The Feelies

"THE GAME SHOWS?"

Ralph looked at Sam in contempt. "You don't believe in the fucking game shows, do you?" Sam looked at him blankly. "I was just saying that the game shows are the only way the likes of you and me are going to ever get to be lifers."

Ralph snapped around at him. "You think you and me are ever going to get on 'Wildest Dreams' or 'Lifetime Chance'?"

"Why not, Ralph? We got the same chance as everyone else."

"Bullshit."

"But why not, Ralph?"

Ralph's patience gave out. "Because the game shows are fucking fixed. That's why!"

Sam didn't answer. He looked glumly at the floor. Sam and Ralph sat side by side on the floor with their backs resting against the row of cases. They had given up all idea of even seeming to do any work. They just sat there, Sam with his Serenax and Ralph with his bottle.

"Why, Ralph?"

Ralph, who had also been staring at the floor, looked up with a jerk. "Why what?"

"Why are the game shows fixed?"

"How the hell should I know? Everything's fixed. It's the way the system works."

"They don't look fixed to me."

"What?"

"The game shows."

"What about the game shows?"

"They don't look fixed to me."

Ralph's lip curled. "What would you know about it?"

Sam looked offended. "I watch them. I watch them all the time. I watch them just the same as you do."

"It's how you watch them. That's what counts."

"You just watch them. There's only one way to watch a game show. You just watch. There ain't no difference between you and me."

"The difference is that you're dumb."

Sam's chubby fingers began to move slowly. It was the first sign of agitation.

"I don't like for you to call me dumb, Ralph."

"That's 'cause you're dumb."

Sam's fingers moved more quickly. He lowered his voice. "I don't like for you to call me dumb, Ralph."

"You want to know why you're dumb, huh? You want to know?"

Sam's baby face was starting to get flushed.

"I'm warning you, Ralph. You didn't ought to talk to me like that. Just 'cause you think you're smart don't give you no right to talk to me like that."

Sam's voice went up in pitch. His breathing got faster. "You're down here, just like me. You ain't got no call to look down on me and call me dumb and shit like that."

Ralph turned away. "Aah, take a pill."

Sam went bright red. "Ralph, I…"

Ralph realized he had gone too far. He remembered how big Sam was. He quickly became placating. "Listen, Sam, I was only kidding."

Sam raised his arm as though he was going to strike Ralph. Suddenly he changed his mind and began scratching his head with nervous intensity. There was another long silence. Ralph started hitting his bottle again.

"Are you sure, Ralph?"

Ralph patiently put down his bottle. "Sure about what, Sam?"

"Are you sure you were only kidding about me being dumb?"

Ralph sighed. "Sure I'm sure, Sam."

Again they lapsed into silence. Ralph found himself listening to the high-pitched hum that always filled the vault. Sometimes he thought he could hear voices buried in the sound. He knew he had to watch that kind of thing. Suddenly, Sam butted in on his private thoughts.

"Tell me how the game shows are fixed."

"Huh?"

"Will you tell me how the game shows are fixed, please, Ralph?"

"You really want to know?"

"Sure I do, Ralph. I like to hear you talk."

"Okay then, I'll tell you. Just don't interrupt. I don't want to hear you interrupting with no d-I don't want no questions. Okay?"

"Okay, Ralph."

"This is only a theory, right?"

"Right, Ralph."

"The way I figure it is that the game shows have got to be fixed. I mean, did you ever see an ordinary sort of joe on that kind of show? Huh? Did you ever?"

"I seen a few. Not many, but a few."

"That's where they're clever, see? They put a bum on, now and then, to fool you. Most of the time it's nice, good-looking, young people, young guys and young broads. Everyone's so busy looking at the broads' tits that they don't realize what's being done to them."

Ralph paused to take a drink. He was moving into the drunk and belligerent phase of the day.

"Take the Dreamroad bit. You never see bums like us get as far as the Dreamroad. They're always knocked out in the early rounds. It's only the good lookers who make it onto the Dreamroad."

"Maybe they're the smart ones, Ralph."

"I thought I said for you not to interrupt."

"I'm sorry, Ralph."

"You want to hear this?"

"Yeah, Ralph."

"So don't interrupt."

"I'm sorry, Ralph."

"Okay. Anyway, that's bullshit about them people getting on the Dreamroad because they're smart. That's bullshit, you hear?"

"I hear you, Ralph."

"They get on there because they fuck the producers and directors and casting directors and studio managers and all the other pussy-mouthed fuckers who sit around in NCC and ACC and Trans National. That's why."

Ralph was starting to get worked up.

"You ever noticed how, once they get on the Dreamroad, there's always a good guy and a bad guy? And the bad guy always looks like he's going to win right up until the last minute, and then the good guy wins in the nick of time and all the slobbos at home go to bed pleased. You noticed that, did you?"

"Lots of times it's a broad who wins, Ralph. You said it was always guys."

"I know that, stupid. Good guy's only a figure of speech. Jesus Christ."

"Don't call me stupid, Ralph."

Ralph took a deep breath. "Okay, okay, you're not stupid. But don't that sound like a fix to you? Like they ain't putting on a real show but one that'll keep the dumbbells watching? Huh?"

"I'm not sure, Ralph."

"What ain't you sure about?"

"I don't know, Ralph. All I know is that I'd sure like to win one of those shows." He nodded toward the never-ending rows of cabinets. "I'd sure rather be dreaming like a stiff than sitting here."

"At least sitting here is real. You see what happens. You really want to be hooked up to a lot of tubes and wires and all, being fed with garbage all day?"

"You wouldn't know about any of that, Ralph. You'd be getting laid and having adventures and all that sort of thing."

"Only inside your head."

"Isn't that where it counts, Ralph?"

Ralph finally lost patience.

"When are you going to get it through your head that you ain't never, ever, going to get inside one of these cabinets?''

Ralph banged his fist on the nearest cabinet. Sam suddenly beamed as though a wonderful idea had just struck him.

"I could always win a game show."

Ralph practically screamed at him. "I've been telling you for the last fucking hour, the game shows are fixed! Got it? Fixed!"

Sam thoughtfully shook his head. "I ain't sure about that, Ralph."

HELEN MCDONALD HAD BEEN HOOKED to a feelie for so long that her own memories and personality never drifted to the surface. In the private, subjective world of her own mind she was Thongar the Planet Waster, the scourge of the galaxy. Helen McDonald had always wanted to be a man. That was the one thing that her wealthy family and expensive upbringing had been unable to change, until, that is, the feelies had come along.

"First on the block in a box," she had told her friends gaily as she had left for her lifelong appointment at the feelie office. She had been a hundred percent sure that she would rather spend the rest of her life as Thongar the Planet Waster than as Helen McDonald.

Thongar was no ordinary man. Physically he was a giant. He stood over seven feet tall in his black space armor. His IQ was well into the two hundreds and he commanded the three hundred crew of the starship Vixen with a will of iron.

Thongar was one of the last free privateers of the galaxy. Lesser men called him a pirate, but Thongar cared nothing for the opinions of lesser men. Thongar took what he wanted without hesitation or regret. It didn't matter if it was a woman, a treasure, or even an entire planet.

For years, the Federation starfleet had hunted him in vain. Only two days earlier Thongar had outthought, out-maneuvered, and outgunned the captain of the heavy cruiser Exeter. The Exeter now hung in deep space, a dead, silent hulk of fused metal. The Vixen moved, like a black-hulled, monstrous vulture, in a tight orbit on the night side of yet another unsuspecting planet that was marked by Thongar for rape and plunder.

He sat tensely in his command chair on the Vixen's bridge. His strong features betrayed none of his anxiety. Absently he fingered the deep white scar that ran vertically down one side of his face. The sword cut that had made the scar had also cost him his right eye. The empty socket was covered by the black lens of an implanted sensor.

The helmsman turned and looked at Thongar. "Beam down minus ten seconds, Captain."

Thongar hit the communicator stud on the arm of his chair. "Transporter room?"

"Yo!"

"First wave of ground attack ready to beam down?"

"All ready, Skipper."

"Commence."

"Aye, Skipper."

The planet that lay beneath the Vixen was a small, arid world. It had been halfheartedly colonized during the years of the great exodus. All that remained of that were some half a million inhabitants. About a third of these lived in the only city that had grown up around the planet's single shuttle port.

The rest of these displaced Earthmen were spread over the surface of the planet. They were ragged prospecting miners looking for instant wealth in the rich but scattered lodes of dilithium crystal that were this world's only resource.

Thongar also intended to find himself a fortune in dilithium. He was simply going about getting it in a much more direct way. If it had been a bigger planet it might have been necessary to subdue it with prolonged phaser fire from out of orbit. As it was, with such a small population, no storm of fire was needed. A sudden surprise attack by ground-level shock troops would be more than enough to seize control.

Thongar stood up. "I'm going to join the second wave down planetside. Take over, Number One."

Juno the Cruel moved toward the control chair. She was a tall, statuesque woman. Her skin had the distinctive blue tinge that was characteristic of those who had grown up in the Vegan settlements. Many years before, she and Thongar had been lovers. Now they were just comrades in arms.

At the door to the ship's elevator, Thongar was met by his servant Y'dug. The tiny figure bent under the weight of the black-winged pressure helmet and the heavy belt that held Thongar's hand phaser and power ax. These made up the rest of Thongar's battle equipment.

As Thongar entered the transporter room, the second wave of shock troops were preparing to beam down. The privateers wore no regular uniforms. That was for the lackeys of the Federation. Although all of the privateers' armor was similar in design, the function dictated this, each had embellished his own in unique individual style. The space armor was painted, engraved, and decorated with baroque figures. It was as though super technology and barbarian splendor had clashed head on.

A huge man in red armor with inlaid, and mainly obscene, figures all over it detached himself from the mass. Two horns curved out from his helmet. It was Hengist the Red. He and Thongar had been together since their earliest days on the privateer space lanes. He clapped a huge mailed hand on Thongar's shoulder.

"Are you coming down with us for the kill, Skipper?"

Thongar looked at the man who even towered over him. He knew that the body inside the red armor was at least half made up of artificial replacements for flesh and bone that had been blown or hacked away in a thousand privateer battles.

Thongar smiled one of his rare smiles. There was no humor in it. "Yes, I'm coming down with you."

Hengist looked around at the other men waiting to board the transporter. "You hear that, lads? The skipper's coming with us."

Thongar's helmet radio was jammed with cheering and laughter as he strode toward the transporter. The machine flickered and glowed with static as the warriors were beamed down in groups of ten.

It was a scene from hell that met Thongar's eyes as he reassembled on the surface of the planet. Punching the servo controls on the hip of his suit, and thumbing off the safety of his power ax, Thongar instantly became a part of it. With the suit's motors boosting his own combat-hardened muscles, he made for the thickest of the fighting with great twenty-foot bounds.

Already the battle was almost over. Buildings were burning and most of the civilian population was running in aimless panic, looking for a place to escape the phaser beams and swinging blades of the savage invaders. The only real resistance was coming from a few small groups of uniformed men. Thongar presumed they were either local police or militia.

Some way to his left, five of them were attempting to set up a photon cannon. Thongar swerved in midstride and raced toward them. He smiled grimly at the men's agitation as they worked desperately to assemble the weapon before the deadly figure in black armor and winged helmet could reach them.

The power ax seemed to take on a life of its own as Thongar squeezed the grip. It struck the first defender on the shoulder and, with hardly any effort on the part of the wielder, almost cut him vertically in two.

A second defender pulled a phaser from his belt. Thongar manipulated the grip on his ax. The man's arm was transformed into a bloody stump. On the return swing a third man lost his head. Seeing the fate of their companions, the remaining two began to run. Thongar coolly burned them down with his own phaser, then he sprang away in search of fresh slaughter.

He rounded the corner of a high-rise building. Flames gushed from the upper stories, causing a sinister flickering glow to illuminate the fighting. He was poised to launch himself on another superhuman leap when a girl burst from the building and ran straight into him. Almost as a reflex Thongar seized her in one steel-gloved fist. Two armored privateers came storming out of the building in hot pursuit. They pulled up short when they saw Thongar holding her. If he had been another privateer, they might have argued over the girl. Nobody argued with Thongar.

For the first time, the Planet Waster looked down at the girl who still fought against his merciless grip. She had flaming red hair and an attractive, independent face. Her clothes were sufficiently torn and disheveled to reveal that her body was pliantly rounded and very desirable. Thongar laughed one of his humorless laughs.

Dragging the still resisting girl behind him, Thongar started off in a new direction. His objective was a small, almost undamaged, single-story building. He kicked in the door with a power-assisted foot and routinely sprayed the interior with rapid phaser fire.

A fast look around assured him that the place was, in fact, empty. The girl continued to fight him, beating on the breastplate of his armor with her free hand. He kicked the door shut behind him and threw the girl roughly into a corner. She leapt up and tried to run for the door. Thongar laughed and hurled her back again. She made a second attempt to get up, but then seemed to change her mind. She lay back on the floor and turned her face away from the black-clad giant. It was as though she realized that further resistance was useless.

With a grim, satisfied smile, Thongar broke the seals on his space armor.

"IE IS DREAMS MADE FLESH is fantasy made real is everything you ever wanted."

Barney Rooter liked the feelie commercials. He wasn't all that keen on the audio. He would rather turn off the TV sound and put on a solid tension tape. He did like the visuals, though, the soft, rounded, abstract shapes that weren't really anything but suggested everything. Even the colors seemed to offer all kinds of not-quite defined delights.

Barney Rooter wished the feelie commercials went on longer. He would really dig to lie back and just watch them, the latest tension tape pumping out while he snurfed on a can of Solvex until he was totally jammed up. That would be really neat.

One time, when his folks were away, some of his friends had come around. They had tried to get a visual like a feelie commercial by pulling the TV out of its wall mounting and messing around with the insides. They had honked up some of the old Solvex and it had been great, while it lasted. Trying to put the set back to normal at the same time as dealing with a Solvex comedown was beyond them. All they had managed to do was completely unsync the picture. When they had wanted to watch Wildest Dreams, all they had gotten were random shapes.

When his folks came home, his dad had really had his hide.

WANDA-JEAN HAD THOUGHT IT WAS GOIBG to be glamorous. In fact, it had felt more like being inducted into the military. She had called the number specified in the letter and been issued with a reference number and an appointment for four days later at nine-thirty in the morning. It was another day off work, and she was very well aware that she was coasting mightily close to being fired. Her supervisor, that old cow Hendrikson, had long ago stopped buying her one-day illnesses. It couldn't be helped, though. A chance to be on "Wildest Dreams" and maybe win a feelie contract for the rest of her life was more than worth the risk. She had been a little surprised that the phone at NCC had been answered by a computer that was programmed to only recognize her name and relay the next set of instructions. Its final words had been strictly for idiots.

"Do not forget or lose your reference number. Without that number, your contestant consideration will be automatically canceled."

Wanda-Jean's pride had suffered a further deflation when she had arrived for the first appointment. She had been shown to a large room on the ground floor of the NCC tower by a harassed PA whose curt manner verged on rudeness. To her dismay, she discovered that there were fifty or more people in the room. The invitation hadn't been to automatic fortune and fame but to a total cattle call. How many were they going to pick out of all those people? Five? Ten? It couldn't be more. She was tempted to walk away from what looked to be a mainly hopeless situation, but a certain resolve she had never suspected she possessed kept her going. She had already lost a day's work, so what the hell. Someone had to win.

For the next hour she filled out a lengthy questionnaire, which grilled her on a great many personal details that she felt were hardly anybody's business, let alone NCC's and the producers of "Wildest Dreams." With an inborn natural caution, she lied a good deal about her lifestyle, making herself appear much more the apple-pie American girl that she never was in reality. The questionnaire was followed by an equally long general knowledge quiz. As she worked her way through it she suspected that the questions had been rigged to provide a further personality profile, but she was hard enough pressed just coming up with answers to practice any kind of deceit or duplicity.

For the final stage the applicants were taken, one by one, into a side room and given a brief video test. After that they were told that if they were selected for the physical challenge test, they would be contacted by phone.

Then they were directed to the street, and that was it. The anticlimax was crushing. It was lunchtime and Wanda-Jean had nothing to do with the afternoon except to go home and watch the soaps. After five days, she had given up all hope. Either her personal profile didn't fit, or she had screwed up the test, or maybe she just looked plain bad on the video. With her luck, she had probably failed all three. It was only an illogical belief in long-shots that kept her from throwing away the slip of paper on which she had written her reference number. It was thus that it came as something of a major surprise to pick up the phone a full week later and hear a real-live human being announce herself as Garvey Asher, Associate Producer of "Wildest Dreams."

"Wanda-Jean, do you still have your reference number?"

"Yes, I do."

"I'm happy to tell you, Wanda-Jean, that you have been selected from your intake group to go forward to the next level of selection. Are you still interested in becoming a contestant?''

Strangely, Wanda-Jean's first thought was that it would mean missing another goddamn day of work. Hendrikson was hard on her back, and one more day would most likely be her final one. The panic lasted only a moment.

"Yes, of course, I really want to be a contestant more than anything in the world."

Garvey Asher informed her that she should report to the NCC studio complex in three days' time and be prepared to remain for the whole day. She should dress as if for the gym. The call was six in the morning. The studios were all the way out in Nettlewood, and Wanda-Jean realized that to get there so early she would have to take a cab. It would cost her a small fortune, and getting back, particularly if it was late, didn't bear thinking about. The cab, on top of the pink and black Actionskin and the new pair of Converse HiFlyers that she decided she had to go out and purchase for the tryout, was turning this into an expensive hobby.

When she arrived at the studios, bleary-eyed from having dragged herself out of bed at four A.M., just three hours after she had crawled into it, she discovered that once again it was a cattle call-although this time there were only about thirty hopefuls. Every one of them seemed in peak condition. They all looked like tennis pros, aerobic instructors, or dancers, and all were dressed in the very latest and sexiest workout wear. Wanda-Jean's heart sank.

First each would-be contestant was required to sign a lengthy release form by which they absolved the producers of "Wildest Dreams," NCC, and all of its affiliates from any liability resulting from death or injury during the course of the show or while testing for the show. On that cheerful note, they were divided into groups of seven and told to get changed. Wanda-Jean was so outraged that she almost spoke up about it. After all the money she had spent, she wasn't going to get to wear the Actionskin after all! The only consolation was that the other contestants were also being stripped of their chic workout wear. As each one of them entered the changing room, he or she was handed one of the skintight bodysuits that was the uniform of contestants on the actual show itself.

The costume was one more small moment of truth. Like the costumes on the real show these were made from the specially constructed and highly unstable material that dissolved when wet. There was a lot of water involved in "Wildest Dreams," and seminudity was a big part of the show. How she felt about being naked or almost naked on national TV was something that Wanda-Jean had not expected to have to confront so early in the proceedings. She knew that it would be expected of her if she actually got on the show, but she had postponed thinking about it, rather hoping that it would take care of itself. The costume was minimal enough to start with, a skimpy, skintight, one-piece bathing suit cut high on the hips. But at this point, there was only one choice: She simply went with the flow and changed along with the rest. Then when everyone was ready, they were led out in their groups of seven to the physical challenge set.

There was something threatening and inhuman about the "Wildest Dreams" physical challenge course. It was something she had never noticed all the times she had watched the show. On the TV screen it looked like fun. In reality, it was just plain threatening. The long, straight avenue, flanked by the high tiers of spectator seats, seemed deliberately planned to reduce the players who would race down it to the level of experimental animals in a vast sterile lab.

The tests were being conducted on an old set, one from three seasons before. Only a minimal number of the lighting effects were up, but even without the assault of garish color, the set looked formidable. Overhead, silent figures watched from the electricians' catwalks in the roof of the sound stage. Wanda-Jean suppressed a shudder. She wondered if the other contestants felt the same. They were all avoiding each other's eyes. Loudspeakers called them in turn.

"Will all contestants in group four move up to the starting gate?"

That was her. Wanda-Jean moved along with the other six in her group in the direction of the shining aluminum starting gates. She looked fixedly ahead toward the far end of the course.

"Will contestants all make sure that they go directly to the gate that corresponds with the number on your costume."

There was a number five between Wanda-Jean's breasts. She headed for gate five.

"This is the elimination part of the process. Of the seven of you, only two will be eligible to go on to the broadcast show. Good luck. Now move right up to the gates, please."

Wanda-Jean stepped into the small space that was her part of the starting gate. The row of horizontal metal bars in front of her reflected the multicolored studio lights. She could see tiny distorted images of herself in their polished surface. Again she had the feeling of being an animal. This time, she was in a cage, an exhibit in some incredibly expensive zoo.

"Twenty seconds to the Question."

At that moment, twenty seconds seemed like a lifetime. The floor manager who was calling the orders swung high overhead, perched on a mobile crane. Two more cranes carried the elevated cameras. More cameras were deployed on both sides and at the end of the course. Wanda-Jean felt the lenses staring at her like the collective, unwinking eyes of a hundred million people.

"Once the Question has been given, you have ten seconds to consider the alternative answers."

Wanda-Jean stared down the course. It seemed impossibly long. It never looked that long on television. For a moment she panicked. She'd never even make it to the end, let alone onto the correct answer spot. The chrome nozzles of the high-pressure hoses stared back at her.

"Once the gates are sprung you have twenty seconds to reach the correct answer spot. The hoses will come on when the leading contestant crosses the halfway line."

The first part of the course was easy. All you had to do was run like hell. When the hoses came on, then it got rough. You had to keep going straight into them. The hoses tracked from side to side in a random pattern. If you were clever, you could dodge the worst of the barrage of water. If you didn't, you'd be knocked off your feet.

"Ten seconds to the Question."

Wanda-Jean made an effort to get herself under control.

"Five seconds."

The bleachers on either side of the course were empty. If it had been a real show, they'd have been filled with screaming game fans. On auditions, they simply ran a recorded crowd track to simulate the audience.

Wanda-Jean knew this game was Dreamroad standard. She had seen it featured in the show more than once. She also knew it was a tough one. She smoothed down her suit. She might as well look good to start with. Once the water hit her, the synthetic material would start to dissolve.

"And now, boys and girls, here comes the Question!"

The voice had changed. It was the familiar cry of Bobby Priest, Mr. Wildest Dreams. Like the crowd track, on auditions he too was recorded.

"What is the current population of the planet Earth? Is it A-three billion, B-eight billion, or C-five billion? You now have ten seconds to consider the Question."

Wanda-Jean had another moment of panic. Which was the correct answer? Then it came to her. It was C. She was sure she had seen it on TV quite recently. She looked down to the far end of the course, at the three circular, illuminated podia on which the players had to stand to signify their answers. She had to make it to the right one within the twenty seconds to have even a chance of getting on the show.

"Five seconds."

The tension was unbearable. Wanda-Jean felt herself start to tremble. The only consolation was that in less than a minute she would know, one way or the other.

An alarm went off and lights flashed. The gate in front of Wanda-Jean snapped open with a metallic clang. The crowd recording came on. It was deafeningly loud, almost at the threshold of pain. Wanda-Jean tried to shut it out as she sprang from the starting gate. She was running as though her life depended on it. The other contestants were all around her. A well-built girl beside her ran straight across her path. Wanda-Jean was forced to slow down, otherwise the two of them would have gone down in a tangle of arms and legs.

There were four players in front of Wanda-Jean. That meant she was third from last. She'd never make it through to the actual show if she couldn't pull up. She forced her legs to pump still harder. The blood pounded in her head. It was accompanied by the almost unbearable crowd noise. Watching "Wildest Dreams" on TV, she'd never noticed how many of the crowd yelled really disgusting obscenities.

The muscular young man who was leading the field crossed the halfway line. The water came on. Almost immediately a jet hit him squarely in the midriff. He folded up, staggered, and fell. As he tried to get up, another jet sent him sprawling back down the course. His costume was already dissolving into rags.

Wanda-Jean had no time to worry about other people's troubles. She was now within range of the high-pressure nozzles. Two of them were sweeping her part of the course like crossfire. The girl in front of her jumped to avoid one of the two waterjets and slammed into Wanda-Jean.

"Cunt!"

The word came out like a gasp of quickly expelled breath. The girl jammed her elbow into Wanda-Jean's ribs and tried to trip her into the path of the other jet.

"Bitch."

Wanda-Jean swore almost as a reflex and twisted her fingers in the girl's bleached hair. More by luck than judgment, she pulled the girl off balance. She tottered backward for a couple of steps, straight into the full force of the jets. Wanda-Jean went on running, smiling as the other girl was spun, flat on her back with windmilling arms and legs, the wrong way down the now slippery course.

Wanda-Jean's jubilation was short-lived, however. A third jet swung toward her. She did her best to sidestep, but she wasn't quite fast enough. She didn't take the full force of it, but even the periphery of the stream was enough to spin her around and hurl her against the track. The impact of the water was like simultaneously being punched by a giant fist and stabbed by a thousand freezing needles. Most of the front of her suit had simply vanished at the first touch of wetness.

It was all too much. Wanda-Jean was defeated. Cold, wet, and half-naked, she saw no point in going on. She had blown her chance. The recorded voices of the nonexistent crowd beat on her head. She wanted to crouch by the wall and cry. Then suddenly everything changed.

There was a clear path all the way to the podia. All the jets seemed to be moving in directions that would not get her. Screwing up her very last reserves, Wanda-Jean sprinted for the finish.

Her surprise at finishing the course almost stopped her. For a split second her mind went blank. She couldn't remember the answer. Then it came to her. C, that was the one. She swerved and jumped onto the C podium.

The muscular young man plunged out of the spray of water. He climbed onto the podium marked B. As he straightened up, completely naked, a siren went off and a hundred lights flashed. The twenty seconds were up. It had seemed like a lifetime to Wanda-Jean.

A hush fell over the recorded crowd as attendants helped the five contestants who hadn't made it off the course. There was just Wanda-Jean and the young man. The voice of Bobby Priest came back again.

"Okay, kids, just so you know you're getting a fair shake on "Wildest Dreams," you've got three seconds, I'll repeat that, three seconds to change your minds."

The crowd noise rose again. The amplified voices were baying either to move or to stay put. Wanda-Jean glanced at the young man. She decided that he was kind of cute. Neither of them moved. The crowd was cut off as the three-second siren sounded.

Bobby Priest's voice boomed out again.

"And now, what we've all been waiting for!"

A small, clear voice piped up inside Wanda-Jean's head. It said: Emote. You still won't make it if you don't look right.

"The answer to the Question!"

Wanda-Jean dutifully twisted her hands and looked as though she was suffering the worst agonies of suspense.

"The current population of the world is… wait for it… yes! Answer C! Five billion!"

Wanda-Jean emoted as fully as she could. She put all her remaining strength into leaping for joy as the lights went up around her. Afterward she was never clear whether she had been putting it on or doing it for real.