fact put in your mind triggers another intoexistence. There's a limit, of course, but usually a person comes outof re-education with slightly more formal knowledge than he had in hisprior existence." The counselor opened a folder on his desk. "We gaveyou a number of tests. You didn't know the purpose, but I can tell youthe results."
He leafed slowly through the sheets. "You may have been anentrepreneur of some sort. You have an excellent sense of powerethics. Additionally, we've found that you're physically alert, andyour reactions are well coordinated. This indicates you may have beenan athlete or sportsman."
Val Borgenese laid down the tests. "In talking with you, I've learnedmore. The remark you made about fingerprints suggests you may havebeen a historian, specializing in the Twentieth Century. No one elseis likely to know that there was a time in which fingerprints were avalid means of identification."
"I'm quite a guy, I suppose. Businessman, sportsman, historian." Theman smiled bitterly. "All that ... but I still don't know who I am.And you can't help me."
"Is it important?" asked the counselor softly. "This happens to manypeople, you know, and some of them do find out who they were, with orwithout our help. But this is not simple amnesia. No one who's beenretroed can resume his former identity. Of course, if we had tapes ofthe factors which made each person what he is...." He shrugged. "Butthose tapes don't exist. Who knows, really, what caused him to developas he has? Most of it isn't at the conscious level. At best, if youshould learn who you were, you'd have to pick up the thread of yourformer activities and acquaintances slowly and painfully.
"Maybe it would be better if you start from where you are. You know asmuch as you once did, and the information is up to date, correct andundistorted. You're younger, in a sense--in better physical condition,not so tense or nervous. Build up from that."
"But I don't have a name."
"Choose one temporarily. You can have it made permanent if it suitsyou."
* * * * *
The man was silent, thinking. He looked up, not in despair, but notaccepting all that the counselor said either. "What name? All I knowis yours, and those of historical figures."
"That's deliberate. We don't put names on tapes, because the effectscan be misleading. Everyone has thousands of associations, and canmistake the name of a prominent scientist for his own. Namesunconsciously arrived at are usually no help at all."
"What do I do?" the man said. "If I don't know names, how can I chooseone?"
"We have a list made up for this purpose. Go through it slowly andconsciously. When you come to something you like, take it. If youchance on one that stirs memories, or rather where memories ought tobe but aren't, let me know. It may be a lead I can have traced."
The man gazed at the counselor. His thought processes were fast, buterratic. He could race along a chain of reasoning and then stumbleover a simple fact. The counselor ought to know what he was talkingabout--this was no isolated occurrence. The police had a lot ofexperience to justify the treatment they were giving him. Still, hefelt they were mistaken in ways he couldn't formulate.
"I'll have to accept it, I suppose," he said. "There's nothing I cando to learn who I was."
The counselor shook his head. "Nothing that _we_ can do. The clues arein the structure of your mind, and you have better access to it thanwe do. Read, think, look. Maybe you'll run across your name. We cantake it from there." He paused. "That is, if you're determined to goahead."
That was a strange thing for a police counselor to say.
"Of course I want to know who I am," he said in surprise. "Whyshouldn't I?"
"I'd rather not mention this, but you ought to know." Borgeneseshifted uncomfortably. "One third of the lost identity cases that wesolve are self-inflicted. In other words, suicides."
* * * * *
His head rumbled with names long after he had decided on one and putthe list away. Attractive names and odd ones--but which weresignificant he couldn't say. There was more to living than theknowledge that could be put on tapes and played back. There was morethan choosing a name. There was experience, and he lacked it. Theworld of personal reactions for him had started two weeks previously;it was not enough to help him know what he wanted to do.
He sat down. The room was small but comfortable. As long as he stayedin retro-therapy, he couldn't expect much freedom.
He tried to weigh the factors. He could take a job and adapt himselfto some mode of living.
What kind of a job?
He had the ordinary skills of the society--but no outstandingtechnical ability had been discovered in him. He had the ability of anentrepreneur--but without capital, that outlet was denied him.
His mind and body were empty and waiting. In the next few months, nomatter what he did, some of the urge to replace the missing sensationswould be satisfied.
The more he thought about that, the more powerfully he felt that hehad to know who he was. Otherwise, proceeding to form impressions andopinions might result in a sort of betrayal of himself.
Assume the worst, that he was a suicide. Maybe he had knowingly andwillingly stepped out of his former life. A suicide would coverhimself--would make certain that he could never trace himself back tohis dangerous motive for the step. If he lived on Earth, he would goto Mars or Venus to strip himself of his unsatisfactory life. Therewere dozens of precautions anyone would take.
But if it weren't suicide, then who had retroed him and why? That wasa question he couldn't answer now, and didn't need to. When he foundout who he was, the motivation might be clear; if it wasn't, at leasthe would have a basis on which to investigate that.
If someone else had done it to him, deliberately or accidentally, thatperson would have taken precautions too. The difference was this: as awould-be suicide, he could travel freely to wherever he wished tostart over again; while another person would have difficulty enticinghim to a faroff place, or, assuming that the actual retrogression hadtaken place elsewhere, wouldn't find it easy to transport an inert andmemory-less body any distance.
So, if he weren't a suicide, there was a good chance that there wereclues in this city. He might as well start with that idea--it was allhe had to go on.
He was free to stay in retro-therapy indefinitely, but with therestricted freedom he didn't want to. The first step was to get out.He made the decision and felt better. He switched on the screen.
Borgenese looked up. "Hello. Have you decided?"
"I think so."
"Good. Let's have it. It's bound to touch on your former life in someway, though perhaps so remotely we can't trace it. At least, it'ssomething."
"Luis Obispo." He spelled it out.
* * * * *
The police counselor looked dubious as he wrote the name down. "It'snot common, nor uncommon either. The spelling of the first name is alittle different, but there must be countless Obispos scattered overthe System."
It was curious. Now he almost did think of himself as Luis Obispo. Hewanted to be that person. "Another thing," he said. "Did I have anymoney when I was found?"
"You're thinking of leaving? A lot of them do." Val Borgenese flippedopen the folder again. "You did have money, an average amount. Itwon't set you up in business, if that's what you're thinking."
"I wasn't. How do I get it?"
"I didn't think you were." The counselor made another notation. "I'llhave the desk release it--you can get it any time. By the way, you getthe full amount, no deductions for anything."
The news was welcome, considering what he had ahead of him.
Borgenese was still speaking. "Whatever you do, keep in touch with us.It'll take time to run down this name, and maybe we'll draw a blank.But something significant may show up. If you're serious, and I thinkyou 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 bythe poli
ce. Ordinary enough; it would pass on the street withoutcomment. It would do until he could afford to get better.
He went down to the desk and picked up his money. It was more thanhe'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 outof retro-therapy. The counselor had said it was an average amount, butit 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 thosebrought into therapy for