Something’s wrong with my memory. How long have I been here?”
At last I was able to let him in on the joke. “Ten years,” I told him, grinning, but when the shock registered on his face I felt like the wretched little worm I was. “Sir,” I added.
“May I ask who you are?” he said, rather quietly under the circumstances.
“Facilitator Grade Two Victor, sir, at your service.” I bowed, trying to do it with military precision. “I’ve been assigned to help you through your period of readjustment. Do you remember your name?”
After a long moment, he spoke with some care: “To the best of my recollection, I’m Literature Preservation Specialist Grade Three Lewis.”
I nodded encouragingly. “You were on duty in Ireland. Do you have any memories of being there?”
He knotted his fingers together. “I remember the village. No, it was a monastery! That was it. I was working with the Christians there.”
“Very good,” I told him. “Your mission was to plant a copy of the Codex Druidae there for future retrieval. You were to bury it in a lead casket. Have you any idea whether you succeeded?”
“Lead,” he muttered, wincing. He put up his hands and massaged his hollow temples. “It was shielded in lead. That was the trouble …”
“Was there any failure in the casket seal?” I pressed.
“No. I don’t know. I couldn’t—” He opened his mouth but the words wouldn’t come. After a futile moment he made an eloquent gesture, suggestive of releasing a bird from between his hands. “No use. It’s gone.”
“Do you remember what happened to you?” I ventured to inquire.
“No.” He lifted his eyes to mine, pleading. “ Do you know what happened?”
“No,” I told him truthfully. “Only that you were so badly damaged it’s taken the Company this long to repair you. You don’t suppose the Christians discovered you were a cyborg? Superstitious peasants and all that, jabbing pitchforks into your circuitry?”
“No!” He shook his head decisively. “I remember that much. They weren’t a bad lot of mortals. I was quite fond of them.”
I nodded, thinking that he was probably right. It would take a lot more than an angry mob to do what had been done to Literature Preservation Specialist Grade Three Lewis.
I let him rest while I hooked him up and ran a diagnostic on his conscious processes. A Literature drone! That was the strangest part of the mystery, to my way of thinking. He wasn’t a Facilitator; he wasn’t even an Anthropologist, and they were famous for throwing themselves into harm’s way with mortals. Just some little Preserver chasing around after old manuscripts. How on earth had he managed to find himself in that much danger?
“There’s storage space I can’t access,” I informed Lewis. “You may have memories in there, or you may have so much oatmeal. In any case, blocked or destroyed, we can’t get at them just at the present time. Cheer up! If you feel up to it tomorrow, I’ll take you to Level Three for some cautious exercise.”
“Thank you,” he said absently, staring up at the fresco again, as though the story of his lost time might be written there. “Victor,” he added, giving me a brief courteous smile.
I went in search of Aegeus to make my report.To my astonishment, I located his signal in that sector of the compound reserved for the mortal servants.
My astonishment increased when, on emerging from the mountain, I found him seated in the mortal children’s play garden, watching a pair of the little monkeys with evident amusement.
“Look at this, Victor.” He chuckled, waving me closer. “Look. The boy’s hopeless, but the girl’s quite a charmer. As they go, of course.”
I followed his gaze and was, quite frankly, appalled at what I saw. They
couldn’t have been more than five or six, but had evidently sustained some sort of abuse in their brief lives to date. Had they been rescued from a cellar? Their ghastly pallor, their emaciated
At last I was able to let him in on the joke. “Ten years,” I told him, grinning, but when the shock registered on his face I felt like the wretched little worm I was. “Sir,” I added.
“May I ask who you are?” he said, rather quietly under the circumstances.
“Facilitator Grade Two Victor, sir, at your service.” I bowed, trying to do it with military precision. “I’ve been assigned to help you through your period of readjustment. Do you remember your name?”
After a long moment, he spoke with some care: “To the best of my recollection, I’m Literature Preservation Specialist Grade Three Lewis.”
I nodded encouragingly. “You were on duty in Ireland. Do you have any memories of being there?”
He knotted his fingers together. “I remember the village. No, it was a monastery! That was it. I was working with the Christians there.”
“Very good,” I told him. “Your mission was to plant a copy of the Codex Druidae there for future retrieval. You were to bury it in a lead casket. Have you any idea whether you succeeded?”
“Lead,” he muttered, wincing. He put up his hands and massaged his hollow temples. “It was shielded in lead. That was the trouble …”
“Was there any failure in the casket seal?” I pressed.
“No. I don’t know. I couldn’t—” He opened his mouth but the words wouldn’t come. After a futile moment he made an eloquent gesture, suggestive of releasing a bird from between his hands. “No use. It’s gone.”
“Do you remember what happened to you?” I ventured to inquire.
“No.” He lifted his eyes to mine, pleading. “ Do you know what happened?”
“No,” I told him truthfully. “Only that you were so badly damaged it’s taken the Company this long to repair you. You don’t suppose the Christians discovered you were a cyborg? Superstitious peasants and all that, jabbing pitchforks into your circuitry?”
“No!” He shook his head decisively. “I remember that much. They weren’t a bad lot of mortals. I was quite fond of them.”
I nodded, thinking that he was probably right. It would take a lot more than an angry mob to do what had been done to Literature Preservation Specialist Grade Three Lewis.
I let him rest while I hooked him up and ran a diagnostic on his conscious processes. A Literature drone! That was the strangest part of the mystery, to my way of thinking. He wasn’t a Facilitator; he wasn’t even an Anthropologist, and they were famous for throwing themselves into harm’s way with mortals. Just some little Preserver chasing around after old manuscripts. How on earth had he managed to find himself in that much danger?
“There’s storage space I can’t access,” I informed Lewis. “You may have memories in there, or you may have so much oatmeal. In any case, blocked or destroyed, we can’t get at them just at the present time. Cheer up! If you feel up to it tomorrow, I’ll take you to Level Three for some cautious exercise.”
“Thank you,” he said absently, staring up at the fresco again, as though the story of his lost time might be written there. “Victor,” he added, giving me a brief courteous smile.
I went in search of Aegeus to make my report.To my astonishment, I located his signal in that sector of the compound reserved for the mortal servants.
My astonishment increased when, on emerging from the mountain, I found him seated in the mortal children’s play garden, watching a pair of the little monkeys with evident amusement.
“Look at this, Victor.” He chuckled, waving me closer. “Look. The boy’s hopeless, but the girl’s quite a charmer. As they go, of course.”
I followed his gaze and was, quite frankly, appalled at what I saw. They
couldn’t have been more than five or six, but had evidently sustained some sort of abuse in their brief lives to date. Had they been rescued from a cellar? Their ghastly pallor, their emaciated
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