"That may not be so strange. I find difficulty remembering the school where I taught on Earth. P.S. 654, wasn't it, Dad?"
"P.S. 634," Mr. Marsh corrected briefly.
"You see?" she said. "Do you remember your wife's name? And the names of your children?"
"I wouldn't forget them," he said. "My wife's name was Mona." He stared at the wall for a moment, his face without expression. "I can still see the way she looked when I left to undergo treatment. Paul was—let's see, he must be about nine, maybe ten, by this time. And Wilma must be six or seven. I remember how scared she was that time she found a harmless little phytopod. She thought it was going to bite her."
"Phytopod?" said Carol. "We don't have them around here. What do they look like?"
"They're small and furry, and have two feet that look like roots. When they stand still you're likely to mistake them for plants."
"You do recall some things," said Carol.
"The little things that don't tell me where to look. I remember the time we went on a picnic—I don't recall how many moons there were in the sky—and the ground began to shake. It didn't do any damage, but Wilma was terrified. Paul took it in his stride, though."
"There aren't any earthquakes on Ganymede," said her father. "If your memory of that incident is correct, you're looking in the wrong place."
"I suppose so," he said. "But what's the right place?"