How It Was When the Past Went Away

He stumbled and sank down on a divan he had purchased in Istanbul, he recalled, on the nineteenth of May, 1985, for 4,200 Turkish pounds. “Nadia!” he cried. “Nadia!” His voice was little more than a croak. She came running, her eyes only half frosted, her morning face askew.

“How do I look?” he demanded. “My mouth—is my mouth right? My eyes?”

“Your face is all flushed.”

“Aside from that!”

“I don’t know,” she gasped. “You seem all upset, but—”

“Half my mind is gone,” Montini said. “I must have had a stroke. Is there any facial paralysis? That’s a symptom. Call my doctor, Nadia! A stroke, a stroke! It’s the end for Montini!”

Paul Mueller, awakening at midnight on Wednesday and feeling strangely refreshed, attempted to get his bearings. Why was he fully dressed, and why had he been asleep? A nap, perhaps, that had stretched on too long? He tried to remember what he had been doing earlier in the day, but he was unable to find a clue. He was baffled but not disturbed; mainly he felt a tremendous urge to get to work. The images of five sculptures, fully planned and begging to be constructed, jostled in his mind. Might as well start right now, he thought. Work through till morning. That small twittering silvery one—that’s a good one to start with. I’ll block out the schematics, maybe even do some of the armature— “Carole?” he called. “Carole, are you around?”

His voice echoed through the oddly empty apartment.

For the first time Mueller noticed how little furniture there was. A bed—a cot, really, not their double bed— and a table, and a tiny insulator unit for food, and a few dishes. No carpeting. Where were his sculptures, his private collection of his own best work? He walked into his studio and found it bare from wall to wall, all of his tools mysteriously swept away, just a few discarded sketches on the floor. And his wife? “Carole? Carole?”

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.”