by Mick Farren
A fast look around assured him that the place was, in fact, empty. The girl continued to fight him, beating on the breastplate of his armor with her free hand. He kicked the door shut behind him and threw the girl roughly into a corner. She leapt up and tried to run for the door. Thongar laughed and hurled her back again. She made a second attempt to get up, but then seemed to change her mind. She lay back on the floor and turned her face away from the black-clad giant. It was as though she realized that further resistance was useless.
With a grim, satisfied smile, Thongar broke the seals on his space armor.
"IE IS DREAMS MADE FLESH is fantasy made real is everything you ever wanted."
Barney Rooter liked the feelie commercials. He wasn't all that keen on the audio. He would rather turn off the TV sound and put on a solid tension tape. He did like the visuals, though, the soft, rounded, abstract shapes that weren't really anything but suggested everything. Even the colors seemed to offer all kinds of not-quite defined delights.
Barney Rooter wished the feelie commercials went on longer. He would really dig to lie back and just watch them, the latest tension tape pumping out while he snurfed on a can of Solvex until he was totally jammed up. That would be really neat.
One time, when his folks were away, some of his friends had come around. They had tried to get a visual like a feelie commercial by pulling the TV out of its wall mounting and messing around with the insides. They had honked up some of the old Solvex and it had been great, while it lasted. Trying to put the set back to normal at the same time as dealing with a Solvex comedown was beyond them. All they had managed to do was completely unsync the picture. When they had wanted to watch Wildest Dreams, all they had gotten were random shapes.
When his folks came home, his dad had really had his hide.
WANDA-JEAN HAD THOUGHT IT WAS GOIBG to be glamorous. In fact, it had felt more like being inducted into the military. She had called the number specified in the letter and been issued with a reference number and an appointment for four days later at nine-thirty in the morning. It was another day off work, and she was very well aware that she was coasting mightily close to being fired. Her supervisor, that old cow Hendrikson, had long ago stopped buying her one-day illnesses. It couldn't be helped, though. A chance to be on "Wildest Dreams" and maybe win a feelie contract for the rest of her life was more than worth the risk. She had been a little surprised that the phone at NCC had been answered by a computer that was programmed to only recognize her name and relay the next set of instructions. Its final words had been strictly for idiots.
"Do not forget or lose your reference number. Without that number, your contestant consideration will be automatically canceled."
Wanda-Jean's pride had suffered a further deflation when she had arrived for the first appointment. She had been shown to a large room on the ground floor of the NCC tower by a harassed PA whose curt manner verged on rudeness. To her dismay, she discovered that there were fifty or more people in the room. The invitation hadn't been to automatic fortune and fame but to a total cattle call. How many were they going to pick out of all those people? Five? Ten? It couldn't be more. She was tempted to walk away from what looked to be a mainly hopeless situation, but a certain resolve she had never suspected she possessed kept her going. She had already lost a day's work, so what the hell. Someone had to win.
For the next hour she filled out a lengthy questionnaire, which grilled her on a great many personal details that she felt were hardly anybody's business, let alone NCC's and the producers of "Wildest Dreams." With an inborn natural caution, she lied a good deal about her lifestyle, making herself appear much more the apple-pie American girl that she never was in reality. The questionnaire was followed by an equally long general knowledge quiz. As she worked her way through it she suspected that the questions had been rigged to provide a further personality profile, but she was hard enough pressed just coming up with answers to practice any kind of deceit or duplicity.
For the final stage the applicants were taken, one by one, into a side room and given a brief video test. After that they were told that if they were selected for the physical challenge test, they would be contacted by phone.
Then they were directed to the street, and that was it. The anticlimax was crushing. It was lunchtime and Wanda-Jean had nothing to do with the afternoon except to go home and watch the soaps. After five days, she had given up all hope. Either her personal profile didn't fit, or she had screwed up the test, or maybe she just looked plain bad on the video. With her luck, she had probably failed all three. It was only an illogical belief in long-shots that kept her from throwing away the slip of paper on which she had written her reference number. It was thus that it came as something of a major surprise to pick up the phone a full week later and hear a real-live human being announce herself as Garvey Asher, Associate Producer of "Wildest Dreams."
"Wanda-Jean, do you still have your reference number?"
"Yes, I do."
"I'm happy to tell you, Wanda-Jean, that you have been selected from your intake group to go forward to the next level of selection. Are you still interested in becoming a contestant?''
Strangely, Wanda-Jean's first thought was that it would mean missing another goddamn day of work. Hendrikson was hard on her back, and one more day would most likely be her final one. The panic lasted only a moment.
"Yes, of course, I really want to be a contestant more than anything in the world."
Garvey Asher informed her that she should report to the NCC studio complex in three days' time and be prepared to remain for the whole day. She should dress as if for the gym. The call was six in the morning. The studios were all the way out in Nettlewood, and Wanda-Jean realized that to get there so early she would have to take a cab. It would cost her a small fortune, and getting back, particularly if it was late, didn't bear thinking about. The cab, on top of the pink and black Actionskin and the new pair of Converse HiFlyers that she decided she had to go out and purchase for the tryout, was turning this into an expensive hobby.
When she arrived at the studios, bleary-eyed from having dragged herself out of bed at four A.M., just three hours after she had crawled into it, she discovered that once again it was a cattle call-although this time there were only about thirty hopefuls. Every one of them seemed in peak condition. They all looked like tennis pros, aerobic instructors, or dancers, and all were dressed in the very latest and sexiest workout wear. Wanda-Jean's heart sank.
First each would-be contestant was required to sign a lengthy release form by which they absolved the producers of "Wildest Dreams," NCC, and all of its affiliates from any liability resulting from death or injury during the course of the show or while testing for the show. On that cheerful note, they were divided into groups of seven and told to get changed. Wanda-Jean was so outraged that she almost spoke up about it. After all the money she had spent, she wasn't going to get to wear the Actionskin after all! The only consolation was that the other contestants were also being stripped of their chic workout wear. As each one of them entered the changing room, he or she was handed one of the skintight bodysuits that was the uniform of contestants on the actual show itself.
The costume was one more small moment of truth. Like the costumes on the real show these were made from the specially constructed and highly unstable material that dissolved when wet. There was a lot of water involved in "Wildest Dreams," and seminudity was a big part of the show. How she felt about being naked or almost naked on national TV was something that Wanda-Jean had not expected to have to confront so early in the proceedings. She knew that it would be expected of her if she actually got on the show, but she had postponed thinking about it, rather hoping that it would take care of itself. The costume was minimal enough to start with, a skimpy, skintight, one-piece bathing suit cut high on the hips. But at this point, there was only one choice: She simply went with the flow and changed along with the rest. Then when everyone was ready, they were led out in their groups of seven t
o the physical challenge set.
There was something threatening and inhuman about the "Wildest Dreams" physical challenge course. It was something she had never noticed all the times she had watched the show. On the TV screen it looked like fun. In reality, it was just plain threatening. The long, straight avenue, flanked by the high tiers of spectator seats, seemed deliberately planned to reduce the players who would race down it to the level of experimental animals in a vast sterile lab.
The tests were being conducted on an old set, one from three seasons before. Only a minimal number of the lighting effects were up, but even without the assault of garish color, the set looked formidable. Overhead, silent figures watched from the electricians' catwalks in the roof of the sound stage. Wanda-Jean suppressed a shudder. She wondered if the other contestants felt the same. They were all avoiding each other's eyes. Loudspeakers called them in turn.
"Will all contestants in group four move up to the starting gate?"
That was her. Wanda-Jean moved along with the other six in her group in the direction of the shining aluminum starting gates. She looked fixedly ahead toward the far end of the course.
"Will contestants all make sure that they go directly to the gate that corresponds with the number on your costume."
There was a number five between Wanda-Jean's breasts. She headed for gate five.
"This is the elimination part of the process. Of the seven of you, only two will be eligible to go on to the broadcast show. Good luck. Now move right up to the gates, please."
Wanda-Jean stepped into the small space that was her part of the starting gate. The row of horizontal metal bars in front of her reflected the multicolored studio lights. She could see tiny distorted images of herself in their polished surface. Again she had the feeling of being an animal. This time, she was in a cage, an exhibit in some incredibly expensive zoo.
"Twenty seconds to the Question."
At that moment, twenty seconds seemed like a lifetime. The floor manager who was calling the orders swung high overhead, perched on a mobile crane. Two more cranes carried the elevated cameras. More cameras were deployed on both sides and at the end of the course. Wanda-Jean felt the lenses staring at her like the collective, unwinking eyes of a hundred million people.
"Once the Question has been given, you have ten seconds to consider the alternative answers."
Wanda-Jean stared down the course. It seemed impossibly long. It never looked that long on television. For a moment she panicked. She'd never even make it to the end, let alone onto the correct answer spot. The chrome nozzles of the high-pressure hoses stared back at her.
"Once the gates are sprung you have twenty seconds to reach the correct answer spot. The hoses will come on when the leading contestant crosses the halfway line."
The first part of the course was easy. All you had to do was run like hell. When the hoses came on, then it got rough. You had to keep going straight into them. The hoses tracked from side to side in a random pattern. If you were clever, you could dodge the worst of the barrage of water. If you didn't, you'd be knocked off your feet.
"Ten seconds to the Question."
Wanda-Jean made an effort to get herself under control.
"Five seconds."
The bleachers on either side of the course were empty. If it had been a real show, they'd have been filled with screaming game fans. On auditions, they simply ran a recorded crowd track to simulate the audience.
Wanda-Jean knew this game was Dreamroad standard. She had seen it featured in the show more than once. She also knew it was a tough one. She smoothed down her suit. She might as well look good to start with. Once the water hit her, the synthetic material would start to dissolve.
"And now, boys and girls, here comes the Question!"
The voice had changed. It was the familiar cry of Bobby Priest, Mr. Wildest Dreams. Like the crowd track, on auditions he too was recorded.
"What is the current population of the planet Earth? Is it A-three billion, B-eight billion, or C-five billion? You now have ten seconds to consider the Question."
Wanda-Jean had another moment of panic. Which was the correct answer? Then it came to her. It was C. She was sure she had seen it on TV quite recently. She looked down to the far end of the course, at the three circular, illuminated podia on which the players had to stand to signify their answers. She had to make it to the right one within the twenty seconds to have even a chance of getting on the show.
"Five seconds."
The tension was unbearable. Wanda-Jean felt herself start to tremble. The only consolation was that in less than a minute she would know, one way or the other.
An alarm went off and lights flashed. The gate in front of Wanda-Jean snapped open with a metallic clang. The crowd recording came on. It was deafeningly loud, almost at the threshold of pain. Wanda-Jean tried to shut it out as she sprang from the starting gate. She was running as though her life depended on it. The other contestants were all around her. A well-built girl beside her ran straight across her path. Wanda-Jean was forced to slow down, otherwise the two of them would have gone down in a tangle of arms and legs.
There were four players in front of Wanda-Jean. That meant she was third from last. She'd never make it through to the actual show if she couldn't pull up. She forced her legs to pump still harder. The blood pounded in her head. It was accompanied by the almost unbearable crowd noise. Watching "Wildest Dreams" on TV, she'd never noticed how many of the crowd yelled really disgusting obscenities.
The muscular young man who was leading the field crossed the halfway line. The water came on. Almost immediately a jet hit him squarely in the midriff. He folded up, staggered, and fell. As he tried to get up, another jet sent him sprawling back down the course. His costume was already dissolving into rags.
Wanda-Jean had no time to worry about other people's troubles. She was now within range of the high-pressure nozzles. Two of them were sweeping her part of the course like crossfire. The girl in front of her jumped to avoid one of the two waterjets and slammed into Wanda-Jean.
"Cunt!"
The word came out like a gasp of quickly expelled breath. The girl jammed her elbow into Wanda-Jean's ribs and tried to trip her into the path of the other jet.
"Bitch."
Wanda-Jean swore almost as a reflex and twisted her fingers in the girl's bleached hair. More by luck than judgment, she pulled the girl off balance. She tottered backward for a couple of steps, straight into the full force of the jets. Wanda-Jean went on running, smiling as the other girl was spun, flat on her back with windmilling arms and legs, the wrong way down the now slippery course.
Wanda-Jean's jubilation was short-lived, however. A third jet swung toward her. She did her best to sidestep, but she wasn't quite fast enough. She didn't take the full force of it, but even the periphery of the stream was enough to spin her around and hurl her against the track. The impact of the water was like simultaneously being punched by a giant fist and stabbed by a thousand freezing needles. Most of the front of her suit had simply vanished at the first touch of wetness.
It was all too much. Wanda-Jean was defeated. Cold, wet, and half-naked, she saw no point in going on. She had blown her chance. The recorded voices of the nonexistent crowd beat on her head. She wanted to crouch by the wall and cry. Then suddenly everything changed.
There was a clear path all the way to the podia. All the jets seemed to be moving in directions that would not get her. Screwing up her very last reserves, Wanda-Jean sprinted for the finish.
Her surprise at finishing the course almost stopped her. For a split second her mind went blank. She couldn't remember the answer. Then it came to her. C, that was the one. She swerved and jumped onto the C podium.
The muscular young man plunged out of the spray of water. He climbed onto the podium marked B. As he straightened up, completely naked, a siren went off and a hundred lights flashed. The twenty seconds were up. It had seemed like a lifetime to Wanda-Jean.
A
hush fell over the recorded crowd as attendants helped the five contestants who hadn't made it off the course. There was just Wanda-Jean and the young man. The voice of Bobby Priest came back again.
"Okay, kids, just so you know you're getting a fair shake on "Wildest Dreams," you've got three seconds, I'll repeat that, three seconds to change your minds."
The crowd noise rose again. The amplified voices were baying either to move or to stay put. Wanda-Jean glanced at the young man. She decided that he was kind of cute. Neither of them moved. The crowd was cut off as the three-second siren sounded.
Bobby Priest's voice boomed out again.
"And now, what we've all been waiting for!"
A small, clear voice piped up inside Wanda-Jean's head. It said: Emote. You still won't make it if you don't look right.
"The answer to the Question!"
Wanda-Jean dutifully twisted her hands and looked as though she was suffering the worst agonies of suspense.
"The current population of the world is… wait for it… yes! Answer C! Five billion!"
Wanda-Jean emoted as fully as she could. She put all her remaining strength into leaping for joy as the lights went up around her. Afterward she was never clear whether she had been putting it on or doing it for real.
"ARE YOU COMING TO BED?"
Mallory was already wearing the black semi-transparent negligee from Beneath It All. Dus-tin was still dressed, hunched in the conversation pit with his arms wrapped around his knees. The only things he had discarded were the coat and tie that he had worn to dinner. He knew what she wanted, but, perversely, he didn't feel like playing the game. Dinner with the Fedders had been a tedious exercise in pretentious snobbery, and he wanted a little time to himself. Martin Fedder was a shallow little social climber, and wife Laramie was just plain stupid. Dustin was worn out from doing what was expected of him. He had tried to weasel out of the Fedders' invitation, but Mallory had insisted. For some reason she believed that Laramie Fedder might be of help to her in landing the Krebs account. Dustin couldn't see it himself. About the only thing that Laramie Fedder had ever landed was the unspeakable Martin, and she was welcome to him. Now that the evening chez Fedder had been endured, Mallory expected Dustin to retire to the bedroom and give her a half hour of his undivided and energetic attention.