I crushed out the cigarette. I looked at the TV camera people. I looked over the audience. I looked back to the people onstage. The governor had Just risen and was moving forward. I glanced at my watch. Right on time.

Time? No. Later the award. He will tell me when.

When . . .

The applause died down, but there was still noise, ris-

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ing and falling. Rolling. At first I could not place it: then I realized that it came from outside the hall. Thunder. It must be raining out there. I did not recall that the .weather had been bad on the way in. I did not remember a dark sky, threatening, or-

I did not remember what it had been like outside at all-dark, bright, warm, cool, windy, still. ... I remem- bered nothing of the weather or anything else.

All right What did it matter? I had come to listen and to see. Let it rain. It was not in the least important. -

I heard the governor's words, six minutes' worth, and I applauded at their conclusion while flashbulbs froze faces and a nearby cheer hurt my ears and caused my head to throb. Time pedaled slowly past as the president stood and moved forward, smiling. I looked at my watch and eased back from the edge of my seat. Fine. Fine.

/( seems to me that there is a gallery, with a row of faces atop crude cardboard silhouettes of people. Bright lights play upon them. I stand at the other end of the gallery, my left arm at my side. I hold a pistol in my hand. He tells me. He tells me then. The words. When I hear them 1 know everything. Everything I am to do to have the prize. 1 check the weapon -without looking at it, for I do not remove my eyes from the prospect before me. There is one target in particular, the special one I must hit to score. Without Jerking it, but rather with a rapid yet steady motion, I raise the pistol, sight for just the proper interval and squeeze the trigger with a force that is precisely sufficient. The cardboard figures are all moving slightly, with random jerkings, as I perform this action. But it does not matter. There is a single report.

My target topples. I have won the award.

Blackness.

It seems to me that there is a gallery, with a row of faces atop crude cardboard silhouettes of people. Bright lights play upon them. I stand at the other end of the gal- lery, my left arm at my side. I hold a pistol in my hand.

He tells me. He tells me then. The words ...

The cry of the man behind me. ... A ringing in my ears that gradually subsided as the president raised his hand, waving it, turning slowly . . . But the throbbing in my head did not cease. It felt as if I had just realized the aftermath of a blow somewhere on the crown of my head. I raised my fingers and touched my scalp. There

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was a sore place, but I felt no break in the skin. How- ever, I could not clearly distinguish the separate forms of my exploring fingers. It was as if, about the soreness, there existed a general numbness. How couid this be?

The cries, the applause softened. He was beginning to speak.

I shook myself mentally. What had happened was happening? I did not remember the weather, and my head hurt. Was there anything more?

I tried to think back to my entry into the hall, to find a reason why I did not recall the gathering storm.

I realized then that I did not remember having been outside at all, that I did not recall whether I had gotten ^to this place by taxi, bus, on foot or by private vehicle, that I did not know where I had come from, that not only did I not recollect what I had had for breakfast this morning, but I did not know where, when or if I had eaten. I did not even remember dressing myself this day.

I reached up to touch my scalp again. As before, some- thing seemed to be warning my hand away from the site, but I ignored it, thinking suddenly of blows on the head and amnesia.

Could that be it? An accident? A bad bash to the skull, then my wandering about all day until some cue served to remind me of the speech I wanted to attend, then set me on the way here, the attainment of my goal gradually drawing me away from the concussion's trauma?

Still, my scalp felt so strange. ... I poked around the edges of the numb area. It was not exactly numb. . . .

Then part of it came away. There was one sharp little pain at which I jerked back my exploring fingers. It sub- sided quickly, though, and I returned them. No blood.

Good. But there had occurred a parting, as if a portion of my hair-no, my scalp itself-had come loose. I was seized with a momentary terror, but when I touched be- neath the loosened area I felt a warm smoothness of normal sensitivity, nothing like torn tissue.

I pushed further and more of it came loose. It was only at the very center that I felt a ragged spot of pain, beneath what seemed like a gauze dressing. It was then that I real- ized I was wearing a hairpiece, and beneath it a bandage.

There was a tiny ripple of applause as the president said something I had not heard. I looked at my watch.

Was that it, then? An accident? One for which I had

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been treated in some emergency room-injured area shaved, scalp lacerations sutured, patient judged ambula- tory and released, full concussion syndrome not realized?

Somehow that did not seem right. Emergency rooms do not dispense hairpieces to cover their work. And a man in my condition would probably not have been allowed

to walk away.

But I could worry about these things later. I had' come to hear this talk. I had a good seat and a good view, and I should enjoy the occasion. I could take stock of myself when the event was concluded.

Almost twenty minutes after the hour. . .

I tried to listen, but I could not keep my mind on what he was saying- Something was wrong and J was hurting myself by not considering it. Very wrong, and not Just with me. I was a part of it all, though. How? What?

I looked at the fat little telepath behind the president Go ahead and look into my mind, I willed. / would really like you to. Maybe you can see more deeply there than I can myself. Look and see what is wrong. Tell me what has happened, What is happening. I would like to know.

But he did not even glance my way. He was only inter- ested in incipient mayhem, and my intentions were all pacific. If he read me at all, he must have dismissed my bewilderment as the stream of consciousness of one of that small percentage of the highly neurotic which must occur in any sizable gathering-a puzzled man, but hardly a dangerous one. His attention, and that of any of the others, was reserved for whatever genuinely nasty speci- mens might be present. And rightly so.

There came another roll of thunder. Nothing. Nothing for me beyond this hall, it reminded. The entire day up until my arrival was a blank. Work on it. Think. I had read about cases of amnesia. Had I ever come across one

just like this?

When had I decided to hear this speech? Why? What

were the circumstances?

Nothing. The origin of my intention was hidden.

Could there be anything suspect? Was there anything unusual about my desire to be here?

I-No, nothing.

Nineteen minutes after the hour.

I began to perspire. A natural result of my nervous- ness, I supposed.

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The second hand swept past the two, the three . . .

Something to do. ... It would come clear in a mo- ment. What? Never mind. Wait and see.

The six, the seven ...

As another wave of applause crossed the hall I began to wish that I had not come.