was willing to stop, now. He had done an honest day’s work, and he was sweaty with the noble sweat of a job well done. Two minutes under the molecular cleanser and the sweat was gone, but the good ache of virtuous fatigue remained. He hadn’t felt this way in years.

  He woke to Sunday thoughts of unpaid debts.

  “The robots are still there,” he said. “They won’t go away, will they? Even though the whole city’s at a standstill, nobody’s told the robots to quit.”

  “Ignore them,” Carole said.

  “That’s what I’ve been doing. But I can’t ignore the debts. Ultimately there’ll be a reckoning.”

  “You’re working again, though! You’ll have an income coming in.”

  “Do you know what I owe?” he asked. “Almost a million. If I produced one piece a week for a year, and sold each piece for twenty bigs, I might pay everything off. But I can’t work that fast, and the market can’t possibly absorb that many Muellers, and Pete certainly can’t buy them all for future sale.”

  He noticed the way Carole’s face darkened at the mention of Pete Castine.

  He said, “You know what I’ll have to do? Go to Caracas, like I was planning before this memory thing started. I can work there, and ship my stuff to Pete. And maybe in two or three years I’ll have paid off my debt, a hundred cents on the dollar, and I can start fresh back here. Do you know if that’s possible? I mean, if you jump to a debtor sanctuary, are you blackballed for credit forever, even if you pay off what you owe?”

  “I don’t know,” Carole said distantly.

  “I’ll find that out later. The important thing is that I’m working again, and I’ve got to go someplace where I can work without being hounded. And then I’ll pay everybody off. You’ll come with me to Caracas, won’t you?”

  “Maybe we won’t have to go,” Carole said.

  “But how—”

  “You should be working now, shouldn’t you?”

  He worked, and while he worked he made lists of creditors in his mind, dreaming of the day when every name on every list was crossed off. When he got hungry he emerged from the studio and found Carole sitting gloomily in the living room. Her eyes were red and puffy-lidded.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You don’t want to go to Caracas?”

  “Please, Paul—let’s not talk about it—”

  “I’ve really got no alternative. I mean, unless we pick one of the other sanctuaries. São Paolo? Spalato?”

  “It isn’t that, Paul.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m starting to remember again.”

  The air went out of him. “Oh,” he said.

  “I remember November, December, January. The crazy things you were doing, the loans, the financial juggling. And the quarrels we had. They were terrible quarrels.”

  “Oh.”

  “The divorce. I remember, Paul. It started coming back last night, but you were so happy I didn’t want to say anything. And this morning it’s much clearer. You still don’t remember any of it?”

  “Not a thing past last October.”

  “I do,” she said, shakily. “You hit me, do you know that? You cut my lip. You slammed me against the wall, right over there, and then you threw the Chinese vase at me and it broke.”

  “Oh. Oh.”

  She went on, “I remember how good Pete was to me, too. I think I can almost remember marrying him, being his wife. Paul, I’m scared. I feel everything fitting into place in my mind, and it’s as scary as if my mind was breaking into pieces. It was so good, Paul, these last few days. It was like being a newlywed with you again. But now all the sour parts are coming back, the hate, the ugliness, it’s all alive for me again. And I feel so bad about Pete. The two of us, Friday, shutting him out. He was a real gentleman about it. But the fact is that he saved me when I was going under, and I owe him something for that.”

  “What do you plan to do?” he asked quietly.

  “I think I ought to go back to him. I’m his wife. I’ve got no right to stay here.”

  “But I’m not the same man you came to hate,” Mueller protested. “I’m the old Paul; the one from last year and before. The man you loved. All the hateful stuff is gone from me.”

  “Not from me, though. Not now.”

  They were both silent.

  “I think I should go back, Paul.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I think I should. I wish you all kinds of luck, but I can’t stay here. Will it hurt your work if I leave again?”

  “I won’t know until you do.”

  She told him three or four more times that she felt she ought to go back to Castine, and then, politely, he suggested that she should go back right now, if that was how she felt, and she did. He spent half an hour wandering around the apartment, which seemed so awfully empty again. He nearly invited one of the dunning robots in for company. Instead, he went back to work. To his surprise, he worked quite well, and in an hour he had ceased thinking about Carole entirely.

  Sunday afternoon, Freddy Munson set up a credit transfer and managed to get most of his liquid assets fed into an old account he kept at the Bank of Luna. Toward evening, he went down to the wharf and boarded a three-man hovercraft owned by a fisherman willing to take his chances with the law. They slipped out into the bay without running lights and crossed the bay on a big diagonal, landing some time later a few miles north of Berkeley. Munson found a cab to take him to the Oakland airport, and caught the midnight shuttle to L.A., where, after a lot of fancy talking, he was able to buy his way aboard the next Luna-bound rocket, lifting off at ten o’clock Monday morning. He spent the night in the spaceport terminal. He had taken with him nothing except the clothes he wore; his fine possessions, his paintings, his suits, his Mueller sculptures, and all the rest remained in his apartment, and ultimately would be sold to satisfy the judgments against him. Too bad. He knew that he wouldn’t be coming back to Earth again, either, not with a larceny warrant or worse awaiting him. Also too bad. It had been so nice for so long, here, and who needed a memory drug in the water supply? Munson had only one consolation. It was an article of his philosophy that sooner or later, no matter how neatly you organized your life, fate opened a trapdoor underneath your feet and catapulted you into something unknown and unpleasant. Now he knew that it was true even for him.

  Too, too bad. He wondered what his chances were of starting over up there. Did they need stockbrokers on the Moon?

  Addressing the citizenry on Monday night, Commander Braskett said, “The committee of public safety is pleased to report that we have come through the worst part of the crisis. As many of you have already discovered, memories are beginning to return. The process of recovery will be more swift for some than others, but great progress has been made. Effective at six A.M. tomorrow, access routes to and from San Francisco will reopen. There will be normal mail service and many businesses will return to normal. Fellow citizens, we have demonstrated once again the real fiber of the American spirit. The Founding Fathers must be smiling down upon us today! How superbly we avoided chaos, and how beautifully we pulled together to help one another in what could have been an hour of turmoil and despair!

  “Dr. Bryce requests me to remind you that anyone still suffering severe impairment of memory—especially those experiencing loss of identity, confusion of vital functions, or other disability—should report to the emergency ward at Fletcher Memorial Hospital. Treatment is available there, and computer analysis is at the service of those unable to find their homes and loved ones. I repeat—”

  Tim Bryce wished that the good commander hadn’t slipped in that plug for the real fiber of the American spirit, especially in
view of the necessity to invite the remaining victims to the hospital with his next words. But it would be uncharitable to object. The old spaceman had done a beautiful job all weekend as the Voice of the Crisis, and some patriotic embellishments now were harmless.

  The crisis, of course, was nowhere near as close to being over as Commander Braskett’s speech had suggested, but public confidence had to be buoyed.

  Bryce had the latest figures. Suicides now totaled nine hundred since the start of trouble on Wednesday; Sunday had been an unexpectedly bad day. At least forty thousand people were still unaccounted for, although they were tracing one thousand an hour and getting them back to their families or else into an intensive-care section. Probably seven hundred and fifty thousand more continued to have memory difficulties. Most children had fully recovered, and many of the women were mending; but older people, and men in general, had experienced scarcely any memory recapture. Even those who were nearly healed had no recall of events of Tuesday and Wednesday, and probably never would; for large numbers of people, though, big blocks of the past would have to be learned from the outside, like history lessons.

  Lisa was teaching him their marriage that way.

  The trips they had taken—the good times, the bad—the parties, the friends, the shared dreams—she described everything, as vividly as she could, and he fastened on each anecdote, trying to make it a part of himself again. He knew it was hopeless, really. He’d know the outlines, never the substance. Yet it was probably the best he could hope for.

  He was so horribly tired, suddenly.

  He said to Kamakura, “Is there anything new from the park yet? That rumor that Haldersen’s actually got a supply of the drug?”

  “Seems to be true, Tim. The word is that he and his friends caught the character who spiked the water supply, and relieved him of a roomful of various amnesifacients.”