There stood Roland, deep beneath a static, dying
civilization, fiercely ready to destroy it—and
himself, if need be—for love of Frances. Yet a
question nagged him. Who was she—and who was he?
[Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
His consciousness filtered in slowly. It stirred like roiled water, andthe first lucid cycle of cause and effect in associative memory wasbeginning. There was a kind of awful searching loneliness—but thatwas broken by the pleasantly soft voice of the woman who asked, “Is hewaking?”
A sweet clear voice. It drew him as if it were some part of him thatwas missing. She could give meaning to that lonely despair. If he couldonly remember—. A man answered tensely, “He’s waking, all right. Checkthe spy-circuit again, Fran. Their newly developed rapport-clan isdangerous. They might find out about our new Adam.”
Adam?
He heard light footsteps fade off and return. “Circuit’s clear, BillyBoy.” A pause. “He’s attractive, isn’t he?”
“Uh-huh.”
He heard the man muttering close to his ear. He felt some kind ofpressure withdrawn from about his head. There was a sharp, clenchingpain, and a flash of agonizing brilliance.
“Well, that’s it, Fran,” the man breathed heavily.
He felt her warm soft hand moist on his forehead. Why did she removeit? But he heard her say, “All right, Superman. Open your eyes and seethe light.”
Adam? Superman?
He blinked blindly in the newness of the light until the small nakedcubicle and the two people in it clarified. He looked at her first,beauty and warmth. She smiled brightly and winked, a small delicatebut full-bodied figure in shorts, bra and sandals, and a lot of oliveskin. But their eight-fingered hands! He looked at his own hands. Eightfingers. What—?
He studied the man. He was gaunt and bald, very sad and cynicalwith his lower lip stuck out. He put out a thin white hand and saidsardonically, “I’m Berti. This is Frances. And I suppose you’d like toknow who you are?”
He shrugged as he turned his eyes back to the woman and openlyappreciated her. She blushed, and he was pleased. Finally he answeredthe man. “That depends on who I am. An amnesiac is supposed to havegood reasons for not remembering.”
The man frowned. “You’ve never had a name. And you’re not anamnesiac—not exactly. We’ve stored your brain with plenty ofinformation. And it will soon become properly integrated as you applyit. But what would you prefer as a label?”
He had never had a name. Somehow, he figured that he should have hadone. He shrugged again. “If I’ve never had a name, it must not be veryimportant.”
“Peculiar personality,” muttered Berti. “Not uninteresting.”
“That’s wonderful,” giggled Frances. “Now I can pick something thatwill make an adorable nickname. How about Roland? Then I can call youRolly.”
He nodded and sat up while she giggled eagerly. He looked at his body.He seemed to know all about his body, yet he had never been consciousof it before, somehow. Translucent shorts and sandals fitted well toa tall, muscled form that he was proud to display to Frances. Did shelike his body? That was the important thing.
His eyes shifted back and forth from the woman to the man. Finally hesaid quietly, “We’ve got to come to it. What do you want me to do?”
Berti’s sharply-ridged face puckered. “Rolly, you have a highlyselective education, administered by us. But is it worth while?Science-progress is a maze, a labyrinth. And when you reach the end of