ention to it one morning. "Hadn't you better
call the sanitarium?" she suggested. "Maybe he had a breakdown or
something?"

The thought chilled me. Not only had I sold Hillary's complete output to
date, but I had a file full of contracts for future novels and movie
scripts worth a couple of million dollars.

I didn't phone--I went. To Hoboken.

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