Total Recall

CHAPTER 5 Rekall

Quaid paused before the computer console of the building directory before selecting Rekall, Inc. from the list of names. The screen displayed the office’s location, but still he hesitated.

Was this the answer? Harry had warned him off, but Harry wasn’t subject to chronic dreams of Mars. Mars was an incubus he simply had to get off his back, one way or another. He had to either banish the notion, which was impossible, or go there, which might also be impossible, or find a compromise. This just might be that compromise.

He knew that an illusion, no matter how convincing, remained nothing more than an illusion. Objectively, at least. But subjectively—that could be quite the opposite.

Well, he had an appointment. Within the next five minutes. Now was a point of decision; he had to either go up and be subject to their sales pitch or leave, chickening out. He would have flattened any man who called him chicken—fortunately, none had since he got his adult growth—but now he was accusing himself. He felt the crazy lure of Mars, but also his terror of falling down that mysterious pit. Did he really want to make that dream seem real?

There was only one way to know. Taking a deep breath, he boarded an elevator and made his way to the company’s reception area.

The receptionist was a nicely articulated blonde, painting her fingernails by tapping each nail with a white stylus. Red pigment instantly saturated each nail. For a moment she looked bare-bosomed, her breasts sprayed blue, but then the light shifted and he realized that it was the effect of one of those now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t variable translucency blouses. Seen from one angle, in one light, she was fully covered; seen from another angle, in other light, she was nude. Mostly she was somewhere between, the effect changing intriguingly as she shifted position. He would have to mention that to Lori; she would probably get a similar outfit for herself.

The woman hid her paraphernalia without embarrassment. She smiled in a practiced manner. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Rekall.”

Was he doing the right thing? He felt like a schoolboy approaching an adult gambling joint. “I called for an appointment. Douglas Quaid.”

She checked a list. He was sure this was a pose; he did have an appointment, and there was no one else in the office. She looked up. “One moment, Mr. Quaid.” She spoke quietly into a videophone while keeping an appreciative eye on Quaid, who glanced restlessly at the video travel posters that lined the walls. “Mr. Quaid?” she said. “Mr. McClane will be right with you.”

As she finished speaking, a salesman emerged from an inner office.

“Thank you, Tiffany,” he said. He winked at the receptionist, then grinned and offered his hand to Quaid. “Doug… Bob McClane. Good to meet ya. Right this way.” Quaid followed him out of the reception area.

McClane seemed to be a jovial hustler. He was in his mid-fifties, and he wore the latest Martian frog-pelt gray suit. The frogs weren’t native, of course; there was no surviving native life on Mars. But imported terrestrial frogs, raised in special Martian farms, had developed unusual characteristics in the reduced gravity and increased radiation, and now there was quite a market for their hides.

McClane led the way into his stylishly decorated office. “Have a seat, sit down, make yourself comfortable.”

Quaid lowered himself into a sleek, futuristic chair that adjusted itself subtly to accommodate his weight and configuration. This, too, Lori might like to know about; these people were right up with the times.

McClane sat behind his big pseudo-walnut desk. “Now you wanted a memory of…?”

“Mars,” Quaid said, realizing that the line between doubt and commitment had somehow already been crossed.

But the man’s reaction surprised him. “Right, Mars,” McClane said unenthusiastically.

“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:

“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.