Marune: Alastor 933 (2 page)

At the personnel office Pardero underwent entry formalities, facilitated by Squil’s notification to the camp director. He was assigned a cubicle in a dormitory block, fitted with work boots and gloves, and issued a copy of camp regulations, which he studied without comprehension. On the next morning he was detailed into a work party and sent out to harvest pods from colucoid creeper, the source of a peculiarly rich red dye.

Pardero gathered his quota without difficulty. Among the taciturn group of indigents his deficiency went unnoticed.

He ate his evening meal in silence, ignoring the presence of his fellows, who at last had begun to sense that all was not well with Pardero.

The sun sank behind the clouds; a dismal twilight fell across the moors. Pardero sat to the side of the recreation hall, watching a comic melodrama on the holovision screen. He listened intently to the dialogue; each word seemed to find an instantly receptive niche inside his brain with a semantic concept ready at hand. His vocabulary grew and the range of his mental processes expanded.

When the program was over he sat brooding, at last aware of his condition. He went to look into the mirror over the washbasin; the face which looked back at him was at once strange and familiar: a somber face with a good expanse of forehead, prominent cheekbones, hollow cheeks, dark gray eyes, a ragged thatch of dark gold hair.

A certain burly rogue named Woane attempted a jocularity. “Look yonder at Pardero! He stands like a man admiring a beautiful work of art!”

Pardero studied the mirror. Who was the man whose eyes stared so intently into his own?

Woane’s hoarse murmur came from across the room. “Now he admires his haircut.”

The remark amused Woane’s friends. Pardero turned his head this way and that, wondering as to the motive behind the assault on his hair. Somewhere, it would seem, he had enemies. He turned slowly away from the mirror and resumed his seat at the side of the room.

The last traces of light left the sky; night had come to Gaswin Camp.

Something jerked deep at the bottom of Pardero’s consciousness: a compulsion totally beyond his comprehension. He jumped to his feet. Woane looked around half-truculently, but Pardero’s glance slid past him. Woane nevertheless saw or felt something sufficiently eery that his jaw dropped a trifle, and he muttered to his friends. All watched as Pardero crossed to the door and went out into the night.

Pardero stood on the porch. Floodlights cast a wan glow across the compound, now empty and desolate, inhabited only by the wind from the moors. Pardero stepped off the porch into the shadows. With no purpose he walked around the edge of the compound and out upon the moor; the camp became an illuminated island behind him.

Under the overcast, darkness was complete. Pardero felt an enlargement of the soul, an intoxication of power; as if he were an elemental born of the darkness, knowing no fear … He stopped short. His legs felt hard and strong; his hands tingled with competence. Gaswin Camp lay a half-mile behind him, the single visible object. Pardero took a deep throbbing breath, and again examined his consciousness, half-hoping, half-fearful of what he might find.

Nothing. Recollection extended to the Carfaunge spaceport. Events before were like voices remembered from a dream. Why was he here at Gaswin? To earn money.

How long must he remain? He had forgotten, or perhaps the words had not registered. Pardero began to feel a suffocating agitation, a claustrophobia of the intellect. He lay down on the moor, beat his forehead, cried out in frustration.

Time passed. Pardero rose to his knees, gained his feet and slowly returned to the camp.

A week later Pardero learned of the camp doctor and his function. The next morning, during sick call, he presented himself to the dispensary. A dozen men sat on the benches while the doctor, a young man fresh from medical school, summoned them forward, one at a time. The complaints, real, imaginary, or contrived, were usually related to the work: backache, allergic reaction, congestion of the lungs, an infected lychbug sting. The doctor, young in years but already old in guile, sorted out the real from the fictitious, prescribing remedies for the first and irritant salves or vile-flavored medicines for the second.

Pardero was signaled to the desk and the doctor looked him up and down. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I can’t remember anything.”

“Indeed.” The doctor leaned back in his chair. “What is your name?”

“I don’t know. Here at the camp they call me Pardero. Can you help me?”

“Probably not. Go back to the bench and let me finish up the sick call; it’ll be just a few minutes.”

The doctor dealt with his remaining patients and returned to Pardero. “Tell me haw far back you remember.”

“I arrived at Carfaunge. I remember a spaceship. I remember the depot - but nothing before.”

“Nothing whatever?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you remember things you like, or dislike? Are you afraid of anything?”

“No.”

“Amnesia typically derives from a subconscious intent to block out intolerable memories.”

Pardero gave his head a dubious shake. “I don’t think this is likely.”

The doctor, both intrigued and bemused, uttered an uneasy half-embarrassed laugh. “Since you can’t remember the circumstances, you aren’t in a position to judge.”

“I suppose that’s true … Could something be wrong with my brain?”

“You mean physical damage? Do you have headaches or head pains? Any sensation of numbness or pressure?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s hardly likely a tumor would cause general amnesia in any event …

Let me check my references …” He read for a few moments. “I could try hypnotherapy or shock. Candidly, I don’t think I’d do you any good. Amnesia generally cures itself if left alone.”

“I don’t think I can cure myself. Something lies on my brain like a blanket. It suffocates me. I can’t tear it loose. Can’t you help me?”

There was a simplicity to Pardero’s manner which appealed to the doctor. He also sensed strangeness: tragedy and drama beyond his conjecture.

“I would help you if I could,” said the doctor. “With all my soul I would help you. But I wouldn’t know what I should be doing. I’m not qualified to experiment on you.”

“The police officer told me to go to the Connatic’s Hospital on Numenes.”

“Yes, of course. This is best for you; I was about to suggest it myself.”

“Where is Numenes? How do I go there?”

“You must go by starship. The fare is a little over two hundred ozols. That is what I have been told. You earn three and a half ozols a day - more if you exceed your quota. When you have two hundred and fifty ozols, go to Numenes. That is my best advice.”

1. Numerous systems of chronometry create confusion across Alastor Cluster and the Gaean Reach, despite attempts at reform. In any given locality, at least three systems of reckoning are in daily use: scientific chronometry, based upon the orbital frequency of the K-state hydrogen electron; astronomic time - ‘Gaean Standard Time’ - which provides synchronism across the human universe; and local time.

Pardero worked with single-minded energy. Without fail he collected a half measure over his quota, and sometimes a total of two measures, which first excited jocular comment among his fellow workers, then sardonic sneers, and finally a cold, if covert, hostility. To compound his offenses Pardero refused to participate in the social activities of the camp, except to sit staring into the holovision screen, and thereby was credited with assumptions of superiority, which was indeed the case. He spent nothing at the commissary; despite all persuasions he refused to gamble, although occasionally he watched the games with a grim smile, which made certain of the players uneasy. Twice his locker was ransacked by someone who hoped to avail himself of Pardero’s earnings, but Pardero had drawn no money from his account. Woane made one or two halfhearted attempts at intimidation, then decided to chastise the haughty Pardero, but he encountered such ferocious retaliation that he was glad to regain the sanctuary of the mess hall; and thereafter Pardero was strictly ignored.

At no time could Pardero detect any seepage through the barrier between his memory and his conscious mind. Always as he worked he wondered: “What kind of man am I? Where is my home? What do I know? Who are my friends? Who has committed this wrong against me?” He expended his frustration on the colucoid creeper and became known as a man possessed by as inner demon, to be avoided as carefully as possible.

For his part Pardero banished Gaswin to the most remote corner of his mind; he would take away as few memories as possible. The work he found tolerable; but he resented the name Pardero. To use a stranger’s name was like wearing a stranger’s clothes - not a fastidious act. Still the name served as well as any other; it was a minor annoyance.

More urgently unpleasant was the lack of privacy. He found detestable the close intimacy of three hundred other men, most especially at mealtimes, when he sat with his eyes fixed on his plate, to avoid the open maws, the mounds of food, the mastication. Impossible to ignore, however, were the belches, grunts, hisses, and sighs of satiety. Surely this was not the life he had known in the past! What then had been his life?

The question produced only blankness, a void without information. Somewhere lived a person who had launched him across the Cluster with his hair hacked short and as denuded of identification as an egg. Some times when he pondered this enemy he seemed to hear wisps of possibly imaginary sound - echos of what might have been laughter, but when he poised his head to listen, the pulsations ceased.

The onset of darkness continued to trouble him. Often he felt urges to go forth into the dark - an impulse which he resisted, partly from fatigue, partly from a dread of abnormality. He reported his nocturnal restlessness to the camp doctor, who agreed that the tendency should be discouraged, at least until the source was known. The doctor commended Pardero for his industry, and advised the accumulation of at least two hundred and seventy-five ozols before departure, to allow for incidental expenses.

When Pardero’s account reached two hundred and seventy-five ozols, he claimed his money from the bursar, and now, no longer an indigent, he was free to pursue his own destiny. He took a rather mournful leave of the doctor, whom he had come to like and respect, and boarded the transport for Carfaunge. He left Gaswin with a twinge of regret. He had known little pleasure here; still the place had given him refuge. He barely remembered Carfaunge, and the spaceport was no more than the recollection of a dream.

He saw nothing of Superintendent Mergan, but was recognized by Dinster the night porter, just coming on duty.

The Ectobant of the Prydania Line took Pardero to Baruilla, on Deulle, Alastor 2121, where he transferred to the Lusimar of the Gaean Trunk Line, and so was conveyed to Calypso Junction on Imber, and thence by the Wispen Argent to Numenes.

Pardero enjoyed the voyage: the multifarious sensations, incidents, and vistas amazed him. He had not imagined the variety of the Cluster: the comings and goings, the flux of faces, the gowns, robes, hats, ornaments, and bijouterie; the colors and lights and strains of strange music; the babble of voices; haunting glimpses of beautiful girls; drama, excitement, pathos; objects, faces, sounds, surprises. Could he have known all this and forgotten?

So far Pardero had not indulged in self-pity and his enemy had seemed a baleful abstraction. But how great and how callous the crime which had been performed upon him! He had been isolated from home, friends, sympathy, security; he had been rendered a neuter; his personality had been murdered.

Murder!

The word chilled his blood; he squirmed and winced. And from somewhere, from far distant, came the ghost of a sound: gusts of mocking laughter.

Approaching Numenes, the Wispen Argent first passed by Blazon, the next world out in orbit, to be cleared for landing, by the Whelm - a precaution to minimize the danger of an attack from space upon the Connatic’s Palace. Having secured clearance; the Wispen Argent proceeded; Numenes slowly expanded.

At a distance of about three thousand miles that peculiar referential displacement occurred; instead of hanging off to the side, a destination across the void, Numenes became the world below, upon which the Wispen Argent descended - a brilliant panorama of white clouds, blue air, sparkling seas.

The Central Spaceport at Commarice occupied an area three miles in diameter, surrounded by a fringe of the tall jacinth palms and the usual spaceport offices, built in that low airy style also typical of Numenes.

Alighting from the Wispen Argent, Pardero rode a slideway to the terminal, where he sought information regarding the Connatic’s Hospital. He was referred first to the Traveler’s Aid Station, then to an office at the side of the terminal, where he was presented to a tall spare woman of indeterminate age in a white and blue uniform. She gave Pardero a laconic greeting. “I am Matron Gundal. I understand that you wish to be admitted to the Connatic’s Hospital?”

“Yes.”

Matron Gundal touched buttons, evidently to activate a recording mechanism.

“Your name?”

“I am called Pardero. I do not know my true name.”

Matron Gundal made no comment. “Place of origin?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your complaint?”

“Amnesia.”

Matron Gundal gave him a noncommittal inspection, which perhaps indicated interest. “What about your physical health?”

“It seems to be good.”

“An orderly will conduct you to the hospital.” Matron Gundal raised her voice.

“Ariel.”

A blond young woman entered the room, her uniform somewhat at discord with her sunny good looks. Matron Gundal gave her directions: “Please conduct this gentleman to the Connatic’s Hospital.” To Pardero: “Have you luggage?”

“No.”

“I wish you a quick recovery.”

The orderly smiled politely at Pardero. “This way, please.”

An aircab slid them northward across the blue and green landscape of Flor Solana, with Ariel maintaining an easy flow of conversation. “Have you visited Numenes before?”