{"id":19133,"date":"2025-02-02T22:54:13","date_gmt":"2025-02-03T02:54:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=19133"},"modified":"2025-02-02T22:54:15","modified_gmt":"2025-02-03T02:54:15","slug":"philip-k-dick-we-can-remember-it-for-you-wholesale","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/philip-k-dick-we-can-remember-it-for-you-wholesale\/19133\/","title":{"rendered":"Philip K. Dick:\u00a0We Can Remember It For You Wholesale"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis: In \u201cWe Can Remember It For You Wholesale<\/strong>,\u201d Philip K. Dick explores the limits of reality and identity through the story of Douglas Quail, an ordinary man who longs for an extraordinary life. Tired of his monotonous existence, Quail buys implanted memories of a trip to Mars. However, when the memories emerge, Quail discovers that his life may not be as ordinary as he thought. This story, which inspired the movie Total Recall<\/em>, raises profound questions about memory, perception, and the nature of reality.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Philip<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

We Can Remember It For You Wholesale<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

by Philip K. Dick
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

HE AWOKE\u2014and wanted Mars. The valleys, he thought. What would it be like to trudge among them? Great and greater yet: the dream grew as he became fully conscious, the dream and the yearning. He could almost feel the enveloping presence of the other world, which only Government agents and high officials had seen. A clerk like himself? Not likely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you getting up or not?\u201d his wife Kirsten asked drowsily, with her usual hint of fierce crossness. \u201cIf you are, push the hot coffee button on the darn stove.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d Douglas Quail said, and made his way barefoot from the bedroom of their conapt to the kitchen. There; having dutifully pressed the hot coffee button, he seated himself at the kitchen table, brought out a yellow, small tin of fine Dean Swift snuff. He inhaled briskly, and the Beau Nash mixture stung his nose, burned the roof of his mouth. But still he inhaled; it woke him up and allowed his dreams, his nocturnal desires and random wishes, to condense into a semblance of rationality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I will go, he said to himself. Before I die I\u2019ll see Mars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was, of course, impossible, and he knew this even as he dreamed. But the daylight, the mundane noise of his wife now brushing her hair before the bedroom mirror\u2014everything conspired to remind him of what he was. A miserable little salaried employee, he said to himself with bitterness. Kirsten reminded him of this at least once a day and he did not blame her; it was a wife\u2019s job to bring her husband down to Earth. Down to Earth, he thought, and laughed. The figure of speech in this was literally apt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you sniggering about?\u201d his wife asked as she swept into the kitchen, her long busy-pink robe wagging after her. \u201cA dream, I bet. You\u2019re always full of them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d he said, and gazed out the kitchen window at the hover-cars and traffic runnels, and all the little energetic people hurrying to work. In a little while he would be among them. As always.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll bet it had to do with some woman,\u201d Kirsten said witheringly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cA god. The god of war. He has wonderful craters with every kind of plant-life growing deep down in them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cListen.\u201d Kirsten crouched down beside him and spoke earnestly, the harsh quality momentarily gone from her voice. \u201cThe bottom of the ocean\u2014our ocean is much more, an infinity of times more beautiful. You know that; everyone knows that. Rent an artificial gill-outfit for both of us, take a week off from work, and we can descend and live down there at one of those year-round aquatic resorts. And in addition\u2014\u201d She broke off. \u201cYou\u2019re not listening. You should be. Here is something a lot better than that compulsion, that obsession you have about Mars, and you don\u2019t even listen!\u201d Her voice rose piercingly. \u201cGod in heaven, you\u2019re doomed, Doug! What\u2019s going to become of you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m going to work,\u201d he said, rising to his feet, his breakfast forgotten. \u201cThat\u2019s what\u2019s going to become of me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She eyed him. \u201cYou\u2019re getting worse. More fanatical every day. Where\u2019s it going to lead?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTo Mars,\u201d he said, and opened the door to the closet to get down a fresh shirt to wear to work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Having descended from the taxi Douglas Quail slowly walked across three densely-populated foot runnels and to the modern, attractively inviting doorway. There he halted, impeding mid-morning traffic, and with caution read the shifting-color neon sign. He had, in the past, scrutinized this sign before \u2026 but never had he come so close. This was very different; what he did now was something else. Something which sooner or later had to happen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

REKAL, INCORPORATED<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Was this the answer? After all, an illusion, no matter how convincing, remained nothing more than an illusion. At least objectively. But subjectively\u2014quite the opposite entirely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And anyhow he had an appointment. Within the next five minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Taking a deep breath of mildly smog-infested Chicago air, he walked through the dazzling polychromatic shimmer of the doorway and up to the receptionist\u2019s counter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The nicely-articulated blonde at the counter, bare-bosomed and tidy, said pleasantly, \u201cGood morning, Mr. Quail.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m here to see about a Rekal course. As I guess you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot \u2018rekal\u2019 but recall,\u201d the receptionist corrected him. She picked up the receiver of the vidphone by her smooth elbow and said into it, \u201cMr. Douglas Quail is here, Mr. McClane. May he come inside, now? Or is it too soon?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGiz wetwa wum-wum wamp,\u201d the phone mumbled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, Mr. Quail,\u201d she said. \u201cYou may go in; Mr. McClane is expecting you.\u201d As he started off uncertainly she called after him, \u201cRoom D, Mr. Quail. To your right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a frustrating but brief moment of being lost he found the proper room. The door hung open and inside, at a big genuine walnut desk, sat a genial-looking man, middle-aged, wearing the latest Martian frog-pelt gray suit; his attire alone would have told Quail that he had come to the right person.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSit down, Douglas,\u201d McClane said, waving his plump hand toward a chair which faced the desk. \u201cSo you want to have gone to Mars. Very good.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quail seated himself, feeling tense. \u201cI\u2019m not so sure this is worth the fee,\u201d he said. \u201cIt costs a lot and as far as I can see I really get nothing.\u201d Costs almost as much as going, he thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou get tangible proof of your trip,\u201d McClane disagreed emphatically. \u201cAll the proof you\u2019ll need. Here; I\u2019ll show you.\u201d He dug within a drawer of his impressive desk. \u201cTicket stub.\u201d Reaching into a manila folder, he produced a small square of embossed cardboard. \u201cIt proves you went\u2014and returned. Postcards.\u201d He laid out four franked picture 3-D full-color postcards in a neatly-arranged row on the desk for Quail to see. \u201cFilm. Shots you took of local sights on Mars with a rented moving camera.\u201d To Quail he displayed those, too. \u201cPlus the names of people you met, two hundred poscreds worth of souvenirs, which will arrive\u2014from Mars\u2014within the following month. And passport, certificates listing the shots you received. And more.\u201d He glanced up keenly at Quail. \u201cYou\u2019ll know you went, all right,\u201d he said. \u201cYou won\u2019t remember us, won\u2019t remember me or ever having been here. It\u2019ll be a real trip in your mind; we guarantee that. A full two weeks of recall; every last piddling detail. Remember this: if at any time you doubt that you really took an extensive trip to Mars you can return here and get a full refund. You see?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut I didn\u2019t go,\u201d Quail said. \u201cI won\u2019t have gone, no matter what proofs you provide me with.\u201d He took a deep, unsteady breath. \u201cAnd I never was a secret agent with Interplan.\u201d It seemed impossible to him that Rekal, Incorporated\u2019s extra-factual memory implant would do its job\u2014despite what he had heard people say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Quail,\u201d McClane said patiently. \u201cAs you explained in your letter to us, you have no chance, no possibility in the slightest, of ever actually getting to Mars; you can\u2019t afford it, and what is much more important, you could never qualify as an undercover agent for Interplan or anybody else. This is the only way you can achieve your, ahem, life-long dream; am I not correct, sir? You can\u2019t be this; you can\u2019t actually do this.\u201d He chuckled. \u201cBut you can have been and have done. We see to that. And our fee is reasonable; no hidden charges.\u201d He smiled encouragingly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs an extra-factual memory that convincing?\u201d Quail asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMore than the real thing, sir. Had you really gone to Mars as an Interplan agent, you would by now have forgotten a great deal; our analysis of true-mem systems\u2014authentic recollections of major events in a person\u2019s life\u2014shows that a variety of details are very quickly lost to the person. Forever. Part of the package we offer you is such deep implantation of recall that nothing is forgotten. The packet which is fed to you while you\u2019re comatose is the creation of trained experts, men who have spent years on Mars; in every case we verify details down to the last iota. And you\u2019ve picked a rather easy extra-factual system; had you picked Pluto or wanted to be Emperor of the Inner Planet Alliance we\u2019d have much more difficulty \u2026 and the charges would be considerably greater.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Reaching into his coat for his wallet, Quail said, \u201cOkay. It\u2019s been my life-long ambition and so I see I\u2019ll never really do it. So I guess I\u2019ll have to settle for this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t think of it that way,\u201d McClane said severely. \u201cYou\u2019re not accepting second-best. The actual memory, with all its vagueness, omissions and ellipses, not to say distortions\u2014that\u2019s second-best.\u201d He accepted the money and pressed a button on his desk. \u201cAll right, Mr. Quail,\u201d he said, as the door of his office opened and two burly men swiftly entered. \u201cYou\u2019re on your way to Mars as a secret agent.\u201d He rose, came over to shake Quail\u2019s nervous, moist hand. \u201cOr rather, you have been on your way. This afternoon at four-thirty you will, um, arrive back here on Terra; a cab will leave you off at your conapt and as I say you will never remember seeing me or coming here; you won\u2019t, in fact, even remember having heard of our existence.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His mouth dry with nervousness, Quail followed the two technicians from the office; what happened next depended on them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Will I actually believe I\u2019ve been on Mars? he wondered. That I managed to fulfill my lifetime ambition? He had a strange, lingering intuition that something would go wrong. But just what\u2014he did not know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He would have to wait and find out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The intercom on McClane\u2019s desk, which connected him with the work area of the firm, buzzed and a voice said, \u201cMr. Quail is under sedation now, sir. Do you want to supervise this one, or shall we go ahead?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s routine,\u201d McClane observed. \u201cYou may go ahead, Lowe; I don\u2019t think you\u2019ll run into any trouble.\u201d Programming an artificial memory of a trip to another planet\u2014with or without the added fillip of being a secret agent\u2014showed up on the firm\u2019s work-schedule with monotonous regularity. In one month, he calculated wryly, we must do twenty of these \u2026 ersatz interplanetary gravel has become our bread and butter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhatever you say, Mr. McClane,\u201d Lowe\u2019s voice came, and thereupon the intercom shut off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Going to the vault section in the chamber behind his office, McClane searched about for a Three packet\u2014trip to Mars\u2014and a Sixty-two packet: secret Interplan spy. Finding the two packets, he returned with them to his desk, seated himself comfortably, poured out the contents\u2014merchandise which would be planted in Quail\u2019s conapt while the lab technicians busied themselves installing false memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A one-poscred sneaky-pete side arm, McClane reflected; that\u2019s the largest item. Sets us back financially the most. Then a pellet-sized transmitter, which could be swallowed if the agent were caught. Code book that astonishingly resembled the real thing \u2026 the firm\u2019s models were highly accurate: based, whenever possible, on actual U.S. military issue. Odd bits which made no intrinsic sense but which would be woven into the warp and woof of Quail\u2019s imaginary trip, would coincide with his memory: half an ancient silver fifty cent piece, several quotations from John Donne\u2019s sermons written incorrectly, each on a separate piece of transparent tissue-thin paper, several match folders from bars on Mars, a stainless steel spoon engraved PROPERTY OF DOME-MARS NATIONAL KIBBUZIM, a wire tapping coil which\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The intercom buzzed. \u201cMr. McClane, I\u2019m sorry to bother you but something rather ominous has come up. Maybe it would be better if you were in here after all. Quail is already under sedation; he reacted well to the narkidrine; he\u2019s completely unconscious and receptive. But\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be in.\u201d Sensing trouble, McClane left his office; a moment later he emerged in the work area.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On a hygienic bed lay Douglas Quail, breathing slowly and regularly, his eyes virtually shut; he seemed dimly\u2014but only dimly\u2014aware of the two technicians and now McClane himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s no space to insert false memory-patterns?\u201d McClane felt irritation. \u201cMerely drop out two work weeks; he\u2019s employed as a clerk at the West Coast Emigration Bureau, which is a government agency, so he undoubtedly has or had two weeks\u2019 vacation within the last year. That ought to do it.\u201d Petty details annoyed him. And always would.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOur problem,\u201d Lowe said sharply, \u201cis something quite different.\u201d He bent over the bed, said to Quail, \u201cTell Mr. McClane what you told us.\u201d To McClane he said, \u201cListen closely.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gray-green eyes of the man lying supine in the bed focussed on McClane\u2019s face. The eyes, he observed uneasily, had become hard; they had a polished, inorganic quality, like semiprecious tumbled stones. He was not sure that he liked what he saw; the brilliance was too cold. \u201cWhat do you want now?\u201d Quail said harshly. \u201cYou\u2019ve broken my cover. Get out of here before I take you all apart.\u201d He studied McClane. \u201cEspecially you,\u201d he continued. \u201cYou\u2019re in charge of this counter-operation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lowe said, \u201cHow long were you on Mars?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOne month,\u201d Quail said gratingly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd your purpose there?\u201d Lowe demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The meager lips twisted; Quail eyed him and did not speak. At last, drawling the words out so that they dripped with hostility, he said, \u201cAgent for Interplan. As I already told you. Don\u2019t you record everything that\u2019s said? Play your vid-aud tape back for your boss and leave me alone.\u201d He shut his eyes, then; the hard brilliance ceased. McClane felt, instantly, a rushing splurge of relief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lowe said quietly, \u201cThis is a tough man, Mr. McClane.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe won\u2019t be,\u201d McClane said, \u201cafter we arrange for him to lose his memory-chain again. He\u2019ll be as meek as before.\u201d To Quail he said, \u201cSo this is why you wanted to go to Mars so terribly bad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Without opening his eyes Quail said, \u201cI never wanted to go to Mars. I was assigned it\u2014they handed it to me and there I was: stuck. Oh yeah, I admit I was curious about it; who wouldn\u2019t be?\u201d Again he opened his eyes and surveyed the three of them, McClane in particular. \u201cQuite a truth drug you\u2019ve got here; it brought up things I had absolutely no memory of.\u201d He pondered. \u201cI wonder about Kirsten,\u201d he said, half to himself. \u201cCould she be in on it? An Interplan contact keeping an eye on me \u2026 to be certain I didn\u2019t regain my memory? No wonder she\u2019s been so derisive about my wanting to go there.\u201d Faintly, he smiled; the smile\u2014one of understanding\u2014disappeared almost at once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

McClane said, \u201cPlease believe me, Mr. Quail; we stumbled onto this entirely by accident. In the work we do\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI believe you,\u201d Quail said. He seemed tired, now; the drug was continuing to pull him under, deeper and deeper. \u201cWhere did I say I\u2019d been?\u201d he murmured. \u201cMars? Hard to remember\u2014I know I\u2019d like to see it; so would everybody else. But me\u2014\u201d His voice trailed off. \u201cJust a clerk, a nothing clerk.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Straightening up, Lowe said to his superior. \u201cHe wants a false memory implanted that corresponds to a trip he actually took. And a false reason which is the real reason. He\u2019s telling the truth; he\u2019s a long way down in the narkidrine. The trip is very vivid in his mind\u2014at least under sedation. But apparently he doesn\u2019t recall it otherwise. Someone, probably at a government military-sciences lab, erased his conscious memories; all he knew was that going to Mars meant something special to him, and so did being a secret agent. They couldn\u2019t erase that; it\u2019s not a memory but a desire, undoubtedly the same one that motivated him to volunteer for the assignment in the first place.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The other technician, Keeler, said to McClane, \u201cWhat do we do? Graft a false memory-pattern over the real memory? There\u2019s no telling what the results would be; he might remember some of the genuine trip, and the confusion might bring on a psychotic interlude. He\u2019d have to hold two opposite premises in his mind simultaneously: that he went to Mars and that he didn\u2019t. That he\u2019s a genuine agent for Interplan and he\u2019s not, that it\u2019s spurious. I think we ought to revive him without any false memory implantation and send him out of here; this is hot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAgreed,\u201d McClane said. A thought came to him. \u201cCan you predict what he\u2019ll remember when he comes out of sedation?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cImpossible to tell,\u201d Lowe said. \u201cHe probably will have some dim, diffuse memory of his actual trip, now. And he\u2019d probably be in grave doubt as to its validity; he\u2019d probably decide our programming slipped a gear-tooth. And he\u2019d remember coming here; that wouldn\u2019t be erased\u2014unless you want it erased.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe less we mess with this man,\u201d McClane said, \u201cthe better I like it. This is nothing for us to fool around with; we\u2019ve been foolish enough to\u2014or unlucky enough to\u2014uncover a genuine Interplan spy who has a cover so perfect that up to now even he didn\u2019t know what he was\u2014or rather is.\u201d The sooner they washed their hands of the man calling himself Douglas Quail the better.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you going to plant packets Three and Sixty-two in his conapt?\u201d Lowe said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d McClane said. \u201cAnd we\u2019re going to return half his fee.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018Half\u2019! Why half?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

McClane said lamely, \u201cIt seems to be a good compromise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As the cab carried him back to his conapt at the residential end of Chicago, Douglas Quail said to himself, It\u2019s sure good to be back on Terra.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Already the month-long period on Mars had begun to waver in his memory; he had only an image of profound gaping craters, an ever-present ancient erosion of hills, of vitality, of motion itself. A world of dust where little happened, where a good part of the day was spent checking and rechecking one\u2019s portable oxygen source. And then the life forms, the unassuming and modest gray-brown cacti and maw-worms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As a matter of fact he had brought back several moribund examples of Martian fauna; he had smuggled them through customs. After all, they posed no menace; they couldn\u2019t survive in Earth\u2019s heavy atmosphere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Reaching into his coat pocket, he rummaged for the container of Martian maw-worms\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And found an envelope instead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lifting it out, he discovered, to his perplexity, that it contained five hundred and seventy poscreds, Where\u2019d I get this?, he asked himself. Didn\u2019t I spend every \u2018cred I had on my trip?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With the money came a slip of paper marked: One-half fee ret\u2019d. By McClane. And then the date. Today\u2019s date.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRecall,\u201d he said aloud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRecall what, sir or madam?\u201d the robot driver of the cab inquired respectfully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you have a phone book?\u201d Quail demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCertainly, sir or madam.\u201d A slot opened; from it slid a microtape phone book for Cook County.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s spelled oddly,\u201d Quail said as he leafed through the pages of the yellow section. He felt fear, then; abiding fear. \u201cHere it is,\u201d he said. \u201cTake me there, to Rekal, Incorporated. I\u2019ve changed my mind; I don\u2019t want to go home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, sir or madam, as the case may be,\u201d the driver said. A moment later the cab was zipping back in the opposite direction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMay I make use of your phone?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBe my guest,\u201d the robot driver said. And presented a shiny new emperor 3-D color phone to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He dialed his own conapt. And after a pause found himself confronted by a miniature but chillingly realistic image of Kirsten on the small screen. \u201cI\u2019ve been to Mars,\u201d he said to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re drunk.\u201d Her lips writhed scornfully. \u201cOr worse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018s God\u2019s truth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen?\u201d she demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d He felt confused. \u201cA simulated trip, I think. By means of one of those artificial or extra-factual or whatever it is memory places. It didn\u2019t take.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kirsten said witheringly, \u201cYou are drunk.\u201d And broke the connection at her end. He hung up, then, feeling his face flush. Always the same tone, he said hotly to himself. Always the retort, as if she knows everything and I know nothing. What a marriage. Keerist, he thought dismally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A moment later the cab stopped at the curb before a modern, very attractive little pink building, over which a shifting polychromatic neon sign read: REKAL, INCORPORATED.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The receptionist, chic and bare from the waist up, started in surprise, then gained masterful control of herself. \u201cOh, hello, Mr. Quail,\u201d she said nervously. \u201cH-how are you? Did you forget something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe rest of my fee back,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

More composed now, the receptionist said, \u201cFee? I think you are mistaken, Mr. Quail. You were here discussing the feasibility of an extra-factual trip for you, but\u2014\u201d She shrugged her smooth pale shoulders. \u201cAs I understand it, no trip was taken.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quail said, \u201cI remember everything, miss. My letter to Rekal, Incorporated, which started this whole business off. I remember my arrival here, my visit with Mr. McClane. Then the two lab technicians taking me in tow and administering a drug to put me out.\u201d No wonder the firm had returned half his fee. The false memory of his \u201ctrip to Mars\u201d hadn\u2019t taken\u2014at least not entirely, not as he had been assured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Quail,\u201d the girl said, \u201calthough you are a minor clerk you are a good-looking man and it spoils your features to become angry. If it would make you feel any better, I might, ahem, let you take me out \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He felt furious, then. \u201cI remember you,\u201d he said savagely. \u201cFor instance the fact that your breasts are sprayed blue; that stuck in my mind. And I remember Mr. McClane\u2019s promise that if I remembered my visit to Rekal, Incorporated I\u2019d receive my money back in full. Where is Mr. McClane?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a delay\u2014probably as long as they could manage\u2014he found himself once more seated facing the imposing walnut desk, exactly as he had been an hour or so earlier in the day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSome technique you have,\u201d Quail said sardonically. His disappointment\u2014and resentment\u2014was enormous, by now. \u201cMy so-called \u2018memory\u2019 of a trip to Mars as an undercover agent for Interplan is hazy and vague and shot full of contradictions. And I clearly remember my dealings here with you people. I ought to take this to the Better Business Bureau.\u201d He was burning angry, at this point; his sense of being cheated had overwhelmed him, had destroyed his customary aversion to participating in a public squabble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Looking morose, as well as cautious, McClane said, \u201cWe capitulate, Quail. We\u2019ll refund the balance of your fee. I fully concede the fact that we did absolutely nothing for you.\u201d His tone was resigned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quail said accusingly, \u201cYou didn\u2019t even provide me with the various artifacts that you claimed would \u2018prove\u2019 to me I had been on Mars. All that song-and-dance you went into\u2014it hasn\u2019t materialized into a damn thing. Not even a ticket stub. Nor postcards. Nor passport. Nor proof of immunization shots. Nor\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cListen, Quail,\u201d McClane said. \u201cSuppose I told you\u2014\u201d He broke off. \u201cLet it go.\u201d He pressed a button on his intercom. \u201cShirley, will you disburse five hundred and seventy more \u2018creds in the form of a cashier\u2019s check made out to Douglas Quail? Thank you.\u201d He released the button, then glared at Quail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Presently the check appeared; the receptionist placed it before McClane and once more vanished out of sight, leaving the two men alone, still facing each other across the surface of the massive walnut desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet me give you a word of advice,\u201d McClane said as he signed the check and passed it over. \u201cDon\u2019t discuss your, ahem, recent trip to Mars with anyone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat trip?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, that\u2019s the thing.\u201d Doggedly, McClane said, \u201cThe trip you partially remember. Act as if you don\u2019t remember; pretend it never took place. Don\u2019t ask me why; just take my advice: it\u2019ll be better for all of us.\u201d He had begun to perspire. Freely. \u201cNow, Mr. Quail, I have other business, other clients to see.\u201d He rose, showed Quail to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quail said, as he opened the door, \u201cA firm that turns out such bad work shouldn\u2019t have any clients at all.\u201d He shut the door behind him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the way home in the cab Quail pondered the wording of his letter of complaint to the Better Business Bureau, Terra Division. As soon as he could get to his typewriter he\u2019d get started; it was clearly his duty to warn other people away from Rekal, Incorporated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he got back to his conapt he seated himself before his Hermes Rocket portable, opened the drawers and rummaged for carbon paper\u2014and noticed a small, familiar box. A box which he had carefully filled on Mars with Martian fauna and later smuggled through customs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Opening the box he saw, to his disbelief, six dead maw-worms and several varieties of the unicellular life on which the Martian worms fed. The protozoa were dried-up, dusty, but he recognized them; it had taken him an entire day picking among the vast dark alien boulders to find them. A wonderful, illuminated journey of discovery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I didn\u2019t go to Mars, he realized.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yet on the other hand\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kirsten appeared at the doorway to the room, an armload of pale brown groceries gripped. \u201cWhy are you home in the middle of the day?\u201d Her voice, in an eternity of sameness, was accusing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid I go to Mars?\u201d he asked her. \u201cYou would know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, of course you didn\u2019t go to Mars; you would know that, I would think. Aren\u2019t you always bleating about going?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He said, \u201cBy God, I think I went.\u201d After a pause he added, \u201cAnd simultaneously I think I didn\u2019t go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMake up your mind.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow can I?\u201d He gestured. \u201cI have both memory-tracks grafted inside my head; one is real and one isn\u2019t but I can\u2019t tell which is which. Why can\u2019t I rely on you? They haven\u2019t tinkered with you.\u201d She could do this much for him at least\u2014even if she never did anything else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kirsten said in a level, controlled voice, \u201cDoug, if you don\u2019t pull yourself together, we\u2019re through. I\u2019m going to leave you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m in trouble.\u201d His voice came out husky and coarse. And shaking. \u201cProbably I\u2019m heading into a psychotic episode; I hope not, but\u2014maybe that\u2019s it. It would explain everything, anyhow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Setting down the bag of groceries, Kirsten stalked to the closet. \u201cI was not kidding,\u201d she said to him quietly. She brought out a coat, got it on, walked back to the door of the conapt. \u201cI\u2019ll phone you one of these days soon,\u201d she said tonelessly. \u201cThis is goodbye, Doug. I hope you pull out of this eventually; I really pray you do. For your sake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWait,\u201d he said desperately. \u201cJust tell me and make it absolute; I did go or I didn\u2019t\u2014tell me which one.\u201d But they may have altered your memory-track also, he realized.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The door closed. His wife had left. Finally!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A voice behind him said, \u201cWell, that\u2019s that. Now put up your hands, Quail. And also please turn around and face this way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned, instinctively, without raising his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man who faced him wore the plum uniform of the Interplan Police Agency, and his gun appeared to be UN issue. And, for some odd reason, he seemed familiar to Quail; familiar in a blurred, distorted fashion which he could not pin down. So, jerkily, he raised his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou remember,\u201d the policeman said, \u201cyour trip to Mars. We know all your actions today and all your thoughts\u2014in particular your very important thoughts on the trip home from Rekal, Incorporated.\u201d He explained, \u201cWe have a tele-transmitter wired within your skull; it keeps us constantly informed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A telepathic transmitter; use of a living plasma that had been discovered in Luna. He shuddered with self-aversion. The thing lived inside him, within his own brain, feeding, listening, feeding. But the Interplan police used them; that had come out even in the homeopapes. So this was probably true, dismal as it was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy me?\u201d Quail said huskily. What had he done\u2014or thought? And what did this have to do with Rekal, Incorporated?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFundamentally,\u201d the Interplan cop said, \u201cthis has nothing to do with Rekal; it\u2019s between you and us.\u201d He tapped his right ear. \u201cI\u2019m still picking up your mentational processes by way of your cephalic transmitter.\u201d In the man\u2019s ear Quail saw a small white-plastic plug. \u201cSo I have to warn you: anything you think may be held against you.\u201d He smiled. \u201cNot that it matters now; you\u2019ve already thought and spoken yourself into oblivion. What\u2019s annoying is the fact that under narkidrine at Rekal, Incorporated you told them, their technicians and the owner, Mr. McClane, about your trip\u2014where you went, for whom, some of what you did. They\u2019re very frightened. They wish they had never laid eyes on you.\u201d He added reflectively, \u201cThey\u2019re right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quail said, \u201cI never made any trip. It\u2019s a false memory-chain improperly planted in me by McClane\u2019s technicians.\u201d But then he thought of the box, in his desk drawer, containing the Martian life forms. And the trouble and hardship he had had gathering them. The memory seemed real. And the box of life forms; that certainly was real. Unless McClane had planted it. Perhaps this was one of the \u201cproofs\u201d which McClane had talked glibly about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The memory of my trip to Mars, he thought, doesn\u2019t convince me\u2014but unfortunately it has convinced the Interplan Police Agency. They think I really went to Mars and they think I at least partially realize it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe not only know you went to Mars,\u201d the Interplan cop agreed, in answer to his thoughts, \u201cbut we know that you now remember enough to be difficult for us. And there\u2019s no use expunging your conscious memory of all this, because if we do you\u2019ll simply show up at Rekal, Incorporated again and start over. And we can\u2019t do anything about McClane and his operation because we have no jurisdiction over anyone except our own people. Anyhow, McClane hasn\u2019t committed any crime.\u201d He eyed Quail, \u201cNor, technically, have you. You didn\u2019t go to Rekal, Incorporated with the idea of regaining your memory; you went, as we realize, for the usual reason people go there\u2014a love by plain, dull people for adventure.\u201d He added, \u201cUnfortunately you\u2019re not plain, not dull, and you\u2019ve already had too much excitement; the last thing in the universe you needed was a course from Rekal, Incorporated. Nothing could have been more lethal for you or for us. And, for that matter, for McClane.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quail said, \u201cWhy is it \u2018difficult\u2019 for you if I remember my trip\u2014my alleged trip\u2014and what I did there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause,\u201d the Interplan harness bull said, \u201cwhat you did is not in accord with our great white all-protecting father public image. You did, for us, what we never do. As you\u2019ll presently remember\u2014thanks to narkidrine. That box of dead worms and algae has been sitting in your desk drawer for six months, ever since you got back. And at no time have you shown the slightest curiosity about it. We didn\u2019t even know you had it until you remembered it on your way home from Rekal; then we came here on the double to look for it.\u201d He added, unnecessarily, \u201cWithout any luck; there wasn\u2019t enough time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A second Interplan cop joined the first one; the two briefly conferred. Meanwhile, Quail thought rapidly. He did remember more, now; the cop had been right about narkidrine. They\u2014Interplan\u2014probably used it themselves. Probably? He knew darn well they did; he had seen them putting a prisoner on it. Where would that be? Somewhere on Terra? More likely on Luna, he decided, viewing the image rising from his highly defective\u2014but rapidly less so\u2014memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And he remembered something else. Their reason for sending him to Mars; the job he had done.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No wonder they had expunged his memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, God,\u201d the first of the two Interplan cops said, breaking off his conversation with his companion. Obviously, he had picked up Quail\u2019s thoughts. \u201cWell, this is a far worse problem, now; as bad as it can get.\u201d He walked toward Quail, again covering him with his gun. \u201cWe\u2019ve got to kill you,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd right away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nervously, his fellow officer said, \u201cWhy right away? Can\u2019t we simply cart him off to Interplan New York and let them\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe knows why it has to be right away,\u201d the first cop said; he too looked nervous, now, but Quail realized that it was for an entirely different reason. His memory had been brought back almost entirely, now. And he fully understood the officer\u2019s tension.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOn Mars,\u201d Quail said hoarsely, \u201cI killed a man. After getting past fifteen bodyguards. Some armed with sneaky-pete guns, the way you are.\u201d He had been trained, by Interplan, over a five year period to be an assassin. A professional killer. He knew ways to take out armed adversaries \u2026 such as these two officers; and the one with the ear-receiver knew it, too. If he moved swiftly enough\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gun fired. But he had already moved to one side, and at the same time he chopped down the gun-carrying officer. In an instant he had possession of the gun and was covering the other, confused, officer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPicked my thoughts up,\u201d Quail said, panting for breath. \u201cHe knew what I was going to do, but I did it anyhow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Half sitting up, the injured officer grated, \u201cHe won\u2019t use that gun on you, Sam; I pick that up, too. He knows he\u2019s finished, and he knows we know it, too. Come on, Quail.\u201d Laboriously, grunting with pain, he got shakily to his feet. He held out his hand. \u201cThe gun,\u201d he said to Quail. \u201cYou can\u2019t use it, and if you turn it over to me I\u2019ll guarantee not to kill you; you\u2019ll be given a hearing, and someone higher up in Interplan will decide, not me. Maybe they can erase your memory once more, I don\u2019t know. But you know the thing I was going to kill you for; I couldn\u2019t keep you from remembering it. So my reason for wanting to kill you is in a sense past.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quail, clutching the gun, bolted from the conapt, sprinted for the elevator. If you follow me, he thought, I\u2019ll killyou. So don\u2019t. He jabbed at the elevator button and, a moment later, the doors slid back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The police hadn\u2019t followed him. Obviously they had picked up his terse, tense thoughts and had decided not to take the chance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With him inside the elevator descended. He had gotten away\u2014for a time. But what next? Where could he go?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The elevator reached the ground floor; a moment later Quail had joined the mob of peds hurrying along the runnels. His head ached and he felt sick. But at least he had evaded death; they had come very close to shooting him on the spot, back in his own conapt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And they probably will again, he decided. When they find me. And with this transmitter inside me, that won\u2019t take too long.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ironically, he had gotten exactly what he had asked Rekal, Incorporated for. Adventure, peril, Interplan police at work, a secret and dangerous trip to Mars in which his life was at stake\u2014everything he had wanted as a false memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The advantages of it being a memory\u2014and nothing more\u2014could now be appreciated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On a park bench, alone, he sat dully watching a flock of perts: a semi-bird imported from Mars\u2019 two moons, capable of soaring flight, even against Earth\u2019s huge gravity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe I can find my way back to Mars, he pondered. But then what? It would be worse on Mars; the political organization whose leader he had assassinated would spot him the moment he stepped from the ship; he would have Interplan and them after him, there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Can you hear me thinking? he wondered. Easy avenue to paranoia; sitting here alone he felt them tuning in on him, monitoring, recording, discussing \u2026 He shivered, rose to his feet, walked aimlessly, his hands deep in his pockets. No matter where I go, he realized, you\u2019ll always be with me. As long as I have this device inside my head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ll make a deal with you, he thought to himself\u2014and to them. Can you imprint a false-memory template on me again, as you did before, that I lived an average, routine life, never went to Mars? Never saw an Interplan uniform up close and never handled a gun?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A voice inside his brain answered, \u201cAs has been carefully explained to you: that would not be enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Astonished, he halted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe formerly communicated with you in this manner,\u201d the voice continued. \u201cWhen you were operating in the field, on Mars. It\u2019s been months since we\u2019ve done it; we assumed, in fact, that we\u2019d never have to do so again. Where are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWalking,\u201d Quail said, \u201cto my death.\u201d By your officers\u2019 guns, he added as an afterthought. \u201cHow can you be sure it wouldn\u2019t be enough?\u201d he demanded. \u201cDon\u2019t the Rekal techniques work?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAs we said. If you\u2019re given a set of standard, average memories you get\u2014restless. You\u2019d inevitably seek out Rekal or one of its competitors again. We can\u2019t go through this a second time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSuppose,\u201d Quail said, \u201conce my authentic memories have been canceled, something more vital than standard memories are implanted. Something which would act to satisfy my craving,\u201d he said. \u201cThat\u2019s been proved; that\u2019s probably why you initially hired me. But you ought to be able to come up with something else\u2014something equal. I was the richest man on Terra but I finally gave all my money to educational foundations. Or I was a famous deep-space explorer. Anything of that sort; wouldn\u2019t one of those do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTry it,\u201d he said desperately. \u201cGet some of your top-notch military psychiatrists; explore my mind. Find out what my most expansive daydream is.\u201d He tried to think. \u201cWomen,\u201d he said. \u201cThousands of them, like Don Juan had. An interplanetary playboy\u2014a mistress in every city on Earth, Luna and Mars. Only I gave that up, out of exhaustion. Please,\u201d he begged. \u201cTry it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019d voluntarily surrender, then?\u201d the voice inside his head asked. \u201cIf we agreed, to arrange such a solution? If it\u2019s possible?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After an interval of hesitation he said, \u201cYes.\u201d I\u2019ll take the risk, he said to himself, that you don\u2019t simply kill me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou make the first move,\u201d the voice said presently. \u201cTurn yourself over to us. And we\u2019ll investigate that line of possibility. If we can\u2019t do it, however, if your authentic memories begin to crop up again as they\u2019ve done at this time, then\u2014\u201d There was silence and then the voice finished, \u201cWe\u2019ll have to destroy you. As you must understand. Well, Quail, you still want to try?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d he said. Because the alternative was death now\u2014and for certain. At least this way he had a chance, slim as it was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou present yourself at our main barracks in New York,\u201d the voice of the Interplan cop resumed. \u201cAt 580 Fifth Avenue, floor twelve. Once you\u2019ve surrendered yourself, we\u2019ll have our psychiatrists begin on you; we\u2019ll have personality-profile tests made. We\u2019ll attempt to determine your absolute, ultimate fantasy wish\u2014then we\u2019ll bring you back to Rekal, Incorporated, here; get them in on it, fulfilling that wish in vicarious surrogate retrospection. And\u2014good luck. We do owe you something; you acted as a capable instrument for us.\u201d The voice lacked malice; if anything, they\u2014the organization\u2014felt sympathy toward him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThanks,\u201d Quail said. And began searching for a robot cab.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Quail,\u201d the stern-faced, elderly Interplan psychiatrist said, \u201cyou possess a most interesting wish-fulfillment dream fantasy. Probably nothing such as you consciously entertain or suppose. This is commonly the way; I hope it won\u2019t upset you too much to hear about it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The senior ranking Interplan officer present said briskly, \u201cHe better not be too much upset to hear about it, not if he expects not to get shot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUnlike the fantasy of wanting to be an Interplan undercover agent,\u201d the psychiatrist continued, \u201cwhich, being relatively speaking a product of maturity, had a certain plausibility to it, this production is a grotesque dream of your childhood; it is no wonder you fail to recall it. Your fantasy is this: you are nine years old, walking alone down a rustic lane. An unfamiliar variety of space vessel from another star system lands directly in front of you. No one on Earth but you, Mr. Quail, sees it. The creatures within are very small and helpless, somewhat on the order of field mice, although they are attempting to invade Earth; tens of thousands of other ships will soon be on their way, when this advance party gives the go-ahead signal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd I suppose I stop them,\u201d Quail said, experiencing a mixture of amusement and disgust. \u201cSingle-handed I wipe them out. Probably by stepping on them with my foot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d the psychiatrist said patiently. \u201cYou halt the invasion, but not by destroying them. Instead, you show them kindness and mercy, even though by telepathy\u2014their mode of communication\u2014you know why they have come. They have never seen such humane traits exhibited by any sentient organism, and to show their appreciation they make a covenant with you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quail said, \u201cThey won\u2019t invade Earth as long as I\u2019m alive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExactly.\u201d To the Interplan officer the psychiatrist said, \u201cYou can see it does fit his personality, despite his feigned scorn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo by merely existing,\u201d Quail said, feeling a growing pleasure, \u201cby simply being alive, I keep Earth safe from alien rule. I\u2019m in effect, then, the most important person on Terra. Without lifting a finger.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, indeed, sir,\u201d the psychiatrist said. \u201cAnd this is bedrock in your psyche; this is a life-long childhood fantasy. Which, without depth and drug therapy, you never would have recalled. But it has always existed in you; it went underneath, but never ceased.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To McClane, who sat intently listening, the senior police official said, \u201cCan you implant an extra-factual memory pattern that extreme in him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe get handed every possible type of wish-fantasy there is,\u201d McClane said. \u201cFrankly, I\u2019ve heard a lot worse than this. Certainly we can handle it. Twenty-four hours from now he won\u2019t just wish he\u2019d saved Earth; he\u2019ll devoutly believe it really happened.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The senior police official said, \u201cYou can start the job, then. In preparation we\u2019ve already once again erased the memory in him of his trip to Mars.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Quail said, \u201cWhat trip to Mars?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No one answered him, so reluctantly, he shelved the question. And anyhow a police vehicle had now put in its appearance; he, McClane and the senior police officer crowded into it, and presently they were on their way to Chicago and Rekal, Incorporated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou had better make no errors this time,\u201d the police officer said to heavyset, nervous-looking McClane.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI can\u2019t see what could go wrong,\u201d McClane mumbled, perspiring. \u201cThis has nothing to do with Mars or Interplan. Single-handedly stopping an invasion of Earth from another star-system.\u201d He shook his head at that. \u201cWow, what a kid dreams up. And by pious virtue, too; not by force. It\u2019s sort of quaint.\u201d He dabbed at his forehead with a large linen pocket handkerchief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nobody said anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn fact,\u201d McClane said, \u201cit\u2019s touching.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut arrogant,\u201d the police official said starkly. \u201cInasmuch as when he dies the invasion will resume. No wonder he doesn\u2019t recall it; it\u2019s the most grandiose fantasy I ever ran across.\u201d He eyed Quail with disapproval. \u201cAnd to think we put this man on our payroll.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When they reached Rekal, Incorporated the receptionist, Shirley, met them breathlessly in the outer office. \u201cWelcome back, Mr. Quail,\u201d she fluttered, her melon-shaped breasts\u2014today painted an incandescent orange\u2014bobbing with agitation. \u201cI\u2019m sorry everything worked out so badly before; I\u2019m sure this time it\u2019ll go better.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still repeatedly dabbing at his shiny forehead with his neatly folded Irish linen handkerchief, McClane said, \u201cIt better.\u201d Moving with rapidity he rounded up Lowe and Keeler, escorted them and Douglas Quail to the work area, and then, with Shirley and the senior police officer, returned to his familiar office. To wait.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo we have a packet made up for this, Mr. McClane?\u201d Shirley asked, bumping against him in her agitation, then coloring modestly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI think we do.\u201d He tried to recall, then gave up and consulted the formal chart. \u201cA combination,\u201d he decided aloud, \u201cof packets Eighty-one, Twenty, and Six.\u201d From the vault section of the chamber behind his desk he fished out the appropriate packets, carried them to his desk for inspection. \u201cFrom Eight-one,\u201d he explained, \u201ca magic healing rod given him\u2014the client in question, this time Mr. Quail\u2014by the race of beings from another system. A token of their gratitude.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDoes it work?\u201d the police officer asked curiously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt did once,\u201d McClane explained. \u201cBut he, ahem, you see, used it up years ago, healing right and left. Now it\u2019s only a memento. But he remembers it working spectacularly.\u201d He chuckled, then opened packet Twenty. \u201cDocument from the UN Secretary General thanking him for saving Earth; this isn\u2019t precisely appropriate, because part of Quail\u2019s fantasy is that no one knows of the invasion except himself, but for the sake of verisimilitude we\u2019ll throw it in.\u201d He inspected packet Six, then. What came from this? He couldn\u2019t recall; frowning, he dug into the plastic bag as Shirley and the Interplan olice officer watched intently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWriting,\u201d Shirley said. \u201cIn a funny language.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis tells who they were,\u201d McClane said, \u201cand where they came from. Including a detailed star map logging their flight here and the system of origin. Of course it\u2019s in their script, so he can\u2019t read it. But he remembers them reading it to him in his own tongue.\u201d He placed the three artifacts in the center of the desk. \u201cThese should be taken to Quail\u2019s conapt,\u201d he said to the police officer. \u201cSo that when he gets home he\u2019ll find them. And it\u2019ll confirm his fantasy. SOP\u2014standard operating procedure.\u201d He chuckled apprehensively, wondering how matters were going with Lowe and Keeler.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The intercom buzzed. \u201cMr. McClane, I\u2019m sorry to bother you.\u201d It was Lowe\u2019s voice; he froze as he recognized it, froze and became mute. \u201cBut something\u2019s come up. Maybe it would be better if you came in here and supervised. Like before, Quail reacted well to the narkidrine; he\u2019s unconscious, relaxed and receptive. But\u2014\u201d McClane sprinted for the work area.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On a hygienic bed Douglas Quail lay breathing slowly and regularly, eyes half-shut, dimly conscious of those around him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe started interrogating him,\u201d Lowe said, white-faced. \u201cTo find out exactly when to place the fantasy-memory of him single-handedly having saved Earth. And strangely enough\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey told me not to tell,\u201d Douglas Quail mumbled in a dull drug-saturated voice. \u201cThat was the agreement. I wasn\u2019t even supposed to remember. But how could I forget an event like that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I guess it would be hard, McClane reflected. But you did\u2014until now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey even gave me a scroll,\u201d Quail mumbled, \u201cof gratitude. I have it hidden in my conapt; I\u2019ll show it to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To the Interplan officer who had followed after him, McClane said, \u201cWell, I offer the suggestion that you better not kill him. If you do they\u2019ll return.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey also gave me a magic invisible destroying rod,\u201d Quail mumbled, eyes totally shut now. \u201cThat\u2019s how I killed that man on Mars you sent me to take out. It\u2019s in my drawer along with the box of Martian maw-worms and dried-up plant life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wordlessly, the Interplan officer turned and stalked from the work area.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I might as well put those packets of proof-artifacts away, McClane said to himself resignedly. He walked, step by step, back to his office. Including the citation from the UN Secretary General. After all\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The real one probably would not be long in coming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In \u201cWe Can Remember It For You Wholesale,\u201d Philip K. Dick explores the limits of reality and identity through the story of Douglas Quail, an ordinary man who longs for an extraordinary life. Tired of his monotonous existence, Quail buys implanted memories of a trip to Mars. However, when the memories emerge, Quail discovers that his life may not be as ordinary as he thought. This story, which inspired the movie Total Recall, raises profound questions about memory, perception, and the nature of reality.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":15281,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[577,552,570],"class_list":["post-19133","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-philip-k-dick-en","tag-science-fiction","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":577,"label":"Philip K. Dick"},{"value":552,"label":"Science fiction"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/08\/Philip-K.-Dick-Recuerdos-al-por-mayor.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":420,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":420,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":577,"name":"Philip K. Dick","slug":"philip-k-dick-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":577,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":15,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":552,"name":"Science fiction","slug":"science-fiction","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":552,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":121,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19133","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=19133"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19133\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15281"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19133"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19133"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19133"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}