The Feelies

"I…"

"Sure you want a drink. Why don't you sit down?"

Reuben settled uncomfortably on the very edge of an easy chair that was solely designed to be lounged in. His uniform threatened to drown him. Wanda-Jean mixed the drinks. One of the compensations of being on "Wildest Dreams" was that she could now afford Scotch from Scotland. She handed Reuben a drink.

"You look in a sorry state."

Reuben raised an eyebrow. "You don't look exactly on top of things yourself.''

Wanda-Jean laughed. Somehow she couldn't stop the laugh coming out brittle. "I don't?"

"Not for a big game-show star."

Wanda-Jean sighed. "Don't even talk about it."

"It's getting to you."

Reuben was still holding the envelope. He held it out. "Aren't you going to open this?"

Wanda-Jean still didn't take it.

Reuben turned it over between his fingers. "You want I should open it for you?"

"Would you?"

"Sure."

Reuben quickly slit open the envelope. The icy chill grabbed Wanda-Jean's gut with a vengeance.

"Read it to me. Which game is it?"

Reuben scanned the single sheet of crisp, expensive notepaper. "They've put you on Personality Fall Down."

"Jesus Christ!"

"It's not that bad."

"It's the worst. I'll never get through that."

"Sure you will."

Wanda-Jean sagged into a chair. She looked a picture of misery.

"It's really nice of you to try and encourage me, Reuben, but this has got to be the end for me."

Wanda-Jean had seen Personality Fall Down enough times to convince herself that she didn't have a chance. It was a game where the contestants stood in glass booths. Under the booths was a tank of liquid mud. Rapid general knowledge questions were fired at you. If you didn't keep getting them right, the floor of the booth slowly opened and you dropped through into the mud.

Wanda-Jean could picture the scene all too vividly. The crowd would be baying and screaming as she dragged herself out of the mud and into oblivion. At least she'd be spared the Dreamroad, and the torture of knowing that the behind the scenes gossip was busily predicting her fall. She would have taken her fall already.

Reuben put his half-finished drink down on the floor. He began to get up. Wanda-Jean started in panic. Was even Reuben going to desert her?

"You haven't finished your drink yet."

Reuben looked unhappy. "I got to get back to work. I really only took time out to bring that letter up to you. I figured you'd want it straightaway."

"You sure you won't stay? At least finish your drink."

"I really got to go."

Wanda-Jean arranged herself in the chair so she would look as appealing as possible. "Don't go yet."

Reuben was almost at the door. He half turned. For a moment their eyes met. Then Reuben looked away. His voice was soft and regretful.

"I can't do what you want, Wanda-Jean."

Before Wanda-Jean could work out what he meant, he had let himself quietly out of the flat.

For a long time, Wanda-Jean sat staring at the door. Her depression had gone past rational thought and descended into a morose blankness. The phone rang again. Wanda-Jean absently picked it up. It was a reflex action.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, is that Wanda-Jean?"

The voice was gratingly enthusiastic and friendly. Wanda-Jean's was correspondingly dull and flat.

"This is she, who's that?"

"It's Charlie, honey. You remember, don't you?"

"No."

"Oh, come on now. Good old Charlie. Hell, we had one great night after…"

Wanda-Jean hung up and cried.

THERE HAD TO BE A WAY OUT. THERE just had to be.

The sound of boots rang from somewhere at the other end of the corridor. They were coming. Christopher Elwin III never knew when they were going to come. The schedules were constantly being altered, and the prisoners were kept permanently guessing. It was all part of the general policy of psychological disorientation. Christopher Elwin III's conditioned instinct was to do something, to sit bolt upright, to scan the cell for any little thing out of place, any blemish on the code of absolute spotlessness. Unfortunately, Christopher Elwin III wasn't able to do anything. Christopher Elwin could hardly move a muscle. He and the female prisoner lay pressed together, face to face on the hard, narrow bunk. Leather straps held them secured together at the wrists and ankles. Their collars were joined at the neck, and a wide leather belt was cinched tightly around both their waists. Her breasts were squeezed against his chest, her stomach and thighs were pressed against his, and the two of them were completely helpless. While Major Freda, the section commandant, had looked on with that cold, cruel smile of hers, Inga and Greta, the daytime guards on their tier, had bound them in that position before lights out, and they had been left that way all night. Close as he was to her, he didn't even know the woman's name. When she had been brought into the cell, they had only referred to her as Female Prisoner #27, just as he was always called Male Prisoner #19. The final orders had been simple.

"No talking."

"No sex."

There was no room for misunderstanding. The slightest attempt at either would result in the most severe of punishments. There was also no deceiving the guards. All through the sleepless, muscle-cramping night they had been relentlessly observed by the black lens of the cell's surveillance camera. A whispered word or the slightest movement would be instantly noticed as well as recorded on tape for later disciplinary review. One of the favorite tricks of the guards was to force prisoners to watch tapes of their transgressions while physical correction was being inflicted on them. Rumors circulated throughout the prison of edited versions of these tapes, along with tapes of the punishments and executions, being circulated on the black market for the amusement and titillation of the party matriarchs and ranking officers of the secret police.

The boots were coming nearer. The flesh of Christopher Elwin III actually started to crawl in anticipation of what might happen when the guards reached his cell. He guessed that Female Prisoner #27 was going through a similar spasm of scared anticipation. Risking the wrath of the video camera, she silently rolled her eyes. Then the boots stopped. An order was barked. It was Greta's voice.

"Open cell thirteen."

There was the grinding of metal on metal as the door to cell thirteen was cranked open. Male Prisoner #13 was in trouble. Inga and Greta must have spotted something amiss in his cell, or maybe something had shown up on the overnight videotapes. Male Prisoner #13 was uncommonly unlucky.

Greta's voice barked again. "You are a filthy, disgusting little worm, Number Thirteen. I don't think I can imagine a filthier, more disgusting little worm than you."

#13 muttered something that Christopher Elwin III couldn't quite make out. Greta responded with anger and outrage.

"Did I tell you to speak? Get down on your knees, right now!"

There were more mutterings, #13's tone abject and pleading.

Greta was not moved. "Shut your filthy mouth. You're only making it worse for yourself.''

Christopher Elwin III could all too easily imagine what #13 was going through. He had been through it himself more times than he would ever want to remember. He was all-too familiar with the experience of crouching on the floor of his cell, on eye level with the highly polished boots of the two guards, glancing furtively up at the two statuesque blondes standing over him with their long legs, tight black uniform shirts, starched white shirts, black ties, and triple star Arena Party armbands.

There was a sharp swish and the slap of leather hitting flesh. #13 whimpered. The majority of the female guards carried canes when they were on the cell block, Greta was something of an individualist within the narrow confines of the regime. She always had a wicked leather strap hanging from her wrist and was always ready to wield it with a strong-armed will if a prisoner displeased her. There was another swish and another slap. #13 whimpered again. The sequence was repeated a good twenty times.

"On your feet, worm. Stop groveling on the floor. Go and stand facing the corner. That's right, face to the wall. Now you will remain there until otherwise ordered."

The boots moved out of cell thirteen. The barred door ground closed behind them. They were coming on down the corridor. Female Prisoner #27 closed her eyes.

"Open cell nineteen."

The noise of the door sliding back seemed deafening. In moments of tension, sounds always seemed unusually loud. And then the two guards were in the cell looking down at them.

"This is a cozy little scene, isn't it? We trust you lovebirds both slept well."

Christopher Elwin III suppressed a shudder as the tip of Inga's cane lightly traced a pattern down his naked back. He dared not turn his head even slightly to look at his tormentors.

One of the women walked the length of the cell and back again. "This togetherness is all very well, but we can't have you lying around doing nothing all day. You're not here for a holiday."

Black-gloved hands were unfastening the straps on the prisoners' wrists and ankles; then the belt was taken off. Finally the neck chain was removed, though the leather collars, numbered dogtags hanging from them, remained in place.

"Okay, up! On your feet, the both of you!"

Christopher Elwin III winced as he tried to stand straight. He longed to massage his painfully cramped muscles. Circulation came back in an agony of pins and needles. Greta's strap slashed viciously across his thighs.

"Stand up, you scum! At attention! You want a dose of what Number Thirteen got?''

She glared into his face. Christopher Elwin III turned his gaze downward to the floor. It wasn't a good idea to look the guards directly in the eye.

"No, madam."

"Louder, maggot, I can't hear you!"

Christopher Elwin III stiffened his shoulders and raised his voice, but he didn't lift his eyes from the floor. "No, madam. I don't want what Number Thirteen got, madam."

"And what did he get?"

"Madam, he got a beating, madam."

"You think he deserved it, maggot?"

"I know he deserved it, madam. We always deserve our punishments."

The exchange seemed to satisfy Greta. She and Inga turned their attention to Female Prisoner #27.

"So how did you enjoy your night next to a man, slut? I'd imagine a promiscuous little whore like you would do anything to get next to a man, even a pathetic specimen like this."

It was one of those questions that was almost impossible to answer without the risk of an instant beating. #27 did the best she could.

"Madam, I wasn't ordered to enjoy the experience."

It was a clever answer, but it bordered on being too clever. Greta took off her mirrored aviator glasses. Her eyes were hard.

"Think you're pretty smart, don't you, slut?"

#27 had turned pale. "No, madam, I'm not smart."

"Outside!"

#27 didn't move quickly enough. The cane lashed out, leaving a red welt across her buttocks.

"Move, slut! Make schnell!"

Then Christopher Elwin III was alone with Inga and Greta.

"At attention, worm. First inspection!"

Christopher Elwin III braced himself. Greta's leather-gloved hand reached between his legs.

By that point, Christopher Elwin III should have been in the throes of guilty delight. The S&M prison fantasy was something that had turned him on for all of his adult life. The idea of powerful Germanic women using him, controlling him, subjecting him to ritualized pain had been his obsession for as long as he could remember, and he had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars over the years having prostitutes stage approximations of it. The problem was that it no longer worked. As far as he could calculate-and the relative passage of time was very hard to estimate-he had only been in the feelie for maybe a month, and he wanted out. He was not being constantly filled with breathless cringing excitement. He was not being maintained in a continually heightened state of claustrophobic sexuality. He was merely cringing and claustrophobic. Even though it was an electronically created illusion, his only reality was life in a very uncomfortable prison with no chance of parole, constantly at the mercy of a set of brutal psychopaths, beauty notwithstanding, who had been created for him out of his own imagination. Worst of all, he had doomed himself to it for the rest of his life.

The one thing that he had no illusions about was his own value in the real world. He was a loser and that was it, the classic case of ineffectual son of the dynamic father. Christopher Elwin II had built Elwin Systems into the highly profitable component satellite of a number of major corporations. He, Christopher Elwin III-little Chris was what they had always called him-had all but run it into the ground. The family had done little to conceal their relief when he had opted for the big sleep. Now his brother Lance, who seemed to have been the one to inherit their father's smarts, could have a free hand to rebuild the Elwin fortunes.

There was a lot more to the preparation for an IE life-span contract than merely buying a ticket. In his price bracket, the feelie was custom-made to his exact requirements. There had been long sessions with the very overpriced company shrink. "Go with the fantasy," she had told him. "Push it to the limit. We can only supply you with what you give us. You want it to be perfect, don't you?" He had poured out the whole catalog of his grubby imaginings, every disgusting idea that he had reveled in from the age of eleven onward. It had to be the ultimate irony. Now that he had them made real, he didn't like them. There was a part of his mind that was becoming more and more detached from the fantasy, and the more detached it became, the closer it steered toward a state of blind panic. The difficulty was that, inside a feelie, there was no such thing as a panic button. How could he communicate to the outside world that he wanted out? There had to be some way. There just had to be. If he couldn't get free from his own fantasies, his mind was going to come unhinged. There was a definite limit to how much he could take, and that limit was drawing close.

Inga's voice dragged him back into the all-too familiar scenario. The tip of her cane was probing the crack in his ass.

"I hope you're well rested, maggot. The commandant has a party of visitors coming to the facility today, and she wants some prisoners put through their paces for them. The good news is that you're one of the lucky ones who've been selected for the display team."

Christopher Elwin III groaned inwardly. That was another problem. In a feelie crafted from his own imaginings, he always knew what was coming. This so-called display would mean a gruelling session of pain and humiliation in front of an amused audience. Suppose he fought the program? Surely there had to be something built into the software that would show that he was not responding according to the expected pattern and trigger some kind of alarm. He toyed with the idea of ripping Inga's cane out of her hand and hurling the woman across the cell. To his disappointment, he found that all he could do was follow the expected responses.

"Yes, madam. It will be an honor to perform for the commandant."

The detached part of his mind was dizzy with frustration. There had to be a way out. There just had to be.

"YEAH, WELL, A LOT OF THEM ARE JUST plain smut."

"Smut?"

"Yeah, smut. Sex. Fucking. Men fucking women, women fucking women, men fucking men. Men, women, children, animals, threes, fours, dozens. You name it, they're doing it. Any number, any variation." Ralph swung his arm in a sweeping if unsteady gesture that took in the whole of the vault. "It's just one huge electronic whorehouse."

Sam blinked twice. "It can't be that bad. Not everybody wants sex all the time."

Ralph sneered. "You think not? I'm telling you. There ain't many stiffs here plugged into the life of Socrates or St. Francis of Assisi, and that's a fact."

Sam took a while to digest all that. Then a puzzled expression wrinkled his doughy features. "What have you got against sex?"

Ralph looked at him impatiently. "Nothing, except I maybe don't get enough."

Sam's voice became morose. "I don't get any… except…"

Ralph cut him off. "I don't want to hear what you get up to when you're away from here."

It was drawing toward the end of the shift. It was that part of the day when Ralph was drunk belligerent and Sam was little short of comatose. Ralph would rant, and Sam would stare dully into space. It was the point when communication was at a minimum.

In between outbursts, Ralph would sit grim and hunched until he had worked up enough bile for another one. It was during these silences that Sam would throw out the occasional remark.

"Ralph?"

"What?"

"How do you know?"

"How do I know what?"

"How do you know that all they want is sex? You've never been in a feelie."

"I've seen the catalog, haven't I?"

"What catalog?"

"The catalog of all the different feelie experiences that they offer."

"I've never seen that."

"You know when you first sign on they give you a guided tour of one of the reception centers."

Sam looked glum. "They never took me on the tour."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. They just kind of left me behind."

"They left you behind?"

"Yeah."

Ralph hesitated. He seemed about to make some comment. He changed his mind. "Well, anyway. While they were going on about what a great thing the feelies were for humanity, I managed to get a good look at the catalog. That's when I first decided that it was all bullshit."

"I don't think it's bullshit."

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

"I know I'd like to get in a feelie."

"I'm telling you, it's all just sex and violence. It's about the lowest you can get."

Sam inspected his fingers. "Sometimes I think that we're the lowest you can get."

"What?"

"Nothing."

They lapsed into another sullen silence. Sam started playing with the zip on his overall. First he'd pull it down for about six inches, then he would pull it up again. He did it over and over. Ralph watched him. His irritation increased with each run of the zip.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"At least they're quiet."

"Huh?"

"At least they're quiet."

"Who are?"

"The stiffs."

"What the hell are you going on about now?"

"The stiffs, at least they're quiet."

"Of course they're quiet. They're always quiet. They're stiffs. They're quiet by definition."

"I didn't mean that."

"You didn't mean that?"

"No."

Ralph was visibly controlling himself. "So what the hell did you mean?"

"I guess I mean… I don't know. I think I've forgotten."

Sam went back to playing with his zip.

"Do you have to do that?"

"It passes the time."

"Like the stiffs, I suppose."

"What?"

"Passing the time."

"Oh… yeah."

"You're a great conversationalist."

"I am?"

"Jesus Christ!"

Ralph looked at his watch. There was another hour of the shift still to go. Ralph's bottle was empty, and he wanted another drink. It had to be the worst time of the shift. He got to his feet and paced up and down the row of cabinets. There was a dull ache in the back of his head. After four or five turns along the row, he stopped and stared down at Sam.

"I'm sick of this fucking job."

"It's a job."

"I'd be better off on welfare."

"You wouldn't like it on welfare."

"Why not?"

"I wouldn't like it on welfare. I like to have a job. It gives me some self-respect."

"Self-respect?"

"That's right."

"Listen, what the hell do you know about self-respect? ''

"I do the job I'm paid for. That's self-respect."

"You reckon?"

"Yeah."

"You sit around all day and gobble down tranquilizers. That's when you're not staring at the girl in the cabinet like some lovesick calf."

"I don't think that's fair."

"It's true enough."

"Maybe that's what I'm paid for."

"And that's what keeps your precious self-respect together?"

"I suppose so."

"You're weird, Sam."

"No."

"No, what?"

"I don't think I'm weird."

Ralph looked at him in amazement. "You don't?"

"I think I'm pretty average, really."

Ralph closed his eyes with an expression of pain. "Anything you say, Sam."

Ralph went back to pacing. Sam went back to playing with his zip. Ralph looked at his watch again. Fifty-five minutes to go. It had to be the most boring job on God's earth. They could at least give them something to do. If there was some real work to fill the time, he wouldn't have to drink so much, and he wouldn't have to get involved in these pointless conversations with Sam. For the hundredth time, he resolved to throw the whole thing in and take his chances on the street.

Ralph became aware that Sam had stopped fiddling with his overalls and was watching him intently. Ralph swung around and snapped at him. "What's the matter with you now?"

"Nothing."

"You look like you're about to come out with some portentous remark."

"What does portentous mean?"

"Forget it."

"You shouldn't use words like that if you ain't prepared to explain what they mean."

"I just work with you, right? I ain't no teacher."

"You don't have to be like that about it."

"I don't?"

"We might as well try and get along."

Ralph sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Okay."

"I was going to say something."

"You were?"

"Yeah."

Ralph waited, but Sam didn't go on. After about a minute, Ralph couldn't stand it any longer.

"So?"

"So what?"

"So what were you going to say?"

Sam looked dolefully at Ralph. "I don't think you'd be interested."

"You'll probably tell me anyway."

"I don't think I'll bother."

"Oh, Jesus. Get it out."

"I was watching TV last night."

"You watch TV?"

"Of course I watch TV. Everyone watches TV."

"And that's it?"

"I was watching TV last night. There was this show about telepathy.''

"You watch the egghead shows?"

"I watch all kinds of things. I like TV."

"So what about telepathy?"

"Well, it seems to me that if we could all read each other's minds we'd get really paranoid."

"We would?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's bad enough having to watch what you say. Just imagine if you had to watch everything you thought."

"I'm imagining."

"Well?"

"Well?"

"It wouldn't be very nice, would it? I think we'd all get very paranoid."

Ralph was a picture of disbelief. "What in God's name does that have to do with anything?"

Sam looked mildly surprised. "Nothing."

"Then why tell me about it?"

"I thought you might be interested."

Ralph clenched his fists. It was only their respective size and weight that stopped him from hitting Sam.

LOMBARDS, JUST ONE BLOCK FROM THE foot of the CM tower, charged top price for its drinks and catered to the executive trade and, as such, was much frequented by the upper ranks of Combined Media employees during the happy hour. It was a place to see and, on occasion, to be seen to see. It was the place where the crucial, postwork, public-display games, both social and corporate political, were played out for an audience who watched for who was with whom under the dim chandeliers and guessed at the rest with varying degrees of accuracy. Department coups had been started in Lombards, and, at the other end of the scale, so had a large number of office romances. The atmosphere of top-shelf booze and cigar smoke was the favorite medium for the sending of signals, the making of overtures, the conclusion of honeymoons, and the termination of alliances and relationships. If one wanted to make career points in CM, it was vital to drop into Lombards at least three or four times a month and show one's face. It was even expected of the militant nondrinkers that they come by for at least a Perrier and twist at regular intervals.

The power positions in Lombards were along the line of leather upholstered banquettes that ran from just inside the front door clear through to the back wall. Seated in the comfort of one of these, a person could observe the action at the bar and the regular tables without being watched or overheard. Pride of place in the entire prestige row was the banquette just to the left of center, slightly nearer the door than the rear wall. On this particular night, this number one booth was occupied by two men whose status and rights to the booth would never be questioned even by the most inexperienced waiter. Edouard Hayes was the Senior Vice President for Special Projects. The second man, Jack Vallenti, was the number two man in the Software Development Division. The fact that the two of them would place themselves even on discreet display like this indicated to anyone who read between the lines that something radical was brewing. Their respective departments, whose territory tended to overlap in the area of advance planning, had butted heads on a number of occasions, and the seemingly casual meeting for a drink was open to a number of interpretations. The most popular were the two obvious extremes: either a truce or the start of a new round of hostilities.

The meeting started as casually as it was supposed to look. Hayes ordered a martini and Vallenti a Scotch on the rocks. There was some small talk about how Rostov in Marketing seemed to be teetering on the brink of making a damn fool of himself over his secretary and how Madison Renfield had made a damn fool of himself on "The Bones Bolt Show." When Vallenti brought up the subject of Renfield, Hayes sadly shook his head.

"Sooner or later somebody's got to stop him. I mean, what makes that pompous jackass believe that he can be an adequate spokesperson for the corporation on something as wild and woolly as 'Bones Bolt'?"

Vallenti swirled the ice in his drink. "That's the trouble with PR. They can cover most of their screwups by claiming that they were working according to some devious, deep-psych program. According to them, they can never be wrong. It's just that the rest of us don't appreciate the subtlety of what they're doing. We can't see the big picture."

"It doesn't hurt any that Renfield knows where a hell of a lot of bodies are buried. He's hushed up a lot of people's indiscretions in his time, and he's not going to go quietly when the crunch comes. He'll call in all of his markers, and in public if need be, before he allows himself to be deposed."

"I hear that he practically brainwashes his new arrivals these days. Weekly indocrinations in the viewing pods downstairs with the chemical softeners going full blast."

Hayes looked at Vallenti in real amazement. "Sure he does. I thought everyone did. It's hardly the time for loose cannons rolling around or for underlings to be plotting revolution. You mean you don't do that over in Development? ''

Vallenti covered his loss of face by signaling for a waiter. They had arrived at the point in the conversation when the two of them should cut out the third-party gossip and get down to business, and he was furious at himself for having reached it at a distinct disadvantage. Why in hell didn't his department brainwash the newly hired? Anything that kept the help loyal and docile had to be in everyone's best interests. When the waiter brought him another Scotch, he turned the subject around to the reason that he had asked Hayes there in the first place.

"So how are you getting along with Project Superstar?"

It was Hayes's turn to look surprised. "You heard about Superstar."

"Just a whisper."

"I think I'm going to have to make some inquiries as to who's been whispering in the ranks. This thing's supposed to be fully under wraps."

Vallenti smiled. They were back on even pegging. Apparently Hayes's brainwashing was not yielding the results for which he had been hoping. Interdepartmental spying was conducted on all levels, but Special Projects took great pride in being among the least pregnable. Vallenti was delighted to have punctured their smug assurance. He gave Hayes a few moments to recover his composure before continuing.

"Those of us in Development who know about this are, to put it mildly, a little worried."

Hayes raised an eyebrow. He still looked a little worried himself. "How many of you know about Superstar?"

Vallenti held up a reassuring hand. "Don't worry, Hayes, it's really just a handful of us. We've totally respected your need for privacy. It's just that we wonder if what you're doing may be, to put it very bluntly, a trifle misdirected."

Hayes's eyes hardened. "I'd like to hear exactly what you think Superstar actually is."

"The way we heard it, you're planning to wire up a major teen hearthrob during a special live show, and that it will be marketed to the fans as a chance actually to be their idol in a special two-hour package deal. It's going to be the spearhead of a number of short-term forays into the youth market."

"You seem to have heard a great deal."

Vallenti grinned. "We don't know who you intend to use as the first subject."

"That's a relief."

"Why don't you lift the corner of the dustsheet and let me in on the secret?"

Hayes shook his head. "I can't do that. The deal isn't finalized yet and we really can't afford anyone else knowing. Why don't you just tell me what's bothering you all over at Development? What is it about this project that you think is so misdirected?"

Vallenti sipped his Scotch. "To be frank, we have never done particularly well with live recordings of any kind. God knows we tried for long enough. The clients just won't accept reality. It's too damned flat. The computer composites are quite literally a hundred times better."

"I think you're rather missing the point."

"You're telling me that I'm not seeing the big picture?"

"If you like."

Vallenti scowled. "Now you're sounding like Renfield."

"We're not going to market just the live recording. We'll make a tape of this entertainer, but then it will be subjected to all the same processing as any simulated fantasy. Even in those, you do have to use recorded experiences as base material." Hayes grinned. "I mean, where else would you get your orgasms except from a tape of the real thing?''

"So the live experience angle is really just a marketing ploy. You're really paying a fortune to have this guy's name on the advertising. Basically it's very much the same as the Elvis Presley or Michael Jackson experiences that we already have on catalog."

"Except that this guy is alive and current and topping the Billboard chart."

Vallenti laughed. "So the subject is male?"

Hayes grimaced at his slip. "I guess that narrows the field for you by half.''

Vallenti suddenly leaned forward. He wasn't laughing anymore. It was time to drop the bomb on Hayes-the bomb that was the real point of the meeting. "You want to know what else is bothering us about Project Superstar?"

Hayes looked at Vallenti suspiciously. "I somehow thought that your major concern wasn't that our efforts might fail."

"Are you sure that this whole thing isn't a cover for clandestine work on a death-experience program?"

Hayes's eyes widened. "A death-experience program? Are you joking?"

Either Hayes was genuinely shocked, or he was a consummate actor. Vallenti shook his head.

"I'm not joking. The information is that death-experience research has been resumed. You have to admit that your project would be an ideal cover.''

"But work on the death experience is strictly forbidden after what Jonas did. You know that as well as I do. His attempts to tape through a human death nearly ruined us."

"Someone's messing around with it again."

"It's no one in Special Projects. I can assure you of that."

"Can you be certain?"

"It's my department, damn it. And how can you be so sure anyway?"

"We have evidence."

"What evidence?"

"Supply requisitions."

"How can they prove anything on their own? We've booked out truckloads of live recording gear for the research on Superstar."

"That's what made us think it might be you guys."

"I already told you. It wasn't us."

"There is one other piece of evidence."

"I think I need another martini."

"Three weeks ago there was a execution down in Mississippi. A character by the name of Jamal Vance. He killed five people when a supermarket heist turned sour.''

"What about him?"

"We have a tape and polygraph record of a prison guard who claims to have, along with three others, substituted a gimmicked execution gurney that was capable of recording Vance's feelings from the moment that he was strapped down to it, through the lethal injection, and for twenty minutes afterward."

"Someone made a death tape."

"More to the point, someone has a death tape. Can you imagine what they would fetch on the black market?"

Hayes looked thoughtful, and Vallenti was convinced that if it was someone in Special Projects who had made the tape, the man sitting across the table from him didn't know anything about it.

Finally, Hayes looked up. "What makes you so sure that someone in the corporation did this?"

"Who else would have the technology?"

"In theory, it could be done on the outside."

"But in practice, it'd be just about impossible."

Hayes slowly put down his martini glass. "We are going to have to look into this."

Vallenti sipped his Scotch. He could see that Hayes was thoroughly rattled. That was how he wanted him. "My people already are."

' 'We need to talk to security.''

Vallenti shook his head. "We don't talk to anybody. Not until we know who we can trust."

Hayes sighed and nodded. "Will you call me?"

"As soon as I hear anything more."

Hayes absently picked up the check. "This is a potentially very bad business."

Vallenti nodded. "Don't I know it."

THE SUPERSTAR WAS FAR FROM HAPPY. He slumped petulantly in the deep leather armchair and dug the pointed toe of his handmade Spanish boot into the thick, white pile of the wall-to-wall carpet. The double glazing of the hotel's penthouse suite presented an uninterrupted panorama of the city. Above the brown air layer the sun was warm and bright, and the sky was a perfect blue. A needle-thin rocket liner floated in the clear part of the sky. It was almost at eye level from where the superstar sat. Its wheels were down, its wings were out, and it was drifting in for a landing at Metro-4 airport, the one that handled the big sub-orbitals.

The superstar wasn't interested in the view, the sky, or the passing planes. He was being hassled by his manager in a one-on-one conference. He had already told his manager no way, four times. His manager wasn't inclined, though, to take no way for an answer.

"Listen, no way, Tom. I'm not going to do it."

"That's fucking dumb."

"Dumb or not, I don't like it."

"You're turning down ten million."

"It doesn't feel right."

"Don't you feel you're being a tiny bit irrational?"

"Sure I'm irrational. I'm a genius. If I was an accountant, I'd be logical, but I'm not and I ain't. Okay?"

"Jesus Christ, do you seriously expect me to go back to Combined Media and tell them that the deal's off?"

"You can tell them what you like. That's your problem."

The superstar hooked his leg over the arm of the chair and swiveled around so he was facing away from the manager. He stared out across the city. The rocket plane had gone, but otherwise it was exactly the same. While the superstar sulked, the manager marshaled himself for another attempt at persuasion. He loosened the collar of his fashionably casual lounging suit and ran his fingers through his long gray hair.

"Shall we try again?"

The superstar continued to pout. He was dressed in what amounted to a costly, spangled parody of the uniform worn by the gang kids from the welfare sections. They were, after all, the main solvent honking nucleus of his fans-the ones who consumed his tension tapes and fought their way into his live shows.

The manager's voice was comfortingly soft, more like that of an analyst than a businessman. "You want to discuss it?"

Still the superstar refused to acknowledge him. The manager's voice hardened. "Can you hear me?"

"No."

"You don't want to discuss it?"

"I can't hear you."

"Aren't we being a bit childish?"

The superstar jabbed a heavily ringed finger at the manager. "You might be being childish. I'm not."

' 'What I'm primarily trying to do is to make you very rich."

The superstar didn't say anything, although this time he didn't look away. The manager pressed home his slight advantage.

"You want to be very rich, don't you?"

"I am very rich."

"You could be a lot richer."

"Not this way."

"How long is it going to take to convince you?"

"It's going to fucking take forever. My mind's made up. I won't do it."

"Have I ever pushed you into a wrong direction?"

"Sure you have. What about the Multisong deal? What about that terrible fuckup in Tokyo? You want me to go on?"

"That's hardly fair."

"You railroaded me into both of them."

Even the manager's seemingly boundless patience was starting to fray. "Will you do something for me, as a favor?''

"What?"

"Could you just take the time to explain in a little detail what exactly you have against this offer? It is, after all, the biggest thing you've ever been offered. From where I sit, it looks like the dream of a lifetime."

"From where I sit, it looks like a nightmare."

"Why, for Christ's sake?"

"I don't like the whole idea."

"You'll be the first living entertainer ever to be recorded on a feelie program. People will actually be able to feel what it's like to be you while you're performing. I would have thought your ego would have jumped at the chance."

"Don't knock my ego. It pays for your plastic surgery."

"You're still avoiding the question."

The superstar's rings flashed as he again stabbed an angry index finger toward his manager. "Who the hell do you think you are? Where do you get off cross-examining me like this?"

The manager also began to lose his temper. "I'm your fucking manager who's just set up a deal worth ten million plus and is sitting here while his client throws it back in his face without even offering a half logical explanation. Will that do?"

The superstar sneered. "Worried about your piece of the ten mil?"

"If you like, sure. I don't handle your affairs because I like it."

"You could always quit."

"I might as well do that if you keep on turning down money the way you are at the moment."

For the first time the superstar looked worried. His expression became placating. "Okay, okay, it doesn't have to go this far. There's no need for us to fall out."

"So, do I get an answer? I have to tell Combined Media something."

The superstar looked uncomfortable. He ran his fingers through his cropped hair. "Hell, I don't know. I can't put it into words. I ain't sure that I want people to know how I feel when I'm doing a show. It could destroy the mystery. Jesus, Tom, for all I know it could finish me. I don't think it's worth the risk."

"There's millions in it."

"It's too much like selling a piece of my soul."

"That's what primitive tribes used to think about being photographed."

"Maybe they were right."

"I've never noticed you avoiding being photographed."

"A feelie's something different."

The manager stood up and walked over to the window. Another rocket was coming in to Metro-4. At the other side of the sky a regular jet was on approach to LAX.

"You know what you're paying for your superstition?"

The superstar fiddled with one of his earrings. He tried to be placating. "Listen, forget superstition and all that stuff. Let's look at it another way."

The manager turned away from the window. "Okay." He went back to his chair, sat down, and looked receptive. "So tell me."

The superstar sat up straight in his chair. He avoided looking directly at the manager.

"We've always agreed that when I'm doing a live show, nothing should get in the way. It's me and the audience and nothing that'll sidetrack it, right?"

"That's right. I've always kept TV crews in check, turned down advertising tie-ins. It's been done exactly as you wanted it."

The superstar smiled triumphantly. "Okay then. How the hell can I do a live show if I'm hooked up to a bank of feelie recorders? If that ain't getting between me and the audience, I don't know what is."

"They have given me assurances…"

"Assurances? Tom, will you tell me what the hell assurances is supposed to mean?"

"The recording and monitoring equipment wouldn't impede your doing the show."

The superstar looked sideways at the manager. "You want to know something, Tom?"

"What?"

"I don't trust you when you use long words. I get the idea you're trying to con a poor boy from the welfare sections."

"You've come a long way from there."

"Don't bullshit me. What kind of setup is Combined Media offering?"

"I thought you weren't interested."

"Just tell me, will you?"

The manager was back on the defensive. "Okay, okay. You may not believe it, but I spent a solid three days making sure this deal would be acceptable. They tell me that all the hardware they need could be built into your stage suit. It would be miniaturized and, where necessary, disguised as zips, studs, jewelry and what have you. Also any bits you don't want made available will be erased. You have full control of the finished product."

"I'd still be trailing wires all over the stage. How the hell am I supposed to work like that?''

"There won't be any wires. It'll be a radio link between you and the recording banks."

"I thought that they had to stick things into your skull."

"There'd be one micro implant in the back, of your neck. Fitting it is quite painless and could be disguised by a necklace or a high-collared shirt."

The superstar smiled wryly. "You've taken care of just about everything, haven't you?"

The manager shrugged. "That's what I'm paid for."

"I suppose you're going to ask me to reconsider now?"

The manager looked intently at the superstar. "There is one thing I ought to tell you."

The superstar raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"If you were to blow this off, Combined Media could get very mean about it."

"So?"

"They have a lot of influence among the networks."

"They couldn't hurt me."

"You're not that big."

"This is blackmail."

"They're like that."

The superstar swung his chair around and stared out of the window again. This time it wasn't a petulant gesture. He looked thoughtful. Finally he swiveled back to look at his manager.

"Listen, Tom, I got to think about this. I'll call you tomorrow.''

WANDA-JEAN'S EYES WERE GLUED TO the monitor screen that was built into the game booth. The dazzling smile of Bobby Priest was filling the screen.

"Okay, we're back and it's time for Personality Fall Down."

The face of Priest dissolved into dozens of tiny repeating images. "Wildest Dreams" was heavily graphicized. It never let the viewer alone for a single moment, teasing, titillating, never really allowing the picture to come to rest, bouncing its audience around in a continual state of contrived excitement.

"Just to remind everyone how this part of the show works. You'll see four contestants in the booths in front of us."

Cut to the four contestants standing in transparent cylindrical pods. They were bathed in the beams of a dozen or more revolving searchlights, and CO2 fog, sliced by slashing blue and gold lasers, drifted around them.

"I will start to read the personality profile of either a figure from history or a current celebrity. Contestants can jump in at any time when they think they know the identity of the personality being profiled."

Bobby Priest was filling the screen again. His teeth flashed like a neon sign and the sequins of his body tux dazzlingly reflected the lights and the lasers. He glowed like Mr. Electric.

"Sounds easy, right? Well, home folks, it would be easy if the contestants weren't standing over the vat!"

Bass electronics surged in a deep bowels-of-hell version of a Bach fugue. The close-up of Priest became a neon leer.

"The longer the contestant delays answering, the wider the floor on which they're standing slides open. Too long a delay or a wrong answer, and the floor vanishes altogether and the contestant goes down into the vat!''

The mists parted and the vat was revealed. It was a circular chromium-plated tank maybe five feet deep and twenty feet across. It was filled with a heavy viscous goop, about the consistency of molasses, primarily Day-Glo pink but streaked with lazy swirls of poisonous yellow and green that made it look like something from a toxic-horror show.

Bobby Priest dominated the screen again.

"Okay, contestants, are you ready for the next personality profile?"

Back to the four contestants. In unison, they all nodded brightly. The bass electronics picked up tempo, an urgent, anxious, rock 'n' roll pulse.

Bobby Priest's eyes had a twinkle that was scarcely pleasant.

"Don't forget, scenes from the life of each contestant are available on the current IE catalog."

The contestants nodded again, less brightly this time.

"Okay, players. Here we go."

On the waist-high panels in front of the contestants, four red lights came on. The audience noise that was pumped into the booths faded out. Each of them was alone in soundproof silence. Their four tense faces came on the monitor in a four-way split screen.

The voice of Bobby Priest came through loud and relentlessly clear.

"He was born in Clay County, Missouri, in 1847."

The floor under Wanda-Jean's feet split down the middle. Slowly but surely the gap started to grow wider.

"He married Zerelda Mimms in 1874."

The gap was now an inch wide, and Wanda-Jean could see right down into the vat. Bubbles slowly burst, leaving brief liquid craters. It looked like the surface of Jupiter in miniature, just six feet below her.

"During the war between the states he served with Bloody Bill Anderson in-"

There was a loud raucous buzzing. A green light came on beside a red one. Someone had hit the answer button. Wanda-Jean's head flashed around. The anxious face of the blond guy next to her came up on the screen. It was immediately replaced by the beaming Bobby Priest.

"Okay, okay. Paul here thinks he knows the answer. That's Paul Lindstrom, from right here in town. Shall we see if Paul's got the right answer, folks?"

The yell of the crowd agreeing with Priest crashed into Wanda-Jean's booth.

"Okay, Paul, what's your answer?"

"My answer's Jesse James, Bobby."

Pauls tense face came back onto the screen, then gave way to Bobby, leeringly building up the tension.

"Well, Paul…" He consulted a blue card in his hand. "… the correct answer is… Jesse James."

The applause was like a physical buffeting to Wanda-Jean, a punishing slap in the face for not having got the answer. The gap between her feet seemed to beckon oily, eager to claim her. There was a brief shot of the floor under Paul snapping shut, then Bobby Priest was back dominating the screen.

"Okay, contestants, here we go again, and let's see who'll be the first to fall down!"

The mob bayed its eagerness to see someone fall into the mud.

"Are you ready with the answer buttons?"

The contestants nodded again. Nobody could miss the answer button. It was right in the center of the flat shelf-like panel that ran across the front of each contestant's booth. On one side of the button were the lights that indicated that the question had been asked or answered and the speaker that relayed all outside sounds. On the other side was a seven-inch color monitor that showed the contestants what was being broadcast to the hundred million viewers.

Wanda-Jean caught sight of a medium shot of herself enclosed in the pod: long legs, blond hair, and white bodysuit. She looked like a thing in a test tube, something that had been created there, a vat-grown bimbo poised to be tipped back into the primal ooze that had spawned her.

"Okay then, let's go to question number two."

The sound of Bobby Priest's voice booming out of the pod's speaker jerked Wanda-Jean back to the reality of the moment. She had to concentrate. If she didn't answer one of the next four questions, she would drop through the wide open floor straight into the pink goop. If she answered wrongly, the floor would snap wide open straightaway. The only way was to get an answer right. A correct answer made the floor slide all the way shut again.

Question two seemed to confirm all Wanda-Jean's doubts. Paul hit the answer button right away and came up correct. The only consolation was that he came in fairly quickly. One didn't gain all that much headway over the competition if one answered fast. On the other hand, delaying could mean that another player would have the chance to jump in first.

There were five inches of space between Wanda-Jean's legs when Priest started into question three. It was just creeping up to six when Paul tried to score again. With a look of confidence, he gave out his answer. Confidence turned to horror as Bobby Priest gloatingly informed him that it was incorrect. The floor opened all the way. He hit the goop with a loud slap that was picked up by a dozen or more directional microphones around the rim of the tank and probably more submerged in the goop; the sound was amplified and enhanced and fed out over the air like a clap of doom. The audience jumped up in the bleachers, howling and waving fists and making the weird, high-pitched keening that was unique to the audience on "Wildest Dreams" as Paul dragged himself laboriously to the edge of the tank with his bodysuit disintegrating and his body plastered with the garish goop.

With Paul gone it left Nancy and the long-haired farm boy. Wanda-Jean told herself that she was just lucky. It had to end soon. Question four began. Nobody seemed anxious to hit the button. The gap in the floor got bigger and bigger. Wanda-Jean didn't have a clue to the answer. The gap was twelve inches wide before the farm boy made a stab for the button. He didn't wait for Bobby Priest's ritual. His voice was high-pitched and trembling.

"Abraham Lincoln."

Bobby Priest didn't like any hick contestant getting in the way of his building up the suspense. For a fleeting instant his eyes narrowed, then his bland, all-encompassing smile spread across his face. He didn't actually jerk his thumb down like a Roman emperor. He didn't need to. It was there in his smile.

"I'm sorry, Billy…"

So that was his name.

"… It was Rameses II."

Billy hit the goop and the crowd went wild. Bobby Priest seemed to swamp the screen.

"Well! Well! Well! They're sure going down like flies tonight. I guess it's a real fast one. But don't worry. If this game ends before time, we got more fun for you. Meanwhile stay tuned to see the ladies battle it out, after these messages."

There was a pause for the commercials. Wanda-Jean sagged against the back of the booth. It was impossible to relax when the floor of the booth consisted of two six-inch shelves on either side.

Wanda-Jean saw that Nancy was looking at her. Their eyes met, Wanda-Jean looked quickly away. There was no way that they could communicate. It was one or the other of them who would fall.

The floor manager's voice came over the speaker. "Fifteen seconds to air time."

Wanda-Jean straightened up and dragged her face back into the pleasant, eager expression. She avoided even looking at Nancy while Bobby Priest was welcoming back the viewers. The picture cut to a long shot of Wanda-Jean and Nancy standing like specimens in their glass cases. There was something almost sinister about the two empty booths. It reminded Wanda-Jean of some form of execution.

Bobby Priest was off again. "Just Wanda-Jean and Nancy-will one of them make it to the Dreamroad? Maybe question five will tell all.

"Okay, ladies. Are you ready for question five?"

They both nodded. Wanda-Jean saw she was in close-up and forced herself to smile. The smile faded abruptly when she saw the next shot. It was one of the tricky angle shots that were the hallmark of "Wildest Dreams." The cameramen claimed it was what really made the show so big, but who listened to the cameramen?

This particular one was shooting up through the gap of the booth floor and straight between Wanda-Jean's legs. It missed being hard-core by just a fraction. Not that "Wildest Dreams" minded being hard-core, but there were still enough old folks in the ratings for the producers to try and make it look accidental rather than played for, as they did on the youth shows.

Wanda-Jean wanted to look down, but she restrained herself.

"Okay, here's question five."

The red light went on. Wanda-Jean tensed. The floor started to move again.

"He spent the majority of his life in prison.

"His first sentence was at the Indiana Boys' Reformatory at Plainville in 1951."

The remaining ledges of the floor at either side of the booth were becoming alarmingly narrow.

"In 1960 he was convicted of forging government checks and jailed for ten years."

Wanda-Jean didn't have a clue. She did her best to resign herself to dropping into the mud and out of the show.

"Released in 1967 he started a hippie-style commune at Spahn Ranch, near Los Angeles."

Spahn Ranch tugged tentatively at a cord in her memory. Then, in a flash, it fell into place. She had seen a show-it couldn't have been more than a month earlier. Wanda-Jean couldn't believe her luck. She hit the answer button. The floor stopped moving. The remaining strips of floor were now so small that Wanda-Jean had to brace herself with one hand to avoid falling. She caught sight of her worried face in full close-up on the monitor. She quickly changed her expression. She was supposed to be enjoying the experience.

Bobby Priest joined her in split screen on the monitor.

"Well, in the nick of time, Wanda-Jean thinks she's got an answer. Shall we see if she's got it right or if she's going to the vat!''

The crowd howled enthusiastically.

"Okay then, Wanda-Jean. What's your answer?"

Wanda-Jean's arm was starting to ache. It wasn't easy, staying on her precarious perch. "I think the answer's Charles Manson, Bobby."

"She thinks it's Charlie Manson."

The audience howled mindlessly. Bobby Priest assumed a sorrowful pose.

"Well, Wanda-Jean, I've got to tell you that…"

Wanda-Jean panicked. She felt sick. Then Bobby Priest's face lit up.

"… You're absolutely right!"

The crowd went wild right on cue. The floor under Wanda-Jean slid back into place. She was able to move around again. A shot of Nancy came up on the monitor. She was in a bad way. She had both arms pressed hard against the sides of the booth to keep her balance. The moment the floor started to move again she would fall. She probably wouldn't be able to reach for the answer button without slipping. It was all over for Nancy. Wanda-Jean allowed herself a quick triumphant grin. Almost as soon as her expression shifted she found her smirking image flashed up on the screen. There must have been a cameraman waiting for her reaction. Wanda-Jean tried to look like a good sport, but only succeeded in looking shifty. Then Bobby Priest took over.

"Okay, here we go with the next question. Are you ladies set to go?"

Wanda-Jean nodded, projecting keenness with all her might. Nancy didn't bother to respond. She just clung on with grim hopelessness.

"Okay, let's roll."

The red light came on. The floor started to move again. The picture held firm on Nancy.

"She was born in…"

Nancy slipped. She grabbed for a handhold that wasn't there. A spray of goop arched into the air as she hit the tank.

Wanda-Jean hugged herself with delight. She was caught in a blaze of lights. The booth was slowly lowered until it rested on the rim of the tank of mud. Bobby Priest, with due ceremony, and carrying a small hand mike, came across the floor to help her out. He was followed by his own blaze of glory.

He stretched out a hand. Their glories merged. He turned to the camera.

"And it's Wanda-Jean who makes it to the Dreamroad!"

Emoting with everything that she had, Wanda-Jean grabbed Bobby Priest and kissed him. "I can't believe it! I just can't believe it."

Priest fended her off with a practiced jesture that looked affectionate but actually stopped her from taking over the two shot. The credits started to roll, and the crowd howl swamped everything. Wanda-Jean suddenly looked puzzled. There seemed to be an undertow of boos beneath the general zoo hooting. What had she done? Bobby Priest lowered his mike and whispered in her ear without the slightest slip in his perfect professional smile.

"Don't worry about those morons, honey. You won, didn't you?"

Her confusion was suddenly compounded by a strong, if unfocused, sense of foreboding.

"I'M HARDLY GETTING ANYTHING, Connie. Perhaps you ought to try a little harder.''

Connie Starr raised her head. "For your information, I've been coming so hard I'm starting to feel dizzy."

"Not so I've been able to notice."

"Don't make me the scapegoat for your inadequacies."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It must be hard to be a dyke and frigid at the same time."

"You're quite replaceable, Connie."

"So replace me. Just try it."

"Tantrums aren't going to help."

"Perhaps a director who isn't dead from the neck down might."

"Shall we just calm down and try it again?"

Connie sighed and let her head fall back onto the pillow. She was lying on her back on a large translucent block of soft plastic that supported her weight but had sufficient elasticity to allow a high-quality electrostatic induction with the areas of her body that came in contact with it. It looked like a bed from some particularly perverse theme room in a love motel, or maybe a highly specialized gynecological operating table. In the business, the thing was known as the altar, which was a little more manageable than its official title, the Krupp Full Body Sense Receptor. Naked, Connie lay with her legs spread and one knee slightly raised. A mosaic of contact nerve pickups covered the upper half of her prone body, but they had been arranged in a way that gave her room for a good deal of movement. As Connie always said, "You can't keep still when you're coming." Two lightweight recording snakes ran to the permanently implanted receptors behind her ears. Nestled between her spread legs was a heavily customized Panasonic XC 400, the one with the multiform mushroom cushion head.

In the control room, behind the airtight double glazing, the technical crew watched the exchange in silence, avoiding looking directly at either of the two women. They ran checks and fine-tuned the settings on the big board; anything to avoid being embroiled in the confrontation. The crew had known from the outset that the match between performer Connie Starr and director Felicity Springer was a bad one. Felicity Springer simply wasn't good at orgasms. Action sequences, sure. Drugs and hallucinations were a piece of cake to Felicity. But either because of some built-in lack of sensitivity or an inability to truly connect, she had serious problems with getting down a memorable orgasm.

Felicity Springer sat in the rear of the control room in what was known as the director's throne. The throne was directly connected to the altar. In theory, everything that Connie felt, Felicity should have felt, too. Feeder lines ran to implants in her neck and also to suction contacts at her wrists and fitted in a band around her head. She was slim and boyish with rather masculine features and close-cropped blond hair. Corporation gossip had her running with a procession of pretty if airheaded starlets, none of whom seemed to last for more than a couple of weeks. Her girlfriends may have come and gone at an alarming rate, but where her work was concerned she was a painstaking perfectionist. Even her enemies admitted that she did appear to have infinite patience.

"Shall we go for another?" she suggested.

Connie, on the other hand, had no patience at all and was far from through bitching. "Do you realize that I've laid down the orgasms for ninety-three programs? Ninety-three fucking programs and no one else has ever complained."

Connie had been discovered during the early days of feelie experiments. She had been an unsuccessful stripper who had been coerced by an eager young researcher to try to get an orgasm on tape. She had taken to it like a duck to water. To everyone's amazement she seemed able to produce awesome, shuddering reactions almost to order with a minimum of help and encouragement. As the feelies went commercial, she rapidly became the uncrowned queen of computerized sex.

"I'm the best. You can't sit there and tell me I'm not getting it on. I'm Connie fucking Starr. I always get it on. Ask anyone. That's why I get forty thousand per, plus residuals."

"That's why I haven't thrown you off the set and brought in a replacement. That's why I'm putting up with all your shit."

"You wait until I see Renfield. You'll find out what shit is."

"All I've got to do is play him the tape. So far you've come up with nothing. Nada, zilch."

"That's a lie."

"All you have to do is play back the tape. You'll feel it for yourself. We're supposed to be doing Catherine the Great. The stuff you've been giving me could be dubbed into Rebecca of Sunny brook Farm."

Ahmed, the chief engineer on this session of orgasm inserts, made the mistake of trying to act as mediator. "Maybe this just isn't happening. Perhaps the basic chemistry isn't there. We could just use an orgasm out of stock. I doubt anyone would notice if we juiced the sample enough."

He immediately became the object of both women's scorn.

Connie's face twisted into a sneer. "There's nothing wrong with my chemistry."

Felicity shook her head. "I don't use stock material."

Connie reached for the remote to the XC 400. "What the hell, let's give it one more try. This time I'll take this thing off stun."

Felicity was immediately encouraging. "All we need is one good solid teeth rattler and we're out of here."

The control room was filled with the soft hum of the vibrator as it was picked up by the talkback mike. It went on for a full ten minutes before Felicity angrily shook her head.

"It just isn't happening."

Out on the altar, Connie cursed loudly. "Maybe it's a goddamned technical fault."

In the control room Ahmed shook his head. "Everything registers on line, Connie. In fact, I'm getting good levels on everything you're doing. In fact, the only problem…"

He glanced back at Felicity, leaving the sentence hanging. Ahmed seemed to have decided that he was in a no-win situation. He probably wouldn't work with Felicity Springer again anyway, so he might as well keep in with Connie. Connie wielded a good deal of power around the corridors of IE.

Connie raised herself on one elbow. "Hey, Felicity, maybe you oughta go with the levels and just admit that you ain't getting close to it."

Felicity's face seemed stretched by keeping her anger under control. "Listen, eventually I'm going to have to mix this thing, and I can't mix what I can't feel."

Connie laughed. "You never said a truer word, dearie."

"Don't call me dearie, goddamn it."

Connie stretched lazily on the altar. "I'll tell you what I'll do, honey. I'll give it one more shot, and if that doesn't work, we're all going to have to do some radical rethinking." She turned her attention to Ahmed. "You better be paying attention, handsome, because I'm only going to do this once." She again picked up the remote on the XC 400. "This time I'm really going to take this sucker off stun, so be ready for the maximum. Okay?"

Ahmed nodded. "Okay."

Again the soft whine of the vibrator came over the talkback speakers. Connie's eyes closed; her hips began to rotate with a circular motion. The vibrator sound was augmented by small gasps of pleasure. Her raised knee was slowly swinging from side to side.

"This is… one hell of a way to… make… a living. Hold on… I think… I think it's starting to happen. Yeah… I think… I'm… falling in love…"

Felicity didn't look impressed. "I don't… wait a minute."

Her eyes closed and her fists clenched.

"Wait… a… minute!"

She began to rock from side to side on her stool. Her thighs involuntarily rubbed themselves together.

"Oh, Jesus-yes!"

"Oh!"

"Oh, yeah! Yeah!"

"Don't stop! Please!"

Connie and Felicity became a two-voice counterpoint of groans and whimpers. Then, simultaneously, both women's backs arched. They both cried out. Felicity's voice was low and deep in her throat; Connie's was a high-pitched wail. Finally they both slumped.

There was a long silence. Felicity sat with her head drooping on her chest. Connie was sprawled out on the bed. Finally Connie opened her eyes. She regarded Felicity from under heavy, languid lids.

"How did you like them apples, darling?"