bargain. You’ve not done this sort of job before?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Grebbel said, “the way I handled that truck, does it?” He was thinking of the effects of a battery explosion, shards of metal and ceramic piercing flesh, hot alkali spraying into faces. If you were careless with a wrench when the terminals were exposed . . .
“But you can’t be sure, because you’re one of the unlucky thirty percent. You arrived without all your chips programmed, and they’ve only just started on you in the clinic, is that it? How much do you reckon you’ve lost?”
“Hard to say. I can remember how to do algebra, but I can’t remember when I took it, or where.”
I’ve kept what I did, and I’ve lost what I am.
“That can be rough.” Menzies drew his fingers through wiry, greying hair. “I’ve seen some . . . Well, never mind that. You work at settling in here, and what you don’t get back you won’t miss.”
“That’s what they say in the clinic, too.”
Menzies considered for a moment. “If it’s important enough, it’ll find a way to return to you. I’ve seen that happen, too.”
“Be nice to think so. In the meantime, what do I do? Go on autopilot?”
“That’s about it. Shit, it’s a shame, though. People come out here for all sorts of reasons. What it comes down to in every case, though, is that they were after some kind of a fresh start. And then a third of them find they’ve lost their past. They don’t know what they were running from, or even if they were running. How’re you going to make a fresh start if you can’t look back and see where you went wrong? How in hell you ever going to do that?”
Grebbel rubbed his chin, then put on his gloves. “I heard something about a leaflet being passed around yesterday,” he said, “saying some hopeless mental cases had been shipped out here. Maybe they’d be happier without their memories.”
“Ah, you don’t want to believe shit like that. If someone thinks that sort of thing’s going on here, let then come out and point to it, so we can all make up our minds. Then I’ll listen. Look, I’ll tell you a case I know about. There was a man back there, not a bad sort, he’d watch the game Saturdays with the guys, go for a drink after work, Fridays. Maybe he chased the skirts on the lower end of Main Street the odd time when he’d told his wife he was making deliveries across town, but not a bad guy. Only, he started making those deliveries about every other week, and then twice a week, and then he got into the heavier stuff. Found he couldn’t stop—even when one of the girls had to be taken away in an ambulance. He’d made the call himself.
“She didn’t turn him in,” he went on. “Maybe she couldn’t describe him, maybe they weren’t interested. But he was shit scared for a month. And still he couldn’t stop. Knew he’d kill one of them sooner or later. And if they didn’t get him before, they would then, and he’d be inside for a long time. And even that wouldn’t have made him stop. But when it reached the point where he found he was looking at his own kids . . .
“Then, finally, he started looking for ways out. In the end, he turned himself in for treatment. They stirred his brains about, and made him do community work at a crisis centre, and finally let him loose in the world. But how could he go back to his old job and his friends after that? Finally, he decided there was only one place to go—out. So he applied for here.
“Of course, when he got here, all that had gone. He thought he’d just been one of those who got sick of the wages and the stinking air at rush hour and the cops clearing everyone off the streets at midnight every Friday in summer. The treatment at the clinic wasn’t much help. After a couple of months he gave up on it and quit going. But he lucked out. The memories came back. And he decided, this time he’d do it right, all the way. And that’s what he’s done. Not one
“Doesn’t look like it,” Grebbel said, “the way I handled that truck, does it?” He was thinking of the effects of a battery explosion, shards of metal and ceramic piercing flesh, hot alkali spraying into faces. If you were careless with a wrench when the terminals were exposed . . .
“But you can’t be sure, because you’re one of the unlucky thirty percent. You arrived without all your chips programmed, and they’ve only just started on you in the clinic, is that it? How much do you reckon you’ve lost?”
“Hard to say. I can remember how to do algebra, but I can’t remember when I took it, or where.”
I’ve kept what I did, and I’ve lost what I am.
“That can be rough.” Menzies drew his fingers through wiry, greying hair. “I’ve seen some . . . Well, never mind that. You work at settling in here, and what you don’t get back you won’t miss.”
“That’s what they say in the clinic, too.”
Menzies considered for a moment. “If it’s important enough, it’ll find a way to return to you. I’ve seen that happen, too.”
“Be nice to think so. In the meantime, what do I do? Go on autopilot?”
“That’s about it. Shit, it’s a shame, though. People come out here for all sorts of reasons. What it comes down to in every case, though, is that they were after some kind of a fresh start. And then a third of them find they’ve lost their past. They don’t know what they were running from, or even if they were running. How’re you going to make a fresh start if you can’t look back and see where you went wrong? How in hell you ever going to do that?”
Grebbel rubbed his chin, then put on his gloves. “I heard something about a leaflet being passed around yesterday,” he said, “saying some hopeless mental cases had been shipped out here. Maybe they’d be happier without their memories.”
“Ah, you don’t want to believe shit like that. If someone thinks that sort of thing’s going on here, let then come out and point to it, so we can all make up our minds. Then I’ll listen. Look, I’ll tell you a case I know about. There was a man back there, not a bad sort, he’d watch the game Saturdays with the guys, go for a drink after work, Fridays. Maybe he chased the skirts on the lower end of Main Street the odd time when he’d told his wife he was making deliveries across town, but not a bad guy. Only, he started making those deliveries about every other week, and then twice a week, and then he got into the heavier stuff. Found he couldn’t stop—even when one of the girls had to be taken away in an ambulance. He’d made the call himself.
“She didn’t turn him in,” he went on. “Maybe she couldn’t describe him, maybe they weren’t interested. But he was shit scared for a month. And still he couldn’t stop. Knew he’d kill one of them sooner or later. And if they didn’t get him before, they would then, and he’d be inside for a long time. And even that wouldn’t have made him stop. But when it reached the point where he found he was looking at his own kids . . .
“Then, finally, he started looking for ways out. In the end, he turned himself in for treatment. They stirred his brains about, and made him do community work at a crisis centre, and finally let him loose in the world. But how could he go back to his old job and his friends after that? Finally, he decided there was only one place to go—out. So he applied for here.
“Of course, when he got here, all that had gone. He thought he’d just been one of those who got sick of the wages and the stinking air at rush hour and the cops clearing everyone off the streets at midnight every Friday in summer. The treatment at the clinic wasn’t much help. After a couple of months he gave up on it and quit going. But he lucked out. The memories came back. And he decided, this time he’d do it right, all the way. And that’s what he’s done. Not one
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