Now nothing reminded him of anything, and things were only like themselves. Once he had been able to say, this is like, or, that reminds me of. At one time he must have had specific memories of birds, trees, friends, family, status, a wife perhaps. He must at one time have had that priceless wealth of recall which now he could only deduce from the limited evidence at his disposal. He was a man with the recollection of memories. That was the only reasonable explanation.
Exploration into his own mind was as dangerous as a journey to-what? He couldn't find an analogue, though he suspected that many existed.
A certain amount had been left to him.īut when he tried to think beyond the basic facts in his possession, he came to a dark and horror-filled area. If it had gone a little further, he might have been left a mindless creature without a language, unaware of being human, of being a man, of being of Earth. He knew that there were many important things which he did not know, which he once had known. He possessed in addition a limited amount of general knowledge. (Did that mean that there were other languages?) He knew the commonplace names for things: room, light, chair. He spoke a language which he knew was English. He knew that he was a man, species Homo sapiens, an inhabitant of the planet Earth. He tried to catalogue all his knowledge, and the implications of that knowledge. He held his chin in his hand and closed his eyes. The room had a bed and a single chair, and nothing else. Light came into the room from some hidden source, perhaps from the ceiling itself. On the other, through a curtained alcove, he could see a tiny lavatory. He was sitting on a bed in a small gray room. When it didn't, he looked around, seeking in his surroundings some clue to his identity.
He sat up hastily and willed memory to return. He awoke, rubbed his eyes, and waited for further memories to come. What kind of man? Dimly he saw himself, faceless, a beamer gripped tight on one hand, a corpse at his feet. He became an amoeba which contained his essence then a fish marked with his own peculiar individuality then an ape unlike all other apes. He lifted a pseudopod from primordial ooze, and the pseudopod was him. He rose through thick layers of sleep, out of the imaginary beginnings of all things. It was a journey in which he traversed all time. His return to consciousness was a slow and painful process. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and rights reserved. This edition published by Reading Essentials
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