It was late afternoon before he was finally disconnected. "How do you feel?" asked Anderson.
"Nervous," said John. "Otherwise, all right."
"No headache?"
"No. But I want to visit the bathroom. I can't exactly relax with a bedpan."
"Of course."
John emerged, frowning. "I don't notice any particular memory improvement."
"That will take some time and will be gradual. The disinhibitor must leak across the blood-brain barrier, you know," said Anderson.
4
It was nearly midnight when Susan broke what had turned out to be an oppressively silent evening in which neither had much responded to the television.
She said, "You'll have to stay here overnight. I don't want you alone when we don't really know what's going to happen."
"I don't feel a thing," said John, gloomily. "I'm still me."
"I'll settle for that, Johnny," said Susan. "Do you feel any pains or discomforts or oddnesses at all?"
"I don't think so."
"I wish we hadn't done it."
"For the firm," said John, smiling weakly. "We've got to take some chances for the firm."
5
John slept poorly, and woke drearily, but on time. And he arrived at work on time, too, to start the new week.
By 11 A.M. however, his morose air had attracted the unfavorable attention of his immediate superior, Michael Ross. Ross was burly and black-browed and fit the stereotype of the stevedore without being one. John got along with him though he did not like him.
Ross said, in his bass-baritone, "What's happened to your cheery disposition, Heath - your jokes - your lilting laughter?" Ross cultivated a certain preciosity of speech as though he were anxious to negate the stevedore image.
"Don't exactly feel tip-top," said John, not looking up.
"Hangover?"
"No, sir," said John, coldly.
"Well, cheer up, then. You'll win no friends, scattering stinkweeds over the fields as you gambol along."
John would have liked to groan. Ross's subliterary affectations were wearisome at the best of times and this wasn't the best of times.
And to make matters worse, John smelled the foul odor of a rancid cigar and knew that James Arnold Prescott - the head of the sales division - could not be far behind.
Nor was he. He looked about, and said, "Mike, when and what did we sell Rahway last spring or thereabouts? There's some damned question about it and I think the details have been miscomputerized."
The question was not addressed to him, but John said quietly, "Forty-two vials of PCAP. That was on April 14, J.P., invoice number P-20543, with a five percent discount granted on payment within thirty days. Payment, in full, received on May 5."
Apparently everyone in the room had heard that. At least, everyone looked up.
Prescott said, "How the hell do you happen to know all that?"
John stared at Prescott for a moment, a vast surprise on his face. "I just happened to remember, J.P."
"You did, eh? Repeat it."
John did, faltering a bit, and Prescott wrote it down on one of the papers on John's desk, wheezing slightly as the bend at his waist compressed his portly abdomen up against his diaphragm and made breathing difficult. John tried to duck the smoke from the cigar without seeming to do so.
Prescott said, "Ross, check this out on your computer and see if there's anything to it at all." He turned to John with an aggrieved look. "I don't like practical jokers. What would you have done if I had accepted these figures of yours and walked off with them?"
"I wouldn't have done anything. They're correct," said John, conscious of himself as the full center of attention.
Ross handed Prescott the readout. Prescott looked at it and said, "This is from the computer?"
"Yes, J.P."
Prescott stared at it, then said, with a jerk of his head toward John, " And what's he? Another computer? His figures were correct."
John tried a weak smile, but Prescott growled and left, the stench of his cigar a lingering reminder of his presence.
Ross said, "What the hell was that little bit of legerdemain, Heath? You found out what he wanted to know and looked it up in advance to get some kudos?"
"No, sir," said John, who was gathering confidence. "I just happened to remember. I have a good memory for these things."
"And took the trouble to keep it from your loyal companions all these years? There's no one here who had any idea you hid a good memory behind that unremarkable forehead of yours."
"No point in showing it, Mr. Ross, is there? Now when I have, it doesn't seem to have gained me any goodwill, does it?"
And it hadn't. Ross glowered at him and turned away.
6
John's excitement over the dinner table at Gino's that night made it difficult for him to talk coherently, but Susan listened patiently and tried to act as a stabilizing force.
"You might just have happened to remember, you know," she said. "By itself it doesn't prove anything, Johnny."
"Are you crazy?" He lowered his voice at Susan's gesture and quick glance about. He repeated in a semiwhisper, " Are you crazy? You don't suppose it's the only thing I remember, do you? I think I can remember anything I ever heard. It's just a question of recall. For instance, quote some line out of Shakespeare."
"To be or not to be."
John looked scornful. "Don't be funny. Oh, well, it doesn't matter. The point is that if you recite any line, I can carry on from there for as long as you like. I read some of the plays for English Lit classes at college and some for myself and I can bring any of it back. I've tried. It flows! I suppose I can bring back any part of any book or article or newspaper I've ever read, or any TV show I've ever watched - word for word or scene for scene."