"It was more sophisticated the next time. It started with interference--static--on my radio. Then it affected the wiring in the house. All the lights began to glow weakly, even though they were switched off. I could feel it--feel it in my bones--moving closer, hemming me in. I tried the car; it wouldn't start. Fortunately, I kept a few horses at that time. I mounted and rode into town--and at a fair gallop, you may be sure. I saw the lights, but outdistanced them. I caught a train and kept going." "I don't see----" "It happened again; four times in all. I thought perhaps I had succeeded in eluding it at last. I was mistaken. I have had definite indications that my time here is drawing to a close. I would have been gone before now, but there were certain arrangements to be made." "Look," I said. "This is all wrong. You need a psychiatrist, not an ex-tough guy. Delusions of persecution----" "It seemed obvious that the explanation was to be found somewhere in my past life," Foster went on. "I turned to the notebook, my only link. I copied it out, including the encrypted portion. I had photostatic enlargements made of the initial section--the part written in unfamiliar characters. None of the experts who have examined the script have been able to identify it. "I necessarily, therefore, concentrated my attention on the last section--the only part written in English. I was immediately struck by a curious fact I had ignored before. The writer made references to an Enemy, a mysterious 'they', against which defensive measures had to be taken." "Maybe that's where you got the idea," I said. "When you first read the book----" "The writer of the log," Foster said, "was dogged by the same nemesis that now follows me." "It doesn't make any sense," I said. "For the moment," Foster said, "stop looking for logic in the situation. Look for a pattern instead." "There's a pattern, all right," I said. "The next thing that struck me," Foster went on, "was a reference to a loss of memory--a second point of some familiarity to me. The writer expresses frustration at the inability to remember certain facts which would have been useful to him in his pursuit." "What kind of pursuit?" "Some sort of scientific project, as nearly as I can gather. The journal bristles with tantalizing references to matters that are never explained." "And you think the man that wrote it had amnesia?" "Not exactly amnesia, perhaps," Foster said. "But there were things he was unable to remember." "If that's amnesia, we've all got it," I said. "Nobody's got a perfect memory." "But these were matters of importance; not the kinds of thing that simply slip one's mind."