The police looked as he wrote the name down. "It's not common, nor either. The spelling of the first name is a little different, but there must be Obispos over the System."  
It was curious. Now he almost did think of himself as Luis Obispo. He wanted to be that person. "Another thing," he said. "Did I have any money when I was found?"
 
"You're thinking of leaving? A lot of them do." Val Borgenese open the again. "You did have money, an average amount. It won't set you up in business, if that's what you're thinking."
 
"I wasn't. How do I get it?"
 
"I didn't think you were." The counselor made another . "I'll have the desk release it—you can get it any time. By the way, you get the full amount, no for anything."
 
The news was welcome, considering what he had ahead of him.
 
Borgenese was still speaking. "Whatever you do, keep in touch with us. It'll take time to run down this name, and maybe we'll draw a blank. But something significant may show up. If you're serious, and I think you are, it's to your advantage to check back every day or so."
 
"I'm serious," said Luis. "I'll keep in touch."
 
There wasn't much to pack. The clothing he wore had been supplied by the police. Ordinary enough; it would pass on the street without comment. It would do until he could afford to get better.
 
He went down to the desk and picked up his money. It was more than he'd expected—the average man didn't carry this much in his pocket. He wondered about it as he signed the receipt and walked out of retro-therapy. The counselor had said it was an average amount, but it wasn't.
 
He stood in the street in the dusk trying to orient himself.
 
Perhaps the money wasn't so puzzling. An average amount for those brought into therapy for treatment, perhaps. Borgenese had said a high proportion were suicides. Such a person would want to start over again minus fears and , but not completely penniless. If he had money he'd want to take it with him, though not so much that it could be traced, since that would defeat the original purpose.
 
The pattern was logical—suicides were those with a fair sum of money. This was the fact which inclined Borgenese to the view he obviously held.
 
Luis Obispo stood there uncertainly. Did he want to find out? His lips thinned—he did. In spite of Borgenese, there were other ways to account for the money he had. One of them was this: he was an important man, accustomed to handling large sums of money.
 
He started out. He was in a small city of a few hundred thousand on the extreme southern coast of California. In the last few days he'd studied maps of it; he knew where he was going.