Assignment In The Dawn

By BRYCE WALTON

There stood Roland, deep beneath a static, dying civilization, fiercely ready to destroy it—and himself, if need be—for love of Frances. Yet a question nagged him. Who was she—and who was he?

[Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1947. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

His consciousness filtered in slowly. It stirred like roiled water, and the first lucid cycle of cause and effect in associative memory was beginning. There was a kind of awful searching loneliness—but that was broken by the pleasantly soft voice of the woman who asked, “Is he waking?”

A sweet clear voice. It drew him as if it were some part of him that was missing. She could give meaning to that lonely despair. If he could only remember—. A man answered tensely, “He’s waking, all right. Check the spy-circuit again, Fran. Their newly developed rapport-clan is dangerous. They might find out about our new Adam.”

Adam?

He heard light footsteps fade off and return. “Circuit’s clear, Billy Boy.” A pause. “He’s attractive, isn’t he?”

“Uh-huh.”

He heard the man muttering close to his ear. He felt some kind of pressure withdrawn from about his head. There was a sharp, clenching pain, and a flash of agonizing brilliance.

“Well, that’s it, Fran,” the man breathed heavily.

He felt her warm soft hand moist on his forehead. Why did she remove it? But he heard her say, “All right, Superman. Open your eyes and see the light.”

Adam? Superman?

He blinked blindly in the newness of the light until the small naked cubicle and the two people in it clarified. He looked at her first, beauty and warmth. She smiled brightly and winked, a small delicate but full-bodied figure in shorts, bra and sandals, and a lot of olive skin. But their eight-fingered hands! He looked at his own hands. Eight fingers. What—?

He studied the man. He was gaunt and bald, very sad and cynical with his lower lip stuck out. He put out a thin white hand and said sardonically, “I’m Berti. This is Frances. And I suppose you’d like to know who you are?”

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