mind; his earlier rejection of “X” so complete. And yet-the continuity could only be, could only refer to . . . memory. Besides, who else could he be?
Feverishly, he went in search of shave salve. He found a jar in a washroom down the hall. With trembling fingers, he rubbed it over the beard of the still, dead face.
The beard came off easily into a towel. Gosseyn knelt there looking down at a face that was older than he had thought, seventy-five, possibly eighty years old. It was an unmistakable face, and of itself answered many questions. Here beyond all argument was the visible end-reality of his search.
The face was his own.
Вы читаете The World of Null-A
