It had been several years since Jarrow last flew. He didn't enjoy it. The terminal had a worn and shabby look, seeming to exude the weariness of a world that was running down. There was growing concern about the effects of jet exhaust on the stratosphere, and the government had been talking about cutting the annual mileage allocations auctioned to airlines and raising rates to reduce the number of flights further. Jarrow hadn't realized that the measures were so far advanced, however. Half the airport's facilities appeared to be closed, and the departure lounge into which Jarrow eventually found his way was packed with anxious and harassed travelers milling around the check-in desks as they jockeyed for places, or sitting out interminable waits amid piles of baggage and restless children. Taking in the scene, Jarrow resigned himself to the inevitability of a long -delay. But to his grateful relief, Gordon's passport got him onto a United flight due to depart, as luck would have it, in less than an hour, with a stop at Chicago. He hadn't realized that the fares had gone up so much, either, but Gordon's cash reserve took care of that.
The man who lowered himself ponderously into the seat next to Jarrow's was fifty pounds overweight, breathed wheezily, and smelled of stale perspiration. He overflowed the armrest with his elbows and invaded the aisle space on one side and Jarrow's legroom on the other with his knees. Jarrow pulled himself in as far as possible and prepared himself for an uncomfortable flight.
The man leaned back, spreading his elbows wider to unfasten his necktie, then sideways, thrusting a shoulder across, to fish a pack of gum from his jacket pocket with the other hand. "These flying sardine cans don't get any better," he drawled.
"Right." Jarrow had the sinking feeling that this was the prelude to something that could go on all through the flight. During the cab ride from the hotel and amid the bustle of the airport, he had been waiting for a few hours of quiet to pull himself together and collect his thoughts.
"You do this route often?"
"Er, no."
The wrapper came off one of the wafers of gum, and the gum went into the mouth, which proceeded to chomp noisily. "I used to do it all the time. I know the scenery from here to the Windy City like my local road into town. Had to cut it back some in the last six months, though—with the new restrictions."
"Oh."
"I'm in tiles and flooring. How about you?"
"Pardon?"
"What line are you in?"
"Oh. Teaching. I teach."
"That's nice." There was a short silence, apart from the gum cracking. The information had evidently provoked no further thought or curiosity. Jarrow was beginning to hope that perhaps he would be permitted some peace for his own reflections after all, when the man shifted his bulk heavily again and leaned closer. Jarrow caught a whiff of bad breath mixed with the odor of gum. "Of course, you know what it's all about."
"What?"
"All this cutting back and clamping down. Why we can't catch a plane anytime we want anymore, or why you can get fined for running an air conditioner if it's below -seventy-five. You know what's really going on?"
Jarrow sighed. Everybody knew why such things were necessary. He didn't want to get into this. "It's a limited world," he recited. "The Profligate Era overstretched every-thing. We have to get back to a proper balance, conserve resources."
A thick-fingered hand waved itself in front of his face. "Nah, that's not why. It's because they know what's down the line. The Russian heap of cards came apart, right, and now it's all a mess over there. The old firm's supposed to be junked, and now they're all going their own way, okay? . . . But that ain't the way it is. See, the way I -figure it is, them Communists are still out there, in the space bubbles and on the Moon. That's who's really running things out there. And one day they're gonna be coming back to settle the old action, and our people know it. So everything's gotta be put into the military, and it's why we have to have all this security. We can't afford luxuries for now."
Jarrow groaned inwardly. Yes, Earth had to remain on its guard against the Offworlder threat, but this half-wit had it all wrong. The danger was simply one posed by economic reality: their reckless expansion of industry and population was bound to outrun the capacity of their resources to sustain, and when that happened they would look to Earth's, which were strained enough as things were. Anyone who couldn't see that, or who needed to conjure up the ghosts of defunct political ideologies to explain the situation, wasn't someone to waste breath arguing with. And just at this moment, Jarrow wasn't interested in arguing with anybody.
"I'm sorry, I've had a couple of tough days," he said. "Nice talking to you, but I need to catch up on my sleep." Without waiting for a response, he slid down in his seat, closed his eyes, and began going over what he could -remember.
Three days. . . . The clerk at the Hyatt had told him he had checked in on Saturday. And it seemed that Jarrow had acquired all the trappings and identity of Maurice Gordon by that time. His visit to Dr. Valdheim's had been on Thursday. What had happened during those missing forty-eight hours?
The fat man crashed about in the seat next to him again, derailing his thoughts. The ceaseless noise of gum--chewing sawed at his nerves.
The last thing he could recall before waking up in the hotel was looking up from the QUIP apparatus as he went under. At the thought of the probes and contacts around his head, all his misgivings about anything technological—and medical technology in particular—returned. Was it possible that he hadn't awakened at all, and all of this was taking place in his mind?
Weariness came over him with the effort of trying to make sense of it, and he drifted into a genuine, if fitful, sleep. At Chicago the fat man, thankfully, deplaned. His place was taken by a wan-faced woman who said not a word and was no trouble. After takeoff, Jarrow dozed again, awakening only when the cabin attendant roused him for the descent into Minneapolis. Through the window on one side as the plane banked, he caught a glimpse of a curve of the Mississippi and the plains to the south of the city, and saw to his surprise that there was plenty of snow about. He thought it had just about cleared. Maybe there had been a freak storm late in the season while he'd been gone, as sometimes happened.
When he got out, he decided that must have been the case: the weather had turned cold. He was glad that he'd brought Gordon's topcoat with him.
Since his divorce, Jarrow had lived alone in what was called Brooklyn Center, eight miles north of the metropolis. The apartment, one of sixty in a twin-tower layer cake of gray concrete and aluminum-ribbed glass shamelessly flaunting the name Orchard Lea Court, had seen better days. With the extension of urban rent controls, landlords and builders had been showing typical social irresponsibility by pulling out of the private-residence business, and it was now necessary for dwelling space to be allocated on a number-of-occupants basis. In fact, Jarrow was above par in getting what he had. That was one of the areas where being a teacher could help.
It must have been quite a storm, he concluded, seeing the piles of cleared snow along the sidewalks as he began tottering and slithering the two icy blocks from the nearest autoshuttle point. But when he had gone no more than a few yards, he saw that the snow was dirty and in many places lay on top of the compacted slush that looked as if it had been there a lot longer than three days. He puzzled over this oddity as he walked—and then stopped dead as the realization hit him that the assumption he'd been carrying uncritically all the way from Atlanta was completely without foundation.
He had presumed that his visit to Valdheim had been last Thursday, two days before he checked into the Hyatt. But there was no reason, of course, why it should be so. In fact, it was now so obvious from the changes that had taken place that whatever had happened must have involved far more time than three days, that he could find no explan-ation for taking so long to see it. Perhaps it was all affecting him even more than he realized. He began moving again, his pace quickening despite the treacherous surface underfoot, in growing disquiet and agitation.
And then, on reaching Orchard Lea Court, he stopped again to stare at the block across the street. Unless he'd been walking in and out for weeks without noticing, it had suddenly acquired a whole new frontage. Surely, the last time he'd seen it, hadn't it been empty, with a sign advertising a takeover by new owners and plans for converting it into offices? Now it was in business, with a new door and entrance hall, fresh paint, and logos on the windows advertising several brave enterprises now in residence. That hadn't happened over the weekend, either. More puzzled than ever, Jarrow turned and walked up the steps to the entrance of "B" tower.
Inside, he paused and stood looking around. The lobby area looked even more run-down than he remembered, with walls scuffed and scratched and the carpet on the stairs by the elevator worn threadbare at the edges. He walked over to the elevator and pressed the call button. The machinery inside responded with creaks and rumblings. And then as he waited, mentally playing through the picture of enter-ing his apartment and wondering if any new surprises were lying in wait for him there, he realized that he probably didn't have a key to get in. He felt inside his pocket and pulled out the keys that he'd picked up in the hotel room. As he'd feared, none were his own. The car arrived and the door in front of him slid aside. But there was no point in getting in. He stood looking around him in a quandary.
There was a movement in the janitor's room by the main entrance, and a figure rose behind the window facing out over the lobby. Moments later, a gnarled, wispy-haired Hispanic shuffled out, wearing a blue workshirt beneath a tan, kapok-padded vest. Jarrow had never seen him before.
"You looking' for somebody in here, or sump'n?"
"Ah, just the man." Jarrow tried to force a disarming grin, but it wouldn't quite work. "Look, I've got a small problem here. I've lost my key, and I'm locked out. Can you come up and let me in? It's 703."
The janitor flashed him a suspicious look. "703?"
"Right."
"I can't let nobody in except a resident. Who are you, anyhow?"
Jarrow wasn't in a mood to be given even more of a hard time than he was having already. And he didn't like the man's tone. "Look," he said tiredly, "if you're new to the job, give yourself time to learn all the faces before you try that kind of stuff. I am the resident, okay?"
"Get outta here."
All the tension that had been accumulating since early that morning erupted. "Look at your list, for God's sake," Jarrow snapped. "The name is Jarrow. I want to get into my apartment."
"Jarrow, huh?"
"Right." The janitor wasn't budging. Jarrow's voice rose higher. "Look, what the hell is this? I've been out of town, and I haven't had the best of weekends. So will you quit trying to be a hardass, or whatever you're playing at, and just do what I'm asking you to?"
The janitor backed toward the doorway he had emerged from. "What kinda asshole are you? I ain't never seen you before, an' I ain't never heard o' no Jarrow. Now I'm warnin' yuh, if you don't get out I'm callin' the cops."
Jarrow sighed, then changed tactics and spread his hands imploringly. "Look, I'm telling you I'm Richard Jarrow. I live in number 703. Why is that such a hard thing to believe?" Inwardly he was seized by a sudden misgiving as he realized that all he needed now was for the janitor to ask for some ID. Jarrow didn't have a shred that he could produce.
"What are you talkin' about?" the janitor rasped. "People called Ryan live in 703. Have done as long as I've worked here."
"And how the hell long is that?" Jarrow challenged, getting angry again.
"Three months now, just over—if that's any o' your business. So don't you go tellin' me I need to learn any faces."
Jarrow gaped, all the belligerence evaporating out of him. But even that didn't add up. He turned and stared out through the doors at the mounds of snow piled along the sidewalk. Three months would put them into midsummer: June or July. This was getting even crazier.
He turned a baffled face back toward the janitor, who was hovering just outside his cubbyhole with obvious doubts as to Jarrow's motives or sanity.
"What's the date today?" Jarrow whispered.
The janitor retreated into his room and reappeared with a stained copy of the Minneapolis Star & Tribune. "November seventeenth."
"November? That's impossible!"
"That's what it says, right here. Think I can't read or sump'n? Take a look yourself." The janitor thrust the -paper out, at the same time keeping his distance. Jarrow took it and read the line below the banner disbelievingly. The janitor's voice mumbled on in the background. "Comin' in here tellin' me I don't know my job, sayin' he lives here. Asshole don't even know what month it is."
Jarrow handed the paper back numbly. His last recollection before finding himself in Atlanta was his visit to Dr. Valdheim. That had been on the third of April.
He had lost over seven months of his life.