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It is incredible that I have forgotten so much, so quickly. I have used my body for forty years; I thought I knew it. Yet already it is fading like a dream.

Arms, legs, where are you? What did you ever do for me when you. were mine? I send out signals, trying to command the limbs 1 vaguely remember. Nothing happens. It is like shouting into a vacuum.

Shouting. Yes, I try that. Perhaps they hear me, but I cannot hear myself. Silence has flowed over me, until I can no longer imagine sound. There is a word in my mind called "music"; what does it mean?

(So many words, drifting before me out of the darkness, waiting to be recognized. One by one they go away, disappointed.) Hello. So you are back. How softly you tiptoe into my mind!

I know when you are there, but I never feel you coming.

1 sense that you are friendly, and I am grateful for what you have done. But who are you? Of course, I know you're not human; no human science could have rescued me when the drive field collapsed... You see, I am becoming curious. That is a good sign, is it not? Now that the pain has gone-at last, at last-1 can start to think again.

Yes, I am ready. Anything you want to know. It is the least that 1 can do.

My name is William Vincent Neuberg. I am a master pilot of the Galactic Survey. I was born in Port Lowell, Mars, on August 21, 2095. My wife, Janita, and my three children are on Ganymede. I am also an author; I've written a good deal about my travels. Beyond Rigel is quite famous....

What happened? You probably know as much as I do. I had just phantomed my ship and was cruising at phase velocity when the alarm went. There was no time to move, to do anything. I remember the cabin walls starting to glow-and the heat, the terrible heat. That is all. The detonation must have blown me into space. But how could I have survived? How could anyone have reached me in time?

Tell me-how much is left of my body? Why cannot I feel my arms, my legs? Don't hide the truth; I am not afraid. If you can get me home, the biotechnicians can give me new limbs. Even now, my right arm is not the one I was born with.

Why can't you answer? Surely that is a simple question! What do you mean you do not know what I look like? You must have saved something!

The head?

The brain, then?

Not even-oh, no...!

I am sorry. Was I away a long time?

Let me get a grip on myself. (Ha! Very funny!) I am Survey Pilot First Class Vincent William Freeburg. I was born in Port Lyot, Mars, on August 21, 1895. I have one ... no, two children....

Please let me have that again, slowly. My training prepared me for any conceivable reality. I can face whatever you tell me. But slowly.

Well, it could be worse. I'm not really dead. I know who I am. I even think I know what 1 am.

I am a-a recording, in some fantastic storage device. You must have caught my psyche, my soul, when the ship turned into plasma. Even though I cannot imagine how it was done, it makes sense. After all, a primitive man could never understand how we record a symphony....

All my memories are trapped in a tape or a crystal, as they once were trapped in the cells of my vaporized brain. And not only my memories. ME. I. MYSELF-VINCE WILLBURG, PILOT SECOND CLASS.

Well, what happens next?

Please say that again. I do not understand.

Oh, wonderful! You can do even that?

There is a word for it, a name....

The multitudinous seas incarnadine. No. Not quite. Incarnadine, incarnadine...

REINCARNATION!!

Yes, yes, I understand. I must give you the basic plan, the design. Watch my thoughts very carefully.

I will start at the top.

The head, now. It is oval-so. The upper part is covered with hair. Mine was br-er-blue.

The eyes. They are very important. You have seen them in other animals? Good, that saves trouble. Can you show me some? Yes, those will do.

Now the mouth. Strange-I must have looked at it a thousand times when I was shaving, but somehow . . .

Not so round-narrower.

Oh, no, not that way. It runs across the face, horizontally.... Now, let's see ... there's something between the eyes and the mouth.

Stupid of me. I'll never be a cadet if I can't even remember that....

Of course - NOSE.' A little longer, I think.

There's something else, something I've forgotten. That head looks raw, unfinished. It's not me, Billy Vinceburg, the smartest kid on the block.

But that isn't my name-I'm not a boy. I'm a master pilot with twenty years in the Space Service, and I'm trying to rebuild my body. Why do my thoughts keep going out of focus? Help me, please!

That monstrosity? Is that what I told you I looked like? Erase it. We must start again.

The head, now. It is perfectly spherical, and weareth a runcible cap....

Too difficult. Begin somewhere else. Ah, I know-

The thighbone is connected to the shinbone. The shinbone is connected to the thighbone. The thighbone is connected to the shinbone. The shinbone . . .

All fading. Too late, too late. Something wrong with the playback. Thank you for trying. My name is ... my name is . . .

Mother-where are you?

Mama-Mama! Maaaaaaa . . .