teresting records, quite normal, quite in
order. Nothing out of the ordinary." He stood up and looked out on the
dark street. "Just one thing wrong with your records, Mr. Strang. They
aren't true."

Roger stared. "This is ridiculous," he blurted. "What do you mean,
they aren't true?"

Whitman took a deep breath, and pulled a sheet of paper out of a sheaf
on his desk. "It says here," he said, "that you are Roger Strang, and
that you were born in Indianola, Iowa, on the fourteenth of June,
2051. That your father was Jason Strang, born 11 August, 2023, in
Chicago, Illinois. That you lived in Indianola until you were twelve,
when your father moved to New York City, and was employed with the
North American Electronics Laboratories. That you entered
International Polytechnic Institute at the age of 21, studying physics
and electronics, and graduated in June 2075 with the degree of
Bachelor of Electronics. That you did further work, taking a Masters
and Doctorate in Electronics at Polytech in 2077."

Whitman took a deep breath. "That's what it says here. A very ordinary
record. But there is no record there of your birth in Indianola, Iowa,
in 2051 or any other time. There is no record there of your father,
the alleged Jason Strang, nor in Chicago. No one by the name of Jason
Strang was ever employed by North American Electronics. No one by the
name of Roger Strang ever attended Polytech." Whitman watched him with
cold eyes. "To the best of our knowledge, and according to all
available records, _there never was anyone named Roger Strang until
after the bombing of New York_."

Roger sat stock still, his mind racing. "This is silly," he said
finally. "Perfectly idiotic. Those schools _must_ have records--"

Whitman's face was tight. "They do have records. Complete records. But
the name of Roger Strang is curiously missing from the roster of
graduates in 2075. Or any other year." He snubbed his cigarette
angrily. "I wish you would tell me, and save us both much
unpleasantness. _Just who are you, Mr. Strang, and where do you come
from?_"

Strang stared at the man, his pulse pounding in his head. Filtering
into his mind was a vast confusion, some phrase, some word, some
nebulous doubt that frightened him, made him almost believe that
gray-haired man in the chair before him. He took a deep breath,
clearing his mind of the nagging doubt. "Look here," he said,
exasperated. "When I was drafted for the Barrier Base, they checked