Chapter 2

The new prisoners were led to a row of barracks at Square A-2. There were nearly five hundred of them. They were not yet men; they were entities whose true memories extended barely an hour in time. Sitting on their bunks, the newborns looked curiously at their bodies, examined with sharp interest their hands and feet. They stared at each other, and saw their formlessness mirrored in each other’s eyes. They were not yet men; but they were not children either. Certain abstractions remained, and the ghosts of memories. Maturation came quickly, born of old habit patterns and personality traits, retained in the broken threads of their former lives on Earth.

The new men clung to the vague recollections of concepts, ideas, rules. Within a few hours, their phlegmatic blandness had begun to pass. They were becoming men now. Individuals. Out of a dazed and superficial conformity, sharp differences began to emerge. Character reasserted itself, and the five hundred began to discover what they were.

Will Barrent stood in line for a look at himself in the barracks mirror. When his turn came, he saw the reflection of a thin-faced, narrow-nosed, pleasant-looking young man with straight brown hair. The young man had a resolute, honest, unexceptional face, unmarked by any strong passion. Barrent turned away disappointed; it was the face of a stranger.

Later, examining himself more closely, he could find no scars or anything else to distinguish his body from a thousand other bodies. His hands were uncallused. He was wiry rather than muscular. He wondered what sort of work he had done on Earth.

Murder?

He frowned. He wasn’t ready to accept that.

A man tapped him on the shoulder. “How you feeling?”

Barrent turned and saw a large, thick-shouldered red-haired man standing beside him.

“Pretty good,” Barrent said. “You were in line behind me, weren’t you?”

“That’s right. Number 401. Name’s Danis Foeren.”

Barrent introduced himself.

“Your crime?” Foeren asked.

“Murder.”

Foeren nodded, looking impressed. “Me, I’m a forger. Wouldn’t think it to look at my hands.” He held out two massive paws covered with sparse red hair. “But the skill’s there. My hands remembered before any other part of me. On the ship I sat in my cell and looked at my hands. They itched. They wanted to be off and doing things. But the rest of me couldn’t remember what.”

“What did you do?” Barrent asked.

“I closed my eyes and let my hands take over,” Foeren said. “First thing I knew, they were up and picking the lock of the cell.” He held up his huge hands and looked at them admiringly. “Clever little devils!”

“Picking the lock?” Barrent asked. “But I thought you were a forger.”

“Well, now,” Foeren said, “forgery was my main line. But a pair of skilled hands can do almost anything. I suspect that I was only caught for forgery; but I might also have been a safeman. My hands know too much for just a forger.”