"And just what does that mean?"
"Why, he's a complete throwback, a living fossil." He had risen from his chair and paced the distance to the wall and back with hasty steps. "I tell you what, Pola, I don't think we ought to give Schwartz up. He's too valuable a specimen."
"No, no, Father," said Pola quickly, "you can't do that. You promised that farmer to return Schwartz, and you must for Schwartz's own sake. He's unhappy."
"Unhappy! Why, we're treating him like a rich Outsider."
"What difference does that make? The poor fellow is used to his farm and his people. He's lived there all his life. And now he's had a frightening experience-a painful one, for all I know-and his mind works differently now. He can't be expected to understand. We've got to consider his human rights and return him to his family."
"But, Pola, the cause of science-"
"Oh, slush! What is the cause of science worth to me? What do you suppose the Brotherhood will say when they hear of your unauthorized experiments? Do you think they care about the cause of science? I mean, consider yourself if you don't wish to consider Schwartz. The longer you keep him, the greater the chance of being caught. You send him home tomorrow night, the way you originally planned to, do you hear?...I'll go down and see if Schwartz wants anything before dinner."
But she was back in less than five minutes, face damp and chalky. "Father, he's gone!"
"Who's gone?" he asked, startled.
"Schwartz!" she cried, half in tears. "You must have forgotten to lock the door when you left him."
Shekt was on his feet, throwing a hand out to steady himself. "How long?"
"I don't know. But it can't be very long. When were you last there?"
"Not fifteen minutes. I had just been here a minute or two when you came in."
"Well, then," with sudden decision, "I'll run out. He may simply be wandering about the neighborhood. You stay here. If someone else picks him up, they mustn't connect him with you. Understand?"
Shekt could only nod.
Joseph Schwartz felt no lifting of the heart when he exchanged the confines of his prison hospital for the expanses of the city outside. He did not delude himself to the effect that he had a plan of action. He knew, and knew well, that he was simply improvising.
If any rational impulse guided him (as distinct from mere blind desire to exchange inaction for action of any sort), it was the hope that by chance encounter some facet of life would bring back his wandering memory. That he was an amnesiac he was now fully convinced.
The first glimpse of the city, however, was disheartening. It was late afternoon and, in the sunlight, Chica was a milky white. The buildings might have been constructed of porcelain, like that farmhouse he had first stumbled upon.
Stirrings deep within told him that cities should be brown and red. And they should be much dirtier. He was sure of that.
He walked slowly. He felt, somehow, that there would be no organized search for him. He knew that, without knowing how he knew. To be sure, in the last few days he had found himself growing increasingly sensitive to "atmosphere," to the "feel" of things about him. It was part of the strangeness in his mind, since-since...
His thought trailed away.
In any case, the "atmosphere" at the hospital prison was one of secrecy; a frightened secrecy, it seemed. So they could not pursue him with loud outcry. He knew that. Now why should he know that? Was this queer activity of his mind part of what went on in cases of amnesia?
He crossed another intersection. Wheeled vehicles were relatively few. Pedestrians were-well, pedestrians. Their clothes were rather laughable: seamless, buttonless, colorful. But then so were his own. He wondered where his old clothes were, then wondered if he had ever really owned such clothes as he remembered. It is very difficult to be sure of anything, once you begin doubting your memory on principle.
But he remembered his wife so clearly; his children. They couldn't be fictions. He stopped in the middle of the walk to regain a composure suddenly lost. Perhaps they were distorted versions of real people, in this so unreal-seeming real life, whom he must find.
People were brushing past him and several muttered unamiably. He moved on. The thought occurred to him, suddenly and forcibly, that he was hungry, or would be soon, and that he had no money.
He looked about. Nothing like a restaurant in sight. Well, how did he know? He couldn't read the signs.
He gazed into each store front he passed...And then he found an interior which consisted in part of small alcoved tables, at one of which two men sat and another at which a single man sat. And the men were eating.
At least that hadn't changed. Men who ate still chewed and swallowed.
He stepped in and, for a moment, stopped in considerable bewilderment. There was no counter, no cooking going on, no signs of any kitchen. It had been his idea to offer to wash the dishes for a meal, but-to whom could he make the offer?
Diffidently, he stepped up to the two diners. He pointed, and said painstakingly, "Food! Where? Please."
They looked up at him, rather startled. One spoke fluently, and quite incomprehensibly, patting a small structure at the wall end of the table. The other joined in, impatiently.
Schwartz's eyes fell. He turned to leave, and there was a hand upon his sleeve- Granz had seen Schwartz while the latter was still only a plump and wistful face at the window.
He said "What's he want?"
Messter, sitting across the little table, with his back to the street, turned, looked, shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing.
Granz said, "He's coming in," and Messter replied, "So what?"