by John Stith
“So you don’t remember the door, or where it might be?”
Cal shook his head.
“What about her?” asked the older man.
Cal looked behind him and saw Lynn playing with a large beach ball. Cal began to cry. A hand touched Cal’s shoulder, and he spun to face Nikki.
When she saw it was him, she turned away, walking slowly down the beach, toward the windswept ocean. The surf pounded, and Cal could hear the distant cries of gulls.
“Don’t go,” he called out after her. But she kept walking. Cal stood where he was, unable to follow her. In the distance palm trees bent under the wind.
She continued walking, not looking back. Shortly a robed man appeared strolling on a path toward Nikki. She stopped as he came near, apparently waiting for him to speak. He never did.
What he did instead was draw a huge knife from his belt. Not even noticing, Nikki turned to leave him. Cal’s heart accelerated. Nikki took a step away. The man waited no longer. With a strong, vicious motion, he thrust the knife into Nikki’s back.
“No,” Cal screamed. He ran toward where Nikki had fallen, his feet throwing the sand behind him.
Inexplicably, she lay face up when he got there, and the robed man was nowhere to be seen. The tip of the knife had reached all the way through her body. But there was no blood oozing from the wound. Instead, a glistening mustard-colored fluid seeped from her opened ribcage.
Cal silently sobbed. He fell to the sand, kneeling before Nikki. As he stared blindly into the sand, he was aware of a word written there, as a child would write it with a stick: Departure.
Once again he felt a hand on his shoulder. He quickly rubbed his fists into his eyes and turned.
“Mr. Donley,” said Thacken. “It’s time for you to wake up.”
Cal was back in the man’s office. Once again the wall was a plain cream-colored surface. Cal shook his head to clear it and realized he was still sitting in the chair he had originally picked.
“How do you feel?” asked Thacken. His eyes were worried.
Cal realized he was trembling. He willed himself to calm down and slowly began to recover. He looked at Thacken and saw his concern. “I’m fine. Fine.”
The older man seemed slightly reassured, and he sat back down in his own chair. “You’re an unusual man,” he said. “I wasn’t able to go as deep as I had intended. You don’t make it very easy. I couldn’t do a normal regression, because you wouldn’t let go. So I had to do a relational probe. Apparently it was fairly painful. It does indeed seem to me, however, that you do have psychogenic, selective, retrograde amnesia, the variety temporarily induced by the blanking process.”
“But you found out something else?”
“I’m not sure I learned any more than you did.”
Cal blinked. The afterimage of the red spot seemed to hover in front of his eyes. “I’m not sure how to interpret what I saw. Oh, some of it was obvious, but not all.”
“You love your wife very much. At least I assume that was your wife.”
Cal nodded.
“But you fear for her life.”
“That’s one of the parts that doesn’t make sense. She’s not in any danger that I know of.”
“Maybe not anything you’re consciously aware of,” said Thacken. “Incidentally, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so much pent-up guilt in a person who seems to have so little to feel actually guilty about. Guilt over the little girl, your daughter maybe? Guilt over your wife, and the man who died.”
“Maybe I just have a lot to hide.”
“I don’t think that’s it. There’s a small chance I’m making a mistake, but the indications I saw are far more commonly associated with misplaced guilt.”
“I’d like to think you’re right, but it’s difficult. Whatever the reasons, it’s obvious to me I’ve made my share of mistakes lately.”
“What are you searching for?” the doctor asked.
“I don’t know. The key to some damned puzzle.”
Dr. Thacken thought for a moment. “I guess the only other observation I can make is that you didn’t receive the regular treatment at Forget-Me-Now. I know that’s already obvious because of the length of blanking, but there’s another reason. A typical session is slow and fairly precise. The result is like carefully cutting out the last few pages of a book. What has happened to you was a hasty, careless process, more like tearing out most of the last third of the book, leaving dangling, frayed edges. That may be why your memories are returning faster than normal, but I can’t add any more.”
“It’s still a help. The door I saw was familiar. I don’t know where it is, but it ties into the night I lost my memory. I’m sure of it. I don’t know about the word in the sand, but it has to be important. I’ve been worried about the Vittoria leaving—maybe that’s it.” Cal paid Thacken his fee, thanked him, and left.
Outside, Vincent informed him that Michelle had been on two newscasts while he had been occupied. “I thought it could wait. I’m not sure there’s any new information.”
“You did fine,” Cal said. “You have them recorded?”
Vincent did. Cal sat on a nearby bench and watched them. The first was a report on Domingo, repeating what she had told him earlier about the man’s alleged criminal background.
The second report was the interview with Tolbor. Michelle looked the faintest bit nervous, which must have been because of planting the transmitter, rather than the presence of Tolbor. Michelle certainly had already done enough interviews to have got over being nervous. Cal wondered where she had left it. Perhaps under the chair she sat in while interviewing.
Despite his tension he smiled while he watched her interview the man she was planting a transmitter on. She didn’t stir the same ache that he felt when Nikki wouldn’t leave his thoughts, but he had to admire her. Whatever her own reasons for helping, he appreciated her efforts as much as if they were solely on his behalf.
The interview itself was interesting. Tolbor seemed even happier now that the start of Vittoria’s voyage was closer. He was more animated than during the earlier interview Cal had seen. His casual manner renewed Cal’s fear that he was looking at the wrong man.
A couple of Michelle’s questions about Tolbor’s new lodging on Vittoria reminded Cal that he should try to get in there also, but first he had business at his own Vittoria office. He had an idea about the word he had seen scrawled in the sand. He rose and started for the office.
“Has there been any activity in my office?” he asked Vincent when he was almost there.
“I don’t think so. I noticed sounds from other offices a few times, but I don’t think anyone actually came in.”
When Cal arrived, the room seemed untouched. He looked around thoroughly but couldn’t see anything that felt out of place. The desk computer responded to his touch normally.
After shaking off a queasy feeling that someone could have done something in his office that he couldn’t detect, he sat down in his chair and started on the computer. He quickly found the first request for a password. He typed DEPARTURE.
The status line on the top of the screen changed to PRIVILEGED MODE. Cal was elated.
The first item he came across was confirmation of what he had already found out. Angel, on his phone list, was indeed Domingo.
The second item the computer revealed was the name of the person he had been making monthly payments to: Jerry Lopez.
The name meant nothing to Cal. “Vincent, does the name Jerry Lopez mean anything to you?”
“No. I’m always the last to know.”
“What do you do all day that fills your time?”
“I’m watching an old movie on channel C right now. It’s one of Marlo Tingotil’s first starring roles. On channel F there’s a serial I never miss.”
“I never know when you’re serious.”
“This is all true. I learn all kinds of interesting things from broadcasts.”
“And you’re always receiving?”
Cal turned his attention back to the screen. A few more minutes of investigation revealed one last item: another report to Jam. But there was still no link from the code name to a real name. The message was apparently sent earlier than the other message Cal had seen, and said: “Have decided to scrap original plan for tonight. Want to find out more about something else. Will proceed without Angel if he doesn’t want to go. I’ll explain later if I find anything.”
Cal leaned back in his chair. He wondered what it was he had found out that made him change plans. Or what his plans had originally been. If he just knew who he had been reporting to, maybe that would make more of the rest clear. So who was Jam?
“Jam” didn’t mean anything to Vincent either. Cal tried to think of all the possibilities of whom he could be spying for.
Industrial espionage was a field he thought would have collapsed after Earth died. He didn’t know exactly why he thought that, but it felt reasonable. He could have been spying for the police, but, if so, why would they have interrogated him about Domingo’s death? They would have known he wasn’t responsible. Unless they doubted him.
He could have been spying for his own gain, but he didn’t see any way he could have benefited.
He finally decided that, for whatever reasons, he must have most likely been spying for the police. At least that was the only explanation he could imagine that let him hang on to his belief that he had stayed honest.
Taking what seemed to be only a small chance, he quickly typed a message to Jam: “Lost my memory the night Angel died. Believe it was involuntarily. Please contact me. Let me know what I was doing, and why.”
Cal waited in front of the terminal for a few minutes, just in case Jam answered immediately, but nothing came in. He left the office. He considered stopping to talk briefly with Leroy, but Leroy was busy talking with a visitor.
“Okay, Vincent. How do I find Carmichael Road?”
Vincent told him, and soon he was walking along the road where Tolbor’s Vittoria apartment was located. All around were individual houses, each with an expensive air. The immediate area must have held the most extravagant dwellings on Vittoria. The house on Cal’s left was easily twice the size of his own house.
Ahead there was a center of activity as a small group of people unloaded a cart full of boxes and household possessions. They were taking items from the cart, and carrying them into the house that bore Tolbor’s address.
Cal decided on the bold approach. He simply walked in behind one of the movers, and took a different turn just inside the front door.
The interior of the house was as luxurious as the outside. As in the Daedalus apartment, real wood furniture was plentiful. Cal took a quick tour through the house, trying to present an attitude of belonging as he encountered movers.
He noticed nothing that seemed unusual until he found the room that must have been the library. On the floor near the far corner was a large opened crate. On top was a collection of beam-etched recordings.
The group of recordings visible represented more money than Cal made in a year. They could have probably held ten percent of the race’s knowledge. Cal whistled in appreciation and reached to look at the label on one of the cubes.
The label surprised him. The cube said LITERATURE, FICTION A-M. He hadn’t pictured Tolbor as a man who had much interest in reading fiction. But what surprised him even more was that below the cube was another. And another below it. The entire crate must have been full of recordings. In a nearby crate was a recorder and several blank recording cubes.
The total cost staggered Cal. And why would Tolbor want his own set? Surely the Vittoria would have its own complete set of recordings. Cal could find no answer that he felt comfortable with, so he continued his inspection and moved to another room. The bedroom held several large boxes of computer gear. Cal had forgotten that computers were one of Tolbor’s areas of expertise.
In the kitchen were several large cartons. Cal started to pry one open when a voice from behind him said, “Move it, will you? We need more space.”
The speaker was a man in his early twenties. Making short steps, he finished the trip with a tall carton and set it down heavily. “Who are you anyway?” he asked, frowning.
“Just making sure it’s all going okay,” said Cal, retreating and hoping the man wouldn’t press him for more actual information content.
Cal had seen enough and started to go. The man didn’t follow him out, but Cal hurried anyway. As he was about to leave the house, he noticed a familiar pair of pictures. The Earth and Daedalus adorned one wall of the living room, each in a view that looked the same as the pictures in Tolbor’s Daedalus apartment. Cal walked out though the front door, wondering if there was any significance to them, or if he was trying too hard to find hidden meanings in everything he saw.
He had spent too much time lately chasing intangibles. The name he had got from his office computer was a hard fact. He had paid Jerry Lopez money every month, anonymously. And the message about Lopez “missing” him after the tubeway accident had to be significant.
Cal checked inside his coat pocket for the pistol. It was still there, ready for use. He tried once more to force away the fear that he might have used a gun on a person in his past, and concentrated on other things. He started back to Daedalus.
Lopez lived in Machu Picchu, and Vincent’s directions were clear. Soon Cal was within sight of the address, which proved to be a small apartment building apparently holding only six units.
There was nothing modest about the outside furnishings, however. Several large fruit trees grew inside an open-air courtyard surrounded by the apartments. The trees gave Cal the feeling he had been here before.
Before going in, he called Nikki. It took her a moment to get to where she was free to talk.
He gave her the name and address. “You’re sure you don’t know him? I’d hate to get sent away for molesting old uncle Jerry who I’ve been making secret welfare payments to, or something similar.”
“No. I don’t know who he is. What do you mean by ‘molesting’?”
Cal reflexively felt once again for the pistol. Still there. He hesitated for a moment before he told her about it.
“Are you serious?” she asked.
“Deadly,” he replied, suddenly wishing he had picked another word. “Just send the police if I don’t come out.”
“Cal, don’t you think—oh, I don’t know what to say besides be careful.”
“I’m trying to be. I could have just gone in there without telling anyone.” Cal said good-bye and hung up.
Uncomfortable and uneasy, he found the door with Lopez’s name on it and rang the bell.
His heart accelerated as he heard footsteps approach the door.
CHAPTER 13
Hazard
The man behind the door was smaller than Cal had expected. Jerry Lopez was barely one and a half meters tall, with wiry arms, a small chest, short black hair, and a toothy grin.
“Where have you been?” Lopez asked, motioning Cal into the apartment. He didn’t seem angry.
“Real busy,” said Cal.
“I’m afraid I don’t have time now. I’m expecting someone else in half an hour.”
Time for what, Cal wondered, but said nothing. Until he knew more about the nature of his relationship with Domingo, he didn’t care to divulge anything about his recent activities. So far, Lopez could be a homosexual prostitute, but that didn’t fit anything Cal believed about himself. He could be a doctor seeing patients, except that his apartment didn’t look clinical enough. Maybe he dealt in drugs. That could be why he was expecting someone else.
“I tried to reach you,” Lopez continued.
“I know. I saw your message, but I couldn’t do anything about it right then.” Cal didn’t tell him the reason he couldn’t.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Fine. Fine.” Cal must have misinterpreted the message about missing him. So far, altho
ugh he didn’t know what the link between Lopez and himself was, it didn’t seem to be a blackmailer-victim relationship.
“Maybe we should talk for a few minutes before my next client arrives,” Lopez said. “You look like you could use it.”
“I probably could.”
Lopez began to walk toward a door set in the far wall. He turned when he reached the center of the room and said, “Are you coming?”
Cal followed. Lopez’s living room looked as green as the courtyard outside. Potted ferns were everywhere. Cal stepped through the doorway, surprised.
Lopez sat behind a desk. In front of it were two massive visitor’s chairs. On the wall were several certificates in frames.
Cal moved to one of the certificates and struggled momentarily with the calligraphy. He turned abruptly and said, “You’re a counselor?”
Lopez said nothing for a moment. More of the whites of his eyes showed. “How much do you remember?” he asked at last.
Cal sat in one of the chairs. “Nothing inside your office.” So all this mystery existed simply because he had been seeing a counselor.
“Just a minute. I want to reschedule my next visitor.” Lopez pulled out a keyboard and typed a few characters. “Okay. Where do you think we should start?”
Cal gave the man a greatly abbreviated summary of his last few days, leaving out everything involving violence and his suspicions. That made it easy to skim over. “So,” he said when he finished. “Why don’t we start with you telling me why I’ve been seeing you. And why I’ve been paying you anonymously.”
Lopez steepled his fingers. “For the first part, you’ve been seeing me to try to learn more about how to handle some emotional problems. You’ve been unjustifiably allowing yourself to feel quite guilty about the death of your daughter. That guilt had been creating pressure on your marriage, and you were afraid of losing your wife because of it. In addition, you were experiencing strong guilt feelings about your job, which you wouldn’t discuss in specifics. That was compounding the problem.”
“That’s all?” Cal saw the startled expression on Lopez’s face and quickly added, “Sorry. Just a tasteless joke.”