A Stage of Memory

3

“It’s not fair, I tell you. The injection and the new dose should have taken me back to age twelve! Not thirty-five, but twelve! What’s the matter with the damn stuff?”

It never occurred to Derek to present a false face to Dr. Melniss Bettide. He acted the age he wanted to be in the presence of the man he hoped would make it possible.

A small, dark man, Dr. Bettide regarded Derek through thick-lensed glasses. Derek grew uncomfortable under the physician’s unblinking stare. At last Bettide pressed a button on his intercom.

“Steve, please bring in a double shot of health supplement four.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Hey! I don’t want vitamins! I want—”

Bettide silenced Derek with a bored wave. “And Steve, please also bring me a carton of the new samples of Temporin B.”

Now, that was different! A new type of Temporin? Of Time-Jizz? The possibilities were exciting.

Bettide examined Derek’s file. “You’ve been to group therapy regularly, I see.”

“They won’t give you a drug card if you don’t go. It’s worth sitting around with a bunch of whining marks for an hour a week, in order not to have to go to the Black Chemists for the stuff.”

“Hmmm, yes. But you’re still refusing individual treatment?”

“So what? It’s not mandatory. Why should I go and spill my guts to some shrink? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Derek stopped abruptly, blinking as a flashback hit—a brief, sudden image of a trapezoid of light, then the sound of a slamming door…

He looked down and spoke again in a lower tone. “At least there’s nothing wrong with me that the right change of environment wouldn’t cure,” he muttered.

Dr. Bettide made an entry in Derek’s file, a sniff his only comment. Derek shrugged. So the man saw through his sophistries. At least Bettide never lectured like a lot of Liberals would. He suspected the doctor was a Libertarian.

Yeah. Let us go to hell however we want to. It’s our own choice, after all.

A pharmacology aide walked in and put down a plastic-capped beaker of orange fluid. Next to it he placed a cardboard box that clinked, the sound of many small bottles. Derek inspected his fingernails as the assistant passed out of the office, ignoring the aide’s expression of bored contempt.

“So what’s this new type of Time-Jizz, Doctor? Will it work better?”

“Drink.” Bettide gestured at the beaker without looking up. He took out a key and unlocked his briefcase, removing a small black ledger.

Derek grimaced and reached for the vitamin suppliment, sighing for effect as he pried off the plastic cover. He drank the orange-flavored concoction, knowing Bettide wouldn’t help him until it was all gone.

At last he put down the beaker and licked the orange coating from his ragged moustache. “Have they found any more cases like me, Doctor?” For a change his voice was serious, earnest.

“A few,” Bettide answered noncommitally, still writing in the small black book.

“Well? Have they found out why some of us get stuck in sequential time trips, instead of just accessing the memories we want at will?”

Bettide closed the book and looked up. “No, Derek. We haven’t. But look on the bright side. At least you don’t suffer the worst syndrome. Some Temporin users with hidden masochistic tendencies send themselves right off to the worst moments of their lives. A few get into flashback loops where many times each day they relive those episodes in vivid detail, with or without the drug.”

Derek blinked. “That’s terrible! But…”

A crafty look spread across his face. “Oh, I get it. That’s one of those aversion stories, isn’t it? Part of trying to get your clients off the very drugs you pass out. Pretty clever. You almost scared me this time.”

Bettide shrugged. “Have it your own way, Derek. As to your problem of sequential access, I believe we might have a possible solution.”

For once Derek had no comment. He edged forward in his seat.

“Your dilemma,” Bettide said, “is to choose the memory to be accessed through the drug. Other than volition—which seems to be locked in your case—the only other known way would be to use electronic probing. Unfortunately, that method is out.”

“Why?”

“Because the government is not in the business of pandering to destructive and expensive habits that don’t already have a criminal purveyor! We provide you Temporin to keep you out of the clutches of the Black Chemists and other underworld sources, and to see that you have every opportunity to freely choose a productive lifestyle again.”

“But if this electrical gizmo is the only way…”

“There might be another.” Bettide took off his glasses and wiped them. “It’s untried, and J certainly wouldn’t attempt it. But then, I would never have gotten myself in your fix in the first place. Once again I ask you to accept the coalition’s offer to send you to an ecology camp for a rest and work cure, instead.” Bettide made his entreaty as if he knew what the answer would be in advance.

Derek felt tense under his scalp. He shook his head vigorously, as if to drive out a threatening uncertainty. “No!… If you won’t help me, I’ll go to the Black Chemists,” he threatened. “I swear, I’ll—”

“Oh, stop.” Bettide sighed in tired surrender.

Derek’s headache vanished just as quickly. “Okay.” He brightened. “What do we do?”

“Well try you out on a potent new version of Temporin B the Black Chemists have just developed and we’ve managed to resynthesize. One hit drives the reliving process about five times longer on average, than the old drug, and at three times the subjective/objective rate.”

“But—but that won’t help me get back to where I want to go. It’ll only make the sequences go by faster!”

“True. However, some believe your strange type of locked, sequential recall will break down as more recent memories are accessed. You’ll have revisited your entire life, so to speak, and no long-term memory will have greater excitation potential than any other.”

“I’ll have free access again after that?”

“That’s my best guess, Derek.”

Derek chewed on one end of his moustache. “I’ll have to go through some pretty rotten times,” he muttered.

“Quickly, yes.” Bettide nodded.

“I don’t know.” Derek knitted his brow.

Bettide closed the file folder. “Well, our time is up. If you can’t decide now, we’ll just make an appointment for next week.”

Derek looked up quickly. “I’ll do it! Please. Can we start now?”

Bettide shrugged. He opened the cardboard box and put about a dozen small bottles into a paper bag.

“Sign here.” He indicated a release form.

Derek scribbled his signature and took the bottles. They clinked as he rose to go. “Thanks, Doc. I know you’re trying to help. Maybe if I can just get some peace for a while—get back to Sycamore Street for a rest—I’ll be able to think about things…”

Bettide nodded reservedly. But, as Derek opened the door to leave, the doctor said, “I saw Realm of Magic on the Late Show last week, Derek. I enjoyed it a great deal. You were very good in that film, even if you were better on the stage.”

Derek half turned, but couldn’t make himself meet the physician’s eyes. He nodded, clutching the bag, and left quickly without shutting the door behind him.