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  “There’s something wrong with that?”

  McClane frowned. “Enhhhh, honestly, Doug, if outer space is your thing, I think you’d be much happier with one of our Saturn cruises. Everybody raves about ’em and it’s nearly the same price.”

  Oh. So this was a bait-and-switch operation, to jack him up to a higher price range. “I’m not interested in Saturn,” Quaid said firmly. “I’m interested in Mars.”

  McClane put the best face on it, his ploy having fallen flat. “Okay, okay, Mars it is. Now hold on a second while I . . .” He typed on his computer keyboard, and figures came up on his screen. “All righty . . . our basic Mars package goes for just eight hundred and ninety-four credits. That’s for two full weeks of memories, complete in every detail.” He glanced up. “A longer trip’ll run you a little more, ’cause you need a deeper implant.”

  More bait-and-switch. “I just want the standard trip.” Actually he wanted the real thing, but even the fancier memory-trip would be out of his price range.

  McClane put on the expression of a reasonable man faced with an unreasonable or slightly ignorant customer. “We have no standard trip, Doug. Every journey is individually tailored to your personal tastes.”

  He was a slippery one! He was going to push up the rates one way or another. “I mean, what’s on the itinerary?”

  The man got down to business. “First of all, Doug, when you go Rekall, you go first class. Private cabin on an Inter-World Spaceways shuttle. Deluxe accommodations at the Hilton. Plus all the major sights: Mount Olympus, the canals, Venusville . . .” He leered with the same polish as the receptionist’s smile. “You name it, you’ll remember it.”

  “And how does it really seem?” Quaid had heard about Venusville, one of the most notorious sleaze dens in the Solar System. He doubted that he would find his dream woman there.

  “As real as any memory in your head.”

  Quaid did not bother to conceal his skepticism. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m telling you, Doug, your brain won’t know the difference—or your money back. You’ll even have tangible proof. Ticket stubs. Postcards. Film—shots you took of local sights on Mars with a rented movie camera. Souvenirs. And more. You’ll have all the support you need for your memories. We guarantee—”

  “What about the guy you almost lobotomized?” Quaid interrupted. “Did he get a refund?”

  McClane managed not to wince. “That’s ancient history, Doug. Nowadays, traveling with Rekall is safer than getting on a rocket. Look at the statistics.” He scared up a list of statistics and graphs on Quaid’s video monitor. They were, of course, confusing in their suddenness and complexity, as they were no doubt meant to be; the client was supposed to be impressed with their number, and be convinced of their validity. “So whaddaya say?”

  He was very fast on the clincher! But Quaid didn’t want to be glad-handed into the commitment. “I’m not sure. If I have the implant, I’ll never go for real.”

  McClane leaned forward over the desk. “Doug, can we be honest?”

  You mean you’ve been lying up till now? But Quaid kept his face straight, wanting to see what the next ploy was.

  “You’re a construction worker, right?” McClane continued.

  This character was stroking him the wrong way. “So?”

  “How else are you gonna get to Mars? Enlist?” McClane grimaced, evincing disgust at the notion. “Face it, pal: Rekall’s your ticket. Unless you’d rather stay home and watch TV.”

  Unkindly put, but unfortunately accurate. This was about the only feasible way to do it, for a construction engineer, site-preparation specialist, jack-jock for short.

  Before he could get discouraged, McClane stood, leaned over the desk, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Besides, think what a pain in the ass a real holiday is: lost luggage, lousy weather, dingy hotel rooms. With Rekall, everything’s perfect.”

  He was scoring again. Quaid had experienced just those problems, and he hadn’t had to go to Mars to do it! “Okay. It’s been my lifelong ambition, and I can see I’ll never really do it. So I guess I’ll have to settle for this.”

  “Don’t think of it that way,” McClane said severely. “You’re not accepting second best, Doug. The actual memory, with all its vagueness, omissions, and ellipses, not to say distortions—that’s second best.”

  Once more, a score. What difference would it make, after he was home from a real trip? All he would have would be the memories and a depleted bank account. The Rekall memories were guaranteed better. Still, there was a niggling doubt. “But if I know I’ve been here, to your office, I’ll know it isn’t real. I mean—”

  “Doug, you will never remember seeing me or coming here; you won’t, in fact, even remember having heard of our existence. That’s part of the package. There will be no contrary indications; everything will point to the validity of your recent experience.”

  He was sold. “I’ll take the two-week trip.”

  “You won’t regret it,” McClane said warmly. He touched a button, activating Quaid’s keyboard. “Now while you fill out our questionnaire, I’ll familiarize you with some of our options.”

  Quaid started filling out the multiple choice items on his video screen: details of his preferences in many minor things, such as colors of clothing worn, and in some middling ones, such as measurements of approachable women. “Never mind the options,” he said, becoming impatient with it all.

  “Just answer one question,” McClane said earnestly. “What’s the same about every vacation you ever took?”

  Quaid didn’t care for any guessing games. “I give up.”

  “You. You’re the same.” He paused for effect. “No matter where you go, there you are. Always the same old you.” He grinned enigmatically. “So what I want to suggest, Doug, is that you take a little vacation from yourself. It’s the latest thing in travel. We call it an Ego Trip.”

  This sounded fishy. “I’m really not interested.”

  But McClane was intent on the sale. “You’re gonna love this.” He straightened up, as if unveiling something special. “We offer you a choice of alternate identities during your trip.”

  This still seemed fishy. What was the point in taking a trip—or in remembering a trip—if it happened to someone else?

  McClane preempted Quaid’s questionnaire on the video monitor with a list:

  A-14 MILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY

  A-15 SPORTS HERO

  A-16 INDUSTRIAL TYCOON

  A-17 SECRET AGENT

  “Come on, Doug, why be a tourist on Mars when you can be a playboy, an athlete, a—”

  Despite his doubt, Quaid was interested. “Secret agent—how much is that?”

  “Let me tantalize you, Doug. It’s like a movie, and you’re the star. Thrills, chills, double identities, chases! You’re a top operative, back under deep cover on your most important mission . . .” He trailed off.

  “Go on,” Quaid said, not wishing to be teased.

  McClane sat back. “I don’t wanna spoil it for you, Doug. Just rest assured, by the time it’s all over, you’ll have got the girl, killed the bad guys, and saved the planet.” He smiled victoriously. “Now would you say that’s worth three hundred credits?”

  Quaid reluctantly smiled. McClane’s final bait-and-switch ploy had gotten him hooked.

  CHAPTER 6

  41A

  There were other routine details that Quaid tuned out in much the way he did irrelevant windows of a multi-screen. It turned out that once the decision was made, there was no need for delay, as this was a purely internal procedure. Internal in the head. A couple of hours, and he’d be back from Mars: it was that simple, as far as his part in it was concerned. McClane had promised that he would have a ready explanation for the lack of missing time; how could he have been at work today, yet be returning from two weeks off-planet? Not to worry; there would be no apparent incongruity. He would keep his memory private, because he didn’t want to make his co-workers jealous, and th
ey would not mention his absence, supposing it to have been an embarrassing illness. He would never be inclined to check the actual dates of his trip against the dates of his employment, because his memory had them firmly recorded. A direct challenge, with assembled evidence, would of course turn up discrepancies—but who would want to do that? Not his co-workers, not Lori, who would be relieved to see him get the notion of going to Mars out of his system. She would be notified of what he had done, because she was next of kin and needed to know where the money had gone, but she would go along with it. They would even throw in a bonus for her: a token memory of seeing him off at the spaceport, and being lonely while he was gone, so that she could properly appreciate the impact of his experience. No problems, guaranteed.

  In fact, if he remembered any of his visit to this office, he could come in for a refund. There had to be no problem, or they took the loss. The system was self-correcting.

  Now it was evening, and they were ready. McClane guided him to another office in the rear of the complex, where there was something resembling an old-fashioned dentist’s chair. The chamber looked like a cross between an operating room and a sound-mixing booth. A nurse put a green surgical smock over his street clothes. “Don’t worry, Mr. Quaid,” she said as McClane departed. “This is only to protect your clothing from any staining from the IV. We’re not into surgery!”

  “IV?” he asked, startled.

  “We must put you just a little bit under, Mr. Quaid, so that your mind is receptive to the memory implant. It really wouldn’t work if you were fully conscious.” She smiled. She was not as pretty as the receptionist, and her blouse was fully opaque, but her smile was pleasant and reassuring.

  “Uh, yes, of course,” he agreed, taking his seat in the chair. It was pleasant having a woman fuss over him, any woman, anytime. Lori was good at that, very good. But the one on Mars—

  The nurse made sure he was comfortable, placing his arms on the armrests just so and adjusting the headrest. She rolled back his left sleeve and swabbed his forearm with cool alcohol. “My, you must be a powerful man, Mr. Quaid!” she said, noting the musculature of the arm as she dabbed on a surface anesthetic. Most women claimed to be more interested in character than appearance, exactly as most men did, but appearance always got in its innings.

  “I’m a construction engineer. A jack-jock.”

  “Oho! That explains it! You must be very good at it.”

  He knew she was just teasing him along to distract him from her preparations, but he liked it anyway. It was easy to imagine being in bed with such a woman, as he half lay in this supremely comfortable recliner and felt her gentle touch on his skin. He didn’t even feel the prick of the needle when she set the IV. He just felt increasingly relaxed as the tube began its flow. He wasn’t aware of the nurse’s departure and didn’t care; he just seemed to float, perfectly relaxed.

  A young man entered the chamber. He moved quickly, as if hyperactive. He was thin, with nondescript brown hair and rapidly darting gray eyes, reminding Quaid a bit of a foraging mouse. “Hello, Mr. Quaid,” he said. “I’m Ernie, your technical assistant. Dr. Lull will be with you in a moment. Are you comfortable?”

  “Yes.” Indeed he was! Any more comfort, and he’d be asleep.

  “I’ll just set the ‘space helmet’ here,” Ernie said with a jerky smile as he drew the device out on the end of a metal elbow arm. “Sort of a joke, that; you see, it resembles—”

  “I get the joke,” Quaid said. They were treating him like a child. It was fun when a woman did it, but not when a gawky adolescent man did.

  Ernie lowered the burnished metal bowl over Quaid’s head. “This your first trip?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Actually, it was reminiscent of a space helmet, and he could easily imagine himself stepping out on the barren landscape of Mars with such a device on his head. But it was actually a brain wave scanner, he knew, used to read and modify that portion of his mental activity that related to memories. This helmet was probably worth thousands of credits.

  Ernie carefully aligned the complex scientific instrument and locked it in place. Quaid scowled slightly as a strap chafed his head, too snug.

  “Don’t worry,” Ernie said, adjusting the strap. “Things hardly ever fuck up.”

  Just get on with it, twerp, Quaid thought. He was ready for Mars.

  The door opened and a birdlike middle-aged woman entered. She wore a stylish pants suit that didn’t do enough for her. Her body was too skinny and her hair too red. This was an artificial woman in the bad sense: she was trying to make herself look competent and successful, and succeeding mainly in making herself look ungainly.

  “Good evening, Mr . . .” She paused to check the video chart, obviously at a loss for his name. She found it. “Quaid, I’m Dr. Lull.” She spoke with a Swedish accent, and treated him with an impersonal conviviality that would have grated had he not been sedated.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said insincerely.

  The amenities over, Dr. Lull donned a surgical smock, then flipped through Quaid’s computer chart. “Ernie, patch in matrix 62b, 37, and—” She looked at Quaid. “Would you like to integrate some alien stuff?”

  “Two-headed monsters?” he asked doubtfully.

  She laughed with something approaching actual feeling. “Don’t you keep up with the news? We’re doing alien artifacts these days.”

  Oh. “Sure. Why not?” The notion intrigued him. Maybe that was one reason he was so interested in Mars. He hoped to explore, to discover the remnants of some vast lost alien complex, superscience, stun the world with the discovery, bathe in the notoriety of his achievement . . .

  Dr. Lull tossed the matrix to Ernie. That suggested what she thought of such notions: just a bit of fiction on a cartridge.

  “You got it,” Ernie said.

  As Ernie plugged in the proper cartridges, Dr. Lull fastened straps over Quaid’s arms, legs, and torso to hold the rest of him securely in place. This alarmed him slightly; did they think he was going to go into convulsions?

  “Been married long, Mr. Quaid?” Dr. Lull inquired, actually seeming interested. Maybe a woman of her contours was attuned to the notion of being married, having trouble achieving it.

  “Eight years.” That surprised him as he heard himself answer. Oh, it was true—but he realized that Lori still looked no older than twenty-five. She had aged hardly a whit; his mental picture of her on the day of their marriage was unchanged from his memory of her session with him this morning. Odd that he hadn’t noticed this before. Not that it bothered him; he’d be happy to have her keep her appearance for the next forty years.

  Yet even so, that woman of his Mars dream—how old was she? Not out of her twenties, surely.

  “Slipping away for a little hanky-panky?” Dr. Lull asked, licking her lips. She was definitely interested in the subject; her tone was positive rather than condemning.

  Quaid realized that even unattractive middle-aged women had dreams. She was indulging in hers by playing a muted verbal footsie with him, perhaps picturing herself in bed with him just the way he pictured himself in bed with any young and sexy woman he encountered. For the first time he realized that this sort of fancy might be an imposition on the other party, even when unvoiced. At times he had bantered with a young woman, only to have her turn away as if affronted, when he hadn’t meant anything by it. Now, picturing himself as the object of Dr. Lull’s lust—himself strapped down in this chair while she slowly stripped off his clothes and handled him in whatever way might titillate her—he understood the woman’s side of it. He did not care to be victimized by her imagination. “Not really,” he replied shortly.

  “All systems go,” Ernie said.

  Dr. Lull was all business again. “Good. Then we’re all set.” She stepped on a lever, and the back of Quaid’s chair lowered to a fully reclining position. “Ready for dreamland?”

  Quaid nodded. It suddenly occurred to him that the helmet might have been reading his thoughts all this time
. Did she know what he had been thinking about her? He hoped not!

  She reached to the tubing and opened the IV drip. Quaid was startled again; he had thought it was already on! Had all that relaxation been strictly imagination?

  “I’ll be asking you a few questions, Mr. Quaid,” Dr. Lull continued, “so we can fine-tune the wish-fulfillment program. Please be completely honest.”

  Not likely! But he was sure he could handle her questions, which wouldn’t approach his secret thoughts.

  Now he really was beginning to feel the effect of the anesthetic. He wasn’t floating, he was sinking. His mental barriers were descending; he no longer cared if she knew his opinion of her.

  Dr. Lull did not ask a question immediately. Instead she checked his vital signs. She was being careful with his health; that much he appreciated. That business about a poor sap getting lobotomized had bothered him; he didn’t want any such accident.

  Now she was set. “Your sexual orientation?”

  Easy! “Hetero.” She was just zeroing him in, making sure his reactions aligned with their indications.

  She nodded. “Now take a look at this monitor.”

  He gazed drowsily at a vague female outline on a computer screen he hadn’t noticed before.

  “How do you prefer your women?” she asked. “Blonde, brunette, redhead, Negro, Oriental?”

  “Brunette.” But Lori was a blonde. It was the Mars-woman who was brunette. Still, it was the truth—more than he hoped the doctor realized. There was no doubt that Lori was all that a man could ask for. Did his reservation about her stem solely from the color of her hair? He would have to think about that, when he had time to think without being spied on.

  He heard soft typing to the side. That would be Ernie, putting the specs into the system. The schematic image adjusted to match Quaid’s taste: the woman became brunette, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a slightly olive skin. Not quite like the one in his dream, but he didn’t care to have that match perfectly. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just that some things were too private to be programmed. Maybe it was that he didn’t want his true dream woman distorted by an artificial memory. Let this be some other woman, similar, but not so close as to be confusing. The memory might not be as nice, but caution was best.