And then the really horrible thing came to him and he tried—painfully, in vain—to sit up in bed. It had been 1900, his memory told him, and Edison had died in 1931. And a man named Napoleon Bonaparte had died a hundred and ten years before that, in 1821.
He’d nearly gone insane then.
And, sane or insane, only the fact that he could not speak had kept him out of a madhouse; it gave him time to think things out, time to realize that his only chance lay in pretending amnesia, in pretending that he remembered nothing of life prior to the accident. They don’t put you in a madhouse for amnesia. They tell you who you are, let you go back to what they tell you your former life was. They let you pick up the threads and weave them, while you try to remember.
Three years ago he’d done that. Now, tomorrow, he was going to a psychiatrist and say that he was—Napoleon!
III
The slant of the sun was greater. Overhead a big bird of a plane droned by and he looked up at it and began laughing, quietly to himself—not the laughter of madness. True laughter because it sprang from the conception of Napoleon Bonaparte riding in a plane like that and from the overwhelming incongruity of that idea.
It came to him then that he’d never ridden in a plane, that he remembered. Maybe George Vine had; at some time in the twenty-seven years of life George Vine had spent, he must have. But did that mean that he had ridden in one? That was a question that was part of the big question.
He got up and started to walk again. It was almost five o’clock; pretty soon Charlie Doerr would he leaving the paper and going home for dinner. Maybe he’d better phone Charlie and he sure he’d be home this evening.
He headed for the nearest bar and phoned; he got Charlie just in time. He said, “This is George. Going to be home this evening?”
“Sure, George. I was going to a poker game, but I called it off when I learned you’d be around.”