False Memory

like—but that neither of them was concealing a metal mass of sufficient size to be a firearm.
    To another icon: a miniature skeleton. Click.
    As the pair stood at the reception window, talking to Jennifer, they were aligned with roentgen tubes concealed between the louvers in an air-return grille in the wall to their left. Fluoroscopic images were relayed to Ahriman’s screen.
    They had good skeletons, these two. Solid bone structure, well-articulated joints, excellent posture. If they possessed the talent to match their physical gifts, they would be fine ballroom dancers.
    As though floating in zero gravity, other objects were revealed by fluoroscopy, suspended around the well-poised bones. Coins, keys, buttons, metal zippers, but no knives in arm or leg sheaths, nothing lethal.
    A jumble of small items in Martie’s purse couldn’t be easily identified. Among them might be a folded switchblade. Impossible to be sure.
    The third icon was a drawing of a nose. As the doctor finished his cookie, he clicked the nose.
    This activated a trace-scent analyzer that sampled air drawn from the reception lounge. The device, programmed to recognize the chemical profiles of thirty-two different explosive compounds, was sensitive enough to detect as few as three signature molecules per cubic centimeter of air. Negative. Neither of his visitors was carrying a bomb.
    He had not really expected Dusty or Martie to have either the expertise with explosives or the sheer gumption to come calling with bombs strapped to their bodies. This extraordinary level of security had been installed because from time to time the doctor dealt with patients who were far less stable than these two.
    Some might have looked at these elaborate precautions and called them indications of paranoia. To the doctor, however, this was simply paying attention to detail.
    His dad had often counseled him on the importance of security. The great director's production offices were equipped with state-of-the-art (for that time) security to protect him from jilted starlets, volatile actors furious with the way he’d edited their performances, and any critic who might have discovered who had paid to have his mother’s legs broken.
    Now, confident that neither Dusty nor Martie could harm him faster than he could access them, Ahriman buzzed Jennifer and told her that he was ready for his appointment. Without rising from his desk, he triggered the electronic lock on the door to the reception lounge, and it swung slowly inward on powered hinges.
    The doctor clicked an icon that showed a pair of headphones.
    Martie and Dusty entered, appearing angry but more subdued than he expected. When he directed them to the two smaller chairs that faced his desk, they sat as instructed.
    The door closed behind them.
    “Doctor,” Martie said, “we don’t know what the hell’s going on, but we know it’s rotten, it stinks, it's sick, and we want answers.”
    Ahriman had been consulting his computer screen as she talked. Judging by the absence of the low-level electronic field associated with a voice-activated transmitter, she was not wired.
    “A moment, please,” he said, clicking a microphone icon.
    “Listen,” Dusty said angrily, “we’re not going to just sit here while you—”
    “Ssshhh,” the doctor admonished, finger to his lips. “Only for a moment, please, absolute silence. Absolute.”
    They glanced at each other while Ahriman studied the report on the screen.
    The doctor said, “Martie, there are highly sensitive microphones in this room that detect the precise, characteristic sound pattern of the rhythmically turning hubs in a cassette tape recorder. I see that you have left your purse open and are holding it tipped slightly toward me. Do you have such a device in your purse?”
    Clearly shaken, she extracted the recorder.
    “Put it on the desk, please.”
    She leaned forward from her chair and surrendered the recorder.
    Ahriman switched it off and extracted the minicassette.
    “You’ve got that tape,” Martie said angrily. “All right, okay. But we’ve got a better one, you sonofabitch. We’ve got one of Susan Jagger—”
    “Raymond Shaw,” said the doctor.
    “I’m listening,” Martie responded, stiffening slightly in her chair as she was activated.
    Immediately, as Dusty turned to frown at his wife, Ahriman said, “Viola Narvilly.”
    “I’m listening,” Dusty replied, his attitude identical to that of his wife’s.
    Accessing the two simultaneously would be tricky but doable. If