tell me all about it.” He reached out to take Quaid’s arm, but Quaid pulled back. A drink wouldn’t help whatever was wrong with his head. All he wanted to do was go home and let Lori look after him.
Maybe then he could figure out . . .
“Thanks, Harry, but I’m late,” he said with a touch of impatience.
“Tough shit,” Harry snapped. His face had gone grim, his voice harsh. Before Quaid knew what was happening, three large men in business suits were behind and beside him, hustling him into the building.
“Hey!” Quaid shouted. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but it scared him and he struggled to break free. Then he felt something. He glanced down. Harry was jamming a gun in his ribs.
“Relax,” Harry said evenly. Quaid stopped resisting, though his heart continued to race. The four men marched him through the lobby and into the emergency staircase that led down to the lower level parking garage.
He had to go. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that they would just as soon knock him out and toss him down the stairs, or worse. He had to recover more of his physical control if he wanted to get out of this alive. When he acted, it would have to be by surprise, and fast, and effective. So for now he kept both his body and his speech slower than it had to be. Let them think he was still doped out. It would be to his advantage in the long run.
“What’s going on, Harry?” There was no answer. Thanks to the adrenaline rush, Quaid’s head was clearing. His memory was starting to fill in now. He had gone to Rekall, and—and what? He had wanted a memory of Mars. He had talked with a man—but the memory faded.
Quaid tried again. “Are you a cop?” Still no answer. The timing of the attack meant that it had to relate to his visit to Rekall. Maybe someone didn’t want him to remember something. But he had gone there only because of his dream of Mars . . .
“Harry, what did I do?” he asked, both afraid and angry. This time he got an answer.
“You blabbed, Quaid!” Harry said angrily. “You blabbed!”
“ Blabbed? About what?” Before he had time to decipher the riddle, the goons threw him against a wall and twisted his arms viciously behind his back.
“You shoulda listened to me, Quaid.” Harry’s voice was quiet now, but that only made it more menacing. “I was there to keep you out of trouble.”
Out of what trouble? Something to do with a memory? How could a memory hurt anyone? Or maybe it had to do with his dream. No, that was even more ridiculous. Quaid didn’t have any answers, couldn’t remember enough to even hazard a guess. But it was obvious by now that it didn’t matter what he remembered; they were going to kill him anyway. He had thought Harry was his friend. Now he knew he’d been duped. This maneuver had been planned; it wasn’t any spur-of-the-moment thing, and Harry was evidently in charge. Which meant that, when he made his break, he’d have to take out Harry first.
“Harry, you’re making a mistake,” he said, knowing that if he didn’t make his case now, he would never have another chance. “You’ve got me mixed up with someone else!”
Harry didn’t crack the slightest trace of a smile. “Unh-uh, pal. You’ve got yourself mixed up with somebody else.” One of the goons jerked Quaid’s arm and he lost his footing. For a moment he thought he was falling . . .
His dream-vision flooded back and suddenly he was sure. Mars did have something to do with this! That dream was too real, too persistent! Maybe he really had been there—no, that couldn’t be; he had only wanted to go there. He had spent all his adult life on Earth, with Lori. His memory of that was as clear as his notions of Mars were foggy. Still—
There had been this receptionist, with a see-peek blouse and sprayed-blue breasts beneath. “Mr. Quaid, you are a good-looking man, and it spoils your features to become angry,” she said. “If it would make you feel any better, I might,
Maybe then he could figure out . . .
“Thanks, Harry, but I’m late,” he said with a touch of impatience.
“Tough shit,” Harry snapped. His face had gone grim, his voice harsh. Before Quaid knew what was happening, three large men in business suits were behind and beside him, hustling him into the building.
“Hey!” Quaid shouted. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but it scared him and he struggled to break free. Then he felt something. He glanced down. Harry was jamming a gun in his ribs.
“Relax,” Harry said evenly. Quaid stopped resisting, though his heart continued to race. The four men marched him through the lobby and into the emergency staircase that led down to the lower level parking garage.
He had to go. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that they would just as soon knock him out and toss him down the stairs, or worse. He had to recover more of his physical control if he wanted to get out of this alive. When he acted, it would have to be by surprise, and fast, and effective. So for now he kept both his body and his speech slower than it had to be. Let them think he was still doped out. It would be to his advantage in the long run.
“What’s going on, Harry?” There was no answer. Thanks to the adrenaline rush, Quaid’s head was clearing. His memory was starting to fill in now. He had gone to Rekall, and—and what? He had wanted a memory of Mars. He had talked with a man—but the memory faded.
Quaid tried again. “Are you a cop?” Still no answer. The timing of the attack meant that it had to relate to his visit to Rekall. Maybe someone didn’t want him to remember something. But he had gone there only because of his dream of Mars . . .
“Harry, what did I do?” he asked, both afraid and angry. This time he got an answer.
“You blabbed, Quaid!” Harry said angrily. “You blabbed!”
“ Blabbed? About what?” Before he had time to decipher the riddle, the goons threw him against a wall and twisted his arms viciously behind his back.
“You shoulda listened to me, Quaid.” Harry’s voice was quiet now, but that only made it more menacing. “I was there to keep you out of trouble.”
Out of what trouble? Something to do with a memory? How could a memory hurt anyone? Or maybe it had to do with his dream. No, that was even more ridiculous. Quaid didn’t have any answers, couldn’t remember enough to even hazard a guess. But it was obvious by now that it didn’t matter what he remembered; they were going to kill him anyway. He had thought Harry was his friend. Now he knew he’d been duped. This maneuver had been planned; it wasn’t any spur-of-the-moment thing, and Harry was evidently in charge. Which meant that, when he made his break, he’d have to take out Harry first.
“Harry, you’re making a mistake,” he said, knowing that if he didn’t make his case now, he would never have another chance. “You’ve got me mixed up with someone else!”
Harry didn’t crack the slightest trace of a smile. “Unh-uh, pal. You’ve got yourself mixed up with somebody else.” One of the goons jerked Quaid’s arm and he lost his footing. For a moment he thought he was falling . . .
His dream-vision flooded back and suddenly he was sure. Mars did have something to do with this! That dream was too real, too persistent! Maybe he really had been there—no, that couldn’t be; he had only wanted to go there. He had spent all his adult life on Earth, with Lori. His memory of that was as clear as his notions of Mars were foggy. Still—
There had been this receptionist, with a see-peek blouse and sprayed-blue breasts beneath. “Mr. Quaid, you are a good-looking man, and it spoils your features to become angry,” she said. “If it would make you feel any better, I might,
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