Jarrow was flown south to a military airbase that he took to be in Georgia, where a helicopter was waiting to collect him, along with the three men whom the police had handed him over to in Chicago. They flew at a modest height for about twenty minutes over wooded, hilly terrain and an occasional river valley. Then, a broken area between the trees ahead unfolded into a cluster of white and brown office blocks and other structures several stories high, standing amid a sprawl of outbuildings and parking lots, a tower with a water tank and another carrying communications antennae, all geometrically segmented and enclosed by lines of wire fences. As the helicopter descended, the central complex of buildings rose up and took on solid form to look for a moment like the superstructure of a ship sailing on a sea of green . . . and then they were landing on a pad in front of a five-story frontage of polished stone panels and copper-tinted glass. They got out to the scent of pines and a breeze pleasantly mild after the wintriness of Illinois. Every-thing about the surroundings suggested efficiency, orga-nization, authority, and order, from the military emblem painted on the helicopter's fuselage to the smartly turned-out uniformed guards in the post ahead of them beside the door. Jarrow felt the reassurance of being on the right side and in capable hands at last. His problems, he was sure, would soon be resolved.
They took him up to the top floor, where wood-paneled doors opened off carpeted corridors, and secretaries sat at desks with terminals and screens outside glass-partitioned offices. He waited in a small room with chairs and a table set conference style, and a woman in a pastel blue two-piece and blouse brought him a snack with a cup of coylene. Then he was shown into a spacious office with a leather-topped desk standing before a wall of tinted windows -looking out over the Georgia hills. A man with white hair and a pinkish, tight-mouthed countenance, wearing a dark suit, was sitting behind the desk. With him were a sallow-faced man with dark curly hair, dressed in a light tan suit, and a smaller man with rimless spectacles and an intense expression, who, from the description that Josef had -obtained from Ashling, had to be Dr. Nordens. Jarrow guessed the man behind the desk to be the director, Raymond Fairfax, whose name Josef had supplied in the course of briefing Jarrow with as much as he knew about the setup at Pearse. Jarrow didn't know who the third man was.
Jarrow sat down, and the assistant who had shown him in withdrew, closing the door. Fairfax stared at him fixedly for several seconds. It was a troubled look, the look of somebody trapped into something he'd rather not have to deal with, and at the same time wary of an unknown.
Finally he said, "Why did you decide to run? What did you think you were doing?"
Jarrow shrugged and did his best to look mystified but composed. The fastest way to getting this whole business resolved would be to tell them everything candidly.
"I don't know," he replied simply. "I don't remember anything about it."
The news didn't seem to take Fairfax by surprise. But of course he would already have known enough to have expected that. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, looking at Jarrow strangely. He raised a hand in a brief, dismissive gesture. "Do you know these people . . . or these surroundings, where you are?"
"From what I've been told, I presume this is the Pearse military psychological laboratories," Jarrow replied. "I don't know if I've been in this office before. I imagine that you're the director here, Raymond Fairfax." Jarrow inclined his head to indicate the others. "This looks like Dr. Nordens, whom I know I've dealt with. . . . I'm sorry, I can't place you."
"This is Jerry Tierney," Fairfax said. "He's in charge of security operations here." Tierney returned a faint nod.
Nordens shifted his posture and looked at Jarrow, -intrigued. "Who told you these things?" he asked. "What's the last thing you do remember?"
Jarrow took a moment to collect his words, and then began relating his story. He described his last recollection of visiting Valdheim in April, then told of waking up in Atlanta with no idea of how he got there; his journey back to Minneapolis, discovery that it was November, and confusion on learning that Richard Jarrow was dead; of going to Chicago and the subsequent events there after meeting Rita. "I realize now that what happened was a misunderstanding," he said. "Your people were merely taking precautions, as they had to in the circumstances. There wasn't any violence or shooting or anything like that. The problem was my doing, for overreacting."
"Where did you go after you evaded them?" Nordens asked curiously.
"Some friends of Rita's put us up for the night, in -another part of Chicago."
"Do you have their names or the address?" Tierney asked.
Jarrow hesitated. He didn't see how that could be useful. "No, I'm afraid I don't. It didn't seem important."
"Carry on," Fairfax said.
Jarrow told how he had learned from Rita that the day before he awoke in Atlanta he had apparently been functioning as Warrant Officer Tony Demiro, who had been connected with certain work going on at Pearse, and that this was Demiro's physical body. Finally, he described how they were contacted by Pipeline, the meeting with Josef, and the two days that followed in the house somewhere outside the city. The people from Pipeline were looking for a scientist called Ashling, who had apparently disappeared from Pearse, and they thought that Jarrow would be able to help. In response to Tierney's further questioning, Jarrow described the Pipeline agents whom he had met and outlined their apparent functions. He concluded, managing a hint of a wry smile, "They hoped they could recruit me as a spy to work for them on the inside, here at Pearse. I played along with it because it seemed the only way to get away. So here I am. . . . And now you know as much as I do."
He waited. There was a drawn-out silence. Jarrow looked from one to the other expectantly, but their expressions remained unreadable. At length Nordens asked him, "Do you recall anything at all about Ashling?"
Jarrow shook his head. "Apart from what they told me, no, nothing."
"Nothing about Ashling's intending to leave the country, maybe? About where he might be going?"
"Nothing," Jarrow said again. "But they were anxious to find him too, so I imagine he's still here."
Nordens nodded. He seemed relieved.
"You don't actually remember anything about being Demiro the day before you woke up as you are now?" Tierney checked once again.
"No."
"Anything at all prior to waking up on November seventeenth?"
"Nothing since the visit to Valdheim on April third. Up to that point everything was normal."
"Does the name Samurai mean anything?" Nordens asked.
"Your agents called me that when they tried to intervene in Chicago. I assume it was some kind of code designation associated with whatever Demiro was involved in here."
Nordens gave a noncommittal nod. "I see."
Again there was silence. Jarrow looked from one to the other, puzzled and feeling increasingly disturbed now. "Look, I've been as frank as I can," he said at last. "I was hoping for some answers myself."
Which of course was only reasonable. Nordens took off his spectacles, squinted through one of the lenses, then removed a speck of something and replaced them again. "We're not sure of all the answers ourselves yet," he -replied. "We'll need to perform some tests, check our facts. This is an extremely complicated matter. I'm sure you -understand."
It seemed very vague. Jarrow conceded the point with a nod, but holding his ground in the manner of one who was still entitled to something. "Of course. But at least give me an outline of what's been going on, even if you can't explain all of it just at this moment."
Nordens glanced at Fairfax, who nodded a quick assent. Nordens looked at Jarrow and replied, "Demiro was part of a volunteer program that we've been running here to investigate a new method of training military personnel—and eventually we hope it will have many other applications too. Essentially it involves extracting encoded skills from the brains of existing experts, and implanting them into novices. The results have been quite remarkable."
"Yes." Jarrow was aware of that much, which tied in with the things that Josef and Kay had said. What he wasn't ready to accept was the further account of sinister political agendas and deliberate use of unwitting subjects that they had tried to draw from it.
Nordens went on, "Dr. Valdheim's work was also in a new area of physiological research that involved deriving the codes of certain neural patterns, but in his case for pathological diagnosis and treatment. That was why you were referred to him. Well, to cut a long story short, we reached an agreement with the department sponsoring Valdheim's work, under which he could transmit his data here for processing. We possess a large array of computing and other equipment, together with appropriate software, that is -already developed to perform precisely the kind of tasks that Valdheim required." Nordens raised a hand briefly. "As far as we can make out, one of those files from Valdheim—it was still stored here, you understand, after Jarrow's unfor-tunate death—was somehow mixed up with our own experimental training files, and implanted into Demiro. How it happened, we don't know. And even more perplexing is the fact that the entire Jarrow personality seems to have established itself. By all our models and theories that shouldn't have been possible. And that, of course, is why we're so anxious to find Ashling: an intellect of his caliber will be essential to help us resolve your problem."
"Where's Valdheim now?" Jarrow asked. He had already told of his attempts to locate the doctor when he was in Minneapolis.
"Back in Washington. After the unfortunate setback involving yourself, naturally his program was suspended. As far as I know, the department responsible has ruled to keep details out of the public domain until they have more facts to go on. Premature release of information in cases like this always causes misunderstandings and needless alarm."
There, it all had an innocent explanation, as Jarrow had known all along that it would. "And Samurai?" he inquired lightly, as if just filling in a missing detail. "Where did he come in?"
Nordens tossed up a hand carelessly. "Oh, Samurai and Gordon were pseudonyms connected with some tests we were carrying out on Demiro."
Jarrow was already nodding. He felt like laughing aloud with relief and gratitude. The situation was a bizarre one, no question about that. But the world could be a strange place. The fantasies that Kay and Josef had spun were typical of the delusions of subversive mentalities everywhere, resentful at not having what they thought should be their say in running things, who would say anything to derogate what they couldn't become part of.
"There's just one more thing that I'm not clear on," be said. "How could Demiro have been the subject of all this if he was killed five months ago in June?"
Nordens made a good job of looking puzzled. "Killed? What do you mean, killed?" he asked, taking off his spectacles again.
Jarrow gestured uncertainly. "I told you just now. . . . The girl, Rita Chilsen. She said that Demiro was killed in June, in a helicopter accident."
"Oh, that!" Nordens scoffed, dismissing the suggestion with a wave. "A hysterical woman, maybe wanting to ration-alize breaking up with her fiancé or something. Who knows? People do the oddest things all the time, Mr. Jarrow. Sometimes I wonder if half the world is sane at all."
Jarrow was incredulous. "Surely you're not saying that she made it up?"
Nordens allowed his mouth to bend in a rare hint of humor and motioned in Jarrow's direction. "Consider the evidence for yourself. You don't look very dead to me. Do you feel dead, Mr. Jarrow?"
Jarrow saw that the others were smiling thinly too. It was reassuring. This was where the power lay, and they were on his side. He smiled in turn, and then broke into a quick laugh that he found impossible to suppress. "No," he told them. "I don't feel dead at all."
Nordens and Tierney took him on a tour of parts of the establishment. He learned that the cluster of larger buildings that they were in was called the Main Complex, which contained the administrative section and much of the laboratory space. The major projects were located within a Restricted Zone, outside which were various ancillary buildings and outstations. One of these was the Facilities Block, housing such general amenities as the dining hall and cafeteria, medical center, recreational provisions, and a social club. None of it meant anything to Jarrow. They took him out to a fenced compound behind the primary establishment buildings and showed him around inside a military-style billet hut with dormitory area, washrooms, staff room, and kitchen, all very clean, bare, and deserted. Jarrow got the feeling that it was an attempt to trigger his recollections of something by means of association. But it didn't succeed.
Finally they left the main compound and drove around to a wooded area on one side of the establishment, hidden from the main approach road and secluded, where a smaller side gate with its own guardpost gave access to a separate annex area. It consisted of low, bungalow-style chalets and what looked like apartment units, jumbled together around an irregular arrangement of interconnecting parking areas and forecourts. Some effort had been made here to relieve the uniform, military-scientific austerity of the larger adjoining compound, with its faceless walls of concrete, storage tanks, and pipes. The designs of the buildings were colorful and varied, and the outlines broken up with screens of greenery interspersed with pines. This, Jarrow was informed, was the Permanent Quarters Annex, or PQA. It backed onto one side of where Jarrow thought the Restricted Zone perimeter lay inside the Main Complex.
"Do you recognize this place?" Nordens asked him.
This had become a familiar routine by now. Jarrow shook his head. "Sorry. It could be off a street in any town. Should I?"
"Yes, you should," Nordens told him. "It's where you've been living. Come on, we'll show you."
They walked along a path behind several parked vehicles, then up a short flight of stone steps flanked by a grassy mound and a wall masked by shrubbery to a covered walkway that brought them to a door. "Try your keys here," Nordens said.
For a moment Jarrow didn't know what he meant. Then he remembered the keys that he'd taken from the hotel room in Atlanta—which had been no good for his own former apartment in Minneapolis. He took them from his pocket, selected one that looked right, and the door opened on the first try. He withdrew the key and entered. Nordens and Tierney followed.
It was a residential apartment. But not any kind of apartment that Jarrow would have chosen for himself. His first impression was of one of those ultra-contemporary galleries intended to display avant-garde art forms. The floor was of mottled gray, polished marble, the walls stark white, and the furnishings sleek and streamlined, unrelieved harshness, in black leather curves with chrome and steel supports, glass surfaces, ceramic inlays, and tiles. The fittings were contrasting black and white or metal; the framed designs and sculptures adorning the walls and alcoves were angular and sharp; the lighting bright, hard, penetrating, precise. A terminal with several screens and an entertainment selector panel, black and silver, with aluminum controls, formed a cornerpiece between a black-upholstered recliner and a glass-sided, slender-legged desk. Everything was well spaced, positioned exactly, selected for function. Every ornament, even, was there for a purpose. It was all hard, cold, unyielding, without blemish of any wavering to the seductions of softness or color; no admission of the weakness that succumbing to warmth and frivolity betrays.
To Jarrow it was daunting. He had lived here? He could no more picture himself inhabiting such surroundings than a piece of sterilized packaging enlarged to room size. If gleaming robots with metal faces and compound-lens eyes ever took over the world in the way the movies depicted, this was where they would come home to.
"We'll leave you on your own for a while to adjust and find your feet," Nordens said. "You'll find all your possessions untouched. There is a domestic staff who look after the Annex and take care of things like housekeeping, -catering, and laundry. Seven-seven will get them on the terminal. Is there anything else that you need for now?"
Jarrow was too disoriented by this latest turn of events to think of anything. "No, I don't think so," he said. "You're probably right. Just let me rest up for a while."
Nordens nodded. "Best. It's late afternoon now. I'll be around for a few more hours. If you need to contact me for anything, the terminal will give you my code. Otherwise we'll see you again tomorrow."
After they had left, Jarrow explored the rest of the apartment and found it to consist of a bedroom, kitchen and breakfast area, and bathroom in addition to the living room that he had already seen. In keeping with his first impressions, all of it was harshly etched in black, white, metal, and glass, tile, and ceramic; sheer drapes, maroon-and-black bed linen; suits and jackets of black, light gray, charcoal, and subdued blue in the closet; tailored shirts, silk ties; all dispassionately severe, coldly masculine.
He took off the crumpled clothes of Gordon's that he was wearing again and dropped them into the laundry basket provided. Then he shaved, using a new, manual razor, and after that spent twenty minutes soaping and rinsing away several days of grime, perspiration, travel, and tensions in the shower. He selected some clean clothes and shoes from the closet and drawers in the bedroom, stretched out on the bed, and relaxed totally and luxuriously for almost the next hour. By that time he was feeling hungry. He called the service number from the bedside unit, switched to audio only. A man's voice answered, sounding courteous and obliging. After some questions and answers, Jarrow ordered a cheese-and-mushroom omelette with potatoes, side salad, whole-grain bread with butter, orange juice, followed by milk pudding and fruit desert, cheese with crackers, pot of coylene. He was told it would be there in fifteen minutes.
Shortly afterward, a chime sounded from the front door. Jarrow went out to the living room and opened it. The woman standing there could have been a model for one of the magazines that some of his students occasionally showed up at school with. She had long, straight, ebony-black hair sweeping down to her shoulders, sultry eyes, emphasized with shadowed lids and mascara, and full, heavily made-up lips. Her outfit could have been chosen to match the decor of the apartment, and comprised a black leather skirt, cut at half-thigh length to reveal well-shaped legs in net stockings, a white top embroidered with silver thread, which squeezed and exposed the tops of her breasts, and a light, silver-gray jacket thrown back at the shoulders. She exuded a voluptuous perfume and wore a silver pendant at her throat, bracelets, rings on several of her fingers, and a jeweled broach on one lapel.
To Jarrow the sight was totally unnerving. All he could do was stare, incapable of speech.
"So you're back," she said. Her voice was low, soft, intimately familiar. "Could you use some company over dinner? From your choice, your tastes seem to have changed toward what might be called the more conservative." She reached out a hand with slender fingers tipped by long, red-lacquered nails and undid the top button of his shirt. "Then later, I thought maybe a little . . . 'relaxation' might be a good idea? Kind of, like a welcome home?" Her eyes flickered quickly across his face, but without losing their mischievous half smile. "You don't remember me, do you?"
Jarrow gulped and shook his head. No home comforts were spared for the volunteers here, it seemed. She had evidently been briefed since his arrival.
"I'm Vera," she said.
Confusion came boiling up uncontrollably inside him. "No. . . . Not now, really," he stammered. "I've been affected by some kind of amnesia or something. They must have told you. . . . I just need to rest."
"Sure," she said lightly. She was unperturbed and unfazed, evidently prepared for something like that. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm still around. There'll be plenty of time for reunions later. They say that waiting makes it that much better. I'll see how you're feeling in the morning." She smiled, winked at him, and walked away.
"Yes. . . . Do." Jarrow closed the door shakily and sat down.
He went to bed shortly after finishing his meal. But the feeling of self-congratulatory satisfaction that he had anticipated wasn't there. He thought of Rita, Sandy and Bruce—he was glad now that he'd chosen not to remember their names—of Josef, Kay, and Scipio, and while he could never condone what they stood for, somehow he couldn't bring himself to think of them as "enemy." And while by no stretch of the imagination could he accept that denouncing self-proclaimed saboteurs and subversives qualified as "betrayal" . . . somewhere deep down, he wasn't comfortable about what he had done.