handsome giant is no boy_. "The doctorviphoned me about you," he said sternly. He spoke to them further aboutthe seriousness of what they had done and told them their parents wereon the way down. Then he took them into an interior office furnishedlike a luxurious living room. "Please wait here," he said, "until yourpeople arrive. Magazines are there on the table and you may turn on thetelevision set." He closed the door.
"Want me to turn on the television set?" Jason asked.
"No, Ah don't much feel like it."
They settled themselves on the enormous couch and Robina looked at herbrother. "Jason, Ah'm real sorry. Ah went an' stirred up a hornet's nestof trouble for you again."
"Don't fret about it, Robee. They won't really do nothin' serious.They'll talk to Ma an' Pa an' Pa'll make like he's goin' to cuff usaroun' when we get back to the hotel an' instead he'll jus' look darkan' make us feel bad with his talk. It'll jus' be a lot of commotionlike a bee stuck in a tar bucket."
"Ah guess," Robina said. She cast a sheepish glance at her brother. "SayJason, how did the feelie end up?"
Jason was indignant. "Now listen, Robee, ain't you had enough? You heardthe doc say that last was like to kill you."
"Please, Jason, there's nothin' wrong with you jus' _tellin'_ me."
"It's almost as bad. You still get yourself all flittered up."
"That's because nobody can tell a story like you do, the way you act itout an' all."
"Ah don't act it out. Ah jus' tell it."
"Well _you_ might call it tellin' but everybody home says it's jus' likea feelie when you do it. An' don't pretend you don't know it, brotherJay, an' enjoy it too!"
* * * * *
Jason did not tell the ending of the feelie; he recreated it. He was themonster slurching across the floor toward her, step by scraping step andin spite of her fist on her mouth a tiny nervous scream escaped Robina.Jason wanted to stop then but she badgered him into continuing. Now hewas the hero, Gregg Mason, battling the unspeakable fiend and sheshivered uncontrollably as she watched them struggle to the death. In alast, desperate, superhuman effort, Gregg's hands clawed into themonster's body and ripped out the foul, quivering heart of it. Thecreature twisted to the ground and perished in its own slime. Gregg,torn and bleeding and with shock-frozen eyes, turned and staggered intothe arms of Robina.
"Oh, Gregg, Gregg," Robina cried in relief, the tears streaming down herface.
"It's okay, Joan," he said comforting her, "okay. It's all over now.C'mon now, Joan, get out from behind those tears so you can see how muchAh love you. Everything's all right."
"Oh, Gregg!" A weak smile broke through.
Gregg enfolded Joan in his arms and pressed his mouth against her eagerlips.
"What are you two _doing_?!!" a shocked voice exclaimed from the opendoor.
* * * * *
Gregg and Joan were blown away by the sound like spindrift before thewind. Jason and Robina slowly came apart to see Mr. Lemson and anotherman coming into the room.
"What is the matter with you both?" Mr. Lemson spoke again. "Aren't youin enough trouble now?"
"Let me handle this, Cy," the other man said stepping forward. "I'm BobHerschell," he said smiling and radiating friendliness at theyoungsters. "Would you please tell me exactly what you were doing beforewe came in here?"
"Weren't doin' nothin'," Jason said belligerently.
"Shades of the decadent South!" Lemson exclaimed. "Brother and sisterglued together and he calls it _nothin'_."
"Ah wasn't kissin' her like you think," Jason said hotly. "Ah wastellin' her a story."
"What kind of a story?" Herschell asked excitedly.
"Ah was tellin' her the end of the feelie we saw; Ah mean Ah saw. Shedidn't get to see it."
"You mean Terror From Mars?" Herschell asked.
"Ah guess that's it. Ah don't recollect the title for certain."
"Great!" Lemson said. "It often takes a week long conference to select afeelie title and this typical American youth can't remember the name ofthe feelie he lived less than a hour ago."
"How were you telling it?" Herschell asked.
"Ah jus' told it."
"He storytells fine," Robina said proudly. "He sorta acts it out withfeelin' an' really makes it seem like it's happenin' to you right thenand there."
Herschell turned to Lemson. "I'm sure he's the one, Cy. It fits. I'vegot the spark of an idea and if it works then U-Live-It will be right ontop of the feelie heap."
"We're already on top," Lemson said wearily. "U-Live-It is the biggestproducer of feelies and I think you're crazy, I think they're bothinsane and I will be if you don't tell me what this is all about. Youcome barging into my office--"
"Sorry, Cy, but this thing happened so fast. I'm in my office rightbelow you. I've got Myra Shane doing a reading, trying to convince herthe part is perfect for her. But she isn't coming through on thereceptor. Instead I'm getting the climax of Terror From Mars. Zack isreceptorman and it takes him less than no time to check through and okayour electronics. That means only one thing. Someone, somehow, isblotting us with another projection. I call around and no one is runninga projector and no one is reading. Your girl tells me you have a coupleof kids up there so I come up to see. And I'm sure that big rebel isthe one! He has to be!"
Lemson was alert with interest. "But he's not wearing a relay. How couldthe receptor pick up and record his perceptics?"
"He might have a surgical." Herschell inquired of Jason, "Did you everhave an operation for the insertion of an encephalic booster relay! youknow, a thought relay?"
"You mean them tiny transistor things that feelie actors have stuck intheir heads?"
"That's it."
"No, Ah never had nothin' like that," Jason said, baffled.
"That's impossible," Lemson said, "no one can project with enoughnatural power to imprint a receptor unless they've got a booster."
"Well it's not impossible anymore," Herschell said gleefully. "Look Cy,you squash this silly business about the permit. I want this fella tomake a receptor test as soon as possible. When his folks show up tellthem we might want to make a feelie star out of their son but don'tbuild it up or they'll be back with a regiment of lawyers andcontracts."
"Bob, you're going off the deep end with this deal. So what if he canproject _au naturel_? Can he act?"
"If you had been plugged into the receptor like I was a few minutes agoand felt him, you wouldn't even ask."
"What about that atrocious accent?"
"Look, Cy, I'll abide by the receptor test. If he can't act; out! Ifhe's as terrific as I think he is we'll put him in westerns and civilwar feelies until we can train the accent out of him. Cy, if he doesn'tturn out to be the greatest thing that hit the feelie business I'll eatmy contract."
* * * * *
Five months later Herschell came beaming into Lemson's office and tossedan open-folded newspaper at him. "Cy, did you read Lorancelli's reviewof Rowe's oatburner?"
"That's just great!" Lemson snapped. "We spend millions of advertisingand publicity dollars to convince people that we make _adult_ westernsand you, a production vice president, go around calling them_oatburners_."
"Okay, Cy, but read the review. He rated the feelie so so but he ravesabout Jason Rowe."
Lemson picked up the paper and had it immediately snatched out of hishands by an impatient Herschell who began reading snatches of it."Listen ... uh ... Jason Rowe is an intense young man whose magnificenttalent is wasted in the role of a young gunfighter in this blandwestern ... uh ... he projects a sense of immediacy and alivenessendless in its delicate ramifications of feeling. His characterizationis unmarred by even the slightest hint of extraneous awareness andunaccompanied by the usual continual subliminal blur which is the markof the receptorman's frantic deletion of the actor's sublevel,irrelevant thoughts. Either Mr. Rowe is fortunate to be blessed with amost superiorly skilled receptorman or he is gifted with an aweso
meability to submerge his total being in the role he plays. In this feelieit is as if Mr. Rowe, the actor, dies and imparts only his life force tothe character of the cocky youngster who comes fully alive
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