“No.”
“Then, until right now—George, that sounds like a persecution complex, if you really meant what you asked me. A conspiracy to get you to—Surely you can see how ridiculous it is. What possible reason would either Candler or I have to get you to lie yourself into being committed?”
He said, “I’m sorry, Charlie. It was just a screwy momentary notion. No, I don’t think that, of course.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “Let’s finish that chess game, huh?”
“Fine. Wait till I give us a refill to take along.”
He played carelessly and managed to lose within fifteen minutes. He turned down Charlie’s offer of a chance for revenge and leaned back in his chair.
He said, “Charlie, ever hear of chessmen coming in red and black?”
“N-no. Either black and white, or red and white, any I’ve ever seen. Why?”
“Well—” He grinned. “I suppose I oughtn’t to tell you this after just making you wonder whether I’m really sane after all, but I’ve been having recurrent dreams recently. No crazier than ordinary dreams except that I’ve been dreaming the same things over and over. One of them is something about a game between the red and the black; I don’t even know whether it’s chess. You know how it is when you dream; things seem to make sense whether they do or not. In the dream, I don’t wonder whether the red-and-black business is chess or not; I know, I guess, or seem to know. But the knowledge doesn’t carry over. You know what I mean?”
“Sure. Go on.”
“Well, Charlie, I’ve been wondering if it just might have something to do with the other side of that wall of amnesia I’ve never been able to cross. This is the first time in my—well, not in my life, maybe, but in the three years I remember of it, that I’ve had recurrent dreams. I wonder if—if my memory may not be trying to get through.