Forget Me Nearly Part 7
The man's name--what was it? It hadn't even been registered in the building--he'd asked on his way out. And Luise couldn't tell him. She was no longer a reliable source of information. He had to find out, and there was only one way that suggested itself.
Luise was still in there, but not in physical danger. The police were lax about other things, but not about murder, and the man knew that.
She might lose her memories of the past few weeks; regrettable if it happened, but not a catastrophe.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
But who was the man and what was his connection?
He spent the rest of the day buying equipment--not much, but his money dwindled rapidly. He considered going back to the Shelter and then decided against it. By this time Luise would be back, and he would be tempted not to leave her.
After dark, when the lights in the offices went out, he rented an aircar and set it down on the top of the building.
He walked across the roof, estimating the distances with practiced ease, as if he'd undergone extensive training and the apprenticeship period had been forgotten and only the skill remained. He knelt and fused two small rods to a portion of the roof, and then readjusted the torch and cut a small circular hole. He listened, and when there was no alarm, lifted out the section. There was nothing but darkness below.
He fastened a rope to the aircar. He dropped the rope through the hole and slid down. Unless he had miscalculated, he was where he wanted to be, having bypa.s.sed all alarm circuits. There were others inside, he was reasonably certain of that, but with ordinary precautions he could avoid them.
He flashed on a tiny light. He had guessed right; this was MEMORY LAB--the room he'd wanted to see this afternoon but hadn't been able to. In front of him was the door to the waiting room, and beyond that the hall. He swung the light in an arc, flashing it over a desk and a piece of equipment the nature of which he didn't know. Behind him was still another door.
The desk was locked, but he took out a small magnetic device and jiggled it expertly over the concealed mechanism and then it was unlocked. He went hurriedly through papers and doc.u.ments, but there was nothing with a name on it. He rifled the desk thoroughly and then went to the machine.
He didn't expect to learn anything, but he might as well examine it.
There was a place for a patient to sit, and a metal hood to fit over the patient's head. He snapped the hood open and peered into it. It seemed to have two functions. One circuit was far larger and more complicated, and he couldn't determine what it did. But he recognized the other circuit; essentially it was a retrogressor, but whereas the gun was crude and couldn't be regulated, this was capable of fine adjustment--enough, say, to slice a day out of the patient's life, and no more.
That fitted with what had happened to Luise. She had been experimented on in some way, and then the memory of that experiment had been erased. But the man had grown careless and had taken away one day too many.
He snapped the mechanism closed. This was the method, but he still didn't know who the man was nor why he found it necessary to do all this.
There was a door behind him and the answer might lie beyond it. He listened carefully, then swung the door open and went through.
The blow that hit him wasn't physical; nothing mechanical could take his nerves and jerk them all at once. A freezer. As he fell to the floor, he was grateful it was that and not a retro gun.
Lights flooded the place, and the man of the afternoon interview was grinning at him.
"I thought you'd be back," he said, pleased. "In fact, I knew you would."
Somewhere he had blundered; but he didn't know how. Experimentally he wriggled his fingers. They moved a fraction of an inch, but no more.
He was helpless and couldn't say anything. He wasn't quite sure at the moment that he wanted to.
"You were right, I didn't recognize you physically," continued the man. "Nevertheless, you gave yourself away. The name you used this afternoon, Chals Putsyn, is _my_ name. Do you remember now?"
Of course. He'd chosen Chals Putsyn at random, because he'd had to say something, and everything would have been all right--except it actually hadn't been a random choice. The a.s.sociations had triggered the wrong words into existence.
His mind flashed back to the time he'd discussed names with Borgenese.
What had he said?
Putsy. But it wasn't Putsy--it was Putsyn.
"You're very much improved," said the real Chals Putsyn, staring curiously at him. "Let me recommend the retro treatment to you. In fact I'd take it myself, but there are a few inconveniences."
Yeah, there were inconveniences--like starting over again and not knowing who you were.
But Putsyn was right: he was physically improved. A freezer knocked a man down and kept him there for half an hour. But Luis had only been down a few minutes, and already he could move his feet, though he didn't. It was a phenomenally fast recovery, and perhaps Putsyn wasn't aware of it.
"The question is, what to do with you?" Putsyn seemed to be thinking aloud. "The police are intolerant of killing. Maybe if I disposed of every atom...." He shook his head and sighed. "But that's been tried, and it didn't make any difference. So you'll have to remain alive--though I don't think you'll approve of my treatment."
Luis didn't approve--it would be the same kind of treatment that Luise had been exposed to, but more drastic in his case, because he was aware of what was going on.
Putsyn came close to drag him away. It was time to use the energy he'd been saving up, and he did.
Startled, Putsyn fired the freezer, but he was aiming at a twisting target and the invisible energy only grazed Luis's leg. The leg went limp and had no feeling, but his two hands were still good and that was all he needed.
He tore the freezer away and put his other hand on Putsyn's throat. He could feel the artificial larynx inside. He squeezed.
He lay there until Putsyn went limp.
When there was no longer any movement, he sat up and pried open the man's jaws, thrusting his fingers into the mouth and jerking out the artificial larynx. The next time he would hear Putsyn's real voice, and maybe that would trigger his memory.
He crawled to the door and pulled himself up, leaning against the wall. By the time Putsyn moved, he had regained partial use of his leg.
"Now we'll see," he said. He didn't try to put anger in his voice; it was there. "I don't have to tell you that I can beat answers out of you."
"You don't know?" Putsyn laughed and there was relief in the sound.
"You can kick me around, but you won't get your answers!"
The man had physical courage, or thought he did, and sometimes that amounted to the same thing. Luis shifted uneasily. It was the first time he'd heard Putsyn's actual voice; it was disturbing, but it didn't arouse concrete memories.
He stepped on the outstretched hand. "Think so?" he said. He could hear the fingers crackle.
Putsyn paled, but didn't cry out. "Don't think you can kill me and get away with it," he said.
He didn't sound too certain.
Slightly sick, Luis stepped off the hand. He couldn't kill the man--and not just because of the police. He just couldn't do it. He felt for the other gun in his pocket.
"This isn't a freezer," he said. "It's been changed over. I think I'll give you a sample."
Putsyn blinked. "And lose all chance of finding out? Go ahead."
Luis had thought of that; but he hadn't expected Putsyn to.
"You see, there's nothing you can do," said Putsyn. "A man has a right to protect his property, and I've got plenty of evidence that you broke in."
"I don't think you'll go to the police," Luis said.