Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  It was a routine call, so Horon stayed at the controls, while Patrolman Korr got out and went to the door. He punched the button and waited. There was a movement inside, then an elderly woman stood, looking at him.

  “Did you call about a drunk, madam?”

  The woman stepped back, revealing the prone figure of a man just inside the hall.

  “He fell inside when I opened the door,” she explained.

  “Give you any trouble?”

  “No.” She seemed a little concerned. “He just fell inside and lay there. We couldn’t rouse him and we weren’t sure whether he was just drunk or whether he’d been hurt, so we called you.”

  There were several people in the hall. They looked at Korr, then they looked at the body on the floor. Korr glanced at them casually, then looked back at the woman.

  “We’ll take care of him,” he promised.

  He leaned down, shaking the prone figure. “Hey,” he said sharply, “what’re you doing here?”

  The man twitched a little, but made no answer.

  Korr shook him again. “Come on,” he ordered. “Let’s go.”

  There was no answer. Korr gave the figure another slight shake, then stood up, calling over his shoulder. “Hey, Vol, this one’s really out. Gimme some help with him.”

  Together, the two protectors lifted the inert form. As they stuffed it into the patrol vehicle, Horon shrugged.

  “That’s the way to get,” he commented tonelessly, “then, you forget all your troubles.”

  “Yeah?” asked his partner. “And the next morning?”

  They got into the vehicle. Horon pushed the fuel lever, pulled back on the control bar, and they started down the cobbled street.

  After a few minutes, the passenger roused a little. He raised his head, then shuddered at the pain of it. “What happened?” he asked.

  Korr half turned. “Take it easy,” he counseled. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  The passenger felt vaguely that there was something wrong, but he had no energy to argue, nor knowledge of what there was to argue about. He leaned back against the seat, watching Horon’s easy driving. Then, the lights and buildings all merged into nothing again.

  When the car stopped, he roused a little. Again, Korr turned. “Think you can walk now?”

  The man started to get out, then winced. “Head hurts,” he complained.

  Horon grinned. “So quick?” he asked. “Must’ve been some stuff.” The man hung back. “Where—?”

  “Come on,” interrupted Korr taking his arm. “Let’s get inside.”

  The desk sergeant was elderly. The gloss was going out of his hair and some of it was changing color. He looked at the trio questioningly. There was another man in the room, but he was reading a magazine.

  “Drunk,” explained Korr. “Passed out in an apartment hall.”

  “Live there?”

  “Uh uh.” Korr shook his head. “They didn’t know him.”

  The official turned to the subject. “What’s your name?” he asked, picking up a pen.

  “I am—” He raised a hand to his head. It just hadn’t occurred to him to wonder who he was. Now, he put his mind to the problem, but it was too much. His head hurt. Anyway, he was himself. He was—His name—He gave up.

  “I don’t remember,” he confessed. He stumbled to the bench and sat down. Korr started toward him, but the sergeant held up a hand.

  “Never mind,” he said. “What do you do for a living, citizen?”

  The man pondered this question for a while. A living? Yes, he was alive. But why? What did one do for a living? Did one have to—He looked at his questioner. “I don’t know.”

  The magazine dropped to the desk. Its reader looked disgustedly at the man on the bench.

  “Why do these drunks always have to play dummy?”

  Marnol Kastin had been sitting back of that desk for several years. Before that, he had walked many streets—had seen many people. He’d seen them sober, he’d seen them drunk. He’d seen them injured, and he’d seen them when they just weren’t right in their heads. Now, he looked carefully at this one. The man looked about average at first glance, but he was evidently accustomed to healthy well-being. The sergeant remembered that he hadn’t been exactly, dwarfed by Korr and Horon, and those were big men. The face was smooth, a little slender, with regular features, which showed no sign of habitual strain or dissipation. The clothing was disarrayed, a little dirty, but of excellent quality. Kastin thought for a time, then decided that this wasn’t some drunken floater.

  “Better take him up and let the doctors look at him, Korr,” he declared. “Maybe he’s drunk, maybe he got hurt somehow. Might’ve been near that explosion over on Klewor Street.”

  The subject was only half conscious again. Dimly, he felt himself being helped into the vehicle. There was a bumpy ride, then the street was smooth for a while. Finally, the vehicle stopped and he was half carried into another building. Another man asked puzzling questions. Then, he was sick again. Someone put him into a bed, and time ceased.

  He was half awake. For a few minutes, he lay, enjoying the pleasant semiexistence, where there were neither pains nor problems, just the casual acceptance of sentient being. Then, a little question intruded. What had happened? A little throb reminded him of a headache. Idly, he tried to explore the past, to trace the little clues presenting themselves. Somehow, nothing was clear, and he concentrated his efforts, trying to reconstruct the past. With a mounting sense of. urgency, he realized that something was very wrong indeed. At last, he recognized the noise that had awakened him as conversation. Eyes closed, he relaxed and listened.

  “Couldn’t tell ’em who he was or what happened, huh?”

  “Didn’t even know his own name. Like I said, there wasn’t a thing in his pockets, either. Somebody’d cleaned him out but good.”

  “Wonder what happened.”

  “Dunno. Doc said he took an awful rap on the head. Wonder he—”

  The voice was abruptly shut off as a door closed.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes, looking over his surroundings. There were two beds besides his own, both with rolled back covers. Night stands stood beside the beds, cluttered with water pitchers, magazines, small bottles. The room was severely white. From an adjoining room came the sounds of running water and voices murmuring unintelligibly. He looked at the windows, where white curtains were drawn back to reveal the tops of a few trees and a large expanse of cloudy sky. A word crept over the threshold of consciousness. Hospital. That was it, he must be in a hospital. Again, he closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts.

  Now, a few of the loose strands of thought came together. He could remember a dull thud, a tiny creak, as muscles reluctantly gave way to superior force. There was a moment of mental tension and an effort to turn something on. He tried to gather in more loose strands, but the incident was isolated and memory failed. What had happened, where it had happened, who was responsible—all these things were hidden in a muddled, hazy darkness.

  That wasn’t the problem, though. Somewhere, there was a real and pressing question to answer. Dimly, he could remember someone asking him about a name. He didn’t know any name. He could remember some things. There were theaters, sporting events, crowds of people, but who was he? Did he have a name? What was a name? He realized he was going in a circle—tried to break out, to gather in more pictures from the indistinct mass, of shapeless thought. Little snatches of historical detail crossed his mind, but none of them concerned him personally. He knew them, but was not part of them. What was a name? Another word crept out of the haze. Of course! A name was an identity-. He searched, but could find no identity. Momentarily, a large crowd appeared. They were sitting, but the surroundings were hazy. He tried to pick out details, but the crowd shifted, blurred. There was no one to whom he could point and say, “You know me. Who am I?” Now, he could think of other questions.

  There were a lot of questions, but there was no answer. He looked ov
er at the closed doors. There were people behind them, he knew. They would have questions, too.

  “What’s your name? Where do you live? Are you employed? Where? What do you do for a living? Where were you born? How old are you?” In short, “Here you are, but who are you? Account for yourself.”

  He shook his head. As far as he knew, he had no previous existence. But here he was, an undeniably solid person, occupying a bed, probably with records somewhere. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the questions.

  In the other room, the water slopped running. There was a small clatter as the door opened, then a slight scraping noise told of slippers coming across the room. One of the beds creaked.

  “Wonder if he’ll remember anything when he does wake up?”

  “Oh, I suppose so. Probably be pretty sore when he finds out he got cleaned.”

  He opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling, then allowed his gaze to travel about the room. The other beds were occupied. Both the men were looking at magazines, but one of them glanced over his way, then looked at him curiously.

  “Oh,” he commented, “you’re awake. How do you feel?”

  “Head—hurts.” The answer was a little stumbling, slightly blurred.

  The man nodded. “Guess it should,” he remarked. “You were really out when they brought you in last night.” He fumbled for a moment under his pillow. “By the way, my name’s Neir, Damar Neir,” he offered.

  “Glad to know you. I’m . . . I’m . . . glad to know you. I—” The speaker forced himself to be quiet. What new problem was this? The thoughts were fairly clear, but when he tried to put them into words, it all seemed to come out wrong.

  The man named Neir frowned a little, then started to speak, but the third patient had gotten out of bed. He tapped Neir on the shoulder and shook his head very slightly. Neir nodded, then turned again, pointing. “That’s Mardon Pyl. He got hit by a car. Been here a couple of weeks.”

  “Where’s . . . here?”

  Pyl grinned. “Accident ward, City Hospital. This is the second time they’ve caught me.” He paused. “Say, suppose you just take it easy for a while, huh?” He turned back to his bed. Neir looked at him for a moment, then picked up his book again.

  The door opened and a nurse came in. She looked at the three men, then centered her attention on the new patient.

  “Oh,” she said, “you’re with us again.”

  She went into the corridor, returning with a doctor, who came over to the bed, looked at the chart, then drew a chair to the bedside.

  “Let’s have a look at you,” he said. He adjusted his reflector, looking closely at the patient’s eyes, then he nodded and reached for a wrist. After a moment, he released it. The arm dropped loosely on the bed. The doctor looked at it, then picked it up again, gently feeling the muscles and tendons. This time, he laid the arm on the bed gently, and looked closely at the patient.

  “Close your hand,” he ordered.

  The fingers twitched, then hesitantly crept toward the palm—touched it. The doctor watched, then look the hand and flexed the fingers back and forth.

  “Try it again,” he instructed.

  Again, the hand closed, reluctantly and loosely. The doctor glanced over at the nurse, who made a note on her pad.

  “Now, bend your elbow.”

  The patient made an obvious effort, finally rising slightly on his other elbow, but the left arm stubbornly refused to move. The doctor watched the struggle, then waved a hand.

  “Well,” he said casually, “it’ll clear up after a bit. Let’s get some information about you. What’s your name?”

  The patient was looking at his arm. “It won’t move,” he said wonderingly. He worked the fingers of his other hand, then flexed the arm. “Funny,” he commented, “this one’s all right.”

  “We’ll get it straightened out,” the doctor reassured him. “Have you up and about in just a little while.” He looked down at the form in his hand. “I’ll have to get some information about you, though. Your people will be wondering where you are. What’s your name?”

  The patient looked at him. This was what he had been afraid of. He was supposed to have a name. He shook his head, then winced a little. “I don’t remember,” he confessed.

  The doctor looked for a moment at the space on the form which said, “Name,” made a short notation, then looked at the nurse. She was writing on her pad. He glanced at the patient again.

  “I see. Do you remember the city?”

  “Why, yes.” The brows wrinkled into a frown of concentration. “I remember streets and houses. There’s a big statue.”

  “Kelore Circle?” prompted the doctor.

  “Maybe. There’s a big library, too.” The fingers of the left hand twitched. The patient looked at them intently. A corner of his mouth drooped, then straightened again. “I didn’t sense him,” he complained. “Somehow, lie must have sneaked up without thinking.”

  The doctor blinked, then looked at the nurse. She was writing rapidly. He looked at his patient again. “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. There was no contact.” The man lay for a moment, frowning in a puzzled fashion, then made an impatient sound. “I just can’t remember,” he complained.

  “Where were you?”

  “I don’t know. It was dark . . . narrow street . . . I don’t know.”

  “Well, just relax. Don’t worry about it too much. It’ll come back to you.” The doctor stood up, then reached over, taking a magazine from Neir’s night table. He held it out to the new patient. “What’s the name of this book?”

  “Menosian Illustrated Weekly,” was the reply. “Why?”

  The doctor nodded. “Nothing,” he said easily. “You can read it later if you wish.” He dropped the magazine and went back to his chair.

  The examination went on. The doctor asked questions, sometimes referring to the form before him, sometimes following up the little paths opened by the comments he got. The nurse wrote, turned pages, and wrote more. Finally, the doctor stood up.

  “Well,” he said, “go ahead and read your magazine. Just take it easy for a while. You’ll be all right.” He went out of the ward, followed by the nurse.

  As they went out, Neir laid his magazine down.

  “You mean you can’t remember anything?” he queried incredulously.

  “I can remember some things,” was the reply, “but I can’t remember me.” He grimaced angrily. “Wish I could move this arm.”

  “Aw, don’t do any worrying about it.” Neir waved his magazine. “The doc said it’d clear up.” He grinned. “We’ll have to call you something, besides ‘Hey, you,’ though. How about Varon?”

  “Makes no difference, I guess,” was the answer. “It’s a name.”

  In the ward office, Dr. Pyrden looked at the nurse. “We’ll just have to put him down as a ‘Harl Varon,’ I guess. Birthplace unknown, occupation unknown, status unknown. Write him up for occupational therapy, starting tomorrow.” He sighed, looking at the neat files. “He’ll have to learn a trade, of course, and they’ll have to hunt up a sponsor for him. I doubt if he’ll ever remember, but maybe we can get that arm to working again. He’ll stand a better chance of a good sponsorship if we do.”

  Kiea Thendor was checking over her notes. “I wonder if we’ll ever find out who he is.” She tapped her pen against the paper, then looked up. “I can’t understand this part, doctor. He said, ‘must have sneaked up without thinking.’ What does thinking have to do with it? What could he have meant by that?”

  Pyrden stirred uneasily. “I don’t quite understand it either,” he admitted. “There were a few other peculiar remarks, too.” He started to rub his jaw, then jerked the hand away. “Under some circumstances, I’d suspect him of faking, but I can’t see any reason for it here. The way this man was dressed, he must have been well off—an independent citizen. If there were any criminal actions involved, the protectors have his description.” He shook his head. “No,” he decided. “He’d h
ave nothing to gain.” He reached for the communicator keyboard.

  “As it is now,” he added, “the protectors may find someone that knows him. With his memory gone, he’ll never be able to re-establish himself, so we’ll. have to find a sponsor for him.”

  Kiea’s head drooped a little. “Seems like a terrible thing, to lose his rights like that.”

  “Yes, too bad.” Pyrden was punching keys. “Well educated, too, I think.” He shrugged. “Well, I’ll give Protection the information we have. No use bothering the Sponsor Service until we find out what we can do for that paralysis.”

  Somewhere in the Missing Persons division, clerks checked cards. Descriptions were compared, and new complaints checked. Eventually, the case was returned. A man had been found, but he hadn’t been missed.

  The file of sponsored workers was examined. Some were missing, to be sure, but there were always those, and none resembled the subject. Again, the case was returned.

  A bored protector checked out the clothing labels, but sales clerks see so many people during a day, and none of this stuff was new. He tried a few public places—the library, the museum, a few clubs and restaurants, some hotels. He found vague remembrances of someone looking like that, but no identification. Obviously, the subject had been in the city for some time, but he was of no prominence. Finally, an official glanced over the file.

  “Might be a foreigner,” he mused, “but we have no inquiries.” He leaned back, looking at the protector. “The hospital people are sure his memory’s genuinely gone?”

  “Definitely, sir. They say that there’s no chance of any recovery. With the type of injury he had, they’re surprised he lived through the first night.”