A Trace of Memory. Keith Laumer
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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 Succe s. I must forsake this avenue of Enquiry...."
"October 23, 1790. Builded the we t Barrier a cubit higher. Now the fires burn every night. Is there no limit to their infernal per i tence?"
"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 confe s 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—”