"Legion, you're a man of considerable intelligence and more than a little culture; you've travelled widely and know how to handle yourself in difficult situations--or you wouldn't have survived. I'm sure your training includes techniques of entry and fact-gathering not known to the average man; and perhaps most important, although you're an honest man, you're capable of breaking the law--when necessary." "So that's it," I said. "No, I'm not forming a mob, Legion. As I said in the ad--this is an unusual adventure. It may--probably will--involve infringing various statutes and regulations of one sort or another. After you know the full story I'll leave you to judge whether it's justifiable." If Foster was trying to arouse my curiosity, he was succeeding. He was dead serious about whatever it was he was planning. It sounded like something no one with good sense would want to get involved in--but on the other hand, Foster didn't look like the sort of man to do anything foolish.... "Why don't you tell me what this is all about?" I said. "Why would a man with all this--" I waved a hand at the luxurious room--"want to pick a hobo like me out of the gutter and talk him into taking a job?" "Your ego has taken a severe beating, Legion--that's obvious. I think you're afraid that I'll expect too much of you--or that I'll be shocked by some disclosure you may make. Perhaps if you'd forget yourself and your problems for the moment, we could reach an understanding----" "Yeah," I said. "Just forget my problems...." "Chiefly money problems, of course. Most of the problems of this society involve the abstraction of values that money represents." "Okay," I said. "I've got my problems, you've got yours. Let's leave it at that." "You feel that because I have material comfort, my problems must of necessity be trivial ones," Foster said. "Tell me, Mr. Legion: have you ever known a man who suffered from amnesia?" * * * * * Foster crossed the room to a small writing desk, took something from a drawer, then looked at me. "I'd like you to examine this," he said. I went over and took the object from his hand. It was a small book, with a cover of drab-colored plastic, unornamented except for an embossed design of two concentric rings. I opened the cover. The pages were as thin as tissue, but opaque, and covered with extremely fine writing in strange foreign characters. The last dozen pages were in English. I had to hold the book close to my eyes to read the minute script: _January 19, 1710. Having come nigh to calamity with the near lofs[1] of the key, I will henceforth keep this journal in the English tongue...._ [Footnote 1: Transcriber's Note: Sections of this text used "long s" typeface. Text left as printed with the letter "f" substituted for the "long s".] "If this is an explanation of something, it's too subtle for me," I said. "Legion, how old would you say I am?"