Van Alen peered at Kesley. "You have lived in Iowa Province for four years—is that right?"

Kesley nodded.

"And before that, where?"

"Kansas Province. I was a farmer there, too."

One of van Alen's heavy eyebrows twitched skeptically. "Oh? How long did you live in Kansas Province, then?"

"All my life. I was born there. I lived there twenty-one years. I came here four years ago."

Van Alen chuckled. "You cling to that story the way you would a straw in a maelstrom." He leaned forward; his voice deepened. "Suppose you try to tell me why you left Kansas Province to come here."

"Why, I—"

Kesley paused. A muscle began to throb painfully in one cheek, and he looked down at his heavy work-boots in confusion. He had no answer. He did not know.

Once again, the same malaise that had spread over him outside hit him. He sucked in a deep breath, but said nothing.

"You don't know why you left Kansas?" van Alen asked gently. "Think, Dale. Try to remember."

Kesley clenched his fists, fighting to keep back a cry of rage and frustration and fear. Finally he said, "I don't know. I don't remember. That's it—I don't remember." His voice was glacially calm.

"Very good. You don't remember." Van Alen tugged at his beard again, as if to signify that he had won a telling point. "Next question: describe in detail your life in Kansas Province. What your farm was like, what your mother looked like, how tall your father was—little things like that. Eh?"

The questions poured down on Kesley like an unstoppable torrent; they seemed to wash his feet out from under him and leave him struggling helplessly and impotently to regain his footing.

"My mother? My father? I—"

Again he stopped. The room was blurred; only the smiling, diabolical face of the Antarctican seemed to be fixed, and all else was whirling. Kesley elbowed himself up from his chair and crossed the room in two quick bounds.

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