Forget Me Nearly Part 2
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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sailant 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.
That was what it was--a form. A woman, very much so; even in the darkness he was conscious of her body.
Now she was trying to get loose, and he leaned his weight more heavily on her. Her clothing was torn--he could feel her flesh against his face. He raised the gun b.u.t.t, and then changed his mind and instead fumbled for a light. It wasn't easy to find it and still keep her pinned.
"Be quiet or I'll clip you," he growled.
She lay still.
He found the light and shone it on her face. It was good to look at, that face, but it wasn't at all familiar. He had trouble keeping his eyes from straying. Her dress was torn, and what she wore underneath was torn too.
"Seen enough?" she asked coldly.
"Put that way, I haven't." He couldn't force his voice to be matter-of-fact--it wouldn't behave.
She stared angrily at the light in her eyes. "I knew you'd be back,"
she said. "I thought I could get you before you got me, but you're too fast." Her mouth trembled. "This time make it permanent. I don't want to be tormented again like this."
[Ill.u.s.tration]
He let her go and sat up. He was trembling, too, but not for the same reason. He turned the light away from her eyes.
"Ever consider that you could be mistaken?" he asked. "You're not the only one it happens to."
She lay there blinking at him, eyes adjusting to the changed light.
She fumbled at the torn dress, which wouldn't stay where she put it.
"You too?" she said with a vast lack of surprise. "When?"
"They found me here two weeks ago. This is the first time I've come back."
"Patterns," she said. "There are always patterns in what we do." Her att.i.tude toward him had changed drastically, he could see it in her face. "I've been out three weeks longer." She sat up and leaned closer. She didn't seem to be thinking about the same things that had been on her mind only seconds before.
He stood up and helped her to her feet. She was near and showed no inclination to move away. This was something Borgenese hadn't mentioned, and there was nothing in his re-education to prepare him for this sensation, but he liked it. He couldn't see her very well, now that the light was turned off, but she was almost touching him.
"We're in the same situation, I guess." She sighed. "I'm lonely and a little afraid. Come into my place and we'll talk."
He followed her. She turned into a dwelling that from the outside seemed identical to the others. Inside, it wasn't quite the same. He couldn't say in what way it was different, but he didn't think it was the one he'd been found in.
That torn dress bothered him--not that he wanted her to pin it up. The tapes hadn't been very explicit about the beauties of the female body, but he thought he knew what they'd left out.
She was conscious of his gaze and smiled. It was not an invitation, it was a request, and he didn't mind obeying. She slid into his arms and kissed him. He was glad about the limitations of re-education. There were some things a man ought to learn for himself.
She looked up at him. "Maybe you should tell me your name," she said.
"Not that it means much in our case."
"Luis Obispo," he said, holding her.
"I had more trouble, I couldn't choose until two days ago." She kissed him again, hard and deliberately. It gave her enough time to jerk the gun out of his pocket.
She slammed it against his ribs. "Stand back," she said, and meant it.
Luis stared bewilderedly at her. She was desirable, more than he had imagined and for a variety of reasons. Her emotions had been real, he was sure of that, not feigned for the purpose of taking the gun away.