A Prison Make
By WILLIAM W. STUART
Illustrated by FINLAY
Any similarity between the hero of this Kafka-esque tale and Everyman who chooses the security of the horrible known rather than face the unknown, is not by any means coincidental.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories July 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The man on the bunk woke, but not up. Not up at all. He didn't move, except for a sort of general half-twitch, half-shrug; didn't even open his eyes. Just past the black borderland of sleep in the miasmic, grey fog in which he found or failed to find himself, two things only seemed sure. One of these was that there was no hurry whatever about opening his eyes to his immediate surroundings. That could wait. He didn't know why but he knew it could wait.
He knew that. He knew also that he was a man. No doubt there. Not for an instant did he so much as suspect that he might be a small boy, a girl, woman, or some nameless beast. No; he was a man. Not an old man, either. A man and still at least reasonably young.
These things he felt he knew but he could take no very great satisfaction in them. It didn't seem a very extensive knowledge; basic, but not extensive. What about other, collateral data—such as his name, status, situation, condition and present whereabouts?
He couldn't seem to think. No, no, he hadn't lost his memory. He felt confident that all those things were clearly recorded there someplace. Only they were obscured, out there in that mist, out where it was hard to grasp them just now. After a bit, it would all come back to him.