Getting Back by William Dietrich Page A

amusement. "What is it?" she repeated in mock surprise, as if she'd never heard of such a question. Then she threw out her arms to embrace the country she was in. "It's life stripped of artifice, Daniel. It's nature that hasn't been smothered by man. It's clean air, sweet rain, rainbows, and thunderstorms. It's more stars than you thought possible to fit into the sky. It's open country without a track or a trail. Most people find that scary. Do you?"
    He frowned. "I don't know." They hadn't really answered his question.
    The man nodded. "Of course you don't. None of us did until we met with our Outback Adventure counselor. That's where everything becomes clear. And not everyone who contacts us can be invited to make this journey. They have to be special. Independent. Adventurous. Would you be willing to take our survey to see if you qualify for a personal interview?"
    Daniel paused at that. This exclusiveness again. They wanted his money but required some kind of test before they'd take it? While the premise was intriguing, this was commercial confidence bordering on arrogance.
    "I'm not much for surveys."
    "I think you have what it takes, Daniel," the woman encouraged.
    Dammit, they'd made him curious. "What the hell."
    The pair nodded approvingly. The Australia scene dissolved and he was looking at a walnut-paneled office with leather-bound books, overstuffed furniture, and lighting so soft and indirect it made him squint. It was a 3-D cliche of a psychiatric den: authoritative, dark, and calming enough to persuade an entrant to have his head shrunk. He almost laughed again, and yet the predictability of it did put him somewhat at ease. Electronic surveys like this were ubiquitous, he knew, as companies probed both job applicants and customers. A somewhat older, handsome woman was sitting in a maroon chair wearing pearls, pumps, and a business suit of classic and modest cut: stylish, professional, reassuring. "Hello, Daniel," she said in a low, warm voice. "I'm Dr. Cynthia Chen, Outback Adventure's preliminary screening consultant. Experience has taught us that while some people are suited to life on their own in the wild, most don't really belong there. If you don't mind, I'm going to ask you a few simple questions. This is strictly confidential and is just to give us a better idea of who you are so we can help you decide if Outback Adventure is best for you." Her tone was kind.
    "I don't really like questionnaires."
    "It doesn't hurt." She smiled as if they shared agreement about the absurdity of it all. "It's kind of fun, actually."
    "I'm not sure I want you to know who I am. I want to know who you are."
    "These questions are your gateway to learning that. Believe me, it's for the good of both of us. We don't want to waste your time- or ours."
    He remembered vocational tests in school. One suggested that half his class become farmers, when there'd been almost no vocational opportunities in farming for fifty years. The kids had hooted in derision. Now here Daniel was again, trying to fit some shrink's personality grid. He sighed. "Fire away."
    There were no preliminary questions about his age, weight, health, family, hobbies, or skills. He'd been a net-entry since birth, and a punch of buttons could deliver to anyone who cared an avalanche of files groaning with information about his buying habits, subscriptions, employment records, and memberships. Privacy laws had broken down under the continual assault of hackers, lawyers, web solicitors, journalists, and snoops, and targeting businesses often knew more about their consumers in a statistical sense than the consumer himself. Instead, Dr. Chen's queries focused on Daniel's self-analysis, ranging from the trivial to the fundamental:
    "Do you sometimes wake just to see a sunrise?" she asked.
    "I get up early to run." He shrugged. "Sunrise is one of the reasons. It's hard to see in the city."
    "Do you like to try new things?"
    "It's hard to find new things. That's the