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time to wake up, Dr. Bryce." Bryce sat up, just in time; the
lifting of his head from the pillow cut off the third, much
sterner, repetition, which would have been followed by the
opening chords of the Jupiter Symphony. The psychiatrist
opened his eyes.
He was surprised to find himself sharing his bed with a
strikingly attractive girl.
She was a honey blonde, deeply tanned, with light-brown
eyes, full pale lips, and a sleek, elegant body. She looked to
be fairly young, a good twenty years younger than he was
perhaps twenty-five, twenty-eight. She wore nothing, and she
was in a deep sleep, her lower lip sagging in a sort of invol-
untary pout. Neither her youth nor her beauty nor her nudity
surprised him; he was puzzled simply because he had no no-
tion who she was or how she had come to be in bed with him.
He felt as though he had never seen her before. Certainly he
didn't know her name. Had he picked her up at some party
last night? He couldn't seem to remember where he had been
last night. Gently he nudged her elbow.
She woke quickly, fluttering her eyelids, shaking her head.
"Oh," she said, as she saw him, and clutched the sheet up
to her throat. Then, smiling, she dropped it again. "That's
foolish. No need to be modest now, I guess."
"I guess. Hello."
"Hello," she said. She looked as confused as he was.
"This is going to sound stupid," he said, "but have slipped
me & weird weed last night, because I'm afraid I'm not sure
how I happed to bring you home. Or what your name is."
"Lisa," she said. "Lisa Falk." She stumbled over the sec-
ond name. "And you're "
'Tim Bryce."
"You don't remember where we met?"
"No," he said.
"Neither do I."
He got out of bed, feeling a little hesitant about his own
nakedness, and fighting the inhibition off. "They must have
given us both the same thing to smoke, then. You know"
he grinned shyly "I can't even remember if we had a good
time together last night. I hope we did."
"I think we did," she said, "I can't remember it either. But
I feel good inside the way I usually do after I've " She
paused. "We couldn't have met only just last night, Tim."
"How can you tell?"
"I've got the feeling that I've known you longer than that."
Bryce shrugged. "I don't see how. I mean, without being
too coarse about it, obviously we were both high last night,
really floating, and we met and came here and "
"No. I feel at home here. As if I moved in with you weeks
and weeks ago."
"A lovely idea. But I'm sure you didn't."
"Why do I feel so much at home here, then?"
"In what way?"
"In every way." She walked to the bedroom closet and let
her hand rest on the touchplate. The door slid open; evidently
he had keyed the house computer to her fingerprints. Had he
done that last night too? She reached in. "My clothing," she
said. "Look. All these dresses, coats, shoes. A whole wardrobe.
There can't be any doubt. We've been living together and
don't remember it!"
A chill swept through him. "What have they done to us?
Listen, Lisa, let's get dressed and eat and go down to the
hospital together for a checkup. We "
"Hospital?"
"Fletcher Memorial. I'm in the neurological department.
Whatever they slipped us last night has hit us both with a
lacunary retrograde amnesia a gap in our memories and
it could be serious. If it's caused brain damage, perhaps it's
not'irreversible yet, but we can't fool around."
She put her hand to her lips in fear. Bryce felt a sudden
warm urge to protect this lovely stranger, to guard and com-
fort her, and he realized he must be in love with her, even
though he couldn't remember who she was. He crossed the
room to her and seized her in a brief, tight embrace; she
responded eagerly, shivering a little. By a quarter to eight
they were out of the house and heading for the hospital
through unusually light traffic. Bryce led the girl quickly to
the staff lounge. Ted Kamakura was there already, in uni-
form. The little Japanese psychiatrist nodded curtly and said,
"Morning, Tim." Then he blinked. "Good morning, Lisa. How
come you're here?"
"You know her?" Bryce asked,
"What kind of question is that?"
"A deadly serious one."
"Of course I know her," Kamakura said, and Ms smile of
greeting abruptly faded. "Why? Is something wrong about
that?"
"You may know her, but I don't," said Bryce.
"Oh, God. Not you too!"
"Tell me who she is, Ted."
"She's your wife, Tim. You married her five years
ago."
By half past eleven Thursday morning the Gerards had
everything set up and going smoothly for the lunch rush at
the Petit Pois. The soup caldron was bubbling, the escargot
trays were ready to be popped in the oven, the sauces were
taking form. Pierre Gerard was a bit surprised when most
of the lunch-time regulars failed to show up. Even Mr. Mun-
son, always punctual at half past eleven, did not arrive. Some
of these men had not missed weekday lunch at the Petit Pois
in fifteen years. Something terrible must have happened on
the stock market, Pierre thought, to have kept all these fi-
nancial men at their desks, and they were too busy to call
him and cancel their usual tables. That must be the answer.
It was impossible that any of the regulars would forget to call
him. The stock market must be exploding. Pierre made a
mental note to call his broker after lunch and find out what
was going on.
About two Thursday afternoon, Paul Mueller stopped into
Metchinkoff's Art Supplies in North Beach to try to get a
welding pen, some raw metal, loudspeaker paint, and the rest
of the things he needed for the rebirth of his sculpting career.
Metchnikoff greeted him sourly with, "No credit at all, Mr.
Mueller, not even a nickel!"
"It's all right. I'm a cash customer this time."
The dealer brightened. "In that case it's all right, maybe.
You finished with your troubles?"
"I hope so," Mueller said.
He gave the order. It came to about $2,300; when the time
came to pay, he explained that he simply had to run down
to Montgomery Street to pick up the cash from his friend
Freddy Munson, who was holding three bigs for him. Metch-
nikoff began to glower again. "Five minutes!" Mueller called.
"I'll be back in five minutes!" But when he got to Munson's
office, he found the place in confusion, and Munson wasn't
there. "Did he leave an envelope for a Mr. Mueller?" he asked
a distraught secretary. "I was supposed to pick something
important up here this afternoon. Would you please check?"
The girl simply ran away from him. So did the next girl. A
burly broker told him to get out of the office. "We're closed,
fellow," he shouted. Baffled, Mueller left.
Not daring to return to Metchnikoff 's with the news that,
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