Total Recall by Piers Anthony Page B

business to do at the moment. He had to clean up those records, and notify everyone who had seen Quaid that they hadn’t, beginning with the receptionist. Actually, he could use her in back, because they couldn’t process Quaid properly while he was all the way under, and he might recover a bit too far while they made the delicate adjustments. Tiffany was excellent at pacifying people, especially males; she could help keep the man quiet. Also, that refund—maybe he could null the payment before it was permanently recorded in the main computer system, so that there would never have been any payment. That would be much better. No payment, no refund—nothing happened.
    If this worked, life would continue much as before. If it didn’t, they might all be dead before they realized it. McClane knew he wasn’t going to sleep well tonight, or any night this week.

CHAPTER  8

Harry
    Q uaid, befuddled, found himself in the back seat of a vehicle. Rain was beating against the window beside his head. He tried to orient, but his brain barely functioned. How had he come here? In fact—
    “Where am I?” he asked of whoever might be within hearing.
    “You’re in a JohnnyCab!” a cheerful voice responded.
    A cab. A car. He had surmised as much! “I mean, what am I doing here?”
    “I’m sorry. Would you please rephrase the question?”
    Quaid blinked and looked, swiveling his dull gaze from the wet window to the driver in the front of the cab. It wasn’t a man, it was a fixedly smiling mannequin in an old-fashioned cabbie’s uniform. Now Quaid remembered: this brand of cab sported the pseudo-human touch, supposing that a fake man was better than none at all. Quaid normally used the verbally programmable, fully automatic cabs, instead of the semiautomated mannequin-interface models. The mannequins tended to be a pain. One reason was because they were prone to misunderstand directions, being relatively unsophisticated machines.
    Impatiently, he enunciated carefully: “How did I get in this taxi?”
    “The door opened. You sat down.”
    There was a second reason! They tended to take things with infuriating literalness. Exasperated, he sat back as Johnny raced to beat a red light. Would it make any sense to ask the idiot machine where he was going? Probably not. It was easier to wait until he got there. Meanwhile, maybe his woozy head would clear. What had he gotten into? The last thing he remembered was quitting work for the day, and—blank.
    In due course the cab pulled up at a place he recognized: his apartment building. So he had been going home! But why so late? It was night now. He had lost hours!
    The cab door opened and the mannequin turned its head, piping: “Thank you for taking JohnnyCab! I hope you enjoyed the ride.” Quail had a strong urge to wipe the manic grin off the dummy’s face, but he was feeling too woozy to follow through. He almost welcomed the cold rain that stung him as he stepped out of the cab. It soaked him to the skin, but it also helped him recover his senses somewhat. As he staggered toward the building, a familiar voice called out.
    “Hey, Quaid!” The Brooklyn accent was unmistakable. It was Harry from work. Quaid was pleased but puzzled.
    “Harry! What are you doing here?”
    Harry clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. “How was your trip to Mars?” he asked.
    “What trip?” Quaid pushed his wet hair back from his forehead and returned Harry’s grin with a blank look.
    “What do you mean, ‘What trip?’ You went to Rekall, remember?”
    Confused, Quaid tried to remember. “I did?”
    “Yeah, you did,” Harry said. Quaid fell in step with him and they approached the building entrance together.
    Quaid was still uncertain. Maybe he had gone there. They had discussed it briefly at work, and Harry had told him about the lobotomy accident. Then he had—or had he? He must have spent those lost hours somewhere . . .
    “C’mon,” said Harry, “I’ll buy you a drink. You can