The trips they had taken-the good times, the bad-the parties, the friends, the shared dreams-she described everything, as vividly as she could, and he fastened on each anecdote, trying to make it a part of himself again. He knew it was hopeless, really. He'd know the outlines, never the substance. Yet it was probably the best he could hope for.
He was so horribly tired, suddenly.
He said to Kamakura, "Is there anything new from the park yet? That rumor that Haldersen's actually got a supply of the drug?"
"Seems to be true, Tim. The word is that he and his friends caught the character who spiked the water supply, and relieved him of a roomful of various amnesifacients,"
"We've got to seize them," Bryce said.
Kamakura shook his head. "Not just yet. Police are afraid of any actions in the park. They say it's a volatile situation."
"But if those drugs are loose-"
"Let me worry about it, Tim. Look, why don't you and Lisa ' go home for a while? You've been here without a break since Thursday."
"So have-"
"No. Everybody else has had a breather. Go on, now. We're over the worst. Relax, get some real sleep, make some love. Get to know that gorgeous wife of yours again a little."
Bryce reddened. "I'd rather stay here until I feel I can afford to leave."
Scowling, Kamakura walked away from him to confer with Commander Braskett. Bryce scanned the screens, trying to figure out what was going on in the park. A moment later, Braskett walked over to him,
"Dr. Bryce?"
"What?"
"You're relieved of duty until sundown Tuesday."
"Wait a second-"
That's an order, Doctor. I'm chairman of the committee of public safety, and I'm telling you to get yourself out of this hospital. You aren't going to disobey an order, are you?"
"Listen, Commander-"
"Out, No mutiny, Bryce. Out! Orders."
Bryce tried to protest, but he was too weary to put up much of a. fight. By noon, he was on his way home, soupy-headed with fatigue. Lisa drove. He sat quite still,, struggling to remember details of his marriage. Nothing came.
She put him to bed. He wasn't sure how long he slept; but then he felt her against him, warm, satin-smooth,
"Hello," she said. "Remember me?"
"Yes," he lied gratefully. "Oh, yes, yes, yes!"
Working right through the night, Mueller finished his armature by dawn on Monday. He slept a while, and in early afternoon began to paint the inner strips of loudspeakers on: a thousand speakers to the inch, no more than a few molecules thick, from which the sounds of his sculpture would issue in resonant fullness. When that was done, he paused to contemplate the needs of his sculpture's superstructure, and by seven that night was ready to move to the next phase. The demons of creativity possessed him; he saw no reason to eat and scarcely any to sleep.
At eight, just as he was getting up momentum for the long night's work, he heard a knock at the door. Carole's signal. He had disconnected the doorbell, and robots didn't have the sense to knock. Uneasily, he went to the door. She was there.
"So?" he said.
"So I came back. So it starts all.over."
"What's going on?"
"Can I come in?" she asked.
"I suppose. I'm working, but come in."
She said, "I talked it all over with Pete, We both decided I ought to go back to you."
"You aren't much for consistency, are you?" he asked.
"I have to take things as they happen. When I lost my memory, I came to you. When I remembered things again, I felt I ought to leave, I didn't want to leave. I felt I ought to leave. There's a difference."
"Really," he said.
"Really. I went to Pete, but I didn't want to be with him. I wanted to be here."
"I hit you and made your lip bleed. I threw the Ming vase at you."
"It wasn't Ming, it was K'ang-hsi."
"Pardon me. My memory still isn't so good. Anyway, I did terrible things to you, and you hated me enough to want a divorce. So why come back?"
"You were right, yesterday. You aren't the man I came to hate. You're the old Paul."
"And if my memory of the past nine months returns?"
"Even so," she said. "People change. You've been through hell and come out the other side. You're working again. You aren't sullen and nasty and confused. We'll go to Caracas, or wherever you want, and you'll do your work and pay your debts, just as you said yesterday."
"And Pete?"
"He'll arrange an annulment. He's being swell about it."
"Good old Pete," Mueller said. He shook his head. "How long will the neat happy ending last, Carole? If you think there's a chance you'll be bounding back in the other direction by Wednesday, say so now. I'd rather not get involved again, in that case."
"No chance. None."
"Unless I throw the Ch'ien-lung vase at you."
"K'ang-hsi," she said.
"Yes. K'ang-hsi." He managed to grin. Suddenly he felt the accumulated fatigue of these days register all at once. "I've been working too hard," he said. "An orgy of creativity to make up for lost time. Let's go for a walk,"
"Fine," she said.
They went out, just as a dunning robot was arriving. "Top of the evening to you, sir," Mueller said.
"Mr. Mueller, I represent the accounts receivable depart- j ment of the Acme Brass and-"
"See my attorney," he said.
Fog was rolling in off the sea now. There were no stars. The downtown lights were invisible. He and Carole walked t west, toward the park. He felt strangely light-headed, not f entirely from lack of sleep. Reality and dream had merged; these were unusual days. They entered the park from the Panhandle and strolled toward the museum area, arm in arm, saying nothing much to one another. As they passed | the conservatory Mueller became aware of a crowd up ahead, thousands of people staring in the direction of the music shell.
"What do you think is going on?" Carole asked. Mueller shrugged. They edged through the crowd,
Ten minutes later they were close enough to see the stage. A tall, thin, wild-looking man with unruly yellow hair was on the stage. Beside him was a small, scrawny man in ragged clothing, and there were a dozen other flanking them, carrying ceramic bowls.
"What's happening?" Mueller asked someone in the crowd.
"Religious ceremony."
"Eh?"
"New religion. Church of Oblivion. That's the head prophet up there. You haven't heard about it yet?"
"Not a thing."
"Started around Friday. You see that ratty-looking character next to the prophet?"
"Yes."
"He's the one that put the stuff in the water supply. He confessed and they made him drink his own drug. Now he doesn't remember a thing, and he's the assistant prophet. Craziest damn stuff!"
"And what are they doing up there?"
"They've got the drug in those bowls. They drink and forget some more. They drink and forget some more."
The gathering fog absorbed the sounds of those on the stage. Mueller strained to listen. He saw the bright eyes of fanaticism; the alleged contaminator of the water looked positively radiant. Words drifted out into the night.
"Brothers and sisters… the joy, the sweetness of forgetting… come up here with us, take communion with us… oblivion,… redemption,… even the most wicked… forget… forget…"
They were passing the bowls around on stage, drinking, smiling. People were going up to receive communion, taking a bowl, sipping, nodding happily. Toward the rear of the stage the bowls were being refilled by three sober-looking functionaries.
Mueller felt a chill. He suspected that what had been born in this park during this week would endure, somehow, long after the crisis of San Francisco had become part of history; and it seemed to him that something new and frightening had been loosed upon the land.
"Take,,, drink… forget…," the prophet cried.
And the worshipers cried, "Take… drink… forget…"
The bowls were passed.
"What's it all about?" Carole whispered.