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There was a considerable pause following this question, during which Mr. Davalo waited with a small and confident smile. Then Wilson's voice was heard again:

“Oh, I guess . . . well, I guess I'd like to paint stuff. I mean, like mixing up colors and painting things, you know.”

“Pictures?”

“Pictures and things. Chairs and walls, too. And coloring in magazines. Not old magazines, but new ones, before anybody gets to read them. And especially walls. I don't know just why, but I get this sort of urge to put things on walls, you know—”

“Well,” interrupted Mr. Davalo briskly, turning off the machine. “No need to listen to any more, sir. I think the creative wish-pattern there is pretty self-evident, and without going into any of the technical assumptions underlying my analysis, I should think you'd agree that—to put it in plain, unvarnished English, Mr. Wilson—that your obsessive motivations strongly indicate artistic pursuits as being basically responsive to your particular development as an integrated human being.”

“You mean I ought to be a painter?”

“Yes.”

“And you say all of this was recorded while I was under gas?”

“During your adjustment, yes, sir. The particular portion I replayed for you was at psychological age fourteen, Mr. Wilson, which we find the most revealing, for there is sufficient articulation by then and at the same time little of the superimposition of adult goals which one encounters by, say, age sixteen.”

“Well,” said Wilson, dubiously, “it sounded to me more like my real desire was to play tennis. This business about painting seemed pretty tenuous—”

“Trust us, Mr. Wilson. We are trained to probe deeply, and to interpret. As a fourteen-year-old, you spoke haltingly, true enough, but to a specialist, your meaning was crystal clear.”

“Are you a psychologist?”

“No, sir. Education is my area.” Mr. Davalo colored with what Wilson assumed was pride. “Well,” he went on, taking a set of papers from his pocket, “let's take a look at the program we have worked out for you, shall we?”

However, in the course of settling himself down in his chair, he inadvertently gave the machine a kick, and Wilson's recorded voice continued, ruminatively:

“—like once I was horsing around a barn up near Tarrytown with this girl Mary, see, and we got to throwing these cow-pies up against the walls with pitchforks, just as a gag. Don't ask me why—”

Mr. Davalo bent quickly to turn the machine off again, but his papers tumbled from his lap, and he chose to retrieve them first.

“—but anyway we did it,” Wilson's voice droned on, “and it was a hell of a lot of fun, if you'll excuse the expression. Well, the funny thing was that it was sort of exciting, in a way. I mean—well, I can't quite explain it, but pretty soon this girl Mary kind of ran inside the barn and I went after her and she let me catch her on this pile of hay or straw or whatever it was, and darned if she didn't flop right down on her back, with her dress hiked up, and started—”

To Wilson's disappointment, Mr. Davalo cut off the narrative here, and in a rather flustered state began reordering his handful of documents. Wilson tried to remember what had happened in that barn near Tarrytown, but he could recall nothing, and so was left in frustration. If Mr. Davalo were not such an old maid, he thought, he would ask him to play the rest of the recording later on.

“Getting back to painting, Mr. Davalo,” he said, “I'm not sure that would be exactly right for me. I've been a Sunday painter of sorts, it's true, but I'm not much good at it, and I'm afraid—”

“Ah, but it's all arranged, Mr. Wilson. Here.” Mr. Davalo began handing him the papers. “Your diploma in fine arts, sir, and your certificate of study abroad, including letters from the masters you worked under, plus notices of your first six one-man shows, and then here's a little portfolio of color photographs of some of your work.” Wilson found himself fairly deluged with the papers, which with his bandaged fingers he could handle only with extreme difficulty. “You are an expert portraitist, Mr. Wilson,” Mr. Davalo added, “and I'm glad to see you're in fine command of anatomy and detail, sir. If I may say so, your pictures have a haunting quality about them. Realism in treatment, sir, but poetic imagery in choice of subject. Not that I pretend to be a critic of painting . . .”

Wilson glanced hastily at the documents, feeling that again questions of extreme personal importance had been settled far too speedily, without his approval.

“But these diplomas are from reputable universities,” he exclaimed. “Surely such things could not safely be forged.”

“That's not my department, Mr. Wilson, but I can assure you that every item is bona fide and valid. We've never had a single spot of trouble from that quarter, sir.”

“But these paintings. How could I pretend—”

“You will be supplied with fresh paintings periodically, sir, while you perfect your own style at your leisure.”

“But, good Lord, I could never approach a professional level, Mr. Davalo.”

“Come, come, sir. Don't be so sure. In any case, you are already established as a painter, and with the income provided for in your financial arrangement, your living expenses will be met regularly.” Mr. Davalo smiled patiently. “You are relieved of economic necessity, Mr. Wilson. You occupy a position of some dignity—nothing conspicuous, mind you, just the solid and mildly successful kind of thing. And you are free of any nagging considerations for others. See here, on the pamphlet that lists the works in one of your shows. You are a bachelor, according to this; the only son of deceased parents, and so forth. In short, you are alone in the world, Mr. Wilson, absolved of all responsibility except to your own interests and desires. Isn't it marvelous, sir?”

“I suppose so.” Wilson pawed anxiously through the documents. “Wait a minute. It gives my first name her. ‘Antiochus.' That's a terrible name to give a man, Mr. Davalo. Really, I must draw the line at that.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson, but all of your records have been made up now.”

“But it's a preposterous name.”

“You'll get accustomed to it, sir. To my mind, it has a noble ring—Antiochus. Antiochus Wilson . . . a jewel of a name, if I may venture to say so. And besides, you are at liberty to use the diminutive ‘Tony' if you like, in daily affairs. Take my own case. My name is Federico—a splendid name, but too elevated for ordinary purposes, and so I am known to my friends simply as Fred. In any event, sir, a man's name is a minor matter, don't you think? The man himself and his works—these are the important things.”

“Somehow that sentiment seems inapplicable in my case, Mr. Davalo.”

“Perhaps.” Mr. Davalo began to close up the recording machine. “If you like, I can ask a member of the Documents Division to come in and explain the necessity for the name, sir. They do have their reasons, I'm sure.”

“No, thank you. That won't be necessary. Um, could you tell me where Antiochus Wilson produces his paintings?”

“Your studio, sir? I believe it's in California somewhere. You'll find it all in the documents, which I will leave so that you may examine them at your leisure.” Mr. Davalo lifted the recording case and inclined his head. “It's been a pleasure, Mr. Wilson.”

“No less for me, Mr. Davalo,” said Wilson, not without a touch of irony.

After his guest had departed, he raised the documents in his clumsy hands and stared at them for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he let them drop and lay solemnly against his bedchair, gazing for a long time at the blankness of the white wall opposite.

Chapter 3

T
HE PLANE
rushed forward. Wilson braced himself against the motion, and grasped the arms of his seat. Outside, the dunes of snow along the runway fled backward, then dropped down and tilted out of sight as the plane began its climbing turn and headed toward the sun.

The aisle seat beside him was empty. He was thankful for that. “You'll be self-conscious at first,” they had told him. “Don't worry. It's natural. It'll wear off in a day or two.” They had been right this far. In the airport, he had felt that every pair of eyes had been turned on him, so that finally he had gone into the bar for a drink to steady his nerves. Now at least he would have a certain privacy for a few hours. Somewhat stealthily, he drew a pocket mirror from his coat and, for the hundredth time that day, examined his face.

The surgeons had done an extraordinary job. They had taken a face that tended to be rounded, florid, and a bit jowly, and had somehow made it lean and long and hard, with prominent cheekbones and chin; and the weeks and weeks of dieting and exercise that had accompanied the surgical process had produced a physique to match.

Only the eyes were the same. That morning when he had awakened in the airport motel and had gone cautiously over to the mirror, they had stared out of the strange new face like two old friends, bewildered and reproachful. It had been his first opportunity to examine himself, for although the last bandages had been removed two weeks before, he had not been permitted the use of a mirror.

“Would you like coffee, sir?”

“Oh. Yes, thank you, I believe I would.”

Even the impersonal attention of the stewardess unnerved him. He wondered if she had caught him studying his mirror; tucking it away again, he picked up the newspaper he had purchased in the terminal, and sought to concentrate on the political columns of the editorial page. But his eyes strayed over to where the obituaries were carried, and he found himself reading each one suspiciously.

“Here you are, sir.”

“Eh? Oh, thank you.”

“Luncheon will be served in about an hour, sir. I hope you have an enjoyable trip.”

“Thank you very much . . .”

The coffee tasted strong and rich. He sipped it gratefully, for it seemed to burn off the lingering fogginess in his head that was, he assumed, the legacy of the drug administrated the night before. They had handled him with their usual efficiency, for he had not the slightest recollection of what had happened. He had gone to bed, feeling remarkably drowsy, and then had awakened in the airport motel. What had occurred in between—how they had managed to transport him from their building all the way through the city and out to the airport—was a mystery. He had found himself attired in grey silk pajamas; on the luggage stand was a suitcase full of clothes, neatly packed; in the closet was the suit he now wore, and a topcoat and hat, and on the dresser, in front of the mirror where he would be certain to see it, was an envelope containing his airplane ticket and a typewritten note instructing him not to miss his flight, and, almost as an afterthought, providing him with his home address.

He was alone. Free. Different.

The pocket mirror was in his hand again; staring insolently out of it was Antiochus Wilson, a wolfish stranger who had gobbled up that plump banker and stolen his eyes.

He could not bear to look at it for long. To occupy his hands, he unwrapped a cigar and busied himself with the process of trimming and lighting it. It wasn't a bad face, he consoled himself. Far better than his old one, actually. It was just—well, it was just not his, that was all.

To his alarm, he saw that the stewardess was approaching with a fixed smile.

“I'm sorry, sir.” She bent over him, her teeth gleaming. “Cigarette smoking only, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, of course. I'm sorry.” He stubbed out the cigar.

Possibly to soften the effect of her official reproof, she remained hovering beside him. “Haven't you been a passenger of mine before, on this flight?”

“Oh, no.”

The abruptness of his answer seemed at odds with the routine requirements of the situation, however, and so he added, hastily: “I mean, maybe I have, but I'm not sure. I fly a good deal coast to coast, you see,” he went on, feeling that he was struggling clumsily into contradictions, like a child spinning its first fib. “I'm a painter.” Another idiotic remark. He hastened to explain it. “Well, not that a painter does a lot of flying, ordinarily, but I've got shows in galleries in the East, you see . . .”

He simply did not know how to get rid of her, or how to curb his tongue, and he thought he might have gone on chatting away indefinitely had not the sound of retching a few seats ahead drawn the stewardess to her duties.

Rebirth! Wilson hunched down in his seat. He would have to do better than this, he decided. He must get himself in hand. He could hardly enjoy his hard-won independence if he was going to be upset by the sight of his own face and the most ordinary demands of social intercourse with strangers. Whatever the drawbacks of his former life had been, he had achieved a certain self-possession in the course of it, and it was most distressing to find that resource missing, even temporarily.

Yes, he had had composure then, and . . . But he could not think of any other outstanding personal quality that he had possessed, and as a matter of fact, for some reason his past now seemed terribly remote, as if it had been the life of some undistinguished person he had read about idly in a book a month ago, and mostly forgotten. Even his experiences at the company were not vivid in his mind. As he lay restlessly back in his seat, the features and personalities of Mr. Joliffe, Mr. Ruby, and the rest resisted his efforts at detailed recollection. Things were jumbled. That enormous room full of middle-aged clerks . . . had he seen a familiar face there—or was he confusing this with some incident earlier on that first day, before he had gone out on his fateful lunch hour?

And his own face, his old face—would he forget that, too? He took his wallet from his pocket, and was opening it to take out the photograph of himself and his wife which had been taken three years earlier, during a summer on the Cape, before he realized that the wallet was a new one, and that, naturally, the company would have placed his old one in the clothing of the cadaver that had been found in the hotel room.

This wallet contained no pictures; only money, and a few identification and credit cards. He examined one of the latter. According to its date, it had been issued to Mr. Antiochus Wilson four years ago and was appropriately worn around the edges. He marveled at this additional testimony to the artistry of the company's Documents Division. It was amazing. Everything, it seemed, had been thought of; happiness, too, would surely be provided.

S
hortly after his plane landed, Wilson was subjected to an experience which destroyed the degree of serenity he had attained during the last portion of his flight.

After having entered the airport terminal and claimed his suitcase, he consulted a map, which indicated that his studio-residence was within thirty miles of the city; he thereupon decided that he might justifiably make the trip by taxicab, as he seemed to have plenty of money, and he was starting for the main entrance to find the cabstand when he was hailed from behind.

“Tony! Tony Wilson!”

Alarmed, he hurried on. Again the voice called out; he lengthened his stride. The voice was pursuing him—no doubt of that. It was baying his name, gaining on him. Near the entranceway he paused, confused by the sudden sunlight, and when he felt the handclap on his shoulder, he gave up and slowly turned around.

“Tony—you old rascal!”

He confronted a large red-faced man dressed in Texan style with low leather boots and a ten-gallon hat, who seized his hand and pumped it vigorously.

“Good to see you back, Tony! Damned good! If I didn't have to make my plane, I'd make you buy me a drink right now, by God!” The man gave Wilson's hand a final wrench, punched him good-humoredly on the shoulder, and glanced at his wristwatch. “Nope—I just ain't got the time, Tony!” He backed off a few paces, still shaking with geniality, raised one meaty hand in a mock salute, and cried: “You be good, now, and leave them girl models alone, hey?” Then he turned and plowed away toward the bank of ticket counters.

Wilson went outside and with a trembling arm signaled for a taxi. The implications of the large man's greeting were too alarming to bear examination. He tried to ignore them, but they pressed up insistently into his mind all during his ride. He was further disheartened when he thought of returning to the airport and flying to some other city, for it occurred to him that he would be powerless to do so. He had no resources except the cash in his wallet. He had no notion of how to get in touch with the company back East, either, and even if he could, he was not at the moment certain that his financial arrangement permitted him to draw on his funds at will. He wiped his palms with his handkerchief, patted his clammy forehead, and stared out at the sun-swept countryside, gay with flowering shrubs and shaggy, comical palm trees.

Surely he had been the victim of a ridiculous coincidence. There must be a thousand Tony Wilsons in California. Ten thousand, possibly. And yet that beefy creature had spoken of models—girl models, which implied painting, surely—and how many of these Tony Wilsons would not only bear some resemblance to him but also be painters? He took a deep gulp of air. How many? It didn't matter. There would be at least one other—there
must
be, for the overriding reason that Antiochus Wilson had not come into public existence—literally and physically—until that very morning. Thus, there could be no ambiguity.

Nevertheless, his apprehensions refused to be quieted by such reflections, and he was still decidedly shaky when the taxi arrived at its destination. He got out, paid the driver, overtipped him, lifted his suitcase, put it down again, fumbled for his handkerchief, squared his shoulders, let them slump back, turned anxiously to watch the departing cab swing back onto the highway, and stood fidgeting in the driveway for some moments before he was able to muster the courage to approach the house.

Under different circumstances, he would have found the place most attractive. It was a modest ranch-style structure, with a portion of its roof made of glass, indicating a studio beneath, and it sat on a gentle rise that overlooked the ocean, which lay at some distance. Here and there were other homes, but none was close, and altogether it was a comfortable prospect that implied an income which would of necessity also be comfortable.

He approached the house warily, watching the windows for faces, wondering with every step if something unexpected and unpleasant would not come rushing out at him. All was quiet, however, as if the place were vacant, but still he quivered uneasily as he stood on the doormat, feeling in his pocket for a key he did not have. Finally he reached tentatively for the doorknob, but before he touched it, the door was swung open by someone inside.

“Welcome home, Mr. Wilson.”

The speaker was a slight man with a grave expression on his face; he was dressed in a suit dark enough to be black, and in fact, with his air of somber alertness, he resembled a mortician's assistant maintaining a discreet composure for the sake of the bereaved, while at the same time covertly sniffing for the taint of physical corruption.

He took Wilson's bag and ushered him inside.

“I trust that your trip was not too fatiguing, sir.”

“Um, yes. I mean, no, thank you.” Wilson entered the living room furtively, still expecting something frightful to spring out at him from behind the chairs and sofas, or to rise from the conversation pit where, it seemed, a small fountain was bubbling.

“My name is John, sir,” continued the black-suited man, politely. “I am assigned to you, sir, to help you through your initial period of adjustment.” He cleared his throat with an air of modesty. “Not that you will require much assistance, Mr. Wilson, but there will undoubtedly be various questions in your mind which I will be able to clear up—to the extent of my authority, sir.”

Wilson stared at the little man, who seemed obviously to be cast in the role of a personal servant.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I'd like to wash up and have a drink—John.”

The little man bowed slightly. “Very good, Mr. Wilson. Your room is right this way, sir. I've laid out a change of clothing for you on your bed, if you care to refresh yourself, and then perhaps when you've had your drink, I can satisfy any points on which you may be curious, sir.”

Reassured by the man's manner of deference and competence, Wilson proceeded more composedly to his room, content for the moment to postpone all questions until he had quite recovered from his state of agitation. But already he felt much better, and his spirits were further lightened by the sight of his bedroom, which was large and tastefully furnished, and whose windows commanded a good view of the countryside and the ocean beyond. By the time he had taken a shower and changed into the slacks and jacket which John had laid on the bed, he was actually whistling and examining himself with a touch of pride in a full-length mirror. Not a bad-looking fellow, Antiochus Wilson. Lean as a leopard, and with the stamp of real character in that rugged, masculine face, which, the longer he studied it, seemed to suggest that here was a man who might have performed feats of courage and daring—as a soldier of fortune, perhaps—and who, if bronzed by the California sun and attired in evening clothes, could be considered downright handsome. In this more confident frame of mind, he left the room and made a brief inspection of the house.

The studio, which adjoined his bedroom, was appropriately furnished with unfinished paintings, which were hung on the walls, or stacked in corners, and empty frames, blank canvases, and jars of paints, all casually arranged in a condition neither disorderly nor artificially precise. In the center of the room was a large easel where a charcoal sketch of a nude woman was tacked, and propped at the base of the easel was a little watercolor of ocean surf breaking wildly against some rocks. Wilson was somewhat comforted by these last two items, for they were more amateurish than the other works displayed, and he thought, too, that with some practice he might do as well himself; indeed, it occurred to him that possibly the sketch and the watercolor had been so prominently placed specifically for his encouragement.