It was incredible, he told himself; it was impossible. And yet the memories kept on piling in on him, not vague and shadowy, but incidents and faces and pictures from the past, all three-dimensional. He remembered that Jake Woods had been lame and had carried a cane and he knew what kind of cane it was — one that was heavy and of a shiny, hand-rubbed wood. Charley had had freckles and a wide, infectious grin, and Charley, he remembered, had always led him into trouble. There had been Minnie Short, an old, befuddled woman, dressed in rags and walking with a weird sort of shuffling trot, who had worked part-time as a book-keeper at the lumber yard. But the lumber yard was gone and in its place stood a glass-and-plastic agency for floaters.
He reached a bench that stood in front of a restaurant across the street from the bank and sat down on it heavily. There were a few people on the street and as they went past they stared at him.
He felt fine. Even after the hard night of Quester's running, his body still was fresh and strong. Perhaps, he told himself, it was because of Thinker's stolen energy — an energy transferred from Thinker to Quester and from Quester on to him.
He slid the knapsack off his shoulder and let it rest beside him on the bench. He slid the cowl back from his face.
People were beginning to open up the shops and stores. A lone car came thrumming gently up the street.
He read the signs and none of them were familiar. The names of the stores, and of the people who owned and operated them, all had changed.
On the floor above the bank the windows bore gilt lettering advertising the occupants — dentists, doctors, lawyers. Alvin Bank, MD: H. H. Oliver, Dentistry; Ryan Wilson, Attorney-at-Law; J. P. Leach, Optometrist; Wm Smith — Wait a minute, there! Back up! Ryan Wilson. that was it! Ryan Wilson was the name that had been mentioned in the message.
There, across the street, was the office of the man who had indicated in the note that he had something of interest to impart.
The clock above the door of the bank said it was almost nine o'clock. Wilson might be in his office, or would be coming soon. If the office still were closed, he could stay and wait for him.
Blake got up off the bench and crossed the street. The door that opened on the stairs leading to the floor above the bank was rickety, and it creaked and groaned as he pushed it open. The stairs were steep and dark and the brown paint that covered the treads was scuffed and peeling off.
Wilson's office was just down the hail, and the door stood open.
Blake went into the outer office, which was empty. In an inner office a man sat in his shirt sleeves, working on some papers, with others stacked high in a basket on the desk.
The man looked up. 'Come on in, he said.
'You are Ryan Wilson?
The man nodded. 'My secretary isn't here as yet. What can I do for you?
'You sent me a message. My name is Andrew Blake.
Wilson leaned back in his chair and stared at him.
'Well, I'll be damned, he finally said. 'I never thought I'd see you. I thought you were gone for good.
Blake shook his head, bewildered.
'Have you seen the morning paper? Wilson asked.
'No, said Blake. 'I haven't.
The man reached for a folded copy that lay on the corner of his desk and flicked it open, facing it towards Blake.
The banner screamed:
IS MAN FROM THE STARS A WEREWOLF?
The read-out said:
HUNT STILL GOES ON FOR BLAKE
Plastered underneath the banner, Blake saw, was a picture of himself.
Blake felt his face freezing, fought to keep it frozen, betraying no expression.
Within his brain he felt Quester stirring frantically.
— No! No! He screamed at Quester. Let me handle this. Quester quieted down.
'It's interesting, Blake said to Wilson. 'Thanks for showing me. Have they got around to posting a reward?
Wilson flicked his wrist to fold the paper, put it back on the corner of his desk.
'All you have to do, said Blake, 'is dial the phone. The number of the hospital is…
Wilson raised his hand. 'It's no concern of mine, he said. 'I don't care what you are.
'Even if I were a werewolf.
'Even if you were, said Wilson. 'You can turn around and leave if that should be your wish and I'll go back to work. But if you want to stay, there are a couple of questions I am supposed to ask you and if you can answer them…
'Questions?
'Yes. Just two simple questions.
Blake hesitated.
'I am acting, Wilson told him, 'for a client. For a client who died a century and a half ago. This is a matter which has been handed down, generation after generation, within the fabric of this law firm. My great-grandfather was the man who accepted the responsibility of carrying out the request of the client.
Blake shook his head, trying to shake the fog out of his brain. There was something terribly wrong here. He had known it the moment he had seen the town.
'All right, he said. 'Go ahead and ask your questions.
Wilson pulled a desk drawer open, took out two envelopes. One he laid aside, the other one he opened, taking out a sheet of paper that crackled when he unfolded it.
The attorney held the sheet in front of him, squinting closely at it.
'All right, Mr Blake. he said. 'First question: What was the name of your first grade teacher?
'Why, her name was, said Blake, 'her name was…
He groped blindly for the answer and all at once he had it.
'Her name was Jones, he said. 'Miss Jones. Ada Jones, I think. It was so long ago.
But it was, somehow, not so long ago. Even as he said how long ago it was, he suddenly could see her in his mind. Prim, old-maidish, with a fuzzy hairdo and a stern set to her mouth. And she'd worn a purple blouse. How could he have forgotten that purple blouse she wore?
'OK, said Wilson. 'What did you and Charley Breen do to Deacon Watson's water melons?
'Why, said Blake, 'we — say, how did you find out about that one?
'Never mind, said Wilson. 'Just go ahead and answer.
'Well, said Blake, 'I guess it was a dirty trick. We both felt badly after we had done it. We never told anyone. Charley stole a hypodermic from his father — his old man was a doctor, I suppose you know.
'I don't know a thing, said Wilson.
'Well, we took this syringe and we had a jar of kerosene and we gave each of the melons a squirt of kerosene. We poked the needle through the rind. Not much, you understand. Just enough so the melons would have a funny taste.
Wilson laid down the paper and picked up the other envelope.
'You passed the test, he said. 'I guess that this is yours.
He handed the envelope to Blake.
Blake took it and saw that there was writing on its face — the words formed in the shaky penmanship of the very old, the ink faded to a faint, dull brown.
The writing said:
To The Man Who Has My Mind
And underneath that line a signature:
Theodore Roberts
Blake's hand shook and he let it fall straight to his side, still clutching the envelope, and he tried to hold it stiff and straight so it would stop its shaking.
For now he knew — now he knew again, now it was all there, all the things he had forgotten, all the old identities and faces.
'That is me, he said, forcing his stiff lips to move. 'That was me. Teddy Roberts. I am not Andrew Blake.
28
He came to the great iron gates, which were locked, went through the postern gate and found the gravel path that went winding up the rise. Below him lay the town of Willow Grove and here, all about him, their places marked by the canted, moss-grown stones, hemmed in by the pines and the ancient fence of iron, lay all those old ones who had been young when he had been a boy.