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hing in your past。'
'Why？ Why not？'
'Because the physical conduits that permit and transmit those memories have been altered。 Physically rearranged to the point where they no longer function as they once did。 For all intents and purposes； they've been destroyed。'
The man sat motionless。 'The answer's in Zurich；' he said。
'Not yet。 You're not ready； you're not strong enough。'
'I will be。'
'Yes； you will。'
The weeks passed； the verbal exercises continued as the pages grew and the man's strength returned。 It was mid…morning of the nineteenth week； the day bright； the Mediterranean calm and glistening。 As was the man's habit he had run for the past hour along the waterfront and up into the hills； he had stretched the distance to something over twelve miles daily； the pace increasing daily； the rests less frequent。 He sat in the chair by the bedroom window； breathing heavily； sweat drenching his undershirt。 He had e in through the back door； entering the bedroom from the dark hallway that passed the living…room。 It was simply easier； the living…room served as Washburn's waiting area and there were still a few patients with cuts and gashes to be repaired。 They were sitting in chairs looking frightened； wondering what le medecin's condition would be that morning。 Actually； it wasn't bad。 Geoffrey Washburn still drank like a mad Cossack； but these days he stayed on his horse。 It was as if a reserve of hope had been found in the recesses of his own destructive fatalism。 And the man with no memory understood； that hope was tied to a bank in Zurich's Bahnhof…strasse。 Why did the street e so easily to mind？ The bedroom door opened and the doctor burst in； grinning； his white coat stained with his patient's blood。
'I did it I' he said； more triumph in his words than clarification。 'I should open my own hiring hall and live on missions。 It'd be steadier。'
'What are you talking about？'
'As we agreed； it's what you need。 You've got to function on the outside； and as of two minutes ago Monsieur Jean…Pierre No…Name is gainfully employed！ At least for a week。'
'How did you do that？ I thought there weren't any openings。' 'What was about to be opened was Claude Lamouche's infected leg。 I explained that my supply of local anaesthetic was very； very limited。 We negotiated； you were the bartered coin。'
'A week？'
'If you're any good； he may keep you on。' Washburn paused。 'Although that's not terribly important； is it？'
'I'm not sure any of this is。 A month ago； maybe； but not now。 I told you。 I'm ready to leave。 I'd think you'd want me to。 I have an appointment in Zurich。'
'And I'd prefer you function the very best you can at that appointment My interests are extremely selfish； no remissions permitted。'
'I'm ready。'
'On the surface； yes。 But take my word for it； it's vital that you spend prolonged periods of time on the water； some of it at night。 Not under controlled conditions； not as a passenger； but subjected to reasonably harsh conditions … the harsher the better； in fact。'
'Another test？'
'Every single one I can devise in this primitive hole of Port Noir。 If I could conjure up a storm and a minor shipwreck for you； I would。 On the other hand； Lamouche is something of a storm himself； he's a difficult man。 The swelling in his leg will go down and he'll resent you。 So will others； you'll have to replace someone。'
Thanks a lot'
'Don't mention it We're bining two stresses。 At least one or two nights on the water； if Lamouche keeps to schedule …that's the hostile environment which contributed to your hysteria … and exposure to resentment and suspicion from men around you … symbolic of the initial stress situation。'
Thanks again Suppose they decide to throw me overboard？ That'd be your ultimate test； I suppose； but I don't know how much good it would do if I drowned。'
'Oh； there'll be nothing like that；' said Washburn； scoffing。
'I'm glad you're so confident。 I wish I were。'
'You can be。 You have the protection of my absence。 I may not be Barnard or DeBakey； but I'm all these people have。 They need me； they won't risk losing me。'
'But you want to leave。 I'm your passport out！'
'In ways unfathomable； my dear patient。 e on； now。 Lamouche wants you down at the dock so you can familiarize yourself with his equipment。 You'll be setting out at four o'clock tomorrow morning。 Consider how beneficial a week at sea will be。 Think of it as a cruise。'
There had never been a cruise like it。 The skipper of the filthy； oil…soaked fishing boat was a foul…mouthed rendering of an insignificant Captain Bligh； the crew a quartet of misfits who were undoubtedly the only men on Port Noir willing to put up with Claude Lamouche。 The regular fifth member was a brother of the chief netman； a fact impressed on the man called Jean…Pierre within minutes after leaving the harbour at four o'clock in the morning。
'You take food from my brother's table！' whispered the netman angrily between rapid puffs on an immobile cigarette。 'From the stomachs of his children。'
'It's only for a week；' protested Jean…Pierre。 It would have been easier … far easier … to offer to reimburse the unemployed brother from Washburn's monthly stipend but the doctor and his patient had agreed to refrain from such promises。
'I hope you're good with the nets！'
He was not。
There were moments during the next seventy…two hours when the man called Jean…Pierre thought the alternative of financial appeasement was warranted。 The harassment never stopped； even at night … especially at night。 It was as though eyes were trained on him as he lay on the infested deck mattress； waiting for him to reach the brinks of sleep。
'You！ Take the watch！ The mate is sick。 You fill in！'
'Get up！ Philippe is writing his memoirs！ He can't be disturbed。'
'On your feet！ You tore a net this afternoon。 We won't pay for your stupidity。 We've all agreed。 Mend it now！'
' The nets。'
If two men were required for one flank； his two arms took the place of four。 If he worked beside one man； there were abrupt hauls and releases that left him with the full weight； a sudden blow from an adjacent shoulder sending him crashing into the gunwale and nearly over the side。
And Lamouche。 A limping maniac who measured each kilometre of water by the fish he had lost。 His voice was a grating； static…prone bullhorn。 He addressed no one without an obscenity preceding his name； a habit the patient found increasingly maddening。 But Lamouche did not touch Washburn's patient； he was merely sending the doctor a message： Don't ever do this to me again。 Not where my boat and my fish are concerned。
Lamouche's schedule called for a return to Port Noir at sundown on the third day； the fish to be unloaded； the crew I given until four the next morning to sleep； fornicate； get drunk； or； with luck； all three。 As they came within sight of land； it happened。
The nets were being doused and folded at midships by the netman and his first assistant。 The unwele crewman they cursed as Jean…Pierre Sangsue scrubbed down the deck with a long…handled brush。 The two remaining crew heaved buckets of sea water in front of the brush； more often than not drenching the leech w