"A most stubborn condition; I have seen three previous cases, but nothing like this."

"What causes it?"

"Autosuggestion, occasioned by emotional stress. This is most usual. But here" - he waved toward the uncomprehending amnesiac - "my instruments show no psychic charge of any kind. He has no emotions, and I have no leverage."

Detective Squil, a reasonable man, asked: "What can he do to help himself? He is obviously no ruffian."

"He should take himself to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes."

Detective Squil laughed. "All very well. Who pays his fare?"

"The superintendent at the spaceport should be able to arrange passage, or so I should think."

Squil made a dubious sound but turned to his telephone. As he expected, the Respectable Mergan, having transferred responsibility to the police, wanted no further part of the situation. "The regulations are most explicit," said Mergan.

"I certainly cannot do as you suggest."

"We can't keep him here at the station."

"He appears able-bodied; let him earn his fare, which after all is not exorbitant."

"Easier said than done, what with his disability."

"What generally happens to indigents?"

"You know as well as I do; they're sent out to Gaswin. But this man is mentally ill; he's not an indigent."

"I can't argue that, because I don't know. At least I've pointed out a course of action."

"What is the fare to Numenes?"

"Third class by Prydania Line: two hundred and twelve ozols."

Squil terminated the call. He swung about to face the amnesiac. "Do you understand what I say to you?"

The answer came in a clear voice. "Yes."

"You are ill. You have lost your memory. Do you realize this?"

There was a pause of ten seconds. Squil wondered if any response were forthcoming. Then, haltingly: "You have told me so."

"We will send you to a place where you can work and earn money. Do you know how to work?"

"No."

"Well, anyway, you need money: two hundred and twelve ozols. On Gaswin Moor you will earn three and a half ozols a day. In two or three months you will have earned enough money to take you to the Connatic's Hospital on Numenes, where you will be cured of your illness. Do you understand all this?"

The amnesiac reflected a moment, but made no response.

Squil rose to his feet. "Gaswin will be a good place for you, and perhaps your memory will return." He dubiously considered the amnesiac's bland brown hair, which for mysterious reasons, someone had rudely cut short. "Do you have an enemy? Is there someone who does not like you?"

"I don't know. I can't remember any such person."

"What is your name?" shouted Squil, hoping to surprise that part of the brain which was withholding information.

The amnesiac's gray eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't know."

"Well, we have to find a name for you. Do you play hussade?"

"No."

"Think of that! A strong agile fellow like yourself! Still, we'll call you Pardero, after the great strike forward of the Schaide Thunderstones. So now, when someone calls out 'Pardero' you must respond. Is this understood?"

"Yes."

"Very well, and now you'll be an your way to Gaswin. The sooner you begin your work, the sooner you'll arrive on Numenes. I'll speak with the director; he's a good chap and he'll see to your welfare."

Pardero, as his name now would be, sat uncertainly.

Squil took pity on him. "It won't be so bad. Agreed, there are tough nuts at the work camp, but do you know how to handle them? You must be just a bit tougher than they are. Still, don't attract the attention of the disciplinary officer.

You seem a decent fellow; I'll put in a word for you, and keep an eye on your progress. One bit of advice - no, two. First: never try to cheat on your work quota. The officials know all the tricks; they can smell out the sluggards as a kribbat smells out carrion. Second, do not gamble! Do you know what the word

'gamble' means?"

"No."

"It means to risk your money on games or wagers. Never be tempted or inveigled!

Leave your money in the camp account! I advise you to form no friendships! Aside from yourself, there is only riff-raff at the camp. I wish you well. If you find trouble, call for Detective Squil. Can you remember that name?"

"Detective Squil."

"Good." Squil led the amnesiac out to a dock and put him aboard the daily transport to Gaswin. "A final word of advice! Confide in no one! Your name is Pardero; aside from this, keep your problems to yourself! Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good luck!"

The transport flew low under the overcast, close above the mottled black and purple moors, and presently landed beside a cluster of concrete buildings: the Gaswin Work Camp.

At the personnel office Pardero underwent entry formalities, facilitated by Squil's notification to the camp director. He was assigned a cubicle in a dormitory block, fitted with work boots and gloves, and issued a copy of camp regulations, which he studied without comprehension. On the next morning he was detailed into a work party and sent out to harvest pods from colucoid creeper, the source of a peculiarly rich red dye.

Pardero gathered his quota without difficulty. Among the taciturn group of indigents his deficiency went unnoticed.

He ate his evening meal in silence, ignoring the presence of his fellows, who at last had begun to sense that all was not well with Pardero.

The sun sank behind the clouds; a dismal twilight fell across the moors. Pardero sat to the side of the recreation hall, watching a comic melodrama on the holovision screen. He listened intently to the dialogue; each word seemed to find an instantly receptive niche inside his brain with a semantic concept ready at hand. His vocabulary grew and the range of his mental processes expanded.

When the program was over he sat brooding, at last aware of his condition. He went to look into the mirror over the washbasin; the face which looked back at him was at once strange and familiar: a somber face with a good expanse of forehead, prominent cheekbones, hollow cheeks, dark gray eyes, a ragged thatch of dark gold hair.

A certain burly rogue named Woane attempted a jocularity. "Look yonder at Pardero! He stands like a man admiring a beautiful work of art!"

Pardero studied the mirror. Who was the man whose eyes stared so intently into his own?

Woane's hoarse murmur came from across the room. "Now he admires his haircut."

The remark amused Woane's friends. Pardero turned his head this way and that, wondering as to the motive behind the assault on his hair. Somewhere, it would seem, he had enemies. He turned slowly away from the mirror and resumed his seat at the side of the room.

The last traces of light left the sky; night had come to Gaswin Camp.

Something jerked deep at the bottom of Pardero's consciousness: a compulsion totally beyond his comprehension. He jumped to his feet. Woane looked around half-truculently, but Pardero's glance slid past him. Woane nevertheless saw or felt something sufficiently eery that his jaw dropped a trifle, and he muttered to his friends. All watched as Pardero crossed to the door and went out into the night.

Pardero stood on the porch. Floodlights cast a wan glow across the compound, now empty and desolate, inhabited only by the wind from the moors. Pardero stepped off the porch into the shadows. With no purpose he walked around the edge of the compound and out upon the moor; the camp became an illuminated island behind him.

Under the overcast, darkness was complete. Pardero felt an enlargement of the soul, an intoxication of power; as if he were an elemental born of the darkness, knowing no fear... He stopped short. His legs felt hard and strong; his hands tingled with competence. Gaswin Camp lay a half-mile behind him, the single visible object. Pardero took a deep throbbing breath, and again examined his consciousness, half-hoping, half-fearful of what he might find.