January 19, 1710. Having come nigh to calamity with the near loſs of the key, I will henceforth keep this journal in the English tongue....
"If this is an explanation of something, it's too subtle for me," I said.
"Legion, how old would you say I am?"
"That's a hard one," I said. "When I first saw you I would have said the late thirties, maybe. Now, frankly, you look closer to fifty."
"I can show you proof," Foster said, "that I spent the better part of a year in a military hospital in France. I awakened in a ward, bandaged to the eyes, and with no memories whatever of my life before that day. According to the records made at the time, I appeared to be about thirty years of age."
"Well," I said, "amnesia's not so unusual among war casualties, and you seem to have done pretty well since."
Foster shook his head impatiently. "There's nothing difficult about acquiring material wealth in this society, though the effort kept me well occupied for a number of years—and diverted my thoughts from the question of my past life. The time came, however, when I had the leisure to pursue the matter. The clues I had were meagre enough; the notebook I've shown you was found near me, and I had a ring on my finger." Foster held out his hand. On the middle finger was a massive signet, engraved with the same design of concentric circles I had seen on the cover of the notebook.
"I was badly burned; my clothing was charred. Oddly enough, the notebook was quite unharmed, though it was found among burned debris. It's made of very tough stuff."
"What did you find out?"
"In a word—nothing. No military unit claimed me. I spoke English, from which it was deduced that I was English or American——"