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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:
    A-14 MILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY
A-15 SPORTS HERO
A-16 INDUSTRIAL TYCOON
A-17 SECRET AGENT
    “Come on, Doug, why be a tourist on