First Person Peculiar by Mike Resnick Page B

said.
    “Doesn’t that surprise you?”
    “Not yet,” he replied, placing his hands before him and juxtaposing his fingers. “I’ll need some details first. Were you driving a car or robbing a bank or what?”
    “I almost killed this man with my bare hands.”
    “Well, whoever you are, Mr. X, and whoever you were ,” he said, stroking his ragged mustache thoughtfully, “I think I can assure you that almost killing people probably wasn’t your specialty.”
    “You don’t understand,” I said doggedly. “I used karate or kung fu or something like that, and I don’t know any karate or kung fu.”
    “Who is this?” he demanded suddenly.
    “Never mind,” I said. “What I want to know is: What the hell is happening to me?”
    “Look, I really can’t help you without knowing your case history,” he said, trying to keep the concern out of his voice and not quite succeeding.
    “I don’t have a history,” I said. “I’m a brand-new man, remember?”
    “Then what have you got against telling me who you are?”
    “I’m trying to find out who I am!” I said hotly. “A little voice has been telling me that killing people feels good.”
    “If you’ll present yourself at the Institute first thing in the morning, I’ll do what I can,” he said nervously.
    “I know what you can do,” I snapped. “You’ve already done it to me. I want to know if it’s being un done.”
    “Absolutely not!” he said emphatically. “Whoever you are, your memory has been totally eradicated. No Erasure has ever developed even partial recall.”
    “Then how did I mangle a professional mugger who was attacking me with a knife?”
    “The human body is capable of many things when placed under extreme duress,” he replied in carefully measured tones.
    “I’m not talking about jumping ten feet in the air or running fifty yards in four seconds when you’re being chased by a wild animal! I’m talking about crippling an armed opponent with three precision blows.”
    “I really can’t answer you on the spur of the moment,” he said. “If you’ll just come down to the Institute and ask for me, I’ll—”
    “You’ll what?” I demanded. “Erase a little smudge that you overlooked the first time?”
    “If you won’t give me your name and you won’t come to the Institute,” he said, “just what is it that you want from me?”
    “I want to know what’s happening.”
    “So you said,” he commented dryly.
    “And I want to know who I was.”
    “You know we can’t tell you that,” he replied. Then he paused and smiled ingratiatingly into the camera. “Of course, we might make an exception in this case, given the nature of your problem. But we can’t do that unless we know who you are now.”
    “What assurances have I that you won’t Erase me again?”
    “You have my word,” he said with a fatherly smile.
    “You probably gave me your word the last time, too,” I said.
    “This conversation is becoming tedious, Mr. X. I can’t help you without knowing who you are. In all likelihood nothing at all out of the ordinary has happened or is happening to you. And if indeed you are developing a new criminal persona, I have no doubt that we’ll be meeting before too long anyway. So if you have nothing further to say, I really do have other things to do.” He paused, then looked sharply into the camera. “What’s really disturbing you? If you are actually experiencing some slight degree of recall, why should that distress you? Isn’t that what all you Erasures are always hoping for?”
    “The voice,” I said.
    “What about the voice?” he demanded.
    “I don’t know whether to believe it or not.”
    “The one that tells you to kill people?”
    “It sounds like it knows ,” I said softly. “It sounds convincing.”
    “Oh, Lord!” he whispered, and hung up the phone.
    “Are you still here?” I asked the voice.
    There was no answer, but I really didn’t expect any. There was no one around to