“I think we understand each other perfectly,” Bryce said, and smiled, and got a surprisingly warm smile in return.
He jabbed now at his data board. Someone in the path lab eight stories below his office answered, and Bryce said, “Is there an up-to-date analysis yet?”
Madison appeared on the screen. He ran the hospital’s radioisotope department, normally: a beefy, red-faced man who looked as though he ought to be a beer salesman. He knew his subject. “It’s definitely the water supply, Tim,” he said at once. “We tentatively established that an hour and a half ago, of course, but now there’s no doubt. I’ve isolated traces of two different memory-suppressant drugs, and there’s the possibility of a third. Whoever it was was taking no chances.”
“What are they?” Bryce asked.
“Well, we’ve got a good jolt of acetylcholine terminase,” Madison said, “which will louse up the synapses and interfere with short-term memory fixation. Then there’s something else, perhaps a puromycin-derivative protein dissolver, which is going to work on the brain-RNA and smashing up older memories. I suspect also that we’ve been getting one of the newer experimental amnesifacients, something that I haven’t isolated yet, capable of working its way deep and cutting out really basic motor patterns. So they’ve hit us high, low, and middle.”
“That explains a lot. The guys who can’t remember what they did yesterday, the guys who’ve lost a chunk out of their adult memories, and the ones who don’t even remember their names—this thing is working on people at all different levels.”
“Depending on individual metabolism, age, brain structure, and how much water they had to drink yesterday, yes.”
“Is the water supply still tainted?” Bryce asked.
“Tentatively, I’d say no. I’ve had water samples brought me from the upflow districts, and everything’s okay there. The water department has been running its own check; they say the same. Evidently the stuff got into the system early yesterday, came down into the city, and is generally gone by now. Might be some residuals in the pipes; I’d be careful about drinking water even today.”
“And what does the pharmacopoeia say about the effectiveness of these drugs?”
Madison shrugged. “Anybody’s guess. You’d know that better than I. Do they wear off?”
“Not in the normal sense,” said Bryce. “What happens is the brain cuts in a redundancy circuit and gets access to a duplicate set of the affected memories, eventually—shifts to another track, so to speak—provided a duplicate of the sector in question was there in the first place, and provided that the duplicate wasn’t blotted out also. Some people are going to get chunks of their memories back, in a few days or a few weeks. Others won’t.”
“Wonderful,” Madison said. “I’ll keep you posted, Tim.”
Bryce cut off the call and said to the communications man, “You have that bone relay? Get it behind His Honor’s ear.”
The mayor quivered. The little instrument was fastened in place.
Bryce said, “Mr. Mayor, I’m going to dictate a speech, and you’re going to broadcast it on all media, and it’s the last thing I’m going to ask of you until you’ve had a chance to pull yourself together. Okay? Listen carefully to what I’m saying, speak slowly, and pretend that tomorrow is election day and your job depends on how well you come across now. You won’t be going on live. There’ll be a fifteen-second delay, and we have a wipe circuit so we can correct any stumbles, and there’s absolutely no reason to be tense. Are you with me? Will you give it all you’ve got?”
“My mind is all foggy.”
“Simply listen to me and repeat what I say into the camera’s eye. Let your political reflexes take over. Here’s your chance to make a hero of yourself. We’re living history right now, Mr. Mayor. What we do here today will be studied the way the events of the 1906 fire were studied. Let’s go, now. Follow me. People of the wonderful city of San Francisco—”
The words rolled easily from Bryce’s lips, and, wonder of wonders, the mayor caught them and spoke them in a clear, beautifully resonant voice. As he spun out his speech, Bryce felt a surging flow of power going through himself, and he imagined for the moment that he was the elected leader of the city, not merely a self-appointed emergency dictator. It was an interesting, almost ecstatic feeling. Lisa, watching him in action, gave him a loving smile.
He smiled at her. In this moment of glory he was almost able to ignore the ache of knowing that he had lost his entire memory archive of his life with her. Nothing else gone, apparently. But, neatly, with idiot selectivity, the drug in the water supply had sliced away everything pertaining to his five years of marriage. Kamakura had told him, a few hours ago, that it was the happiest marriage of any he knew. Gone. At least Lisa had suffered an identical loss, against all probabilities. Somehow that made it easier to bear; it would have been awful to have one of them remember the good times and the other know nothing. He was almost able to ignore the torment of loss while he kept busy. Almost.
“The mayor’s going to be on in a minute,” Nadia said. “Will you listen to him? He’ll explain what’s been going on.”
“I don’t care,” said the Amazing Montini dully.
“It’s some kind of epidemic of amnesia. When I was out before, I heard all about it. Everyone’s got it. It isn’t just you! And you thought it was a stroke, but it wasn’t. You’re all right.”
“My mind is a ruin.”
“It’s only temporary.” Her voice was shrill and unconvincing. “It’s something in the air, maybe. Some drug they were testing that drifted in. We’re all in this together. I can’t remember last week at all.”
“What do I care?” Montini said. “Most of these people, they have no memories even when they are healthy. But me? Me? I am destroyed. Nadia, I should lie down in my grave now. There is no sense in continuing to walk around.”
The voice from the loudspeaker said, “Ladies and gentlemen, His Honor Elliot Chase, the Mayor of San Francisco.”
“Let’s listen,” Nadia said.
The mayor appeared on the wallscreen, wearing his solemn face, his we-face-a-grave-challenge-citizens face. Montini glanced at him, shrugged, looked away.
The mayor said, “People of the wonderful city of San Francisco, we have just come through the most difficult day in nearly a century, since the terrible catastrophe of April, 1906. The earth has not quaked today, nor have we been smitten by fire, yet we have been severely tested by sudden calamity.
“As all of you surely know, the people of San Francisco have been afflicted since last night by what can best be termed an epidemic of amnesia. There has been mass loss of memory, ranging from mild cases of forgetfulness to near-total obliteration of identity. Scientists working at Fletcher Memorial Hospital have succeeded in determining the cause of this unique and sudden disaster.
“It appears that criminal saboteurs contaminated the municipal water supply with certain restricted drugs that have the ability to dissolve memory structures. The effect of these drugs is temporary. There should be no cause for alarm. Even those who are most severely affected will find their memories gradually beginning to return, and there is every reason to expect full recovery in a matter of hours or days.”
“He’s lying,” said Montini.
“The criminals responsible have not yet been apprehended, but we expect arrests momentarily. The San Francisco area is the only affected region, which means the drugs were introduced into the water system just beyond city limits. Everything is normal in Berkeley, in Oakland, in Marin County, and other outlying areas.
“In the name of public safety I have ordered the bridges to San Francisco closed, as well as the Bay Area Rapid Transit and other means of access to the city. We expect to maintain these restrictions at least until tomorrow morning. The purpose of this is to prevent disorder and to avoid a possible influx of undesirable elements into the city while the trouble persists. We San Franciscans are self-sufficient and can look after our own needs without
outside interference. However, I have been in contact with the president and with the governor, and they both have assured me of all possible assistance.
“The water supply is at present free of the drug, and every precaution is being taken to prevent a recurrence of this crime against one million innocent people. However, I am told that some lingering contamination may remain in the pipes for a few hours. I recommend that you keep your consumption of water low until further notice, and that you boil any water you wish to use.
“Lastly, Police Chief Dennison, myself, and your other city officials will be devoting full time to the needs of the city so long as the crisis lasts. Probably we will not have the opportunity to go before the media for further reports. Therefore, I have taken the step of appointing a committee of public safety, consisting of distinguished laymen and scientists of San Francisco, as a coordinating body that will aid in governing the city and reporting to its citizens. The chairman of this committee is the well-known veteran of so many exploits in space, Commander Taylor Braskett. Announcements concerning the developments in the crisis will come from Commander Braskett for the remainder of the evening, and you may consider his words to be those of your city officials. Thank you.”
Braskett came on the screen. Montini grunted. “Look at the man they find! A maniac patriot!”
“But the drug will wear off,” Nadia said. “Your mind will be all right again.”
“I know these drugs. There is no hope. I am destroyed.” The Amazing Montini moved toward the door. “I need fresh air. I will go out. Goodbye, Nadia.”
She tried to stop him. He pushed her aside. Entering Marina Park, he made his way to the yacht club; the doorman admitted him, and took no further notice. Montini walked out on the pier. The drug, they say, is temporary. It will wear off. My mind will clear. I doubt this very much. Montini peered at the dark, oily water, glistening with light reflected from the bridge. He explored his damaged mind, scanning for gaps. Whole sections of memory were gone. The walls had crumbled, slabs of plaster falling away to expose bare lath. He could not live this way. Carefully, grunting from the exertion, he lowered himself via a metal ladder into the water, and kicked himself away from the pier. The water was terribly cold. His shoes seemed immensely heavy. He floated toward the island of the old prison, but he doubted that he would remain afloat much longer. As he drifted, he ran through an inventory of his memory, seeing what remained to him and finding less than enough. To test whether even his gift had survived, he attempted to play back a recall of the mayor’s speech, and found the words shifting and melting. It is just as well, then, he told himself, and drifted on, and went under.
Carole insisted on spending Thursday night with him.
“We aren’t man and wife any more,” he had to tell her. “You divorced me.”
“Since when are you so conventional? We lived together before we were married, and now we can live together after we were married. Maybe we’re inventing a new sin, Paul. Postmarital sex.”
“That isn’t the point. The point is that you came to hate me because of my financial mess, and you left me. If you try to come back to me now, you’ll be going against your own rational and deliberate decision of last January.”
“For me last January is still four months away,” she said. “I don’t hate you. I love you. I always have and always will. I can’t imagine how I would ever have come to divorce you, but in any case I don’t remember divorcing you, and you don’t remember being divorced by me, and so why can’t we just keep going from the point where our memories leave off?”
“Among other things, because you happen to be Pete Castine’s wife now.”
“That sounds completely unreal to me. Something you dreamed.”
“Freddy Munson told me, though. It’s true.”
“If I went back to Pete now,” Carole said, “I’d feel sinful. Simply because I supposedly married him, you want me to jump into bed with him? I don’t want him. I want you. Can’t I stay here?”
“If Pete—”
“If Pete, if Pete, if Pete! In my mind I’m Mrs. Paul Mueller, and in your mind I am too, and to hell with whatever Freddy Munson told you, and everything else. This is a silly argument, Paul. Let’s quit it. If you want me to get out, tell me so right now in that many words. Otherwise let me stay.”
He couldn’t tell her to get out.
He had only the one small cot, but they managed to share it. It was uncomfortable, but in an amusing way. He felt twenty years old again for a while. In the morning they took a long shower together, and then Carole went out to buy some things for breakfast, since his service had been cut off and he couldn’t punch for food. A dunning robot outside the door told him, as Carole was leaving, “The decree of personal service due has been requested, Mr. Mueller, and is now pending a court hearing.”
“I know you not,” Mueller said. “Begone!”
Today, he told himself, he would hunt up Freddy Munson somehow and get that cash from him, and buy the tools he needed, and start working again. Let the world outside go crazy; so long as he was working, all was well. If he couldn’t find Freddy, maybe he could swing the purchase on Carole’s credit. She was legally divorced from him and none of his credit taint would stain her; as Mrs. Peter Castine she should surely be able to get hold of a couple of bigs to pay Metchnikoff. Possibly the banks were closed on account of the memory crisis today, Mueller considered; but Metchnikoff surely wouldn’t demand cash from Carole. He closed his eyes and imagined how good it would feel to be making things once more.
Carole was gone an hour. When she came back, carrying groceries, Peter Castine was with her.
“He followed me,” Carole explained. “He wouldn’t let me alone.”
He was a slim, poised, controlled man, quite athletic, several years older than Mueller—perhaps into his fifties already—but seemingly very young. Calmly he said, “I was sure that Carole had come here. It’s perfectly understandable, Paul. She was here all night, I hope?”
“Does it matter?” Mueller asked.
“To some extent. I’d rather have had her spending the night with her former husband than with some third party entirely.”
“She was here all night, yes,” Mueller said wearily.
“I’d like her to come home with me now. She is my wife, after all.”
“She has no recollection of that. Neither do I.”
“I’m aware of that.” Castine nodded amiably. “In my own case, I’ve forgotten everything that happened to me before the age of twenty-two. I couldn’t tell you my father’s first name. However, as a matter of objective reality, Carole’s my wife, and her parting from you was rather bitter, and I feel she shouldn’t stay here any longer.”
“Why are you telling all this to me?” Mueller asked. “If you want your wife to go home with you, ask her to go home with you.”
“So I did. She says she won’t leave unless you direct her to go.”
“That’s right,” Carole said. “I know whose wife I think I am. If Paul throws me out I’ll go with you. Not otherwise.”
Mueller shrugged. “I’d be a fool to throw her out, Pete. I need her and I want her, and whatever breakup she and I had isn’t real to us. I know it’s tough on you, but I can’t help that. I imagine you’ll have no trouble getting an annulment once the courts work out some law to cover cases like this.”
Castine was silent for a long moment.
At length he said, “How has your work been going, Paul?”
“I gather that I haven’t turned out a thing all year.”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m planning to start again. You might say that Carole has inspired me.”
“Splendid,” said Castine without intonation of any kind. “I trust this little mixup over our—ah—shared wife won’t interfere with the harmonious artist-dealer relationship we used to enjoy?”
“Not at all,” Mueller said. “You’ll still get my whole output. Why the hell should I resent anything you
did? Carole was a free agent when you married her. There’s only one little trouble.”
“Yes?”
“I’m broke. I have no tools, and I can’t work without tools, and I have no way of buying tools.”
“How much do you need?”
“Two and a half bigs.”
Castine said, “Where’s your data pickup? I’ll make a credit transfer.”
“The phone company disconnected it a long time ago.”
“Let me give you a check, then. Say, three thousand even? An advance against future sales.” Castine fumbled for a while before locating a blank check. “First one of these I’ve written in five years, maybe. Odd how you get accustomed to spending by telephone. Here you are, and good luck. To both of you.” He made a courtly, bitter bow. “I hope you’ll be happy together. And call me up when you’ve finished a few pieces, Paul. I’ll send the van. I suppose you’ll have a phone again by then.” He went out.
“There’s a blessing in being able to forget,” Nate Haldersen said. “The redemption of oblivion, I call it. What’s happened to San Francisco this week isn’t necessarily a disaster. For some of us, it’s the finest thing in the world.”
They were listening to him—at least fifty people, clustering near his feet. He stood on the stage of the bandstand in the park, just across from the De Young Museum. Shadows were gathering. Friday, the second full day of the memory crisis, was ending. Haldersen had slept in the park last night, and he planned to sleep there again tonight; he realized after his escape from the hospital that his apartment had been shut down long ago and his possessions were in storage. It did not matter. He would live off the land and forage for food. The flame of prophecy was aglow in him.
“Let me tell you how it was with me,” he cried. “Three days ago I was in a hospital for mental illness. Some of you are smiling, perhaps, telling me I ought to be back there now, but no! You don’t understand. I was incapable of facing the world. Wherever I went, I saw happy families, parents and children, and it made me sick with envy and hatred, so that I couldn’t function in society. Why? Why? Because my own wife and children were killed in an air disaster in 1991, that’s why, and I missed the plane because I was committing sin that day, and for my sin they died, and I lived thereafter in unending torment! But now all that is flushed from my mind. I have sinned, and I have suffered, and now I am redeemed through merciful oblivion!”
To The Dark Star Page 33
