The 35th Golden Age of Science Fiction: Keith Laumer

by Keith Laumer

  “Go on,” Foster said. Well, I’d had a bath and a good meal. I owed him something. If he wanted to hear my troubles, why not tell him?

  “I was putting on a demonstration. A defective timer set off a charge of H-E fifty seconds early on a one-minute setting. A student was killed; I got off easy with a busted eardrum and a pound or two of gravel imbedded in my back. When I got out of the hospital, the army felt real bad about letting me go—but they did. My terminal leave pay gave me a big weekend in San Francisco and set me up in business as a private investigator.

  “I had enough left over after the bankruptcy proceedings a few months later to get me to Las Vegas. I lost what was left and took a job with a casino operator named Gonino.

  “I stayed with Gonino for nearly a year. Then one night a visiting bank clerk lost his head and shot him eight times with a .22 target pistol. I left town the same night.

  “After that I sold used cars for a couple of months in Memphis; then I made like a life guard at Daytona; baited hooks on a thirty-foot tuna boat out of Key West; all the odd jobs with low pay and no future. I spent a couple of years in Cuba; all I got out of that was two bullet scars on the left leg, and a prominent position on a CIA blacklist.

  “After that things got tough. A man in my trade can’t really hope to succeed in a big way without the little blue card in the plastic cover to back his play. I was headed south for the winter, and I picked Mayport to run out of money.”

  I stood up. “I sure enjoyed the bath, Mr. Foster, and the meal, too—I’d like real well to get into that bed upstairs and have a night’s sleep just to make it complete; but I’m not interested in the job.” I turned away and started across the room.

  “Legion,” Foster said. I turned. A beer bottle was hanging in the air in front of my face. I put a hand up fast and the bottle slapped my palm.

  “Not bad set of reflexes for a man whose adventures are all behind him,” Foster said.

  I tossed the bottle aside. “If I’d missed, that would have knocked my teeth out,” I said angrily.

  “You didn’t miss—even though you’re weaving a little from the beer. And a man who can feel a pint or so of beer isn’t an alcoholic—so you’re clean on that score.”

  “I didn’t say I was ready for the rummy ward,” I said. “I’m just not interested in your proposition—whatever it is.”

  “Legion,” Foster said, “maybe you have the idea I put that ad in the paper last week on a whim. The fact is, I’ve been running it—in one form or another—for over eight years.”

  I looked at him and waited.

  “Not only locally—I’ve run it in the big-city papers, and in some of the national weekly and monthly publications. All together, I’ve had perhaps fifty responses.”

  Foster smiled wryly. “About three quarters of them were from women who thought I wanted a playmate. Several more were from men with the same idea. The few others were hopelessly unsuitable.”

  “That’s surprising,” I said. “I’d have thought you’d have brought half the nuts in the country out of the woodwork by now.”

  Foster looked at me, not smiling. I realized suddenly that behind the urbane façade there was a hint of tension, a trace of worry in the level blue eyes.

  “I’d like very much to interest you in what I have to say, Legion. I think you lack only one thing—confidence in yourself.”

  I laughed shortly. “What are the qualifications you think I have? I’m a jack of no trades—”

  “Legion, you’re a man of considerable intelligence and more than a little culture; you’ve travelled widely and know how to handle yourself in difficult situations—or you wouldn’t have survived. I’m sure your training includes techniques of entry and fact-gathering not known to the average man; and perhaps most important, although you’re an honest man, you’re capable of breaking the law—when necessary.”

  “So that’s it,” I said.

  “No, I’m not forming a mob, Legion. As I said in the ad—this is an unusual adventure. It may—probably will—involve infringing various statutes and regulations of one sort or another. After you know the full story I’ll leave you to judge whether it’s justifiable.”

  If Foster was trying to arouse my curiosity, he was succeeding. He was dead serious about whatever it was he was planning. It sounded like something no one with good sense would want to get involved in—but on the other hand, Foster didn’t look like the sort of man to do anything foolish.…

  “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?” I said. “Why would a man with all this—” I waved a hand at the luxurious room—“want to pick a hobo like me out of the gutter and talk him into taking a job?”

  “Your ego has taken a severe beating, Legion—that’s obvious. I think you’re afraid that I’ll expect too much of you—or that I’ll be shocked by some disclosure you may make. Perhaps if you’d forget yourself and your problems for the moment, we could reach an understanding—”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just forget my problems.…”

  “Chiefly money problems, of course. Most of the problems of this society involve the abstraction of values that money represents.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ve got my problems, you’ve got yours. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “You feel that because I have material comfort, my problems must of necessity be trivial ones,” Foster said. “Tell me, Mr. Legion: have you ever known a man who suffered from amnesia?”

  * * * *

  Foster crossed the room to a small writing desk, took something from a drawer, then looked at me.

  “I’d like you to examine this,” he said.

  I went over and took the object from his hand. It was a small book, with a cover of drab-colored plastic, unornamented except for an embossed design of two concentric rings. I opened the cover. The pages were as thin as tissue, but opaque, and covered with extremely fine writing in strange foreign characters. The last dozen pages were in English. I had to hold the book close to my eyes to read the minute script:

  January 19, 1710. Having come nigh to calamity with the near loss of the key, I will henceforth keep this journal in the English tongue.…

  “If this is an explanation of something, it’s too subtle for me,” I said.

  “Legion, how old would you say I am?”

  “That’s a hard one,” I said. “When I first saw you I would have said the late thirties, maybe. Now, frankly, you look closer to fifty.”

  “I can show you proof,” Foster said, “that I spent the better part of a year in a military hospital in France. I awakened in a ward, bandaged to the eyes, and with no memories whatever of my life before that day. According to the records made at the time, I appeared to be about thirty years of age.”

  “Well,” I said, “amnesia’s not so unusual among war casualties, and you seem to have done pretty well since.”

  Foster shook his head impatiently. “There’s nothing difficult about acquiring material wealth in this society, though the effort kept me well occupied for a number of years—and diverted my thoughts from the question of my past life. The time came, however, when I had the leisure to pursue the matter. The clues I had were meagre enough; the notebook I’ve shown you was found near me, and I had a ring on my finger.” Foster held out his hand. On the middle finger was a massive signet, engraved with the same design of concentric circles I had seen on the cover of the notebook.

  “I was badly burned; my clothing was charred. Oddly enough, the notebook was quite unharmed, though it was found among burned debris. It’s made of very tough stuff.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “In a word—nothing. No military unit claimed me. I spoke English, from which it was deduced that I was English or American—”

  “They couldn’t tell which, from your accent?”

  “Apparently not; it appears I spoke
a sort of hybrid dialect.”

  “Maybe you’re lucky. I’d be happy to forget my first thirty years.”

  “I spent a considerable sum of money in my attempts to discover my past,” Foster went on. “And several years of time. In the end I gave it up. And it wasn’t until then that I found the first faint inkling.”

  “So you did find something,” I said.

  “Nothing I hadn’t had all along. The notebook.”

  “I’d have thought you would have read that before you did anything else,” I said. “Don’t tell me you put it in the bureau drawer and forgot it.”

  “I read it, of course—what I could read of it. Only a relatively small section is in English. The rest is a cipher. And what I read seemed meaningless—quite unrelated to me. You’ve glanced through it; it’s no more than a journal, irregularly kept, and so cryptic as to be little better than a code itself. And of course the dates; they range from the early eighteenth century through the early twentieth.”

  “A sort of family record, maybe,” I said. “Carried on generation after generation. Didn’t it mention any names, or places?”

  “Look at it again, Legion,” Foster said. “See if you notice anything odd—other than what we’ve already discussed.”

  I thumbed through the book again. It was no more than an inch thick, but it was heavy—surprisingly heavy. There were a lot of pages—I shuffled through hundreds of closely written sheets, and yet the book was less than half used. I read bits here and there:

  “May 4, 1746. The Voyage was not a Success. I must forsake this avenue of Enquiry.…”

  “October 23, 1790. Builded the West Barrier a cubit higher. Now the fires burn every night. Is there no limit to their infernal persistence.”

  “January 19, 1831. I have great hopes for the Philadelphia enterprise. My greatest foe is impatience. All preparations for the Change are made, yet I confess I am uneasy.…”

  “There are plenty of oddities,” I said. “Aside from the entries themselves. This is supposed to be old—but the quality of the paper and binding beats anything I’ve seen. And that handwriting is pretty fancy for a quill pen—”

  “There’s a stylus clipped to the spine of the book,” Foster said. “It was written with that.”

  I looked, pulled out a slim pen, then looked at Foster. “Speaking of odd,” I said. “A genuine antique early colonial ball-point pen doesn’t turn up every day—”

  “Suspend your judgement until you’ve seen it all,” Foster said.

  “And two hundred years on one refill—that’s not bad.” I riffled through the pages, then I tossed the book onto the table. “Who’s kidding who, Foster?” I said.

  “The book was described in detail in the official record, of which I have copies. They mention the paper and binding, the stylus, even quote some of the entries. The authorities worked over it pretty closely, trying to identify me. They reached the same conclusion as you—that it was the work of a crackpot; but they saw the same book you’re looking at now.”

  “So what? So it was faked up some time during the war—what does that prove? I’m ready to concede it’s forty years old—”

  “You don’t understand, Legion,” Foster said. “I told you I woke up in a military hospital in France. But it was an AEF hospital and the year was 1918.”

  CHAPTER II

  I glanced sideways at Foster. He didn’t look like a nut.…

  “All I’ve got to say is,” I said, “you’re a hell of a spry-looking ninety.”

  “You find my appearance strangely youthful. What would be your reaction if I told you that I’ve aged greatly in the past few months? That a year ago I could have passed as no older than thirty without the slightest difficulty—”

  “I don’t think I’d believe you,” I said. “And I’m sorry, Mr. Foster; but I don’t believe the bit about the 1918 hospital either. How can I? It’s—”

  “I know. Fantastic. But let’s go back a moment to the book itself. Look closely at the paper; it’s been examined by experts. They’re baffled by it. Attempts to analyze it chemically failed—they were unable to take a sample. It’s impervious to solvents—”

  “They couldn’t get a sample?” I said. “Why not just tear off the corner of one of the sheets?”

  “Try it,” Foster said.

  I picked up the book and plucked at the edge of one of the blank sheets, then pinched harder and pulled. The paper held. I got a better grip and pulled again. It was like fine, tough leather, except that it didn’t even stretch.

  “It’s tough, all right,” I said. I took out my pocket knife and opened it and worked on the edge of the paper. Nothing. I went over to the bureau and put the paper flat against the top and sawed at it, putting my weight on the knife. I raised the knife and brought it down hard. I didn’t so much as mark the sheet. I put the knife away.

  “That’s some paper, Mr. Foster,” I said.

  “Try to tear the binding,” Foster said. “Put a match to it. Shoot at it if you like. Nothing will make an impression on that material. Now, you’re a logical man, Legion. Is there something here outside ordinary experience or is there not?”

  I sat down, feeling for a cigarette. I still didn’t have.

  “What does it prove?” I said.

  “Only that the book is not a simple fraud. You’re facing something which can’t be dismissed as fancy. The book exists. That is our basic point of departure.”

  “Where do we go from there?”

  “There is a second factor to be considered,” Foster went on. “At some time in the past I seem to have made an enemy. Someone, or something, is systematically hunting me.”

  I tried a laugh, but it felt out of place. “Why not sit still and let it catch up with you? Maybe it could tell you what the whole thing is about.”

  Foster shook his head. “It started almost thirty years ago,” he said. “I was driving south from Albany, New York, at night. It was a long straight stretch of road, no houses. I noticed lights following me. Not headlights—something that bobbed along, off in the fields along the road. But they kept pace, gradually moving alongside. Then they closed in ahead, keeping out of range of my headlights. I stopped the car. I wasn’t seriously alarmed, just curious. I wanted a better look, so I switched on my spotlight and played it on the lights. They disappeared as the light touched them. After half a dozen were gone, the rest began closing in. I kept picking them off. There was a sound, too, a sort of high-pitched humming. I caught a whiff of sulphur then, and suddenly I was afraid—deathly afraid. I caught the last one in the beam no more than ten feet from the car. I can’t describe the horror of the moment—”

  “It sounds pretty weird,” I said. “But what was there to be afraid of? It must have been some kind of heat lightning.”

  “There is always the pat explanation,” Foster said. “But no explanation can rationalize the instinctive dread I felt. I started up the car and drove on—right through the night and the next day. I sensed that I must put distance between myself and whatever it was I had met. I bought a home in California and tried to put the incident out of my mind—with limited success. Then it happened again.”

  “The same thing? Lights?”

  “It was more sophisticated the next time. It started with interference—static—on my radio. Then it affected the wiring in the house. All the lights began to glow weakly, even though they were switched off. I could feel it—feel it in my bones—moving closer, hemming me in. I tried the car; it wouldn’t start. Fortunately, I kept a few horses at that time. I mounted and rode into town—and at a fair gallop, you may be sure. I saw the lights, but outdistanced them. I caught a train and kept going.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “It happened again; four times in all. I thought perhaps I had succeeded in eluding it at last. I was mistaken. I have had definite indications that my time here
is drawing to a close. I would have been gone before now, but there were certain arrangements to be made.”

  “Look,” I said. “This is all wrong. You need a psychiatrist, not an ex-tough guy. Delusions of persecution—”

  “It seemed obvious that the explanation was to be found somewhere in my past life,” Foster went on. “I turned to the notebook, my only link. I copied it out, including the encrypted portion. I had photostatic enlargements made of the initial section—the part written in unfamiliar characters. None of the experts who have examined the script have been able to identify it.

  “I necessarily, therefore, concentrated my attention on the last section—the only part written in English. I was immediately struck by a curious fact I had ignored before. The writer made references to an Enemy, a mysterious ‘they’, against which defensive measures had to be taken.”

  “Maybe that’s where you got the idea,” I said. “When you first read the book—”

  “The writer of the log,” Foster said, “was dogged by the same nemesis that now follows me.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

  “For the moment,” Foster said, “stop looking for logic in the situation. Look for a pattern instead.”

  “There’s a pattern, all right,” I said.

  “The next thing that struck me,” Foster went on, “was a reference to a loss of memory—a second point of some familiarity to me. The writer expresses frustration at the inability to remember certain facts which would have been useful to him in his pursuit.”

  “What kind of pursuit?”

  “Some sort of scientific project, as nearly as I can gather. The journal bristles with tantalizing references to matters that are never explained.”

  “And you think the man that wrote it had amnesia?”

  “Not exactly amnesia, perhaps,” Foster said. “But there were things he was unable to remember.”

  “If that’s amnesia, we’ve all got it,” I said. “Nobody’s got a perfect memory.”