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“Mr. McClane will be right with you.”
    As she finished speaking, a salesman emerged from an inner office.
    “Thank you, Tiffany,” he said. He winked at the receptionist, then grinned and offered his hand to Quaid. “Doug . . . Bob McClane. Good to meet ya. Right this way.” Quaid followed him out of the reception area.
    McClane seemed to be a jovial hustler. He was in his mid-fifties, and he wore the latest Martian frog-pelt gray suit. The frogs weren’t native, of course; there was no surviving native life on Mars. But imported terrestrial frogs, raised in special Martian farms, had developed unusual characteristics in the reduced gravity and increased radiation, and now there was quite a market for their hides.
    McClane led the way into his stylishly decorated office. “Have a seat, sit down, make yourself comfortable.”
    Quaid lowered himself into a sleek, futuristic chair that adjusted itself subtly to accommodate his weight and configuration. This, too, Lori might like to know about; these people were right up with the times.
    McClane sat behind his big pseudo-walnut desk. “Now you wanted a memory of . . . ?”
    “Mars,” Quaid said, realizing that the line between doubt and commitment had somehow already been crossed.
    But the man’s reaction surprised him. “Right, Mars,” McClane said unenthusiastically.
    “There’s something wrong with that?”
    McClane frowned. “Enhhhh, honestly, Doug, if outer space is your thing, I think you’d be much happier with one of our Saturn cruises. Everybody raves about ’em and it’s nearly the same price.”
    Oh. So this was a bait-and-switch operation, to jack him up to a higher price range. “I’m not interested in Saturn,” Quaid said firmly. “I’m interested in Mars.”
    McClane put the best face on it, his ploy having fallen flat. “Okay, okay, Mars it is. Now hold on a second while I . . .” He typed on his computer keyboard, and figures came up on his screen. “All righty . . . our basic Mars package goes for just eight hundred and ninety-four credits. That’s for two full weeks of memories, complete in every detail.” He glanced up. “A longer trip’ll run you a little more, ’cause you need a deeper implant.”
    More bait-and-switch. “I just want the standard trip.” Actually he wanted the real thing, but even the fancier memory-trip would be out of his price range.
    McClane put on the expression of a reasonable man faced with an unreasonable or slightly ignorant customer. “We have no standard trip, Doug. Every journey is individually tailored to your personal tastes.”
    He was a slippery one! He was going to push up the rates one way or another. “I mean, what’s on the itinerary?”
    The man got down to business. “First of all, Doug, when you go Rekall, you go first class. Private cabin on an Inter-World Spaceways shuttle. Deluxe accommodations at the Hilton. Plus all the major sights: Mount Olympus, the canals, Venusville . . .” He leered with the same polish as the receptionist’s smile. “You name it, you’ll remember it.”
    “And how does it really seem?” Quaid had heard about Venusville, one of the most notorious sleaze dens in the Solar System. He doubted that he would find his dream woman there.
    “As real as any memory in your head.”
    Quaid did not bother to conceal his skepticism. “Yeah, right.”
    “I’m telling you, Doug, your brain won’t know the difference—or your money back. You’ll even have tangible proof. Ticket stubs. Postcards. Film—shots you took of local sights on Mars with a rented movie camera. Souvenirs. And more. You’ll have all the support you need for your memories. We guarantee—”
    “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