“Perhaps,” Frye observed dubiously.

  “How can my mind be blank?” he cried angrily. “How could I know what I’m doing, where I am? How could I think if my mind were blank?

  “Your thinking is limited to the past few days.”

  “But the past is there,” he protested. “I have to draw from the past to know the things I know.”

  “What things?”

  “Feelings of recognition, like when I look at the tower at the space terminal, or when I’m in Mura’s apartment. I sense things when I look at Glade Avenue—at its shops and dwellings. Even the name rings in my mind. Things tug at my memory.”

  “Have you ever lived around here?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Of course he has memories,” Mura put in quickly. “The amnesia masks them. Isn’t that it?”

  “Could be.” Frye looked dubious.

  “I remember the fish eye,” he blurted.

  “Fish eye?” Mura gazed at him.

  “Nightmare,” he answered sheepishly.

  “What kind of a nightmare?” demanded Frye. “Everything’s distorted, like looking through the bulbous bottom of a glass bowl,” he explained. “I guess that’s why I think of it as looking through a fish eye.”

  “What do you see?”

  “A twisted universe of gigantic burning stars.”

  “Do you hit the needle?”

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Mura cried angrily.

  “Sounds like needle-talk to me,” Frye said. “Either that or you’re pounding the pills.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said coldly.

  Frye snickered. “I’ve had those nightmares.”

  “Let’s go,” said Sundberg wearily. He grasped her arm, steering her toward the door. At the front entrance he glanced back. The peeper stood in the hallway watching them.

  “He’s horrid,” Mura cried wrathfully. “I’m sorry we went there.”

  “I don’t believe him,” he said defiantly.

  “Amnesia is not uncommon,” she stated. “It often passes as quickly as it comes.”

  “I hope so.” He looked at the quarter moon rising above the rooftops. Sallow in a murky sky, it brought the dim recollection of past moons sailing through shadowy space. The stars were dim and yellow, as if soiled by the polluted air through which he viewed them. Nothing like the universe he saw through the fish eye! He shivered.

  But it wasn’t just the moon. Buildings, streets, sounds, the glowing lights of an occasional aircar—everything spoke hauntingly of a familiar past now buried beneath an avalanche of years. Although he couldn’t discern its dimensions, he was aware of its existence—a past when he had seen and felt and known the same world through which he now walked as a stranger. How could that be? It was part of the mystery which ensnared him.

  He said confidently, “I’ll discover who I am.”

  “Of course you will,” she agreed.

  “I have a name; that’s a start”

  “Whoever dropped you knows.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “Mr. Frye thought you looked familiar.”

  “He wasn’t certain.”

  “No, but I’ve had the same feeling. Perhaps you resemble someone I once knew.”

  “Why did I escape into amnesia?” He caught her quick glance and continued, “Amnesia is an escape, isn’t it? You said so once. Then from what was I escaping?”

  “It also can be caused by shock,” she answered gently.

  “A physical shock?”

  “That, too.”

  “I hope that was it. Fd hate to think I was Tunning away from myself.”

  “I’m certain you weren’t”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re not the kind of a man who’d run away from himself.”

  “How can I know?” he cried. Gazing at the dismal neighborhood, he wondered how he could penetrate the veil, see the yesteryears that had gone into his making. Good or bad, he had to know them. He had to be somebody; not just Gerald Sundberg, a name, but someone with a living past. He had to look back through the long corridor of years, pick up the threads of his being. Only by doing that could he become a whole man again. He would do it, and no one would stop him. A fierce determination assailed him.

  Straightening his thin shoulders, he strode more briskly at her side.

  “Mr. Quigg?”

  About to enter his office, Felix Quigg turned. A man nearing middle age was peering at him through deep-sunken eyes. His narrow, bony face had a servile expression. Quigg coolly took in the unkempt dress and shabby shoes. “Yes?”

  “I have some information to sell,” the man whined.

  “See my secretary,” Quigg snapped. He reached for the door.

  “It’s about Gerald Sundberg.”

  He turned back, suddenly alert. “Sundberg?”

  “The fellow who escaped from the jail.”

  “Oh, that Sundberg.” He suppressed his excitement He’d had no doubt whatever about the prisoner’s identity, or about his method of escape. Not that he’d enlightened the police, but he had spread quite a net of his own.

  “The talk along the street is that you’d pay for information,” the other said hopefully.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Frye … Obie Frye.”

  “Come into my office, Frye.” Quigg led him to his private sanctum, closed the door behind them, and gestured toward a chair. Frye sat gingerly. Quigg sat at his desk, deliberately fussing with some papers to keep the other on edge. Finally he pushed the papers aside and looked up. “Now what’s this about Sundberg?”

  “They said you’d pay,” Frye blurted worriedly.

  “Pay for what? Come, man, you haven’t told me anything yet. Speak up!”

  “I can tell you how to find him.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “Not exactly.” Frye shifted uncomfortably.

  “What do you know?”

  “He came to me for help.”

  “He came to you?” Quigg eyed him disbelievingly. “Why would he do that?”

  “I’m a peeper,” Frye answered sullenly.

  “You, a peeper? Don’t try to klotch me,” Quigg cried angrily. “There are only half a dozen peepers in this part of the country and I know them all. What’s your game?” “I’m a partial. I was sentenced to social reform so I can’t get a license.”

  “You couldn’t get one anyway, not a partial.” Quigg smiled narrowly. “They’d slap you back there if they caught you peeping.”

  “You can’t prove nothin’,” Frye flared. He tried to conceal his fright.

  “Who said I was trying to prove anything? I’m stating a point of law.”

  “I ain’t breaking no law!”

  “You are if you’re peeping.” Quigg gestured airily. “But we’ll let that go. What did you read in his mind?” “Nothin’.”

  “Nothing?”

  “It was blank,” Frye admitted.

  “He has amnesia.”

  “He told me, but I heard you can peep those birds.”

  “So they say.” Quigg studied the other curiously. Frye’s dress and manner were that of the born loser, and the man knew it. But he’d been born a winner, if his words were true. How could he have thrown away such a gift? He asked, “Are you peeping me?”

  Frye shook his head sullenly.

  “You’re trying,” he challenged.

  “I’m only a partial, Mr. Quigg. I told you that.”

  “You need peace and quiet, eh?”

  “I have to study ’em for a while,” Frye admitted.

  “How did Sundberg know about you?”

  “A woman brought him.”

  “What woman?”

  “Well..

  “Speak up, man!”

  “Why?” Frye demanded belligerently. “You haven’t paid me anything yet.”

  ‘Ten cpu,” Quigg snapped.

  “As much as you want that guy?”

  “He’s not that important.” He shrugged. “A minor case, really.”

  “You brought me into your office fast enough when I told you about him,” Frye challenged. “You’re trying to beat me down.”

  Quigg eyed him imperturbably. “I’ll go twenty, that’s tops.”

  “I’ll go somewhere else.” Frye stood up.

  “You know someone else who’s buying?”

  “I’ve got my lines out,” he answered evasively. “Besides, if he’s not important, why’d the police grab him?” “Sleeping in the park.”

  “How about the jail break? They’d sure want him for that.”

  “Sit down,” Quigg snapped. Watching the other slide back into the seat, he weighed his thoughts. A peeper, even a partial, could prove a gold mine if properly used. Clean him up, get him a haircut and new clothes and he’d look fairly presentable. If he could get him into a position

  ft to peep the real Sundberg or Madelyn Wehl… or Craxton Wehl! Do that and the wind would hit the money tree!

  He caught Frye’s eyes and held them while he leaned back and made a Gothic arch with his fingers. The peeper shifted uneasily under his gaze. Quigg veiled his eyes, watching the other’s discomfort grow. Abruptly he said, “I have a proposition. If you produce, the sky’s the limit.” “How much?” asked Frye edgily.

  “Two hundred.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “A small peep job.”

  “Who?” Frye demanded worriedly. “I can’t take chances.”

  “Oh, it’ll be safe enough.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not quite certain.”

  “Well…”

  “I’ll throw a new suit, shoes, and a haircut into the bargain,” Quigg put in quickly. “If things work out, I might have a lot more work for you. A small job here, another there—you can’t laugh off an opportunity like that, man. The street’s loaded with people who’d grab at the chance.”

  “Yeah, but they can’t peep minds.”

  “Quite true,” Quigg murmured. He smiled cynically. ‘This is your lucky day, Frye. ‘When in Time of Need, You Need Quigg and Associates’—that’s one of our slogans. We’re the biggest in the business, but I suppose you know that Telepaths? I have them knocking at my door every day, but I’m selective. I demand absolute loyalty. Is that too much to ask? I don’t believe so, yet it’s a difficult thing to find. Ethical standards are out the window, Frye; that’s the tragedy of our age.”

  “That’s true,” Frye smirked.

  “Did you ever hear the story of the man who wandered the streets with a laser lamp searching for an honest man?” Quigg sighed. “He never found him. That was ages ago, but it’s gotten worse since. Most people would sell their own mother for five cpu.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Frye exclaimed hastily.

  ‘Ten cpu?”

  “I’m not . . Frye looked into the other’s eyes and 53

  suddenly understood. “Well, if it were part of the job,” he added weakly.

  “I believe you’ll do.” Quigg rubbed his hands briskly. “As it happens, I do have a small job.”

  SIX

  He awoke, his head throbbing, his body filled with an intolerable ache. He struggled to a sitting position and felt a wave of nausea; the room swam giddily around him. He blinked, trying to bring his eyes into focus. God, what was wrong with him? The thought that he might die before he could discover who he was brought a stab of terror. A man couldn’t die a stranger even to himself. That thought was chilling.

  The peeper! He remembered Obie Frye’s bony, unshaven face, the deep-sunken eyes and unkempt dress— Frye’s claim that his mind was a blank! He was nobody; that’s what Frye had claimed. Nobody! Nobody! Nobody! The word clamored in his mind. He gazed at his hands; they were shaking.

  Frye was wrong; he’d prove it! He’d find out who he was today! He straightened, cocking his head to listen. The apartment was silent. He gazed in dismay at the window. The angle of the sun told him it was late afternoon; he’d slept through the night and most of the day. He winced at the lost hours.

  He slipped from the couch and dressed hurriedly. Going to the bathroom, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He looked old and haggard. His face had a wizened, unhealthy appearance, as if cast from yellow wax. But it was the face of … somebody! That was the thing; the face in the mirror had identity. He was Gerald Sundberg! Frye couldn’t deprive him of that.

  He found a note from Mura directing him to get breakfast. She cared! He folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket. While eating, he planned what he might do in the brief time that remained before evening. Perhaps he could reach the Hall of Records before it closed, find a birth certificate for Gerald Sundberg. That would be a starter. Oh, there were all kinds of records. The prospects appeared boundless. Unless …

  He straightened slowly. Unless he hadn’t come from this area! If not, what then? But he had to have come from this area! The proof was there, buried deep in his mind. It came in the form of fleeting memories, feelings, subconscious knowledge. Once, long ago, he had walked these same streets.

  He went outside and gazed at the old buildings. The recognition prickled at his mind. It was the feeling of viewing a yellowed photograph from long ago. The buildings were like that—yellowed and old. Fixing them in his mind, he closed his eyes; the image remained, then gradually changed. The stores and apartments appeared newer, the street cleaner. And down on the corner was a candy store. The candy store!

  His eyes jerked open. There had been a candy store! He could all but smell the scent of chocolate, picture the old white-haired man who ran it. Krant, that was the namel Mr. Krant! Trembling, he started toward the comer, fearful of what he might find.

  No candy store! Dismayed, he stared at the spot where he had remembered it. Now it was occupied by a sleazy shop selling cheap clothes. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to recapture the vision, but the candy store had evaporated; Mr. Krant’s face bad receded back into the dark places of his mind.

  He entered the shop apprehensively. A sallow-faced clerk came toward him. “Could I be of help?”

  “I’d like to speak to the manager.”

  The clerk eyed his shabby dress. “What about?”

  “What is it?” An older man moved toward him from behind a counter.

  “I was looking for a man who used to run a candy store here,” he explained.

  “Candy store?” The other rubbed his hands.

  “His name was Krant.”

  “Oh!” The manager wrestled with his memory. “Krant’s candy store was here many years ago. Krant must be dead now.”

  “Thank you!” lie exclaimed gratefully. He retreated jubilantly to the street. Krant’s candy store had been there! That proved that it wasn’t his imagination, that he wasn’t crazy. The structures erected in his mind had existed in the reality of cement and plastic and glass. How much else might he remember?

  He turned to look at the sign. Krant’s store had been there, only it had ‘become Martin’s Men’s Shop. Time brought new faces, he thought. Small wonder memory was difficult. He cast a look at the brazen sky and started toward midtown. •

  As he reached Craxton Wehl Park, memory of his arrest brought a quick caution. He glanced around nervously. Aside from a few oldsters conversing as they watched the mechanical pigeons, the square was nearly deserted. He saw no sign of the cop.

  He’d nearly reached the other side when he heard footsteps behind him and glanced back. Two tough-faced men were rapidly closing in on him. He moved faster, the fear heavy in his throat. Why should they be following him? Imagination, he thought, yet knew it wasn’t. The knowledge brought a cold sweat. Abruptly he started to run.

  A stinging pain between his shoulder blades staggered him. A dizzy sensation swept him, and his legs began to buckle. He felt his arms grasped from either side.

  “Take it easy,” a voice hissed “You’re sick.”

  “I’m not,” he cried. As he struggled to free himself, the hands gripped him more tightly.

  “Quiet, old man.”

  “Let me go!”

  “Shut up,” the other snarled.

  His mind reeling, Sundberg ceased his struggles, aware of a numbness pervading his body. The park, the trees, the buildings beyond—everything whirled in his visual field as if he were standing at the center of a vast pinwheel. He had the impression of an aircar landing in the square alongside him, then felt himself being half-carried, half-dragged.

  “Get in,” a voice rasped.

  The police, he thought, they’d found him. The old man felt himself flung forward onto a seat. Someone scrambled in alongside him, followed by the vertiginous sensation of the vehicle being propelled upward.

  “No, no, no . . The words were torn from his lips in a strangled sob. What was happening? They couldn’t stop him now. He felt the vertigo again, the reeling of his mind. He was trying to fight it when he blacked out.

  “One, two, three, four…

  “Listen, listen, listen, listen …”

  He struggled back toward consciousness, the words dinning in his ears. A sharp outburst of music jarred him, followed by the violent twanging of a steel guitar. A horn blared.

  “One, two, three, four…

  “Listen, listen, listen, listen …”

  He fought against the blackness, trying to shut out the raucous noise. My God, where was he? He had a fleeting memory of the episode in the park. The discordant scream of the music came again, causing his nerves to vibrate. They felt like hot, taut wires. The music rose to a piercing wail that abruptly ceased.

  The guitar twanged.

  The horn blared.

  “One, two, three, four..

  His eyes snapped open; he stared upward at a white ceiling. A white ceiling, white walls, a white sheet covering his body; the strong odor of disinfectant stung his nostrils.

  “Listen, listen, listen, listen …”

  “Shut it off!” he screamed. He attempted to block the words from his mind as he struggled to sit up, then discovered he was strapped to the bed. Shouting, he strained against his bonds. A door opened and a nurse in a white uniform peered in, then vanished.

  “Come back! Come back!” he cried. The guitar twanged. The horn blared. “Come back! Come back!” Terror filled him as he fought to free himself.