Total Recall

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 they 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.

“Slim, curvaceous, voluptuous?” Dr. Lull asked crisply.

He was really getting sleepy now! That stuff in the IV didn’t fool around. “Volupshus.”

“Demure, aggressive, wanton? Be honest.”

Why shouldn’t he be honest? Well, there was a reason, but he couldn’t quite recall it at the moment. “Wanton… and demure.” Let them wrestle with that conflicting matchup!

“41A, Ernie.”

So much for conflict! Maybe if he wasn’t so sleepy he’d have been able to mess them up a little. As it was, he had spoken true, with someone in mind even though he had thought to keep her a bit removed.

He was vaguely aware of Ernie slipping cassette 41A into his console. The computer image became a schematic version of the woman in Quaid’s dream. The likeness was so close it was startling.

Oh, no! Did they know? They couldn’t! Yet—

“Boy, is he gonna have a wild time,” Ernie chortled. “Won’t wanna come back.”

Quaid faded out. He was on his way, wherever.