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—"