Returning to the phone, he looked up the number of the birth-registration control center in Iowa; with several gold coins he managed to reach them at last, after much delay.

“My name is Jason Taverner,” he told the clerk. “I was born in Chicago at Memorial Hospital on December 16, 1946. Would you please confirm and release a copy of my certificate of birth? I need it for a job I’m applying for.”

“Yes, sir.” The clerk put the line on hold; Jason waited.

The clerk clicked back on. “Mr. Jason Taverner, born in Cook County on December 16, 1946.”

“Yes,” Jason said.

“We have no birth registration form for such a person at that time and place. Are you absolutely sure of the facts, sir?”

“You mean do I know my name and when and where I was born?” His voice again managed to escape his control, but this time he let it; panic flooded him. “Thanks,” he said and hung up, shaking violently, now. Shaking in his body and in his mind.

I don’t exist, he said to himself. There is no Jason Taverner. There never was and there never will be. The hell with my career; I just want to live. If someone or something wants to eradicate my career, okay; do it. But aren’t I going to be allowed to exist at all? Wasn’t I even born?

Something stirred in his chest. With terror he thought, They didn’t get the feed tubes out entirely; some of them are still growing and feeding inside of me. That goddamn tramp of a no-talent girl. I hope she winds up walking the streets for two bits a try.

After what I did for her: getting her those two auditions for A and R people. But hell—I did get to lay her a lot. I suppose it comes out even.

Returning to his hotel room, he took a good long look at himself in the flyspecked vanity mirror. His appearance hadn’t changed, except that he needed a shave. No older. No more lines, no gray hair visible. The good shoulders and biceps. The fat-free waist that let him wear the current formfitting men’s clothing.