THE FEELIES Read online

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 hig
hly 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."