The Seventh Science Fiction Megapack

by Robert Silverberg

  When the heat of exchange was over, they sat in the gathering dusk, dazed and exhausted, and Sherwood took her hand which was on the arm of the rocker and held it.

  From the rear of the house came a click, followed by the hum of the refrigerator, and Sherwood stirred and said, “You don’t know this house any better than I do then.”

  “No. The clothes in the drawers and closets upstairs must be my clothes but I don’t recall buying them.”

  “I thought the same way about the things I found.”

  “I knew I had the right house. The man next door shouted at me, said you’d been here and gone, but I rang the bell first just to make sure. Then I used one of the keys in my case. I came in and brought the mail with me, a statement from the bank, some bills, a few circulars. Nothing important. I went around the house trying to remember things, but it didn’t work. I decided then to wait for you.”

  They were silent for a while still sensing the wonderment of it. Then Virginia said, “I never heard of two people getting amnesia at the same time.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “How could it happen?”

  “I don’t know. But even supposing that two people could get amnesia at the same time, it seems odd that a man and wife would suffer from it on the same day of the year.”

  “Perhaps not if they were subjected to the same trying experiences that would bring it on,” Virginia said. “Of course they would have to have the same temperament, the same failings.”

  “But forgetting the same period of their lives so completely—forgetting back to the same day?” Sherwood shook his head. “No. There is more to it than that, Virginia.”

  “I’m sure there is. Your work, for example.”

  “I’ve thought of that. You say you saw your parents in De Kalb. What do they think happened?”

  “They think this happened only to them. They’re worried about it, of course, but they’re sure you will be able to straighten things out.”

  “Did they mention anything about my work?”

  “Only that you buried yourself in it.”

  “That’s no help.”

  “I remember nothing of it. All I remember that might help is my days with the medics.”

  “Medics?”

  “Army days.”

  “I didn’t know you were in the army.”

  Sherwood stretched muscles cramped from sitting on the chair. “That’s where it all started. That and my father.” He shot a glance at her. “You’re proof that I haven’t gone off my rocker. I had my doubts for a while.”

  “What about your father?”

  He said gruffly, “He died in a hospital for the insane while I was in the army.”

  “I’m sorry.

  “He’d been getting worse for years. I hated leaving him at a time like that, but I had no choice. We were very close.”

  Virginia said nothing.

  “Then in the army I saw the same thing happen to men who would have led perfectly normal lives if they hadn’t been pushed too far. That’s when I began to get the idea about studying the brain, trying to find out why this should happen, see if there was any way to prevent it. I had the idea when I was discharged but I didn’t know exactly how I was going to pursue it. Now I know what I did, though I can’t remember it, of course. As I said, for a while I was afraid I’d pushed myself too far, that my mind had backtracked under the pressure. Now I know that’s not true, now that you’re here and it’s happened to you, too.”

  “I’m different,” Virginia said. “That swamped feeling is gone. No work, no classes, no studying. I feel much more free than I did then, though it seems only a week ago was going to school and helping John Trankle with his cramming.”

  “We’re older.”

  “We’re grown.”

  “Inside.”

  She smiled. “We feel the effects though we don’t know the cause.”

  “Two lost souls,” he said dismally. Then he said harshly, “Why can’t we remember? It’s all in our heads, isn’t it?”

  “I wish I could tell you.”

  He said glumly, “Lost between sundown and sunup: eleven years.”

  “I wonder what kind of years they were, Walter. I would like very much to think they were happy years.”

  He eyed her steadily. “They were happy years.”

  “Thank you for thinking that.”

  “I’m sure of it.” He got to his feet and stretched in the darkness, went to the window and looked out on the street. There were lights in the houses across the street but he made no move to turn on lights in the room. “Before you came, I was looking for the cause for this thing in my background. Just as everyone I talked to said, I thought it might have been that I pushed myself too hard, or there might have been some unpleasantness I wasn’t willing to face up to. It was a question of finding where the string broke and finding the ends and tying them together.”

  “Now you don’t think so?”

  “No. Now that you’re here and it’s happened to you I can’t think that way any more.” He turned to her, saw her vaguely, in the gloom. “It has something to do with the Institute and with my work there.”

  “You were just out there. What did they say?”

  “Nothing. I talked with Schlessenger—Doctor Andrew Schlessenger runs the place, didn’t I tell you? He wasn’t any help.”

  “You mentioned him. What kind-of work were you doing? Did he say?”

  “He was vague. I worked with the brain all right, but he didn’t seem to think my amnesia could be related to the work.”

  “Maybe you carried on a secret project, something you didn’t tell him about.”

  “I doubt that. He’d know about it if anybody would.”

  “What kind of man is this Doctor Schlessenger?”

  “I found him overbearing. He dresses well, has a fine office and a secretary who wears a lapel watch. You should see the building.”

  “New?”

  “Very modern. Ranch style. I passed it the first time without knowing what it was. Looks like anything but a research institution. The laboratories are all modern, too. At least mine was.”

  “You saw yours?”

  Sherwood nodded. “He showed me around.”

  “You said he wouldn’t talk about your work?”

  “He said I wouldn’t understand it. I guess he’s right.”

  “How many people work out there?”

  “Half a dozen.”

  “I don’t know whether I trust this Schlessenger.”

  “Why?”

  “Intuition…was he sympathetic?”

  “Yes, he was sympathetic. He thought I wanted my job back. Told me how I quit that night in the motel. He thinks I ought to have psychiatric treatment.”

  “I wonder why you wanted to quit the Institute.”

  “So do I.” Sherwood returned to the window. The lights at the street corners were on now. “Schlessenger said he tried to get me to stay, but I was determined to quit and nothing would sway me. I wonder if I could talk with any of these other researchers they would know why.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Schlessenger suggested it would be better if I didn’t.”

  “Why for heaven’s sake?”

  “My ‘condition,’ as he described it.”

  “I wouldn’t let that stop me.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I think I am,” Virginia said cheerfully, “but I’m not going to be lured out of this house like this. I’m famished. Aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” He turned, felt along the wall until he found a light switch and clicked it on. “What’s for dinner?”

  “I don’t know. First, I’m going to take a bath. Then I want to see what kind of taste in a wardrobe my alter ego had.”

  “Do you suppose the people who lived here before ever had a drink before dinner?”

  She laughed. “That will be worth investigating.”

  THE TIME DISSOLVER, by Jerry Sohl (Part 2
)

  TWELVE

  From where they stood in the darkness on the front porch of the Rayburn home, they could see through the nearly closed slats of the Venetian blinds into eerie blueness of the living room where the television set was a glowing, commanding presence. Sherwood pressed the button and they heard the harsh rasp of the buzzer over the door, and this broke the spell inside; there was movement, the porch light went on, and a long-faced man peered out at them through the opening door. In one movement he pushed open the screen, joined them on the porch and closed both doors behind him.

  “Dr. Sherwood,” the lean-faced man said in a low voice. He nodded gravely to Virginia and said, “Mrs. Sherwood,” and then turned black eyes back to Sherwood.

  There could be no question of the man’s identity. They had the right address, Sherwood was sure of that, and he’d been called by name, so he said, “Dr. Rayburn, I—”

  But Rayburn cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Before you say anything, Doctor, I want you to know I can be of no help.”

  Sherwood said dryly, “I haven’t asked you for any yet.” Rayburn was unperturbed. “Dr. Schlessenger said you’d be calling.”

  “That’s funny. I didn’t tell him I would be.”

  “He said you claim you are suffering from amnesia.”

  “It is a fact, Doctor.”

  “He also said you feel certain—ah, facts—might help you regain your memory.”

  Sherwood said equably, “Isn’t that a logical assumption?”

  “Perhaps so, but you know that any information has to clear through Dr. Schlessenger.”

  “No, I don’t know. I have amnesia, remember?”

  “It’s true, Doctor,” Virginia said.

  “If it’s true, all I can say is I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Dr. Rayburn was a thin man, a now impassive man who stood beneath the light, his long nose and cheekbones highlighted, and Sherwood thought: you’d make a good morgue attendant.

  Sherwood said, “It’s not that I’m interested in your work. It’s my own that I’m trying to remember. Is there anything—”

  “Please,” Rayburn said, raising his hand again. “I can’t discuss it.”

  “Why?”

  “First, because I never knew what your work was—never cared to know—and second, Dr. Schlessenger has instructed me to discuss nothing with you.”

  “Why?”

  Rayburn sighed. “I only work at the Institute, Doctor. I can’t speak for the director’s motives. As an employee I can only follow instructions.”

  Virginia said peevishly, “Isn’t there any autonomy at the Institute?” for which she received only a cold stare.

  “Look, Doctor,” Sherwood said exasperatedly, “I’m only trying to piece together what I had here, trying to see if what I was doing had any bearing on my condition.”

  Rayburn replied stoically, “I’m afraid there is nothing I can say.” He turned, opened the screen door. “Good night.”

  Virginia stepped to him, put a hand on his arm. “Doctor,” she said, “a man’s memory is at stake. Won’t you help him regain it?”

  Rayburn said to the door, “I would say, Mrs. Sherwood, that you could help him more than anyone.”

  “But you don’t understand. I—”

  “Let him go,” Sherwood said sharply, taking Virginia’s arm. “Thank you for nothing, Doctor.” He walked her off the porch.

  When they reached the car, Virginia demanded, “Now why did you do that? He was about ready to say something.”

  “And you were about ready to tell him you had amnesia.”

  “Well, what if I was? He might have talked.”

  “I don’t think so. He sounds to me like Schlessenger’s man and he’d run right to him with it.”

  “So?”

  “So I run to Schlessenger with it instead and see what happens. Don’t you see? One person has amnesia, but two persons have—what?”

  “Maybe we should see him next.”

  “No—let’s see if he’s primed some of the others.”

  They sat in the front seat of the car with the inside light on, examining the list of names Sherwood had compiled, remembered from the walk down the corridor of the Institute, the addresses copied from the Merrittville phone book Virginia held in her lap.

  “Dr. Schlessenger lost no time in spreading the word,” Virginia said, smoothing out the sheet on top of the book. “Do you really think there’s any sense in trying to see any of the others?”

  “He might not have reached them all. Besides, I’m interested in reaction. Here, let me have the list.”

  Virginia drew it out of his reach, smiling. “I’m in charge of routing, Dr. Sherwood, remember?” she said. “After all, I have a share in this, too.”

  “Well, then, get on with it,” he said gruffly, dropping his hand to his coat pocket and fishing for a package of cigarettes. She was right; he’d have to get used to her and the fact that there were two Sherwoods now and that she was looking for missing years, too.

  “Rayburn was the closest,” she said. “Now there’s Anthony Black. He lives on Wisteria Drive.”

  “All right, coordinator in charge of routing, where’s that?”

  “I’m looking.” She opened the phone book to a map of Merrittville and vicinity. “It’s west of town.”

  “That helps a lot.”

  “It’s the last street off Main and wiggles around on the map. Is that better?”

  “Much better,” Sherwood said, starting the car.

  The cottage on Wisteria Drive was dark and they debated for a while before they decided to go up the walk and try the bell. There was no answer when they did.

  “Well?” Sherwood said when they were in the car again. “Hampton Cox is next,” she said. “Twenty-eight Main Street. Do you think you can find that?”

  The Hampton Coxes lived in an apartment over a music store on Main Street and were not reticent at all about talking. In fact, no sooner had Sherwood pressed the buzzer in the hallway on the main floor when a door at the top opened and a rotund man in a T-shirt appeared at the stairs and called, “Hi, Doc, Ginny,” and started down the stairs in stocking feet. “Kitty and I’ve been expecting you. Tried to call you a little while ago, but you weren’t home. Figured you must be on your way.” He jabbed out a hand and Sherwood took it. A head shorter than Sherwood, Cox gave him a piercing look from bright blue eyes in a jovial face, saying, “It’s good to see you.”

  He walked them upstairs and into the living room, the Sherwoods coming face to face with Kitty, Cox’s wife, as thin as he was fat, wearing an expression of good humor and nodding in friendly fashion as Cox said, “Sit down and be comfortable.”

  “You were expecting us, you said?” Sherwood asked as they sat on the davenport Cox indicated

  “As soon as I heard you were back,” Cox said, still standing. “Beer?”

  “No, thanks,” Sherwood said, not wanting to get sidetracked.

  Cox dropped into an armchair and said, “What’s it all about, Walt. What are you doing back in Merrittville?”

  “Trying to find something.”

  “Schlessenger says you’re trying to find your memory.”

  “He told you?”

  “He says you can’t remember a damn thing. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t remember us—Kitty and me?”

  “No.”

  Kitty gave a little gasp. Cox whistled a low note and said, “I’ll be damned. I thought maybe Schless was giving me the business. I never know how to take that man.”

  Sherwood said, “He did talk to you, though?”

  Cox nodded. “He said I shouldn’t tell you anything. Now that just doesn’t make sense, if you ask me.”

  “Why?”

  “You ought to be entitled to information. After all, you worked there for a long time. Whatever made you quit, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t know, having
forgotten everything.” Cox went on ruefully, “I wish I had the guts to get out. Great White Father Schlessenger. He gives me a pain. sometimes. Right where I sit down.”

  “Hamp!”

  “Nell, it’s true, Kitty:”

  “Evidently you don’t like him, Mr. Cox,” Virginia said. Cox stared at her. “‘Mr. Cox’? You never used to call me that, Ginny. What’s happened to you?”

  There was no way out. “It so happens,” Sherwood said, “that she has lost her memory, too.”

  “Oh, now,” Cox said, running a hand through his thinning hair, “that’s going a little too far. You can’t expect us to believe—”

  Kitty said solemnly, “I think it’s true. You don’t remember me, do you, Ginny?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Virginia said.

  “I had the feeling you didn’t. No recognition in your eyes.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Cox said. Then he said in an outraged voice, “It’s a shame. A dirty shame. You know I thought you were both acting strange, but I thought it was just nerves.”

  “You were saying,” Virginia pursued, “that you didn’t like Dr. Schlessenger. Why?”

  “Why? Oh, it’s the way he does things. For example, late this afternoon he comes into the lab and says, ‘Hampton, Walter’s back and he’s got amnesia.’ Then he stops. Do you know why? To see what kind of an effect it has on me, whether I know anything about it, whether Doc’s been to see me first or not. But I only stand there with my mouth open. So he goes on, ‘He says he can’t remember anything for the past eleven years. What do you think of that?’ I learned long ago not to say anything. Let him take the lead. The last thing he said was, ‘If he should happen to come to see you, I’d appreciate it if you’d say nothing to him.’”

  Sherwood asked, “What did you say to that?”

  “Just grunted something, I don’t remember what. Didn’t promise a damn thing.”

  “Why do you suppose he doesn’t want you to talk with Walter?” Virginia asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve given up trying to figure Schless out. One minute he thinks everybody’s stealing equipment and secrets and the next he’s handing out bonuses. I think he’s happiest when he’s upset about something.”