The book was written in Foster's hand.
"It doesn't make sense," I was saying for the fortieth time. Foster nodded sympathetic agreement.
"Why would you write out this junk yourself, and then spend all that time and money trying to have it deciphered? You said experts worked over it and couldn't break it. But," I went on, "you must have known you wrote it; you knew your own handwriting. But on the other hand, you had amnesia before; you had the idea you might have told something about yourself in the book...."
I sighed, leaned back and tossed the book over to Foster. "Here, you read a while," I said. "I'm arguing with myself and I can't tell who's winning."
Foster looked the book over carefully.
"This is odd," he said.
"What's odd?"
"The book is made of khaff. It is a permanent material—and yet it shows damage."
I sat perfectly still and waited.