He knew very little about himself, but he knew that he was not one of them. That he knew.
He knew that his name was Charles Phillips and that before he had come to live among
these people he had lived in the year 1984, when there had been such things as computers
and television sets and baseball and jet planes, and the world was full of cities, not
merely five but thousands of them, New York and London and Johannesburg and Parks and
Liverpool and Bangkok and San Francisco and Buenos Ares and a multitude of others, all at
the same time.