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five

When he was ten years old or so, Richard Jarrow had become a Galactic Ranger. Membership was acquired by filling in an application from the back of a breakfast -cereal box and sending it in with ten dollars and five tokens. In return, the prospective interstellar lawman received a visored communicator helmet; space navigator's equipment belt and sidearm; official ID card and badge; a top-secret manual containing various codes and signaling procedures, instructions for dealing with a host of unlikely situations, charts of the organizational command structure, rules and regulations, and the Ranger's Code of Honor. It also included a tear-out registration form to be completed and returned for filing at Galactic Strike Command Headquarters, care of the Krispbix Foods Corporation, which among other things listed height, weight, color of hair and eyes, and any other distinguishing features.

In response to the last question, young Jarrow had described a birthmark on his left forearm, vaguely shaped like South America. For some strange reason he couldn't actually summon to mind any visual recollection of what it looked like. But he remembered quite definitely filling in the answer. The stranger thing was that there was no trace of such a mark on his arm now.

He was also becoming aware of other, similar peculiarities concerning events he was certain he remembered as having happened, but that he was unable to reconcile with his circumstances now. There had been an occasion in his teenage years, for example, when he went on vacation with some friends to Texas in July and had been badly sunburned. He remembered the doctor who treated him commenting that with his fair skin he should have taken it easier for the first few days. But how could that have been, when Jarrow had olive skin and a Mediterranean complexion?

He sat on the edge of the single bed in a nondescript room with wallpaper and cheap drapes, and tapped a number into the keypad of the viewphone. For refuge, he had sought out one of the small hotels in downtown Minneapolis, which, for cash, would waive the regulations requir-ing ID. Maurice Gordon, he'd decided, would be better buried for the time being, until he found out more about him.

The girl who answered the call was thin and pallid, with dark hair fluffed out around her head like a smoky halo. She wore a bored and indifferent expression. "D.K. Properties."

"Hello. You're the company that handles the rentals at Orchard Lea Court in Brooklyn Center?"

"Yes, we do."

"Ah, I wonder if you can help me. I'm trying to trace a Mr. Richard Jarrow who used to be in number 703. Can you tell me—"

"Hang on one second." The girl turned away, and the sound of computer keys being hammered came over the audio. A phone rang somewhere in the background. "703, you said?"

"Right."

"What was the name again?"

"Jarrow."

"Right. . . . Well, he ain't there no more. It's let in the name of Ryan. Jarrow's contract terminated end of May last year."

"Er, do you have any indication of why?"

"We're not into life histories here. We just rent apartments, okay?"

"I understand. Oh, one more thing. Does it say where he went? Do you have a forwarding address, anything like that?"

"All it's got here is that the contract ran out at the end of May. That's all I can tell you."

"I see. Thanks anyw—" The screen blanked out.

Jarrow touched a key to disconnect, swung his legs up off the floor, and lay back against the pillows stacked at the head of the bed. He had been lying there like this ever since he checked in, groping for a hint of a lead that never came. A whole chunk of his life, from the April 3 that he remembered through to November 17, which he had to accept as the current date, had vanished. On top of that, even his recollections from before—from times that he had no reason to view as having been abnormal—were sprinkled with details that couldn't be true. And as if that wasn't disconcerting enough, he had returned to find himself surrounded by evidence of a life-style that wasn't his, and in possession of the clothes and ID of somebody he'd never heard of.

He stared at the picture of buffalo hanging above the brown-painted chest of drawers on the other side of the room. The buffalo didn't have an answer to offer. Jarrow thought for a few minutes longer, then got up, took the blue topcoat from the hook behind the door, and went back down to the street.

* * *

The time was just coming up to four in the afternoon when Jarrow arrived at Linden Junior High. After his exper-ience with the janitor the day before, he was wary of -relying on being recognized to get him past the security desk—especially since he had no documentation to verify who he was. Respect for authority and the kinds of safeguards necessary for the orderly functioning of society were essen-tial in the makeup of future citizens, and the educational environment was designed to instill familiarity and acceptance from an early age. Students carried electronically coded IDs, filled in forms, and had to get permits for just about everything, and were organized into progressive levels of seniority that taught due deference to higher ranks. They were reviewed periodically in a "personal profile" that included assessments of such qualities as group conformity and social adaptability, as well as academic performance, and this constituted the beginnings of a cumulative record of appraisals that would accompany them through, and in many cases have much to do with determining, their -careers.

However, the buildings also contained a number of staff doors that could be opened by number codes, which Jarrow knew. He went around to the side of the central building, which contained the staff rooms and offices, entered the digits into the touchbox, and a few moments later appeared from a side corridor leading into the main hall. There, he paused to take stock of the general situation.

A new door had been installed at the end of the corridor leading to Ms. Filey's and Chet Orne's classrooms, but by now Jarrow was learning to expect things like that. The posters around the bulletin board were different. One was a chart of the human body populated by caricatures of directors in suits inhabiting the head and sending out -orders, and depictions of assorted professionals, public servants, tradespeople, and workers in various places carrying out their assigned tasks. The slogan above read: each part has its place. so do we. Another extolled the virtues of group conformity by showing a ridiculously portrayed pig with artificial wings strapped to its back about to leap from a tree, while other pigs looked on from below in various attitudes of scorn and derision. be smart: play your part, the caption exhorted. Farther along, some shelves had been put up in the hall area to accommodate overflow from the library.

Jarrow had arrived as classes were changing, and students were free to move in the corridors without passes. The younger faces were unfamiliar to him, which was to be expected if they were from the September intake. As he moved on past the library, heading for the staff living room and general office, a group from one of his own freshman social integration classes came around the corner from the refectory. Sally Bolin was giggling as usual, sharing a joke with Wendy Redcliff; behind them were Jerry Hodge, a few pounds heavier, and Abud Taraki, the large-eyed Iranian, still wearing the same red neckerchief with gold--embroidered eagles' heads. They'd all be sophomores now.

All at once, being in familiar surroundings again, seeing faces that he knew, brought the first feeling of respite from the confusion that had been racking Jarrow ever since his strange awakening that morning. Relief flooded through him, drowning the doubts and bringing a conviction that somehow, everything would work itself out now. Forgetting all misgivings, he changed direction to intercept the group and grinned at them delightedly, yet in a way that couldn't come close to expressing what he felt at that moment.

But the two girls looked through him as if he weren't there and went on their way sniggering and chattering, while Jerry and Abud exchanged glances just long enough to confirm to each other that this guy was acting strangely. Abud stopped to look at Jarrow inquiringly, while Jerry slowed a few paces ahead.

"Are you looking for someone?" Abud asked cautiously.

"Abud. Don't you remember me? I can't have changed that much." Jarrow spread his hands in appeal, at the same time broadening his grin to a point that he realized too late was inane.

Abud backed off a pace. "No, I don't."

Jarrow's smile faded into incomprehension. He turned to Jerry. "You must know me. Don't you?"

Jerry shook his had. "Sorry." He looked at Abud. "Come on. We'll be late. Pass-break'll be over in less than a minute."

Abud retreated after Jerry. "The school office is that way," Abud threw back over his shoulder, pointing. "They'll be able to help you in there."

And then a commanding voice spoke from a speaker somewhere behind and above. "Attention, person wearing the blue coat." Jarrow spun around and looked up. One of the surveillance cameras was trained on him. He was so used to walking about the place oblivious to them that he had forgotten. "This is security. You have not been identified as authorized to be on the premises. Remain where you are."

Panic hit, a desperation to find somebody who would know him. He turned and fled for the staff lounge, opened the door, and went through.

The first impressions to filter through his muddled senses were of everything inside being much as he remembered: the same pair of worn armchairs and a couch, the mural TV framed by bookshelves, forming the centerpiece of the far wall, the coffee urn on its table by the door into the cloakroom. But a couple of the faces that looked up in surprise at the hastiness of his entry were new. Louise Kreishner, who taught first- to third-year English, was filling a mug from the urn; Ivor Nimmo, the gym coach, was talking to another man, unknown to Jarrow, in the easy chairs by one of the two low tables in the center of the room; and Jenny Lauer, who taught conservation and deindus-trialization, was marking papers at the long desk by the window.

There was an awkward silence as whatever conversation had been going on a moment before ceased. Then Nimmo raised his eyebrows inquiringly, without a flicker of recognition. He was a solid, loose-limbed man with a healthy, ruddy-skinned face and fringes of golden curls hanging on doggedly to a head that was mostly smooth. He had on a maroon track suit and blue-and-white sneakers. Jarrow was not fond of sports and had always found Nimmo -intimidating.

"Yes? Can we help you?"

Jarrow shook his head incredulously. "Ivor. It's me."

Nimmo's brow knotted. "Sorry, but it's not obvious. . . . Have we met?"

"Met? We only worked together for three years." Jarrow waited. Nimmo showed his palms and shrugged. "Well, I'm Richard Jarrow, for God's sake!"

At this, Louise Kreishner straightened up from the coffee urn and turned, holding her mug in her hand, and Jenny Lauer stared from her chair at the desk; but neither of them showed any more sign of knowing him than Nimmo had.

Jarrow looked from Nimmo to Louise, to Jenny, briefly at the strangers, who were all attention by now, and then back to Nimmo. "What the hell is this, guys? Look, I know this might be something of a surprise, but people can reappear after long absences, you know. Why are you all looking at me as if I'd walked in with two heads?"

Nimmo frowned, then looked away at the others as if for support or suggestions.

"Go and get Irwin," Jenny muttered from the desk in a low voice, clearly meaning Irwin Shafer, the school -principal.

Then the door behind Jarrow opened again and a man in a blue police-style shirt stepped through, the flap of his gun holster unfastened and his hand resting pointedly on the butt of the weapon. Jarrow knew him at once: Chip Rogers, one of the security officers, but Rogers obviously didn't know him. "Who are you?" he demanded curtly. "Didn't you hear the order to stay put out there?" He looked at the others. "Does anyone know this guy? Has he got business here?"

Nimmo shook his head. "Never saw him before."

"You'd better come with me," Rogers said, loosening the gun further.

Jarrow looked from one to another protestingly. "But this is crazy! I know you. You're Ivor Nimmo. You teach phys ed here, right?" He stabbed a finger in the direction of each of the others in turn. "And I know you, Louise, and you, Jenny. Christ, doesn't anyone's memory go back as far as April? Is there some kind of mass blackout going around that nobody's told me about?"

The new people in the room exchanged uncomfortable glances and shuffled in their seats. Louise put down the coffee mug and crossed over to the door. "He says he's Jarrow," she explained, speaking with the low, overly calm condescension of somebody anxious not to provoke a luna-tic. "Will you come with us to Irwin's office, Chip?"

"I'll come too," Nimmo said, bracing his arms on the sides of his chair and rising.

Louise led the way back into the corridor, Jarrow following, and Nimmo bringing up the rear with Rogers. "We're going to Irwin Shafer's office, right?" Jarrow said, turning his head and making an empty-handed gesture. "You see, I know . . ." He saw that the words were making no impression. Suddenly he felt foolish, and his voice trailed away.

Minutes later he was standing by Shafer's desk, watching the same mixture of hostility and suspicion spread over the principal's heavy-jowled moon of a face as Louise -related the story. Behind them, Nimmo stood watching with his back to the closed door, Rogers alongside.

"Who are you, and how do you come to know so much about us here?" Shafer asked finally in his quiet but -intense, half-whispering voice.

"How else would I know if I wasn't who I say I am?" Jarrow demanded. "Irwin, we've known each other for years. You hired me. Will somebody tell me what the hell's -going on here?"

Shafer seemed to consider his options for a few seconds, then looked up. "Do you really believe what you're saying, or is this some kind of sick joke?"

"Why should it be a joke? Look, I'm Richard Jarrow. Check your files and I'll tell you anything from them that you want to know.

Shafer looked somberly at the other two, seemingly ignoring Jarrow entirely. Then he sighed and lifted himself from the chair. He moved around to the wall behind Jarrow, where a collection of group photographs was hanging in frames, and took one down. "Do you recognize anyone in that picture?" he asked, handing it to Jarrow.

Jarrow looked. The picture showed three rows of students, the front row sitting on the ground, second on chairs, third standing, with staff members clustered in the center. "Why, sure," Jarrow said. He pointed. "That's Jenny Lauer in the middle, who was back there in the living room just now. Ken Yallows is next to her. I know most of these students. Xedong, here, Matthews, Casey, Wilheim, Rostalli. . . . You want me to go through the whole list?"

"How about him, there?" Shafer indicated with a finger. "The one standing on the other side of Jenny Lauer."

Jarrow peered at the man. He seemed to be more or less medium in build, with graying hair, and a pink, babyish face masked by a mustache. Jarrow shook his head. "I don't think I know him."

Shafer took the picture back. His eyes had the steely look of a hanging judge who had just heard all the evidence he needed. "Well, that's very strange," he said huskily. "You should, because that is Richard Jarrow. And now mister whoever-you-really-are, I want you to tell me what the hell's going on, before I have the police called in. Richard Jarrow died from a stroke in May. All of us that you're talking to in this room attended the funeral."

 

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