The Memory of Mars Read online

stifling hot and dusty with summer disuse. But down in thecool, cobwebbed basement they found it.... Alice's records from thethird grade on up through the ninth. On every one: heart, o.k.; lungs,normal. Pulse and blood pressure readings were on each chart.

  "I'd like to take these," said Mel. "Her doctor in town--he wants towrite some kind of paper on her case and would like all the past medicalhistory he can get."

  Paul Ames frowned thoughtfully. "I'm not allowed to give Districtproperty away. But they should have been thrown out a long timeago--take 'em and don't tell anybody I let you have 'em."

  "Thanks. Thanks a lot," Mel said.

  And when she was fourteen or fifteen her appendix had been removed. ADr. Brown had performed the operation, Mel remembered. He had taken overfrom Collins.

  "Sure, he's still here," Paul Ames said. "Same office old Doc Collinsused. You'll probably find him there right now."

  Dr. Brown remembered. He didn't remember the details of theappendectomy, but he still had records that showed a completely normaloperation.

  "I wonder if I could get a copy of that record and have you sign it,"Mel said. He explained about the interest of Dr. Winters in her casewithout revealing the actual circumstances.

  "Glad to," said Dr. Brown. "I just wish things hadn't turned out the waythey have. One of the loveliest girls that ever grew up here, Alice."

  * * *

  The special memorial service was held in the old community church onSunday afternoon. It was like the drawing of a curtain across a portionof Mel's life, and he knew that curtain would never open again.

  He took a bus leaving town soon after the service.

  There was one final bit of evidence, and he wondered all the way back totown why he had not thought of it first. Alice's pregnancy had ended inmiscarriage, and there had never been another.

  But X-rays had been taken to try to find the cause of Alice'sdifficulty. If they showed that Alice was normal within the past twoyears--

  * * * * *

  Dr. Winters was mildly surprised to see Mel again. He invited thereporter in to his office and offered him a chair. "I suppose you havecome to inquire about our findings regarding your wife."

  "Yes--if you've found anything," said Mel. "I've got a couple of thingsto show you."

  "We've found little more than we knew the night of her death. We havecompleted the dissection of the body. A minute analysis of each organ isnow under way, and chemical tests of the body's substances are beingmade. We found that differences in the skeletal structure were almost asgreat as those in the fleshy tissues. We find no relationship betweenthese structures and those of any other species--human or animal--thatwe have ever found."

  "And yet Alice was not always like that," said Mel.

  Dr. Winters looked at him sharply. "How do you know that?"

  Mel extended the medical records he had obtained in Central Valley. Dr.Winters picked them up and examined them for a long time while Melwatched silently.

  Finally, Dr. Winters put the records down with a sigh. "This seems tomake the problem even more complex than it was."

  "There are X-rays, too," said Mel. "Alice had pelvic X-rays only alittle over two years ago. I tried to get them, but the doctor saidyou'd have to request them. They should be absolute proof that Alice wasdifferent then."

  "Tell me who has them and I'll send for them at once."

  An hour later Dr. Winters shook his head in disbelief as he turned offthe light box and removed the X-ray photograph. "It's impossible tobelieve that these were taken of your wife, but they corroborate theevidence of the other medical records. They show a perfectly normalstructure."

  The two men remained silent across the desk, each reluctant to expresshis confused thoughts. Dr. Winters finally broke the silence. "It mustbe, Mr. Hastings," he said, "--it must be that this woman--this utterlyalien person--is simply not your wife, Alice. Somehow, somewhere, theremust be a mistake in identity, a substitution of similar individuals."

  "She was not out of my sight," said Mel. "Everything was completelynormal when I came home that night. Nothing was out of place. We wentout to a show. Then, on the way home, the accident occurred. There couldhave been no substitution--except right here in the hospital. But I knowit was Alice I saw. That's why I made you let me see her again--to makesure."

  "But the evidence you have brought me proves otherwise. These medicalrecords, these X-rays prove that the girl, Alice, whom you married, wasquite normal. It is utterly impossible that she could have metamorphosedinto the person on whom we operated."

  Mel stared at the reflection of the sky in the polished desk top. "Idon't know the answer," he said. "It must not be Alice. But if that'sthe case, where is Alice?"

  "That might even be a matter for the police," said Dr. Winters. "Thereare many things yet to be learned about this mystery."

  "There's one thing more," said Mel. "Fingerprints. When we first camehere Alice got a job where she had to have her fingerprints taken."

  "Excellent!" Dr. Winters exclaimed. "That should give us our finalproof!"

  It took the rest of the afternoon to get the fingerprint record and makea comparison. Dr. Winters called Mel at home to give him the report.There was no question. The fingerprints were identical. The corpse wasthat of Alice Hastings.

  * * * * *

  The nightmare came again that night. Worse than Mel could ever rememberit. As always, it was a dream of space, black empty space, and he wasfloating alone in the immense depths of it. There was no direction. Hewas caught in a whirlpool of vertigo from which he reached out withagonized yearning for some solidarity to cling to.

  There was only space.

  After a time he was no longer alone. He could not see them, but he knewthey were out there. The searchers. He did not know why he had to fleeor why they sought him, but he knew they must never overtake him, or allwould be lost.

  Somehow he found a way to propel himself through empty space. Thesearchers were growing points of light in the far distance. They gavehim a sense of direction. His being, his existence, his universe ofmeaning and understanding depended on the success of his flight from thesearchers. Faster, through the wild black depths of space--

  He never knew whether he escaped or not. Always he awoke in a tangle ofbedclothes, bathed in sweat, whimpering in fear. For a long time Alicehad been there to touch his hand when he awoke. But Alice was gone nowand he was so weary of the night pursuit. Sometimes he wished it wouldend with the searchers--whoever they were--catching up with him anddoing what they intended to do. Then maybe there would be no morenightmare. Maybe there would be no more Mel Hastings, he thought. Andthat wouldn't be so bad, either.

  He tossed sleeplessly the rest of the night and got up at dawn feelingas if he had not been to bed at all. He would take one day more, andthen get back to the News Bureau. He'd take this day to do what couldn'tbe put off any longer--the collecting and disposition of Alice'spersonal belongings.

  * * * * *

  He shaved, bathed and dressed, then began emptying the drawers, one byone. There were many souvenirs, mementos. She was always collectingthese. Her bottom drawer was full of stuff that he'd glimpsed onlyoccasionally.

  In the second layer of junk in the drawer he came across the brochure onMartian vacations. It must have been one of the dreams of her life, hethought. She'd wanted it so much that she'd almost come to believe thatit was real. He turned the pages of the smooth, glossy brochure. Itscover bore the picture of the great Martian Princess and the blazonedemblem of Connemorra Space Lines. Inside were glistening photos of theplush interior of the great vacation liner, and pictures of the domedcities of Mars where Earthmen played more than they worked. Mars hadbecome the great resort center of Earth.

  Mel closed the book and glanced again at the Connemorra name. Only oneman had ever amassed the resources necessary to operate a private spaceline. Jim Connemorra had done it; no one knew
quite how. But he operatednow out of both hemispheres with a space line that ignored freight anddealt only in passenger business. He made money, on a scale that nogovernment-operated line had yet been able to approach.

  Mel sank down to the floor, continuing to shift through the other thingsin the drawer.

  His hand stopped. He remained motionless as recognition showered suddenfrantic questions in his mind. There lay a ticket envelope markedConnemorra Lines.

  The envelope was empty when he looked inside, and there was no name onit. But it was worn. As if it might have been carried to Mars and back.

  In sudden frenzy he began examining each article and laying it in acareless pile on the floor. He