And then-what? What? His mind yanked away at the sluggish thoughts…Yes, they had come for him. There was a room, with instruments and dials, and two pills… That was it. They had given him pills, and he had taken them cheerfully. What had he to lose? Poisoning would have been a favor.
And then-nothing.
Wait! There had been flashes of consciousness…People bending over him…Suddenly he remembered the cold motion of a stethoscope over his chest…A girl had been feeding him.
It flashed upon him that he had been operated upon and, in panic, he flung the bed sheets from him and sat up.
A girl was upon him, hands on his shoulders, forcing him back onto the pillows. She spoke soothingly, but he did not understand her. He tensed himself against the slim arms, but uselessly. He had no strength.
He held his hands before his face. They seemed normal. He moved his legs and heard them brush against the sheets. They couldn't have been amputated..
He turned to the girl and said, without much hope, "Can you understand me? Do you know where I am?" He scarcely recognized his own voice.
The girl smiled and suddenly poured out a rapid patter of liquid sound. Schwartz groaned. Then an older man entered, the one who had given him the pills. The man and the girl spoke together, the girl turning to him after a while, pointing to his lips and making little gestures of invitation to him.
"What?" he said.
She nodded eagerly, her pretty face glowing with pleasure, until, despite himself, Schwartz felt glad to look at it.
"You want me to talk?" he asked.
The man sat down upon his bed and motioned him to open his mouth. He said, " Ah-h-h," and Schwartz repeated "Ah-h-h" while the man's fingers massaged Schwartz's Adam's apple.
"What's the matter?" said Schwartz peevishly, when the pressure was removed. " Are you surprised I can talk? What do you think I am?"
The days passed, and Schwartz learned a few things. The man was Dr. Shekt-the first human being he knew by name since he had stepped over the rag doll. The girl was his daughter, Pola. Schwartz found that he no longer needed to shave. The hair on his face never grew. It frightened him. Did it ever grow?
His strength came back quickly. They were letting him put on clothes and walk about now, and were feeding him something more than mush.
Was his trouble amnesia, then? Were they treating him for that? Was all this world normal and natural, while the world he thought he remembered was only the fantasy of an amnesic brain?
And they never let him step out of the room, not even into the corridor. Was he a prisoner, then? Had he committed a crime?
There never can be a man so lost as one who is lost in the vast and intricate corridors of his own lonely mind, where none may reach and none may save. There never was a man so helpless as one who cannot remember.
Pola amused herself by teaching him words. He was not at all amazed at the ease with which he picked them up and remembered. He remembered that he had had a trick memory in the past; that memory, at least, seemed accurate. In two days he could understand simple sentences. In three he could make himself understood.
On the third day, however, he did become amazed. Shekt taught him numbers and set him problems. Schwartz would give answers, and Shekt would look at a timing device and record with rapid strokes of his stylus. But then Shekt explained the term "logarithm" to him and asked for the logarithm of two.
Schwartz picked his words carefully. His vocabulary was still minute and he reinforced it with gestures. "I-not-say. Answer-not-number."
Shekt nodded his head excitedly and said, "Not number. Not this, not that; part this, part that."
Schwartz understood quite well that Shekt had confirmed his statement that the answer was not an even number but a fraction and therefore said, "Point three zero one zero three -and-more-numbers."
"Enough!"
Then came the amazement. How had he known the answer to that? Schwartz was certain that he had never heard of logarithms before, yet in his mind the answer had come as soon as the question was put. He had no idea of the process by which it had been calculated. It was as if his mind were an independent entity, using him only as its mouthpiece.
Or had he once been a mathematician, in the days before his amnesia?
He found it exceedingly difficult to wait the days out. Increasingly he felt he must venture out into the world and force an answer from it somehow. He could never learn in the prison of this room, where (the thought suddenly came to him) he was but a medical specimen.
The chance came on the sixth day. They were beginning to trust him too much, and one time when Shekt left he did not lock the door. Where usually the door so neatly closed itself that the very crack of its joining the wall became invisible, this time a quarter inch of space showed.
He waited to make sure Shekt was not returning on the instant, and then slowly put his hand over the little gleaming light as he had seen them often do. Smoothly and silently the door slid open…The corridor was empty.
And so Schwartz "escaped."
How was he to know that for the six days of his residence there the Society of Ancients had its agents watching the hospital, his room, himself?
6. Apprehension In The Night
The Procurator's palace was scarcely less a fairyland at night. The evening flowers (none native to Earth) opened their fat white blossoms in festoons that extended their delicate fragrance to the very walls of the palace. Under the polarized light of the moon, the artificial silicate strands woven cleverly into the stainless aluminum alloy of the palace structure sparked a faint violet against the metallic sheen of their surroundings.
Ennius looked at the stars. They were the real beauty to him, since they were the Empire.
Earth's sky was of an intermediate type. It had not the unbearable glory of the skies of the Central Worlds, where star elbowed star in such blinding competition that the black of night was nearly lost in a coruscant explosion of light. Nor did it possess the lonely grandeur of the skies of the Periphery, where the unrelieved blackness was broken at great intervals by the dimness of an orphaned star-with the milky lens shape of the Galaxy spreading across the sky, the individual stars thereof lost in diamond dust.
On Earth two thousand stars were visible at one time. Ennius could see Sirius, round which circled one of the ten most populous planets of the Empire. There was Arcturus, capital of the sector of his birth. The sun of Trantor, the Empire's capital world, was lost somewhere in the Milky Way. Even under a telescope it was just part of a general blaze.
He felt a soft hand on his shoulder, and his own went up to meet it.
"Flora?" he whispered.
"It had better be," came his wife's half-amused voice. "Do you know that you haven't slept since you returned from Chica? Do you know further that it is almost dawn?… Shall I have breakfast sent out here?"
"Why not?" He smiled fondly up at her and felt in the darkness for the brown ringlet that hovered next her cheek. He tugged at it. "And must you wait up with me and shadow the most beautiful eyes in the Galaxy?"
She freed her hair and replied gently, "You are trying to shadow them yourself with your sugar syrup, but I've seen you this way before and am not in the tiniest hoodwinked. What worries you tonight, dear?"
"Why, that which always worries me. That I have buried you here uselessly, when there's not a viceregal society in the Galaxy you could not grace."
"Besides that! Come, Ennius, I will not be played with."
Ennius shook his head in the shadows and said, "I don't know. I think an accumulation of little puzzling things has finally sickened me. There's the matter of Shekt and his Synapsifier. And there's this archaeologist, Arvardan, and his theories. And other things, other things. Oh, what's the use, Flora-I'm doing no good here at all."