He could not understand any of this. While he dozed, it seemed, someone had cleaned the place out, stolen his furniture, his sculptures, even the carpet. Mueller had heard of such thefts. They came with a van, brazenly, posing as moving men. Perhaps they had given him some sort of drug while they worked. He could not bear the thought that they had taken his sculptures; the rest didn’t matter, but he had cherished those dozen pieces dearly. I’d better call the police, he decided, and rushed toward the handset of the data unit, but it wasn’t there either. Would burglars take that too?
Searching for some answers, he scurried from wall to wall, and saw a note in his own handwriting. Call Freddy Munson in morning and borrow three bigs. Buy ticket to Caracas. Buy sculpting stuff.
Caracas? A vacation, maybe? And why buy sculpting stuff? Obviously the tools had been gone before he fell asleep, then. Why? And where was his wife? What was going on? He wondered if he ought to call Freddy right now, instead of waiting until morning. Freddy might know. Freddy was always home by midnight, too. He’d have one of his damned girls with him and wouldn’t want to be interrupted, but to hell with that; what good was having friends if you couldn’t bother them in a time of crisis?
Heading for the nearest public communicator booth, he rushed out of his apartment and nearly collided with a sleek dunning robot in the hallway. The things show no mercy, Mueller thought. They plague you at all hours. No doubt this one was on its way to bother the deadbeat Nicholson family down the hall.
The robot said, “Mr. Paul Mueller? I am a properly qualified representative of International Fabrication Cartel, Amalgamated. I am here to serve notice that there is an unpaid balance in your account to the extent of $9,150.55, which as of o~oo hours tomorrow morning will accrue compounded penalty interest at the rate of ~ percent per month, since you have not responded to our three previous requests for payment. I must further inform you—”
“You’re off your neutrinos,” Mueller snapped. “I don’t owe a dime to I.F.C.! For once in my life I’m in the black, and don’t try to make me believe otherwise.”
The robot replied patiently, “Shall I give you a printout of the transactions? On the fifth of January, 2003, you ordered the following metal products from us: three 4-meter tubes of antiqued iridium, six io-centimeter spheres of—”
“The fifth of January, 2003, happens to be three months from now,” Mueller said, “and I don’t have time to listen to crazy robots. I’ve got an important call to make. Can I trust you to patch me into the data net without garbling things?”
“I am not authorized to permit you to make use of my facilities.”
“Emergency override,” said Mueller. “Human being in trouble. Go argue with that one!”
The robot’s conditioning was sound. It yielded at once to his assertion of an emergency and set up a relay to the main communications net. Mueller supplied Freddy Munson’s number. “I can provide audio only,” the robot said, putting the call through. Nearly a minute passed. Then Freddy Munson’s familiar deep voice snarled from the speaker grille in the robot’s chest, “Who is it and what do you want?”
“It’s Paul. I’m sorry to bust in on you, Freddy, but I’m in big trouble. I think I’m losing my mind, or else everybody else is.”
“Maybe everybody else is. What’s the problem?”
“All my furniture’s gone. A dunning robot is trying to shake me down for nine bigs. I don’t know where Carole is. I can’t remember what I was doing earlier today. I’ve got a note here about getting tickets to Caracas that I wrote myself, and I don’t know why. And—”
“Skip the rest,” Munson said. “I can’t do anything for you. I’ve got problems of my own.”
“Can I come over, at least, and talk?”
“Absolutely not!” In a softer voice Munson said, “Listen, Paul, I didn’t mean to yell, but something’s come up here, something very distressing—”
“You don’t need to pretend. You’ve got Helene with you and you wish I’d leave you alone. Okay.”
“No. Honestly,” Munson said. “I’ve got problems, suddenly. I’m in a totally ungood position to give you any help at all. I need help myself.”
“What sort? Anything I can do for you?”
“I’m afraid not. And if you’ll excuse me, Paul—”
“Just tell me one thing, at least. Where am I likely to find Carole? Do you have any idea?”
“At her husband’s place, I’d say.”
“I’m her husband.”
There was a long pause. Munson said finally, “Paul, she divorced you last January and married Pete Castine in April.”
“No,” Mueller said.
“What, no?”
“No, it isn’t possible.”
“Have you been popping pills, Paul? Sniffing something? Smoking weed? Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t take time now to—”
“At least tell me what day today is.”
“Wednesday.”
“Which Wednesday?”
“Wednesday the eighth of May. Thursday the ninth, actually, by this time of night.”
“And the year?”
“For Christ’s sake, Paul—”
“The year?”
“2003.”
Mueller sagged. “Freddy, I’ve lost half a year somewhere! For me it’s last October. 2002. I’ve got some weird kind of amnesia. It’s the only explanation.”
“Amnesia,” Munson said. The edge of tension left his voice. “Is that what you’ve got? Amnesia? Can there be such a thing as an epidemic of amnesia? Is it contagious? Maybe you better come over here after all. Because amnesia’s my problem too.”
Thursday, May 9, promised to be as beautiful as the previous day had been. The sun once again beamed on San Francisco; the sky was clear, the air warm and tender. Commander Braskett awoke early as always, punched for his usual spartan breakfast, studied the morning xerofax news, spent an hour dictating his memoirs, and, about nine, went out for a walk. The streets were strangely crowded, he found, when he got down to the shopping district along Haight Street. People were wandering about aimlessly, dazedly, as though they were sleepwalkers. Were they drunk? Drugged? Three times in five minutes Commander Braskett was stopped by young men who wanted to know the date. Not the time, the date. He told them, crisply, disdainfully; he tried to be tolerant, but it was difficult for him not to despise people who were so weak that they were unable to refrain from poisoning their minds with stimulants and narcotics and psychedelics and similar trash. At the corner of Haight and Masonic a forlorn-looking pretty girl of about seventeen, with wide blank blue eyes, halted him and said, “Sir, this city is San Francisco, isn’t it? I mean, I was supposed to move here from Pittsburgh in May, and if this is May, this is San Francisco, right?” Commander Braskett nodded brusquely and turned away, pained. He was relieved to see an old friend, Lou Sandier, the manager of the Bank of America office across the way. Sandier was standing outside the bank door. Commander Braskett crossed to him and said, “Isn’t it a disgrace, Lou, the way this whole street is filled with addicts this morning? “What is it, some historical pageant of the 1960’s?” And Sandier gave him an empty smile and said, “Is that my name? Lou? You wouldn’t happen to know the last name too, would you? Somehow it’s slipped my mind.” In that moment Commander Braskett realized that something terrible had happened to his city and perhaps to his country, and that the leftist takeover he had long dreaded must now be at hand, and that it was time for him to don his old uniform again and do what he could to strike back at the enemy.
In joy and in confusion, Nate Haldersen awoke that morning realizing that he had been transformed in some strange and wonderful way. His head was throbbing, but not painfully. It seemed to him that a terrible weight had been lifted from his shoulders, that the fierce dead hand about his throat had at last relinquished its grip.
He sprang from bed, full of questions.
Where am I? What kind of place is this? Why am I not at home? Where are my books? Why do I feel so happy?
This seemed to be a hospital room.
There was a veil across his mind. He pierced its filmy folds and realized that he had committed himself to—to Fletcher Memorial —last—August—no, the August before last—suffering with a severe emotional disturbance brought on by—brought on by— He had never felt happier than at this moment.
He saw a mirror. In it was the reflected upper half of Nathaniel Haldersen, Ph.D. Nate Haldersen smiled at himself. Tall, stringy, long-nosed man, absurdly straw-colored hair, absurd blue eyes, thin lips, smiling. Bony body. He undid his pajama top. Pale, hairless chest; bump of bone like an epaulet on each shoulder. I have been sick a long time, Haldersen thought. Now I must get out of here, back to my classroom. End of leave of absence. Where are my clothes?
“Nurse? Doctor?” He pressed his call button three times. “Hello? Anyone here?”
No one came. Odd; they always came. Shrugging, Haldersen moved out into the hall. He saw three orderlies, heads together, buzzing at the far end. They ignored him. A robot servitor carrying breakfast trays glided past. A moment later one of the younger doctors came running through the hall, and would not stop when Haldersen called to him. Annoyed, he went back into his room and looked about for clothing. He found none, only a little stack of magazines on the closet floor. He thumbed the call button three more times. Finally one of the robots entered the room.
“I am sorry,” it said, “but the human hospital personnel is busy at present. May I serve you, Dr. Haldersen?”