The Cauldron by Jean Rabe, Gene DeWeese Page B

only two days ago, had said?
    It was indeed, he discovered twenty minutes later.
    And then again, it wasn’t.
    This Omega was a dingy, grimy factory on a dead-end street next to a railroad yard. His Omega had been a sleek one-story building in a spic-and-span industrial park just inside the city limits. The two Omegas resembled one another less than did the two Tip-Top Cafes.
    Hauling himself from the car, Carl pushed through a door in a glass-enclosed entry that looked as if it might lead him to someone who could deal with the public.
    The woman at the guard desk was friendly and clearly wanted to be helpful, but there wasn’t much she could do after Carl had explained himself.
    “We were bought up by Harrison Tucker Industries about six years ago,” she said. “They took all the personnel records up to their corporate headquarters in Minneapolis. Said they were going to put everything in their central computer. I could call them, I guess.”
    Carl looked at the computer on the desk. A half-finished letter showed on the screen. She saw him looking and moved to hide it. “I’m sort of a secretary, too,” she said. “That’s company business.”
    “Would you mind calling Minneapolis?”
    “Well … no. I guess not. What was your Omega employee number?”
    Employee number? “Would that be my Social Security number?”
    “Oh, no, we don’t use that. We’ve got our own system of numbers. Have had for years.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t remember,” Carl admitted.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson.” The woman shrugged in apology. “Without the Omega number, I really can’t do anything for you. That’s how our records are accessed. It’s not even really worth calling. At least on my end of things.”
    “I see.” He sighed. “Say, when did Omega move here?”
    “Move? Omega’s always been here. Right in this spot. At least for the twenty years I’ve worked for them.”
    She blinked at him. “Oh! I bet you worked out in the industrial park! That’s where our headquarters were before HTI bought us out.”
    “That’s right.” Carl felt a sudden grin dimple his cheeks. At least he could drive by and make sure something he remembered was right. “Is the building still out there?”
    “No, Mr. Johnson, I’m sorry.” Her smile turned rueful. “Half the park was ripped down for an office tower just last year. The Omega building was one of the first ones that went.”
    So much for Omega, he thought as he climbed back into the Mazda. What the hell do I do now?
    The faces of the two Charlie Marshalls darted through his mind. And then an image of the high school. There was an idea. He could go back to the high school, start tracing himself from the other direction. At least be able to show somebody that his life existed outside his own head—show himself, too, for that matter.
    Might as well give it a shot, he thought. I’m here, aren’t I? What’s a few more miles on my car?
    O O O
    Finding an open parking meter, Carl pulled up to the tree-shaded curb a couple of blocks from the school, one corner of which was visible through a distant break in the trees. The school, at least, was still there. He remembered how proud he had been the first day he’d driven his “new” car, a thirteen-year-old Ford, and parked it just about here. No more hopping on the yellow bus for him.
    But just because he could see a piece of the school didn’t mean it hadn’t changed, like the rest of the town had. He walked the two blocks slowly and finally dared to look up.
    Exactly what he had remembered: a red brick building out of the nineteen-twenties, the high school filled almost half the block. The window frames had been painted a sickly pink instead of cream, but the school had lost none of its character. On this side, a square bay with three rows of windows ran from ground to roof.
    That was the math room, Carl recalled, looking up and to his left as he tested the door. And that was history, right?
    Bracing himself, he