Total Recall by Piers Anthony Page B

back of his neck.
    Helm guided the car, homing in on the signal generated by Quaid’s bug. The tracking device changed from a detailed map to a general map of the area. The blinking light grew dim.
    Richier stared. “Shit!”
    “What is it?” Helm asked.
    Richter fiddled with the tracking device and whacked it a few times. “We lost him!” How the hell? Maybe he was taking a shower. Richter knew that water could mess up the signal. He clenched his fists in his lap. He wasn’t a patient man by nature, but he could learn. Quaid couldn’t stay in the shower all night, and when he came out . . .
    Helm kept driving.
    Quaid rewrapped the wet towel, making a better turban, but it still dripped down his neck.
    “That’s good enough,” the caller said. “Now look out the window.”
    Quaid went to the window and cautiously pulled aside the curtain. He peeked outside. This was no skyscraper; he was not far from the pavement.
    “See the phone booth by the bar?” the caller inquired from behind him.
    He looked across the limited landscape and located the bar, then the booth. A mustachioed soldier of fortune was looking right back at him, holding up a doctor’s satchel.
    “This is the bag you gave to me,” the soldier said.
    “ I gave to you?”
    “I’m leaving it in the booth,” the soldier continued. “Come get it and keep moving.”
    Quaid saw the man begin to hang up. “Wait!”
    The soldier paused. It was evident that he wanted to keep moving, too. “What?” he asked impatiently.
    “Who are you?” He needed to know the name of this mysterious ally. Everyone he had trusted had turned against him. This man might be the only friend he had left. Quaid had to know who he was.
    The soldier hesitated, then spoke abruptly. “We were buddies in the Agency back on Mars. You asked me to find you if you disappeared. So here I am. Good-bye.”
    “Wait!” Quaid said desperately. “What was I doing on Mars?” But the phone had gone dead and the soldier had left the booth. Quaid pounded the window-sill in frustration as he watched the man walk quickly away. Yet what he had told Quaid was invaluable. If he had belonged to the Agency, and left it—
    But he had no time for conjecture now. He dashed out of the hotel room, holding the wobbly turban on his head.
    Richter and Helm circled the mall in the car. The rain continued unabated, stinking worse than ever. Richter banged the tracking device, but it didn’t help. He’s here, Richter thought. I can smell him. He whacked the device again. The interference continued.
    Helm made no comment. He just kept driving.
    Quaid ran out of the hotel. He looked for the soldier of fortune, but the man was gone. Damn it! Maybe the stranger had saved his life—and maybe he hadn’t. Could he trust him? Suppose he had been safe in the hotel room, and this had smoked him out to where the goons could gun him down? That didn’t seem to make a lot of sense, but then very little of the past day did.
    But he was forgetting the satchel. Maybe that would answer some of his questions. He started for the phone booth and was dismayed to find that an old lady had beaten him to it. She had the satchel in her hand.
    “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “That’s mine.”
    The old lady regarded him sourly. “I don’t see your name on it,” she snapped.
    Quaid took hold of the satchel and pulled it gently. “Someone left it for me.”
    The little old lady refused to relinquish the bag. “Let go!” she hollered.
    Quaid pulled a bit harder. “Please, ma’am. I need it.”
    “Find your own bag!” she replied, clutching the satchel to her chest with all her strength. “You should be ashamed of yourself, you big bully!” A few bystanders had gathered, to enjoy the free entertainment.
    Quaid was at a loss. He didn’t want to hurt the woman, but he needed that bag. He jerked it forcefully from her grip, nearly losing his turban in the process.
    “Excuse me, ma’am,” he apologized. “I’m