"As she says, there are a lot of factors," commented the counselor.
"I'd suggest an examination. It may remove some of her objections."
He hadn't thought of it, but he accepted it eagerly. "What will that do?"
"Not much, unfortunately. It will prove that you two can have healthy normal children, but it won't indicate that you're not a member of her genetic family. And, of course, it won't touch on the question of legal family, brother-in-law and the like. I don't suppose she'd accept that."
She wouldn't. He'd seen her for only a brief time and yet he knew that much. He was in an ambiguous position; he could make snap decisions he was certain were right, but he had to guess at facts. He and the girl were victims, and the police refused to help them in the only way that would do much good. And the police had, or thought they had, official reasons for their stand.
Luis told the counselor just exactly what he thought of that.
"It's too bad," agreed the counselor. "These things often have an extraordinary degree of permanency if they ever get started."
If they ever got started! Luis reached out and turned off the screen.
It flickered unsteadily--the counselor was trying to call him back. He didn't want to talk to the man; it was painful, and Borgenese had nothing to add but plat.i.tudes, and fuel to his anger. He swung open the panel and jerked the wiring loose and the screen went blank.
There was an object concealed in the mechanism he had exposed. It was a neat, vicious, little retrogression gun.
He got it out and balanced it gingerly in his hand. Now he had something else to work on! It was _the_ weapon, of course. It had been used on him and then hidden behind the screen.
It was a good place to hide it. The screens never wore out or needed adjustment, and the cleaning robots that came out of the wall never cleaned there. The police should have found it, but they hadn't looked. He smiled bitterly. They weren't interested in solving crimes--merely in ameliorating the consequences.
Though the police had failed, he hadn't. It could be traced back to the man who owned it, and that person would have information. He turned the retro gun over slowly; it was just a gun; there were countless others like it.
He finished dressing and dropped the gun in his pocket. He went outside and looked across the court. He hesitated and then walked over and knocked.
"Occupied," said the door. "But the occupant is out. No definite time of return stated, but she will be back this evening. Is there any message?"
"No message," he said. "I'll call back when she's home."
He hoped she wouldn't refuse to speak to him. She'd been away from retro-therapy longer than he and possibly had developed her own leads--very likely she was investigating some of them now. Whatever she found would help him, and vice versa. The man who'd retroed her had done the same to him. They were approaching the problem from different angles. Between the two of them, they should come up with the correct solution.
He walked away from the Shelters and caught the belt to the center of town; the journey didn't take long. He stepped off, and wandered in the bright sunshine, not quite aimlessly. At length he found an Electronic Arms store, and went inside.
A robot came to wait on him. "I'd like to speak to the manager," he said and the robot went away.
Presently the manager appeared, middle aged, drowsy. "What can I do for you?"
Luis laid the retrogression gun on the counter. "I'd like to know who this was sold to."
The manager coughed. "Well, there are millions of them, hundreds of millions."
"I know, but I have to find out."
The manager picked it up. "It's a compet.i.tor's make," he said doubtfully. "Of course, as a courtesy to a customer...." He fingered it thoughtfully. "Do you really want to know? It's just a freezer. Not at all dangerous."
Luis looked at it with concern. Just a freezer--not a retro gun at all! Then it couldn't have been the weapon used on him.
Before he could take it back the manager broke it open. The drowsy expression vanished.
"Why didn't you say so?" exclaimed the manager, examining it. "This gun has been illegally altered." He bent over the exposed circuits and then glanced up happily at Luis. "Come here, I'll show you."
Luis followed him to the small workshop in the back of the store. The manager closed the door behind them and fumbled among the equipment.
He mounted the gun securely in a frame and pressed a b.u.t.ton which projected an image of the circuit onto a screen.
The manager was enjoying himself. "Everybody's ent.i.tled to self-protection," he said. "That's why we sell so many like these.
They're harmless, won't hurt a baby. Fully charged, they'll put a man out for half an hour, overload his nervous system. At the weakest, they'll still keep him out of action for ten minutes. Below that, they won't work at all." He looked up. "Are you sure you understand this?"
It had been included in his re-education, but it didn't come readily to his mind. "Perhaps you'd better go over it for me."
The manager wagged his head. "As I said, the freezer is legal, won't harm anyone. It'll stop a man or an elephant in his tracks, freeze him, but beyond that will leave him intact. When he comes out of it, he's just the same as before, nothing changed." He seized a pointer and adjusted the controls so as to enlarge the image on the screen.
"However, a freezer can be converted to a retrogression gun, and that's illegal." He traced the connections with the pointer. "If this wire, instead of connecting as it does, is moved to here and here, the polarity is reversed. In addition, if these four wires are interchanged, the freezer becomes a retrogressor. As I said, it's illegal to do that."
The manager scrutinized the circuits closely and grunted in disgust.
"Whoever converted this did a sloppy job. Here." He bent over the gun and began manipulating micro-instruments. He worked rapidly and surely. A moment later, he snapped the weapon together and straightened up, handing it to Luis. "There," he said proudly. "It's a much more effective retrogressor than it was. Uses less power too."
Luis swallowed. Either he was mad or the man was, or perhaps it was the society he was trying to adjust to. "Aren't you taking a chance, doing this for me?"
The manager smiled. "You're joking. A tenth of the freezers we sell are immediately converted into retrogressors. Who cares?" He became serious. "Do you still want to know who bought it?"
Luis nodded--at the moment he didn't trust his voice.
"It will take several hours. No charge though, customer service. Tell me where I can reach you."
Luis jotted down the number of the screen at the Shelter and handed it to the manager. As he left, the manager whispered to him: "Remember, the next time you buy a freezer--ours can be converted easier than the one you have."
He went out into the sunlight. It didn't seem the same. What kind of society was he living in? The reality didn't fit with what he had re-learned. It had seemed an orderly and sane civilization, with little violence and vast respect for the law.
But the fact was that any school child--well, not quite _that_ young, perhaps--but anyone older could and did buy a freezer. And it was ridiculously easy to convert a freezer into something far more vicious. Of course, it was illegal, but no one paid any attention to that.
This was wrong; it wasn't the way he remembered....
He corrected himself: he didn't actually remember anything. His knowledge came from tapes, and was obviously inadequate. Certain things he just didn't understand yet.
He wanted to talk to someone--but who? The counselor had given him all the information he intended to. The store manager had supplied some additional insight, but it only confused him. Luise--at the moment she was suspicious of him.
There was nothing to do except to be as observant as he could. He wandered through the town, just looking. He saw nothing that seemed familiar. Negative evidence, of course, but it indicated he hadn't lived here before.
Before what? Before he had been retrogressed. He had been brought here from elsewhere, the same as Luise.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
He visited the s.p.a.ceport. Again the evidence was negative; there was not a ship the sight of which tripped his memory. It had been too much to hope for; if he had been brought in by s.p.a.ceship, it wouldn't still be around for him to recognize.
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