Metamorphosis

By Charles V. de Vet
The man I searched for could be anybody at all. If I didn't find him, there'd be nobody at all.
One more city. The pattern went on. One more city to search for a man I did not know, whose face I would not recognize. I had no copy of either his fingerprints or encephalograph, or any other clue to his identity.
Yet he had to be found.
At one time he had been my best friend. His name was Howard Zealley then. He wouldn't be using the same name now.
And the bug in his brain would by this time have made him a stranger.
There was only one way the job could be done: I had to make contact—even though I might not be aware of it at the time—reveal who I was, and hope he'd come out after me.
I rented a room in a cheap hotel. But not so cheap that it wouldn't have a grid connection with information service.
I wrote my name big on the register: MAX CALOF. There was always the chance that he would see it. He would remember the name.
The room was small, a standard living-in cubicle. Which was all right. I didn't intend to sleep here. I hadn't slept in nine years now—a year before the chase began. I kicked off my saddle shoes and walked on stockinged feet to the vid coin slot and dropped in a half dollar.
The screen flickered once and the face of a beautiful, smiling woman came into focus. May I help you, sir? she asked in a pleasant, very friendly voice.
I realized that the woman was not actually speaking, as she appeared to be doing. She was merely a woman image, with her voice and facial expressions synchronized in some way with the word impulses coming from information central.