“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.
CHAPTER 7
Problem
McClane was interviewing another prospective client, a lonely middle-aged woman. These were fairly common customers; women seemed to have more suppressed dreams than men, and to be more depressive. They weren’t necessarily poor, either, just tired of being stuck at home while their husbands got all the action. What he offered was ideal for them.
“So you see, Mrs. Killdeer, we really can remember it for you wholesale. This will be the best experience you ever had!”
“But there won’t be any souvenirs,” she complained.
“Not true,” McClane said earnestly. “For just a few credits more, we supply postcards, photographs of you at the sights, letters from the handsome men you met—”
The videophone rang, interrupting him. Damn! He’d told them not to do that when he was closing a deal. He activated the ’phone and Dr. Lull appeared on the screen.
“Bob?” she asked. Her voice was tense. “You better get down here.”
McClane rolled his eyes in the full view of Mrs. Killdeer, as if in league with the customer against the company. It was hardly an exaggeration; good sales were not all that common, and he hated to have his clincher speech messed up. “I’m with a very important client.”
“Looks like another schizoid embolism,” Dr. Lull said.
McClane was shocked. Worse, so was Mrs. Killdeer. She understood the reference! This was all too likely to cost him two clients: Quaid and Killdeer. What an awful break!
He stood and attempted a reassuring smile. “I’ll be right back.”
But he very much feared she would not be there when he returned. Damn, damn, damn!
He strode out of the sales office and down the hall to the rear memory studio. The fools, to interrupt him with an announcement like that, in the hearing of a client! He was going to kick some ass! Did Renata Lull think she could pull a stunt like this and—
But as he entered the studio he pulled up short, his ire forgotten. He stood appalled at what was happening.
The client, Douglas Quaid, had gone crazy. He was shouting and thrashing about in the chair, struggling violently to break the straps that held him down. He was a powerful man—just how powerful McClane hadn’t properly appreciated before—and the IV connection was in danger of being separated. Indeed, the whole chair was rocking. What had happened? An adverse reaction to the sedative?
Quaid was like a different person. He wasn’t crazed so much as enraged. His eyes were flinty, and his voice was cold and menacing. “You’re dead meat, all of you!” he shouted with perfect clarity. “You blew my cover!”
Dr. Lull and Ernie were cowering against the far wall, trying to keep a safe distance from the struggling man. But McClane had had more experience with cases gone bad; they were more common than he allowed the records to show. Every client was an individual, with different synapses and reactions; there were bound to be some mismatches.
“What the fuck is going on here?” McClane demanded, aggravated. “You can’t install a simple goddamn double implant?!” Politeness was for prospective clients, not for errant employees.
“It’s not my fault,” Dr. Lull protested. “We hit a memory cap.”
“Untie me, you assholes!” Quaid roared. “They’ll be here any minute! They’ll kill you all!”
Huh? “What’s he talking about?” McClane snapped.
“Stop this operation now!” Quaid yelled.
How could the guy be talking so clearly? A reaction-induced berserker might scream and froth at the mouth, but his words would be mostly blasphemy and gibberish. Quaid sounded alarmingly coherent. “Mr. Quaid, please calm down,” McClane said, trying to be soothing. Maybe they could change the mix, get him sedated all the way down, then explore the problem. A memory cap? Who would have expected that!
“I’m not Quaid!”
Multiple personality? That just might account for this, and react like a memory cap, because of the memory taken by the alternate personalities. But Lull should have caught that! McClane nervously walked closer to examine Quaid’s eyes.
“You’re having a reaction to the implant,” he said, though he was by no means sure of that. Anything to get this thing muscled down so they could work their way out of it! “But in a few minutes—”
Quaid strained again at his bonds. Suddenly the strap holding his right arm snapped. That arm shot up and grabbed McClane by the throat. What devastating power the man had!
“Untie me.” Quaid’s words were softly spoken now, but the quiet menace was all too apparent.
McClane, choking, tried to pry Quaid’s hand from his neck. But even his two hands couldn’t loosen the iron grip. Construction workers had strong arms; he had known that. Why hadn’t he told them to double the straps? He was going to faint before he could even talk!
Ernie came out of his stasis. He rushed over and tried to wrestle Quaid’s arm down, using his full body weight. He might as well have pushed against the branch of an oak tree. McClane felt his consciousness wavering as he struggled unsuccessfully to breathe.
Dr. Lull hastily readied a syringe gun and frantically jabbed it into Quaid’s thigh. She fired dose after dose of narkidrine, until the man finally released his grip and passed out.
McClane fell to the floor, gagging, the studio and the world reeling. Ernie clung to him, managing to slow his fall.
Dr. Lull came over to help. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously, putting a hand down to check his forehead.
McClane shoved her hand away and gasped for breath. What a mess this was!
“Listen to me!” Dr. Lull said urgently. “He’s been going on and on about Mars.” Now it was evident that she was genuinely frightened. “He’s really been there!”
The world slowly ground down and fell into its proper place, but McClane still felt the pressure of those terrible fingers against his throat. He was bruised, for sure, but lucky it was no worse. What a monster! “Use your fucking head, you dumb bitch!” he rasped. “He’s acting out the secret agent role from his Ego Trip! You should have strapped him securely enough to hold him, so that when he thought—”
“That’s not possible,” Lull said coolly. She didn’t like strong language, but this time her carelessness had invited disaster.