The Feelies

"THEY OUGHT TO BE HERE BY NOW."

"There's a few minutes to go yet." It was the very end of the shift. Ralph's speech was slurred. He made no attempt at even seeming sober. He sat propped up against a cabinet with his legs stretched out in front of him. Not only was he drunk, he was also querulous.

"If they don't turn up in the next couple of minutes, I'll just get up and fuck off."

"You shouldn't do that, Ralph."

"You just see if I don't."

"You know we ain't supposed to leave until the next shift comes on. It's against regulations."

Ralph sniffed. "So wait for them."

Sam blinked and looked unhappy. "I wouldn't like to stay here on my own."

Sam was in almost as bad a condition as Ralph. He too was slumped against a cabinet. His knees were drawn up so he was a fat, fetal ball. Ralph had occasionally noticed, when he was capable of noticing, that if he drank more, Sam swallowed more pills. When he was capable of wondering, which was less often than he was of noticing, even, he wondered if it was coincidence or cause and effect. Most of the time he didn't care anyway, particularly at the end of a shift. Each day seemed to drain off everything except hostility, hostility that he took out on Sam.

"There's always Artie. He's probably around somewhere to keep you company.''

"I don't think I'd really like to be left alone with Artie."

"You might be, and sooner than you think."

"What's that supposed to mean, Ralph?"

"You'll find out."

"You ain't talking about quitting again, are you, Ralph?"

"Maybe."

"You won't quit, Ralph, you won't ever quit."

"Don't be so sure."

"You won't quit."

"What makes you so smart?"

"I just know."

"Yeah?"

Sam didn't answer. When Ralph looked up, he saw Sam's eyes were shut. How could the bastard go to sleep a minute to leaving time? The silence between them was harder for Ralph to take than the conversation. He looked bitterly across the vault. He'd show them. He'd show all the bastards. Maybe he'd even quit tonight. He imagined himself strolling in the next day, suitably late, and telling the motherfuckers upstairs that he was through. He was so lost in his own fantasies that Sam startled him when he spoke.

"What about Artie, Ralph?"

"What about him?"

"We ought to do something about him. I ain't seen him in so long I even forget what he looks like."

Ralph scowled. "I remember what the perverted son of a bitch looks like."

"I wish he'd come back."

Before Ralph could answer he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Across on the far side of the vault something was moving. A golf cart was silently making its way along the rows of cabinets.

"About time, too."

Sam raised his head. "Not Artie?"

"Of course not. Bob, Dave, and Ali finally decided to come to work."

The golf cart came closer. It was a bit more beat up than the immaculate white ones used by the clean-cut young men from upstairs, the ones who wore the starched white suits. Riding on it were three men. They were dressed in the same drab tan overalls as Sam and Ralph. They also had the same dead complexions that came from spending too much of their lives in an underground vault.

The golf cart finally rolled to a halt beside Sam and Ralph. The men climbed off the cart with the stiff weariness of those who have dragged themselves out of bed before they were good and ready. They all stared wanly at Sam and Ralph, who had not yet bothered to get to their feet.

"Jesus Christ, will you look at this sorry pair?"

"You fuckers can go home now."

"If you got homes."

Ralph got up with difficulty. He lurched a couple of unsteady paces and yawned. "You took your fucking time."

Ali, the biggest of the three and the one who normally took control, squinted at Ralph. "You drunk again, you sick bastard?"

Ralph stuck out his chin. "What if I am?"

"Just don't take it out on us. It ain't none of our business."

"Damn right it ain't."

Sam, by now, was also up on his feet. He looked around blinking.

"I guess it's time to go."

Ali glanced at Sam and then turned back to Ralph. "Don't he ever change?"

"Never."

Ali shrugged. 'I'll call in, then you guys can go."

"Just hurry it up, will you?"

Ralph's drunken aggression was starting to get on Ali's nerves. His lip curled into a sneer. "You had a heavy day or something?''

"Just cut the crap, and make the call."

Ali put his hand on the wall phone and then stopped. He turned and faced Ralph. "One of these days I'm going to lose patience with your bullshit and just blow the whistle on your drinking."

Ralph took a step back and made vague fending-off motions with his arms. "Lighten up, will you?"

Ali turned to Bob and Dave in outraged amazement. "Did you hear that guy? He's telling me to lighten up."

Bob shrugged. "What do you expect from a lush?"

Ralph advanced drunkenly on Bob with clenched fists. "Who are you calling a lush?"

Sam, moving with incredible speed for one with his chemical balance, got between Ralph and the other three. He put a hand on Ralph's arm. "They don't mean nothing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Ralph turned and wandered away muttering to himself. Ali picked up the phone and waited. After a while someone at the other end appeared to answer. Ali straightened up.

"This is 5066. We're just changing shift."

There was a pause.

"5066! Why don't you listen?"

Another pause.

"We're changing over shift."

Pause.

"Right, Bob and Dave and Ali coming on and… That's right, this is me, Ali… Okay, and there's Sam and Ralph…"

Sam moved up beside Ali. "And Artie. Tell them 'Artie.' "

Ali's eyes rolled heavenward. "… and Artie are coming off. Okay?" He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "You still covering for that guy?"

"He's our buddy."

"Jesus Christ! What?" He took his hand away from the mouthpiece. "Say what? Yeah, sure, yeah. Sure everything's alright. Listen… No, you listen, just because you got trouble up there, don't take an attitude with me, boy. Okay! Okay!"

Ali banged the phone back into its cradle. Ralph looked interested for the first time in hours.

"Trouble?"

Ali raised an eyebrow. His eyebrows were particularly pronounced and bushy. They reminded Sam of a pair of furry caterpillars he had seen when he was a kid.

"You ain't heard?"

Ralph shook his head. "I ain't heard nothing."

"You had one die on you down here, didn't you?"

"Yeah, so what? It ain't no skin off my back. A stiff's got to die now and again. It stands to reason."

"The way I heard it, it ain't just now and again."

"Huh? We only had one die on us. What's all this about?"

"If you didn't drink so much, you might notice what's happening."

"Yeah, alright, you made your point. Just tell me what's going on."

Ali rubbed the back of his neck. Now that he had Ralph's attention, he was getting in a few licks of his own.

"You must have had these new spot check calls, right?"

"Right."

"But you never wondered why?"

"I thought they were just screwing us around."

"It goes further than that."

"It does?"

"That's what these guys over in 6120 told me. I see them in the cafeteria."

Sam interrupted. "We don't never go to the cafeteria."

Ali sighed. "Maybe you should. You might find out a few things." He turned back to Ralph. "Anyway, these guys-"

"The guys from 6120?"

"Right, these guys told me that there's a full-scale, power-assisted panic going on upstairs."

"So what's causing all this?"

"The stiffs keep snuffing."

"Dying?"

"Dying."

"You're putting me on."

"True as I stand here. 6120 had four croak in the last month. By all accounts the same kind of thing's been happening in all the sections that got lifers."

Sam tugged at his ear. "Seems to me that lifers would be bound to die sooner or later. Nobody lives forever."

Ralph grinned. "He seems to be right for once. We all got to go sometime."

Ali sniffed. "It seems that upstairs is thinking that there's too many of them going sooner, and not enough of them later.''

"You figure there's something wrong in the system?"

"It sounds like it."

For a brief instant Ralph had a vision of glory. He should do something about it. He could blow the whistle on all of it, the feelies, Combined Media, and the whole mess. He was confronted by an image of himself as the little man who brought down the giants, the fearless crusader who cut out the corporate rottenness and held it up for everyone to see. Then the bubble burst. If the corporation had a major problem, there'd be a major cosmetic job before anyone like him could do anything. So some stiffs died. Who would really give a damn, even if they got to hear about it at all?

For the duration of the heroic flash, Ralph had been standing straight and tall. As it faded, his shoulders slumped and he no longer cast a long shadow. He yawned and looked at Ali. "Yeah, well, that's really fascinating, but we're having this conversation on my time. I got to go."

Ali shrugged. "If you don't want to know what's going on, it's your funeral."

Ralph surveyed the rows upon rows of cabinets, each with its corpselike occupant. He grunted. "Yeah, funeral. I'll be seeing you."

"See you, Ralph."

Sam had already climbed aboard the golf cart and was sitting behind the wheel. Sam seemed to be avoiding looking directly at him.

"I think I better drive, Ralph."

"Do what the fuck you like."

Ralph slumped into the seat beside Sam.

"SO THE NUMBERS WOULD SEEM TO confirm what we've already been thinking about Wanda-Jean?"

"Couldn't be closer."

"So we start the program?"

"Absolutely. Build her for the fall."

There were four of them at the meeting. Dan Henderson, the producer of "Wildest Dreams"; Shala Groton, the contestant supervisor; and Paul Nitz, the chief contestant handler. Murray Dorfman served as gofer. The meeting was taking place in Henderson's cluttered office. The desk was littered with used napkins, coffee cups, and plastic containers. They had ordered in an early lunch from the Cuban restaurant down on Ford Street.

Henderson thought for a moment. "How many shows do you think we can run with this bad girl thing before it gets tired?"

Nitz shrugged. "That depends on the tabloids. If Bones Bolt gets his hooks into her, it could run and run. At the most modest estimate, I think we could let her go for four. People are really starting to dislike her."

Henderson nodded. "What are the samplings on this? I mean, let's get real, guys. Dislike don't signify diddley if it can't be built into real hate. What's the base beef?"

Dorfman cleared his throat. "According to last night's nationwides, she is thought of as an opportunist and untrustworthy. They also think that she has designs on Bobby himself, although everyone knows that Bobby's too smart to fall for a cheap slut like her. The analysis indicates that a good deal of the resistance is rooted in a simple visual quirk. There is something about the configuration of her eyes and nose that makes her look shifty on TV."

Henderson smiled sadly. "Ain't the viewing public wonderful?" He glanced at Nitz. "You think she can stand up to what we have in mind?"

Paul Nitz picked up a slice of fried plantain. "She's tough. I figure she'll go through anything to stay on the show. She's got a very bad self-image, however. The process could turn her into a basket case when it's all over."

Dorfman quickly nodded. His smirk was oily. "I can vouch for her bad self-image."

Henderson looked at him coldly. "I'm sure you can, Murray. I'm sure you can."

Henderson disliked Murray Dorfman. The fawning little weasel really deserved to be fired. Henderson had thought of firing Dorfman before, but somehow there always seemed to be something more important to do at any given time. He sipped his coffee. It was getting cold. He wanted this meeting over with.

"You don't think that she'll actually crack on the show? We can't have that. It makes us look like the bad guys."

Groton shook her head. "I really doubt it. She's kind of dogged. I was wondering if it might be an idea to let her in on the game."

Henderson shook his head. "No way. I really can't go with contestant collusion unless it's unavoidable. As far as Wanda-Jean is concerned, she's playing a straight-arrow game. Keep her wondering why the folks just don't seem to like her."

Nitz started gathering up the debris of his lunch. "Four shows and then review the situation?"

Henderson nodded. "It's a good start." He didn't even bother to look at Dorfman. "Murray, get on to PR and tell them to start leaking Bad Bad Wanda-Jean stories to the media, see if they'll bite."

Dorfman nodded eagerly. "Right away, Mr. Henderson."

"That's right, Murray. Right away."

MALLORY SLICED THE GRAPEFRUIT IN half. It was done with a frightening precision. Dustin sipped his coffee and wondered if she had been a surgeon in another life, or maybe an executioner. She placed the two halves side by side on the black Finwear plate and regarded them with a pursed-lipped expression of displeasure.

"I swear these things get smaller and smaller."

She reached for the box of Kellogg's Hi-Bran. Dustin thought that nothing would please Mallory on this particular morning. Three days had passed, and he was still being punished for his inattention following the Fedder's dinner party. How many days was he supposed to spend in hell for that transgression? On top of that, she had once again taken up the Cosmopolitan Deprivation Diet, and he was expected to starve right along with her. He repressed an urge to pick up one of the grapefruit halves and squash it into her face. Instead, he sipped his coffee and looked docile.

"It's probably the result of a marketing decision taken after months of consumer research," he offered.

"If I wanted a small, sour, yellow orange, I'd ask for one. I want my grapefruit the way they always were."

Mallory picked up the Times and turned to the op-ed page. She folded the newspaper with the same precision with which she had sliced the grapefruit. She read for a couple of minutes and then spoke without looking up.

"Here's something for you, Dustin. Wintek has done a piece on the feelies. He seems to think that we all ought to reconsider our positions and that maybe they aren't so bad after all."

Dustin sighed. "Wintek is a liberal asshole." He knew that Mallory had no interest whatsoever in the thoughts of Herman Wintek and didn't give a damn about the feelies. All that was happening was that he was being set up for another round of her insidious sarcasm. Mallory looked at him over the top of her rimless glasses, the kind that George Bush used to wear. The style had made something of a comeback over the last summer.

"I guess he doesn't have the intellectual scope of a thinker like Bones Bolt."

"Mallory, I-"

"Dustin, please don't make hangdog faces at me. I only mentioned Wintek's column because I thought it might appeal to your new-found obsession with the feelies."

"I don't have an obsession with the feelies."

"Don't pout at me, either."

"I'm not pouting, and I don't have an obsession with the feelies."

"You did the other night. You were certainly more interested in some dumb TV show about them than you were in me."

"How many times do I have to tell you that I was just tired and a little drunk?"

"You weren't too tired to be trying to cop a peer down the front of Laramie Fedder's dress all through dinner. What was it? Are you and Martin trying to organize a little matrimonial swapmeet? If you are, you can forget it. I have no interest in sleeping with Martin Fedder even to titillate you. God knows I do enough to go along with your little perversions, but there are limits."

This was an entirely new charge and also a complete fabrication. What in hell would he be doing looking down the front of Laramie Fedder's dress, for Christ's sake? Mallory was a hundred times better-looking. That was part of the trouble. She even looked good right now, with her loose, sleep-tousled, honey blond hair and practically transparent black lace peignoir offset by the aloof expression and the George Bush reading glasses. A part of him would have liked to have reared across the breakfast nook and had her right then and there among the Finwear dishes, the Gunden place settings, the too-small grapefruit, and the Hi-Bran, but there was no chance of that. She probably wouldn't let him near her for at least a week, and even then it would only be after a considerable period of begging. A lesser woman might have given in to her own needs long before the week was up, but not Mallory. She wasn't the kind to let mere lust come between her and total moral victory. Mallory had once confided in him during the aftermath of passion that when she was a little girl, her ambition had been to be Margaret Thatcher when she grew up. And what did she mean she went along with his little perversions? She had more than a few little quirks of her own.

"Mallory, this is starting to get ridiculous."

She ignored him, slowly lowering the paper and taking off her glasses. "I heard from Daphne Ziekle that Christopher Elwin, the idiot who's been running Elwin Systems into the ground since his father died, finally turned his holdings over to the control of his brother and took a life feelie contract."

"I keep telling you that I'm not interested in the feelies." In fact, Dustin was very interested in the feelies at that moment-anything that would spare him psychwar over breakfast. A life contact seemed very appealing. Maybe he should be Caligula or some Turkish sultan with a very large harem.

Once again, Mallory ignored him. She looked thoughtful. "Maybe Wintek's right. Of course, not for the reasons that he's putting forward. They're twentieth-century bleeding heart nonsense. It could be, however, that their real function is to take the inadequates out of circulation. It could be a way to return to the survival of the fittest without anyone actually getting hurt. When the news came out that Elwin had taken the contract the company's stock went up nine points. What I don't see is why they've made them so expensive. Sure, I can see the value in taking rich idiots off the streets, but why in hell don't they offer it to the underclass? Let the damned epsilons be rapists and junkies while safely locked up in a plastic coffin instead of roaming the streets unchecked and doing it for real."

"Maybe that's the eventual plan. Maybe CM is just creating a market pressure."

"Well, all I can say is that I wish they'd hurry up. It's not safe to go out, even around here."

Mallory's face actually contorted when she talked about the underclass as though the very thought of them put a bad taste in her mouth. Dustin realized that the woman he had married was a real Nazi at heart. He didn't know whether to feel proud or frightened.