"We'll go to Miami," I said. "I know a place in the Cuban section where we can lie low, cheap. Maybe if we wait a while, you'll start remembering things." "Yes," Foster said. "That would be pleasant." "You haven't forgotten how to talk, at least," I said. "I wonder what else you can do. Do you remember how you made all that money?" "I can remember nothing of your economic system," Foster said. He looked around. "This is a very primitive world, in many respects," he said. "It should not be difficult to amass wealth here." "I never had much luck at it," I said. "I haven't even been able to amass the price of a meal." "Food is exchanged for money?" Foster asked. "Everything is exchanged for money," I said. "Including most of the human virtues." "This is a strange world," Foster said. "It will take me a long while to become accustomed to it." "Yeah, me, too," I said. "Maybe things would be better on Mars." Foster nodded. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps we should go there." I groaned, then caught myself. "No, I'm not in pain," I said. "But don't take me so literally, Foster." We rode along in silence for a while. "Say, Foster," I said. "Have you still got that notebook of yours?" Foster tried several pockets, came up with the book. He looked at it, turned it over, frowning. "You remember it?" I said, watching him. He shook his head slowly, then ran his finger around the circles embossed on the cover. "This pattern," he said. "It signifies...." "Go on, Foster," I said. "Signifies what?" "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't remember." I took the book and sat looking at it. I didn't really see it, though. I was seeing my future. When Foster didn't turn up, they'd naturally assume he was dead. I'd been with him just before his disappearance. It wasn't hard to see why they'd want to talk to me--and my having vanished too wouldn't help any. My picture would blossom out in post offices all over the country; and even if they didn't catch me right away, the murder charge would always be there, hanging over me. It wouldn't do any good to turn myself in and tell them the whole story; they wouldn't believe me, and I wouldn't blame them. I didn't really believe it myself, and I'd lived through it. But then, maybe I was just imagining that Foster looked younger. After all, a good night's rest---- I looked at Foster, and almost groaned again. Twenty was stretching it; eighteen was more like it. I was willing to swear he'd never shaved in his life. "Foster," I said. "It's got to be in this book; who you are, where you came from----It's the only hope I've got." "I suggest we read it, then," Foster said.