His head with names long after he had on one and put the list away. Attractive names and odd ones—but which were significant he couldn't say. There was more to living than the knowledge that could be put on tapes and played back. There was more than choosing a name. There was experience, and he lacked it. The world of personal reactions for him had started two weeks ; it was not enough to help him know what he wanted to do.  
He sat down. The room was small but comfortable. As long as he stayed in retro-therapy, he couldn't expect much freedom.
 
He tried to weigh the factors. He could take a job and adapt himself to some mode of living.
 
What kind of a job?
 
He had the ordinary skills of the society—but no outstanding technical ability had been discovered in him. He had the ability of an entrepreneur—but without capital, that was denied him.
 
His mind and body were empty and waiting. In the next few months, no matter what he did, some of the urge to replace the missing sensations would be satisfied.
 
The more he thought about that, the more powerfully he felt that he had to know who he was. Otherwise, to form impressions and opinions might result in a sort of betrayal of himself.
 
Assume the worst, that he was a suicide. Maybe he had knowingly and willingly stepped out of his former life. A suicide would cover himself—would make certain that he could never trace himself back to his dangerous for the step. If he lived on Earth, he would go to Mars or Venus to strip himself of his unsatisfactory life. There were dozens of precautions anyone would take.
 
But if it weren't suicide, then who had retroed him and why? That was a question he couldn't answer now, and didn't need to. When he found out who he was, the motivation might be clear; if it wasn't, at least he would have a basis on which to investigate that.
 
If someone else had done it to him, or accidentally, that person would have taken precautions too. The difference was this: as a would-be suicide, he could travel freely to wherever he wished to start over again; while another person would have difficulty him to a faroff place, or, assuming that the actual retrogression had taken place elsewhere, wouldn't find it easy to transport an and memory-less body any distance.
 
So, if he weren't a suicide, there was a good chance that there were clues in this city. He might as well start with that idea—it was all he had to go on.
 
He was free to stay in retro-therapy indefinitely, but with the restricted freedom he didn't want to. The first step was to get out. He made the decision and felt better. He switched on the screen.
 
Borgenese looked up. "Hello. Have you decided?"
 
"I think so."
 
"Good. Let's have it. It's bound to touch on your former life in some way, though perhaps so remotely we can't trace it. At least, it's something."
 
"Luis Obispo." He spelled it out.