Tales of the Out & the Gone (12 page)

The sheet read:

Wallace: Communications between LC and staff and any board
members. Project B maintenance.

Edrick: Project B maintenance and development.

Costen: Project C projections and design.

Wray: Normal comptroller functions—special attention to target
investment area.

There was a space under this list, then:

Williams: Overview of B trip goals
.

“The rest of the papers and charts are here,” Miss London said, holding up the folder to LC. He automatically took it from her. He had said nothing at all. He wondered how he looked. “I will see if Mr. Williams has come in and all is ready.” She stepped away from LC and slid another panel back in the wall. On the other side, five men sat at a long table in a high-ceilinged room with what appeared to be a slit running around the entire top part of the wall that admitted light. “They are all ready, sir.” Miss London gestured and LC, knowing no other course, moved toward them through the door.

The five men—one closest to him (this must be Williams) and the other four ranged around at the far end of the table— all stood and acknowledged LC’s entrance. They spoke deferentially and seemed to smile as one, not with happiness but out of mutual knowledge and perhaps security. Miss London followed LC into the room and took a seat by the wall with steno pad in hand, also smiling.

LC was at a loss. Anyone could, perhaps, say the things that would start such a meeting, with the proper background. LC simply placed the folder Miss London had given him on the table, opened it, and looked at the gentlemen closest to him. (All these men seemed in their late forties or fifties, except one who sat directly opposite LC, and the one closest to him LC took for Williams. These two were older. LC was actually around the same age as the three other men, somewhat younger than Williams and the man who sat opposite.)

As LC opened the folder, the man who seemed like Williams took up the calling out of items on the agenda, and each man in turn discussed what was outlined. All of the men in the room looked similar. They were dressed in dark suits (with some diversity according to taste or whatever—however, not much) and none of them looked at all “ethnic.”

LC was fascinated at the reporting that went on. Williams made a few corrections, additions, extensions, but for the most part all was straightforward. Of course, LC had only the vaguest idea of what they were talking about. He must have had some training in … something. He must have some background. But he did not know it. He did not know anything but the surfaces of things. Words without substance, with invisible contexts.

But then why sit and go through with all of this? He could understand to a certain extent some things as they unfolded in front of him. Close Securities was an investment firm, he gathered. These men were high officers in that firm, reporting to LC, who was going on a trip. The place “B,” which was LC’s destination, he could not even ascertain from the reporting. But from Williams, who seemed to be his closest assistant, “B” was not too far away. The firm’s Learjet would take them there. It was a combination of business and relaxation. A deal was to be cooked up with a bank and local investors in “B,” and Williams would do most of the work with LC there to provide the image of Close Securities’ highest commitment to the project, but at the same time he would be mostly relaxing. Or so it seemed.

Why did LC let it go on? He was fixed in the chair staring at one, then the other, fascinated by a life in which he was a central, even controlling figure, but of which he knew nothing. He had said nothing at the table. He had said nothing at the meeting. He nodded at a couple of witticisms but doubted whether he had smiled. He remembered the face in the glass did not smile, and that seemed strange, amazing. It alerted him that something was out of whack. Yet the talk went on, the business, the slight humor, the deference. Was it simply his face and body that commanded this obvious life of power and luxury? Nothing moved through his mind but blankness and questions about blankness. He knew what these people said, but only a trifle of it. And that was his entire fix on reality. The talking and smiling went on. Was he always going to be like this? Perhaps if he stopped them now and told them the truth, he could be cured. For the first time, he acknowledged that he must be ill, or else all these other people were. But they know who they are. They are performing their tasks efficiently and happily.
I am in darkness, with no road in or out
, he thought. This could not go on. The game had gone far enough. So he began to talk.

“I cannot remember my name or who I am. Everything is blank and dark, with no way in or out. I found myself in front of a shop window and didn’t even recognize who I was. My face in the glass startled me. I would have wandered away, except the chauffeur picked me up and brought me here. I have no knowledge at all of what you are talking about or what my role here is. I have no information or memory. It is all blank.”

At this, LC threw up his hands in a gesture of futility and waited. But everyone in the room was laughing. As he stood and made a broader gesture of futility, they all stood and laughed even harder and pounded each other on the back. Even Miss London stood and laughed, though with a certain deference. Williams took LC’s hand, shaking it to show how effective his statement had been. They all stood laughing and addressing each other at LC’s statement. And then they started to move out of the room, still delighted with it all.

Second Ending

After the others had left, Miss London moved the door so that LC could go back into his office. She quickly made him a drink and just as quickly opened the door to her office. The chauffeur, Scales, stood up as she entered. LC did not know what the drink was. It was brownish. He tried to look at the bottle she had poured from. It was Scotch, into which she had put water and ice. But LC knew nothing of drinking.

Scales stepped forward and LC acknowledged his presence by downing the drink. It was warming and calming. The events of the boardroom had sent his head spinning a bit. He had not known how to react so he said nothing, merely looking from one to the other of his laughing apparent-colleagues. His dilemma was humorous to them. It might be humorous to LC as well, if he could carry it correctly, he reasoned. But still, he had grown more and more uncomfortable, not knowing anything. And when he’d said this, it sounded ridiculous. Perhaps if he had used the word “amnesia,” they would have taken him more seriously. That’s why such words exist—to make experiences seem more readily disposable.

Scales carried an attaché case in his hand with LC’s initials on it. “Mr. Scales has all the documents, sir.” Miss London extended her hand. “Have a good trip. We will take care of everything.”

LC could only nod and pump her hand, as if acknowledging what it meant. He had said literally nothing but the truth, and it had contributed some light humor to the events, nothing else. At no time had he said anything to hide anything.
It is like a story I read
, he thought.
Yes, a story
. And that thought fascinated him, because for the first time there was some vague shadow of a past or an identity.
Some story I read
, he thought.
What story? Where? And who read it?

As Scales and LC descended in the private elevator once more, LC figured there was a way he could get more information before opening up again. This time he would say “amnesia,” and they would take him seriously.

“What goes on in here?” LC asked Scales.

“Where, sir?”

“In this building we’re in. In these offices on all these floors.”

Scales looked momentarily puzzled. He replied, “You want to stop on a certain floor, sir? Would you want to walk through a floor of offices before you go? You want me to contact Miss London?”

“No. I want to stop now on any floor—just to look. I want to know that, at least. I want to see.”

“Yes, sir.” Scales pushed a button on the control panel. The elevator stopped smoothly and the door slid open soundlessly. Scales held his hand against the door so that it might not close inadvertently. They stepped out into a long paneled corridor which seemed doorless, yet at certain points there were narrow glass slits which apparently enabled one to look though to the other side of the walls.

“What is this?” LC wanted to know.

“Uh, this is the third floor, sir. There are production rooms here, of course.”

“Production?” LC wanted to know more and see. “Let’s go in one.”

“Of course.” Scales moved smartly but not too quickly up the hall. He pressed a button and a panel slid open in the wall, so that they could enter. Another step and LC would be at the opening, but he glanced through one of the slits as he moved toward it. There were many people moving back and forth, seeming to pick up … something. But he had already gotten to the opening and Scales stood at one side to let him enter. At the door, a middle-aged man with thick glasses immediately jumped to his feet from a desk place, in such a way as to command the entire large room that lay beyond the door.

LC had expected an office or series of offices. Instead, there was one huge room, though the walls were curved in odd ways so that he could not see all of the room at once. On the desk of the man that had stood up with great deference were a series of monitors that enabled him to see throughout this room and what seemed like other large rooms on the other side of this one.

There were maybe two or three hundred people in the room where LC and the two other men stood. The people were divided into small gatherings of about twenty to thirty. Men and women of varying nationalities, it seemed. Each group hovered around, bending and scooping and placing things in sacks which they had on their shoulders. LC could not understand what they were doing. He moved tentatively forward.

“Is there something specific you’re interested in, sir?” the man with the thick eyeglasses asked. “Any particular production group?”

LC shrugged. “I just want to know what they’re doing.” He thought he sounded apologetic, but to the man in the eyeglasses he must have sounded deadly ironic. The man moved quickly forward toward a milling group, who seemed to see nothing but the … It was scraps of paper they were picking up. Scraps of paper being pushed out of … It was difficult for LC to see. He moved a little closer, Scales at his side and slightly behind him.

“Sir?” Scales asked. But LC said nothing. He took another step.

The man with glasses had said something to someone and the closest group seemed to open a bit so LC could see more directly into the center of the milling and moving and scooping. There was a machine with a screen of some sort. Numbers flashed up and across the screen as LC came forward still closer. Numbers and names—cities, it seemed. LC could not see it all, but out of the machine’s “mouth” shot a steady stream of papers, scattering in all directions. White papers blown out, it seemed, as the numbers and names registered across the device.

“The I-90 computer, sir!” the man with the thick glasses said. But their talking did not distract or divert the milling men and women, who scrambled patiently and without expression to pick up the papers, putting them in the bags. LC wanted to see what was on one of the papers. Why were they being shot out and picked up like this? Was this efficient? He wanted to ask this, but as he readied his mouth to speak, a bulky blond man came into view on the other side of the crowd. He, like all of the others, had on a dark suit and tie. But this man wore dark gloves as well and he carried no bag on his shoulder, but in his hand was a long blue tube with what appeared to be red flashing eyes on either side of one tip.

As LC slowly scanned the room, he could see that at each
station
, as they were called, near the center or edge of the milling crowds, was a similar figure, wearing dark gloves and carrying the blue tube with the red blinking eyes. LC looked toward the man with the eyeglasses as if for some further explanation, and the man tried to smile with the smile of the employee at your service. Scales stared straight ahead, looking at the groups but somehow not focusing directly on them.

At one point as LC stared and was about to turn and ask or exit quietly—he could not decide which—one of the people almost directly in front of him stopped scooping and stuffing and froze in his tracks. It was a large man, one who had seemed most energetic in catching and scooping and stuffing. He was frozen stock-still, almost like he wasn’t breathing. Then, almost as suddenly, he started to sag slowly, very slowly, like something melting or having the wind slowing sucked out. Now the man with the blue tube moved forward and touched the big man with it. The thing’s red eyes sputtered furiously and LC thought he heard a brief humming. At once, the big man rose up as if he had never stopped, and resumed his catching and scooping and stuffing. No one seemed to even notice it.

LC wanted to question, but he knew that was foolish. He had been at the top among the most powerful (and the most informed), he presumed, and they had laughed.
I know now
it is amnesia. It must be something like that. I don’t know anything
about any of this.

In thinking so deeply about his problems, he inadvertently jerked his head and arms in a manner that suggested to Scales and the man with the eyeglasses that he wanted to leave. They both turned and strode forward to lead him out of the production room.

“Is there anything else, sir?” the man in the eyeglasses asked. LC shook his head. Scales moved to the door and made it slide open. He stepped out into the corridor and LC followed.

After a few steps toward the elevator, LC, figuring there must be some way to find out more, asked, “Do
you
know what goes on in there?” As if he was checking to see Scales’s understanding.

“Yes, sir” was the chauffeur’s reply. “Information. The production of information.” Scales smiled at his precise answer, but in a non-irritating way. He had the door to the elevator open now. LC entered and said nothing. He was thinking about amnesia. About not knowing anything. About how he would get out of all this blankness.