Piers Anthony: Total Recall

“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.

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—