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the call through. Nearly a minute passed. Then Freddy Mun-
son's familiar deep voice snarled from the speaker grille in
the robot's chest, "Who is it and what do you want?"
"It's Paul. I'm sorry to bust in on you, Freddy, but I'm in
big trouble. I think I'm losing my mind, or else everybody
else is."
"Maybe everybody else is. What's the problem?"
"All my furniture's gone. A dunning robot is trying to
shake me down for nine bigs, I don't know where Carole is.
I can't remember what I was doing earlier today. I've got a
note here about getting tickets to Caracas that I wrote myself,
and I don't know why. And "
"Skip the rest," Munson said. "I can't do anything for you.
I've got problems of my own."
"Can I come over, at least, and talk?"
"Absolutely not!" In a softer voice Munson said, "Listen,
Paul, I didn't mean to yell, but something's come up here,
something very distressing "
"You don't need to pretend. You've got Helene with you
and you wish I'd leave you alone. Okay."
"No. Honestly," Munson said. "I've got problems, suddenly.
I'm in a totally ungood position to give you any help at all.
I need help myself."
"What sort? Anything I can do for you?"
"I'm afraid not. And if you'll excuse me, Paul "
"Just tell me one thing, at least. Where am I likely to find
Carole. Do you have any idea?"
"At her husband's place, I'd say."
"I'm her husband."
There was a long pause. Munson said finally, "Paul, she
divorced you last January and married Pete Castine in April."
"No," Mueller said.
"What, no?"
"No, it isn't possible."
"Have you been popping pills, Paul? Sniffing something?
Smoking weed? Look, I'm sorry, but I can't take time now
to "
"At least tell me what day today is."
"Wednesday,"
"Which Wednesday?"
"Wednesday the eighth of May. Thursday the ninth, ac-
tually, by this time of night."
"And the year?"
"For Christ's sake, Paul "
"The year?"
"2003."
Mueller sagged. "Freddy, I've lost half a year somewhere!
For me it's last October 2002, I've got some weird kind of
amnesia. It's the only explanation,"
"Amnesia," Munson said. The edge of tension left his voice.
"Is that what you've got? Amnesia? Can there be such a thing
as an epidemic of amnesia? Is it contagious? Maybe you better
come over here after all. Because amnesia's my problem too."
Thursday, May 9, promised to be as beautiful as the pre-
vious day had been. The sun once again beamed on San Fran-
cisco; the sky was clear, the air warm and tender, Commander
Braskett awoke early as always, punched for his usual spar-
tan breakfast, studied the morning xerofax news, spent an
hour dictating his memoirs, and, about nine, went out for a
walk. The streets were strangely crowded, he found, when he
got down to the shopping district along Haight Street, People
were wandering about aimlessly, dazedly, as though they
were sleepwalkers. Were they drunk? Drugged? Three times
in five minutes Commander Braskett was stopped by young
men who wanted to know the date. Not the time, the date.
He told them, crisply, disdainfully; he tried to be tolerant,
but it was difficult for him not to despise people who were so
weak that they were unable to refrain from poisoning their
minds with stimulants and narcotics and psychedelics and
similar trash. At the corner of Haight and Masonic a forlorn-
looking pretty girl of about seventeen, with wide blank blue
eyes, halted him and said, "Sir, this city is San Francisco,
isn't it? I mean, I was supposed to move here from Pittsburgh
in May, and if this is May, this is San Francisco, right?"
Commander. Braskett nodded brusquely and turned away,
pained. He was relieved to see an old friend, Lou Sandler, the
manager of the Bank of America office across the way, San-
dler was standing outside the bank door. Commander Bras-
kett crossed to him and said, "Isn't it a disgrace, Lou, the way
this whole street is filled with addicts this morning? What
is it, some historical pageant of the 1960's?" And Sandler
gave him an empty smile and said, "Is that my name? Lou?
You wouldn't happen to know the last name too, would you?
Somehow it's slipped my mind." In that moment Commander
Braskett realized that something terrible had happened to
his city and perhaps to his country, and that the leftist take-
over he had long dreaded must now be at hand, and that it
was time for him to don his old uniform again and do what
he could to strike back at the enemy.
In joy and in confusion, Nate Haldersen awoke that morn-
ing realizing that he had been transformed in some strange
and wonderful way. His head was throbbing, but not pain-
fully. It seemed to him that a terrible weight had been lifted
from his shoulders, that the fierce dead hand about his throat
had at last relinquished its grip.
He sprang from bed, full of questions.
Where am I? What kind of place is this? Why am I not at
home? Where are my books? Why do I feel so happy?
This seemed to be a hospital room.
There was a veil across his mind. He pierced its filmy folds
and realized that he had committed himself to to Fletcher
Memorial last August no, the August before last suf-
fering with a severe emotional disturbance brought on by
brought on by
He had never felt happier than at this moment.
He saw a mirror. In it was the reflected upper half of
Nathaniel Haldersen, Ph.D. Nate Haldersen smiled at him-
self. Tall, stringy, long-nosed man, absurdly straw-colored
hair, absurd blue eyes, thin lips, smiling. Bony body. He
undid his pajama top. Pale, hairless chest; bump of hone like
an epaulet on each shoulder. I have been sick a long time,
Haldersen thought. Now I must get out of here, back to my
classroom. End of leave of absence. Where are my clothes?
"Nurse? Doctor?" He pressed his call button three times.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
No one came. Odd; they always came. Shrugging, Hald-
ersen moved out into the hall. He saw three orderlies, heads
together, buzzing at the far end. They ignored him. A robot
servitor carrying breakfast trays glided past, A moment later
one of the younger doctors came running through the hall,
and would not stop when Haldersen called to him. Annoyed,
he went back into his room and looked about for clothing. He
found none, only a little stack of magazines on the closet
floor. He thumbed the call button three more times. Finally
one of the robots entered the room.
"I am sorry," it said, "but the human hospital personnel
is busy at present. May I serve you, Dr. Haldersen?"
"I want a suit of clothing. I'm leaving the hospital."
"I am sorry, but there is no record of your discharge. With-
out authorization from Dr. Bryce, Dr. Reynolds, or Dr. Ka- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]