Forget Me Nearly is a Webnovel created by Floyd L. Wallace.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
Forget Me Nearly.
by Floyd L. Wallace.
_What sort of world was it, he puzzled, that wouldn’t help victims find out whether they had been murdered or had committed suicide?_
The police counselor leaned forward and tapped the small nameplate on his desk, which said: _Val Borgenese._ “That’s my name,” he said. “Who are you?”
[Ill.u.s.tration]
The man across the desk shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said indistinctly.
“Sometimes a simple approach works,” said the counselor, shoving aside the nameplate. “But not often. We haven’t found anything that’s effective in more than a small percentage of cases.” He blinked thoughtfully. “Names are difficult. A name is like clothing, put on or taken off, recognizable but not part of the person–the first thing forgotten and the last remembered.”
The man with no name said nothing.
“Try pet names,” suggested Borgenese. “You don’t have to be sure–just say the first thing you think of. It may be something your parents called you when you were a child.”
The man stared vacantly, closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them and mumbled something.
“What?” asked Borgenese.
“Putsy,” said the man more distinctly. “The only thing I can think of is Putsy.”
The counselor smiled. “That’s a pet name, of course, but it doesn’t help much. We can’t trace it, and I don’t think you’d want it as a permanent name.” He saw the expression on the man’s face and added hastily: “We haven’t given up, if that’s what you’re thinking. But it’s not easy to determine your ident.i.ty. The most important source of information is your mind, and that was at the two year level when we found you. The fact that you recalled the word Putsy is an indication.”
“Fingerprints,” said the man vaguely. “Can’t you trace me through fingerprints?”
“That’s another clue,” said the counselor. “Not fingerprints, but the fact that you thought of them.” He jotted something down. “I’ll have to check those re-education tapes. They may be defective by now, we’ve run them so many times. Again, it may be merely that your mind refused to accept the proper information.”
The man started to protest, but Borgenese cut him off. “Fingerprints were a fair means of identification in the Twentieth Century, but this is the Twenty-second Century.”
The counselor then sat back. “You’re confused now. You have a lot of information you don’t know how to use yet. It was given to you fast, and your mind hasn’t fully absorbed it and put it in order. Sometimes it helps if you talk out your problems.”
“I don’t know if I have a problem.” The man brushed his hand slowly across his eyes. “Where do I start?”
“Let me do it for you,” suggested Borgenese. “You ask questions when you feel like it. It may help you.”
He paused, “You were found two weeks ago in the Shelters. You know what those are?”
The man nodded, and Borgenese went on: “Shelter and food for anyone who wants or needs it. Nothing fancy, of course, but no one has to ask or apply; he just walks in and there’s a place to sleep and periodically food is provided. It’s a favorite place to put people who’ve been retroed.”
The man looked up. “Retroed?”
“Slang,” said Borgenese. “The retrogression gun ionizes animal tissue, nerve cells particularly. Aim it at a man’s legs and the nerves in that area are drained of energy and his muscles won’t hold him up. He falls down.
“Aim it at his head and give him the smallest charge the gun is adjustable to, and his most recent knowledge is subtracted from his memory. Give him the full charge, and he is swept back to a childish or infantile age level. The exact age he reaches is dependent on his physical and mental condition at the time he’s retroed.
“Theoretically it’s possible to kill with the retrogression gun. The person can be taken back to a stage where there’s not enough nervous organization to sustain the life process.
“However, life is tenacious. As the lower levels are reached, it takes increasing energy to subtract from anything that’s left. Most people who want to get rid of someone are satisfied to leave the victim somewhere between the mental ages of one and four. For practical purposes, the man they knew is dead–or retroed, as they say.”
“Then that’s what they did to me,” said the man. “They retroed me and left me in the Shelter. How long was I there?”
Borgenese shrugged. “Who knows? That’s what makes it difficult. A day, or two months. A child of two or three can feed himself, and no record is kept since the place is free. Also, it’s cleaned automatically.”
“I know that now that you mention it,” said the man. “It’s just that it’s hard to remember.”
“You see how it is,” said the counselor. “We can’t check our files against a date when someone disappeared, because we don’t know that date except within very broad limits.” He tapped his pen on the desk.
“Do you object to a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How many people in the Solar System?”
The man thought with quiet desperation. “Fourteen to sixteen billion.”
The counselor was pleased. “That’s right. You’re beginning to use some of the information we’ve put back into your mind. Earth, Mars and Venus are the main population centers. But there are also Mercury and the satellites of Jupiter and Saturn, as well as the asteroids. We can check to see where you might have come from, but there are so many places and people that you can imagine the results.”
“There must be _some_ way,” the man said painfully. “Pictures, fingerprints, something.”
“Something,” Borgenese nodded. “But probably not for quite a while.
There’s another factor, you see. It’s a shock, but you’ve got to face it. And the funny thing is that you’ll never be better able to than now.”
He rocked back. “Take the average person, full of unsuspected anxiety, even the happiest and most successful. Expose him to the retrogression gun. Tensions and frustrations are drained away.
“The structure of an adult is still there, but it’s empty, waiting to be filled. Meanwhile the life of the organism goes on, but it’s not the same. Lines on the face disappear, the expression alters drastically, new cell growth occurs here and there throughout the body. Do you see what that means?”
The man frowned. “I suppose no one can recognize me.”
“That’s right. And it’s not only your face that changes. You may grow taller, but never shorter. If your hair was gray, it may darken, but not the reverse.”
“Then I’m younger too?”
“In a sense, though it’s actually not a rejuvenation process at all.
The extra tension that everyone carries with him has been removed, and the body merely takes up the slack.
“Generally, the apparent age is made less. A person of middle age or under seems to be three to fifteen years younger than before. You appear to be about twenty-seven, but you may actually be nearer forty.
You see, we don’t even know what age group to check.
“And it’s the same with fingerprints. They’ve been altered by the retrogression process. Not a great deal, but enough to make identification impossible.”