In the outskirts I found his private hospital, demanded to see Sam
Buckle and was told to sit down and wait. He was in therapy.
* * * * *
Two hours later they took me to him. He lay on a hospital bed in his
shorts, staring at the ceiling and the sweat all over him like he had
just stepped out of a showerbath.
"Hello, George," he said, still looking at the ceiling.
"Hi, kid! You sick or something?"
He smiled a little. "The surf at Monterey. The sun fading through the
low morning mist, a golden ghost peering through the somber veil--and
Julia, beside me, clinging to my arm, crying softly--"
"Hey, kid, I'm in New Jersey. Where are you?" I said nervously.
He blinked. "In California, George. Two years ago. I'm there. Do you
understand? _I'm really there!_"
It was a little embarrassing. I felt like an intruder on a beach picnic.
"Well, Hillary, that's just fine," I stammered. "I suppose that means
that--that you've done what you set out to."
"That's right." He nodded slightly. "Total recall, George. Every instant
of my existence re-filed under 'urgent'. Every vision, every sound,
every sensation, laid clean and sharp like a sound film ready for
running. I've done it, George."
"How long ago did you--"
"Three weeks ago I began heavy dosing with the vitamin. Today--just this
last hour--I reached back into prenatal to the first instant of my
cellular existence. And it was like ripping a curtain aside. I--I can't
exactly tell you what it's like. Something like coming out of a black
cellar into the noon-day sun. It's almost blinding."
He closed his eyes, squinting as though to shut out a glare. His blond
hair had grown long, and it lay on the pillow like a woman's. He had
lost some weight, and except for the heavy chest muscles and thick
forearms, he had the appearance of a poet, a delicate soul dedicated to
some ephemeral plane out of this world.
I figured I'd better provide a little ballast. "Congratulations and all
that," I said, "but what about your work?"
"I'm done," he said quietly.
"Done? Are you forgetting that you bought a sanitarium?--some eight
hundred grand worth? And it's only half paid for?"
"Oh, that. The royalties will take care of the payments."
"Hillary, you keep forgetting about taxes."
"Then let them take it back by default. I'm through with it."
"Dammit," I said, "I looked into this deal. People don't take back
sanitariums like over-ripe bananas, especially when they got you on the
hook for more than it's worth. They'll hold you to the contract. And you
can't get your equity out if you don't protect it by keeping up your
payments. You have a wonderful start, and if you just fill the contracts
I have on file now you can pay it off and have plenty left to retire on.
But right now you aren't so solvent, boy."
Well, he finally came out of his trance long enough to agree to fulfill
the commitments I'd made for him, and I thought that once he got started
there would be no holding him.
Just to make sure I did something on my own. I let his identity and
whereabouts leak out.
It was a sneaky thing to do to him, but I figured that once he got a
real taste of the fame that was waiting him he would never let go of it.