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night magic on the succeeding sign that would render the sense of "progressive revelation" like a dim mnemonic device. There was just a one-line legend, (trailing away on a string of periods suggesting a "to—be—continued" cliffhanger atmosphere) in which it was stated that they'd taken everything, even his memory, and now...he was getting it back. Perhaps one didn't need to be wired into Intuitive wisdom at this point to get the message; one wondered how many instantly realized as well that yes, it was about to come out, probably the whole thing or virtually the whole thing—in character with the normal "disinformation" scenario the word had evidently been given: it's already leaked, the pressure of it is too much to contain—so let it out under regulation of our control-valve. Yet this would have to be audacious even for them, if it turned out to be all that one suspected it would have to 1 wate : be at this point. Looking at that first, looming Recall poster one had the feeling the ante was definitely being upped a geometric notch on the cat-andmouse game covertly played with the public for several decades now. More sheer chutzpah was being added to the defiance that seemed silently to dare mass consciousness the recognition as to what it was being fed under the guise of fiction, i.e. the virtual narrative of what in fact was being done to it as it swilled Coca-Cola in the mezzanine. Indeed that Martian sphere and the frceefloating arch in which it was framed seemed in a sense the bloodshot eye of Consciousness itself, staring down on the traffic below like the remote overseer of all which took place, now willing to lift a little the long—stuporous lid on its drugged trancesleep so as to emit first sparks of some deep memory, a fateful glimmer of what was "known" in dream but heretofore denied in daylight; they were going to show it, virtually show it all—that seemed certain,..and as the lid was lifted, in stutterstart tantalizing flickers like the shutter of a still camera emulating— 47 yet not quite equalling—the fluidity of a moviefilm in its discrete succession of tableaus, enough single photons would be admitted through the gaps to stimulate the neurochemistry of long dormant The audience was going to be awakened, perhaps was supposed to awaken, a little at a time and still without the collected wits to quite realize it wasn't —after all—a dream, awakened through the same medium that had routinely lulled it and assured it so successfully that all which most disturbed it was the stuff of imagination, altogether distinct from the workaday world of wife, job and home to which it was so smartly tailored... Let's plug into a scenario here for a minute, just for the fun of it. Remember, it's only 300 more credits for an ego-trip, so let's go on the all time egotrip, the biggest one we can "imagine"—patch in Matrix 62—B37. (Don't forget we've got T-shirts, and we can take snapshots of you at the site...) Let's suppose you're part of the secret power elite, in charge of unofficial finance projects...no, in charge of internal security, that's it! Your job is to plug information leaks, make sure that the covert activities of your elitist team aren't prematurely revealed to the larger public, that all the complex interconnected operations involved in successfully implementing your plans are run airtight and don't suffer consequential ruptures at the sensitive joints and seals. 100 T-Bird_Vs_The_Flying_saucers.htm The Eye of Lower Mars memory—patterns. When You Travel with Recall, Everything Is Perfect