A Trace of Memory. Keith Laumer
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necessarily, therefore, concentrated my attention on the last section—the only part written in English. I was immediately struck by a curious fact I had ignored before. The writer made references to an Enemy, a mysterious ‘they’, against which defensive measures had to be taken.”
“Maybe that’s where you got the idea,” I said. “When you first read the book—”
“The writer of the log,” Foster said, “was dogged by the same nemesis that now follows me.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
“For the moment,” Foster said, “stop looking for logic in the situation. Look for a pattern instead.”
“There’s a pattern, all right,” I said.
“The next thing that struck me,” Foster went on, “was a reference to a loss of memory—a second point of some familiarity to me. The writer expresses frustration at the inability to remember certain facts which would have been useful to him in his pursuit.”
“What kind of pursuit?”
“Some sort of scientific project, as nearly as I can gather. The journal bristles with tantalizing references to matters that are never explained.”
“And you think the man that wrote it had amnesia?”
“Not exactly amnesia, perhaps,” Foster said. “But there were things he was unable to remember.”
“If that’s amnesia, we’ve all got it,” I said. “Nobody’s got a perfect memory.”
“But these were matters of importance; not the kinds of thing that simply slip one’s mind.”
“I can see how you’d want to believe the book had something to do with your past, Mr. Foster,” I said. “It must be a hard thing, not knowing your own life story. But you’re on the wrong track. Maybe the book is a story you started to write—in code, so nobody would accidentally read the stuff and kid you about it.”
“Legion, what was it you planned to do when you got to Miami?”
The question caught me a little off-guard. “Well, I don’t know,” I hedged. “I wanted to get south, where it’s warm. I used to know a few people—”
“In other words, nothing,” Foster said. “Legion, I’ll pay you well to stay with me and see this thing through.”
I shook my head. “Not me, Mr. Foster. The whole thing sounds—well, the kindest word I can think of is ‘nutty.’”
“Legion,” Foster said, “do you really believe I’m insane?”
“Let’s just say this all seems a little screwy to me, Mr. Foster.”
“I’m not asking you just to work for me,” Foster said. “I’m asking for your help.”
“You might as well look for your fortune in tea leaves,” I said, irritated. “There’s nothing in what you’ve told me.”
“There’s more, Legion. Much more. I’ve recently made an important discovery. When I know you’re with me, I’ll tell you. You know enough now to accept the fact that this isn’t entirely a figment of my imagination.”
“I don’t know anything,” I said. “So far it’s all talk.”
“If you’re concerned about payment—”
“No, damn it,” I barked. “Where are the papers you keep talking about? I ought to have my head examined for sitting here humoring you. I’ve got troubles enough—” I stopped talking and rubbed my hands over my scalp. “I’m sorry, Mr. Foster,” I said. “I guess what’s really griping me is that you’ve got everything I think I want—and you’re not content with it. It bothers me to see you off chasing fairies. If a man with his health and plenty of money can’t enjoy life, what the hell is there for anybody?”
Foster looked at me thoughtfully. “Legion, if you could have anything in life you wanted, what would you ask for?”
“Anything? I’ve wanted a lot of different things. Once I wanted to be a hero. Later, I wanted to be smart, know all the answers. Then I had the idea that a chance to do an honest job, one that needed doing, was the big thing. I never found that job. I never got smart either, or figured out how to tell a hero from a coward, without a program.”
“In other words,” Foster said, “you were looking for an abstraction to believe in—in this case, Justice. But you won’t find justice in nature. It’s a thing that only man expects or acknowledges.”
“There are some good things in life; I’d like to get a piece of them.”
“Don’t lose your capacity for dreaming, in the process.”
“Dreams?” I said. “Oh, I’ve got those. I want an island somewhere in the sun, where I can spend my time fishing and watching the sea.”
“You’re speaking cynically—but you’re still attempting to concretize an abstraction,” Foster said. “But no matter—materialism is simply another form of idealism.”
I looked at Foster. “But I know I’ll never have those things—or that Justice you were talking about, either. Once you really know you’ll never make it....”
“Perhaps unattainability is an essential element of any dream,” Foster said. “But hold onto your dream, whatever it is—don’t ever give it up.”
“So much for philosophy,” I said. “Where is it getting us?”
“You’d like to see the papers,” Foster said. He fished a key ring from an inner pocket. “If you don’t mind going out to the car,” he said, “and perhaps getting your hands dirty, there’s a strong-box welded to the frame. I keep photostats of everything there, along with my passport, emergency funds and so on. I’ve learned to be ready to travel on very short notice. Lift the floorboards; you’ll see the box.”
“It’s not all that urgent,” I said. “I’ll take a look in the morning—after I’ve caught up on some sleep. But don’t get the wrong idea—it’s just my knot-headed curiosity.”
“Very well,” Foster said. He lay back, sighed. “I’m tired, Legion,” he said. “My mind is tired.”
“Yeah,” I said, “so is mine—not to mention other portions of my anatomy.”
“Get some sleep,” Foster said. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”
*
I pushed back the light blanket and slid out of bed. Underfoot, the rug was as thick and soft as a working girl’s mink. I went across to the closet and pushed the button that made the door slide aside. My old clothes were still lying on the floor where I had left them, but I had the clean ones Foster had lent me. He wouldn’t mind if I borrowed them for a while longer—it would be cheaper for him in the long run. Foster was as looney as a six-day bike racer, but there was no point in my waiting around to tell him so.
The borrowed outfit didn’t include a coat. I thought of putting my old jacket on but it was warm outside and a grey pin-stripe with grease spots wouldn’t help the picture any. I transferred my personal belongings from the grimy clothes on the floor, and eased the door open.
Downstairs, the curtains were drawn in the living room. I could vaguely make out the outline of the bar. It wouldn’t hurt to take along a bite to eat. I groped my way behind the bar, felt along the shelves, found a stack of small cans that rattled softly. Nuts, probably. I reached to put a can on the bar and it clattered against something I couldn’t see. I swore silently, felt over the obstruction. It was bulky, with the cold smoothness of metal, and there were small projections with sharp corners. It felt for all the world like—
I leaned over it and squinted. With the faint gleam of moonlight from a chink in the heavy curtains falling