wash out his shirt, or maybe pick up other clothing at a secondhand outlet. He was catching on to survival as an anonymous fugitive.
The coast was clear, as it were. He resumed progress and entered the hotel.
Helm drove the car rapidly through the rainy streets.
“Hey, man,” he said. “I bet you’re glad Lori’s off that case.” Richter’s jaw tensed, but he kept his eyes on the tracking device.
“It’s just a job,” he said shortly.
“Well, I sure wouldn’t want Quaid porking my girl.”
Richter snarled. His hand shot out and he grabbed Helm’s ear, twisting it painfully. The car swerved. “You’re saying she liked it? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Helm struggled to control the car and to avoid having his ear ripped from his head. “No, no, of course not!” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure she hated every minute!”
Richter gave Helm’s ear another cruel twist and then released it. Flushed, he turned his attention back to the tracking device, which zoomed to a more detailed map section. “Circle twenty-eight. Top level,” he said without expression. And then he smiled. The old Galleria . . . Of course. Quaid thought he could hide by dodging back into the slum.
“Know something?” he asked Helm. “I think he hasn’t caught on that he’s bugged.” But he was, all right. Indeed, it had been that bug that first alerted them to Quaid’s visit to Rekall. The alarm had sounded when the man had gone off his normal route, and they had made a quick trip there to question the Rekall staff and dispatch them.
Helm skidded the car around a corner, keeping his eyes on the road and rubbing his ear.
Quaid went to his hotel room. It was about what he had expected, which wasn’t much. It was separated from other chambers mainly by plasterboard. If he cared to listen, he could hear what was going on in nearby compartments: the clinking of glasses, a shrill argument, an all-night poker game, the thudding of heavy sex, and plenty of video noise. That made this the perfect place to hide in.
But he had no sooner closed the dirty curtains at the window than the phone rang. He didn’t answer. But it bothered him: why should anyone be calling here? Was it for last night’s tenant? In which case maybe he’d better answer it, and try to pretend to be that man, in that way concealing his own presence. Still—
On the fourth ring he stepped to the side of the screen so he couldn’t be seen and hit the answer button. He didn’t speak. If they asked for a name, he’d use that name. He peered slantwise at the screen, staying clear of its pickup.
All it showed was a man’s hand blocking the lens. Well, that was another way to do it!
“If you want to live, don’t hang up,” a gruff male voice said.
This didn’t sound like a wrong number! Quaid stood still, not hanging up, but also not speaking.
“They’ve got you bugged,” the caller said. “And they’ll be busting down the door in about three minutes unless you do exactly what I say.”
Quaid, staying clear of the pickup, searched his clothes for the bug. Like a damned fool, he had never thought of that!
“Don’t bother looking. It’s in your skull.”
Quaid looked around, spooked. “Who are you?” His identity was obviously no secret from this caller.
“Never mind. Wet a towel and wrap it around your head. That’ll muffle the signal. It’s not a strong one.”
“How’d you find me?” He had to assume that this was a friend and not an enemy. Why should an enemy warn him?
“I’d advise you to hurry.”
Quaid saw the sink on the other side of the room. He walked in front of the videophone to get there. There seemed to be no point in hiding now.
“That’ll buy you some time,” the caller continued approvingly. “They won’t be able to pinpoint you.”
Quaid felt like a fool, but he wetted a large towel and began to wrap it around his head. He managed to form a clumsy turban, though it dripped down the
The coast was clear, as it were. He resumed progress and entered the hotel.
Helm drove the car rapidly through the rainy streets.
“Hey, man,” he said. “I bet you’re glad Lori’s off that case.” Richter’s jaw tensed, but he kept his eyes on the tracking device.
“It’s just a job,” he said shortly.
“Well, I sure wouldn’t want Quaid porking my girl.”
Richter snarled. His hand shot out and he grabbed Helm’s ear, twisting it painfully. The car swerved. “You’re saying she liked it? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Helm struggled to control the car and to avoid having his ear ripped from his head. “No, no, of course not!” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure she hated every minute!”
Richter gave Helm’s ear another cruel twist and then released it. Flushed, he turned his attention back to the tracking device, which zoomed to a more detailed map section. “Circle twenty-eight. Top level,” he said without expression. And then he smiled. The old Galleria . . . Of course. Quaid thought he could hide by dodging back into the slum.
“Know something?” he asked Helm. “I think he hasn’t caught on that he’s bugged.” But he was, all right. Indeed, it had been that bug that first alerted them to Quaid’s visit to Rekall. The alarm had sounded when the man had gone off his normal route, and they had made a quick trip there to question the Rekall staff and dispatch them.
Helm skidded the car around a corner, keeping his eyes on the road and rubbing his ear.
Quaid went to his hotel room. It was about what he had expected, which wasn’t much. It was separated from other chambers mainly by plasterboard. If he cared to listen, he could hear what was going on in nearby compartments: the clinking of glasses, a shrill argument, an all-night poker game, the thudding of heavy sex, and plenty of video noise. That made this the perfect place to hide in.
But he had no sooner closed the dirty curtains at the window than the phone rang. He didn’t answer. But it bothered him: why should anyone be calling here? Was it for last night’s tenant? In which case maybe he’d better answer it, and try to pretend to be that man, in that way concealing his own presence. Still—
On the fourth ring he stepped to the side of the screen so he couldn’t be seen and hit the answer button. He didn’t speak. If they asked for a name, he’d use that name. He peered slantwise at the screen, staying clear of its pickup.
All it showed was a man’s hand blocking the lens. Well, that was another way to do it!
“If you want to live, don’t hang up,” a gruff male voice said.
This didn’t sound like a wrong number! Quaid stood still, not hanging up, but also not speaking.
“They’ve got you bugged,” the caller said. “And they’ll be busting down the door in about three minutes unless you do exactly what I say.”
Quaid, staying clear of the pickup, searched his clothes for the bug. Like a damned fool, he had never thought of that!
“Don’t bother looking. It’s in your skull.”
Quaid looked around, spooked. “Who are you?” His identity was obviously no secret from this caller.
“Never mind. Wet a towel and wrap it around your head. That’ll muffle the signal. It’s not a strong one.”
“How’d you find me?” He had to assume that this was a friend and not an enemy. Why should an enemy warn him?
“I’d advise you to hurry.”
Quaid saw the sink on the other side of the room. He walked in front of the videophone to get there. There seemed to be no point in hiding now.
“That’ll buy you some time,” the caller continued approvingly. “They won’t be able to pinpoint you.”
Quaid felt like a fool, but he wetted a large towel and began to wrap it around his head. He managed to form a clumsy turban, though it dripped down the
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