Johnson ignored the question. "Where can I find the manager?" he asked, slipping into the heavy coat the clerk held for him.
"Go up that stairway by the door," the clerk said. "You'll find him in his office."
he manager was an old man. Old and black, with the deep blackness only an Earth-born Negro possesses. But his eyes retained their youthful alertness.
"Come in and sit down," he told Johnson as he looked up and saw him standing in the doorway.
Johnson walked over and took the chair at the manager's left. "I've had an accident," he said, without preliminary, "and I seem to have lost my memory. Do you, by any chance, know who I am?"
"Never saw you before in my life," the manager answered. "What's your name?"
"Don Johnson."
"Well, at least you remember something," the old man said shrewdly. "You didn't come during the last six months, if that'll help any. There've been only two ships in that time. Both the Company's. I meet all Company ships. If you came in during the tourist season I wouldn't know."