The Mind Game

by Norman Spinrad

  “We have several interesting alternatives,” Gomez said. “The choice will have to be made on a higher policy level. You can consider that a compliment. ”

  “If you say so,” Weller said. What have I gotten myself into now? he wondered nervously. How have I outsmarted myself this time?

  Weller had been waiting for the Monitors to drop the other shoe for three days, so when a gofer told him that Sara English wanted to see him in her office, he leaped immediately to the nonspecific paranoid conclusion.

  It was a pretext, Karel would be there, and he would … what? As he made his way through the maze of plywood partitions toward Sara’s office, Weller tried to imagine what the Monitors were going to spring on him and came up totally dry. Rubber hoses? Sodium pentathol? He couldn’t even come up with a paranoid fantasy that would hold up as an image in his mind long enough to even focus his dread on a specific fear.

  And when he reached the office, Karel wasn’t there and neither was Sara—only Arlene Harris, Sara’s pudgy assistant, shuffling some papers on the untidy desk and hanging up the phone. I must be really going nuts, Weller thought. I’ve got to stop jumping at shadows.

  “Where’s Sara?” he asked. “I was told she wanted to see me.”

  “Oh yes,” Arlene said. “She said something about that. I think she’s on Shano’s set. Ill go get her; you wait here.”

  She left, and Weller found himself sitting alone on a folding chair beside the desk, idly scrutinizing the office. It wasn’t much—just the desk, the two chairs, a small Xerox machine, and some plywood filing cabinets. On the desk were a phone, some reels of video tape, an old styrofoam coffee cup, assorted scripts, clipboards, and piles of paper. Nervously Weller found his fingers sorting randomly through the papers on the desk.

  Then something on one of the documents he was fingering happened to catch his eye. There were three sheets of paper held together with a paper clip, and what had caught his eye was the word “CONFIDENTIAL” stamped in red on the top of the first sheet. Naturally he couldn’t resist picking it up and reading it.

  Below the red “CONFIDENTIAL” the words “MASTER CONTACT SHEET” were typed in black capital letters. The rest of the sheets were covered with company names, phone numbers, and the names of people, arranged in corresponding columns.

  There must have been a hundred or more entries. Weller recognized the names of some of the companies Changes Productions was doing commercials for; in fact it looked like they were all there. But there were scores of other companies listed too—two major studios, a very large bank, a supermarket chain, a local TV station, a chain of restaurants, a network office, two magazine publishers; dozens of really major companies, and dozens more entries that Weller didn’t recognize.

  It looked like a random listing of important and not-so-important businesses with no discernible pattern. Companies, phone numbers, and, apparently, a key contact at each.

  Contact? Wait a minute! Master contact sheet? Confidential? Good God, Weller thought, can this be what I think it is? It had to be! A master list of Transformationalist contacts at over a hundred companies! Hadn’t Sara or someone said that they had their people planted all over the place? Wasn’t that how Changes Productions was able to get so many assignments despite the lousy product they churned out? Sure, someone would have to have a list of the Transformationalists at the companies the movement didn’t control, and this had to be it… .

  But this… . This! This list was enormous! A network of over a hundred key people that the movement could call on in Los Angeles alone. Secret Transformationalist agents everywhere, throwing work to Changes Productions—and what else? What else?

  Was this just a compilation of the movement’s wishful thinking, or were all these people really under life directives to follow Transformationalist orders? Did Transformationalism really have this kind of power?

  A bubble of fear was beginning to form in Weller’s gut. This was Mafia-level stuff, this was really major, this— His heart skipped a beat as he heard footsteps approaching. Quickly he picked up a pile of scripts and slid the Master Contact Sheet under them. If they caught me looking at that thing… , he shuddered. That list was potential dynamite. If the information got out, all those people would lose their jobs, the movement would stand to lose millions, and there would be a major public scandal. He didn’t want to think about how far they would go to protect its confidentiality. It might just be all the way. He wished he had never seen the damned thing, he wished he didn’t even know about it… .

  Sara walked into the office, smiled at him warmly, and sat down behind the desk. “Congratulations,” she said, positively beaming.

  “Huh?”

  “Haven’t you been told yet?”

  “Told what?”

  “Starting next Monday, I’m allowed to let you direct.”

  “What?” Weller goggled at her, dumbfounded. After the last session with Gomez how the hell was that possible? No way I could’ve passed life analysis, he thought. What’s going on here? What number are they running now?

  “The word just came down from Owen Karel,” Sara said, looking at Weller peculiarly. “What’s the matter, Jack, aren’t you pleased? You look really strange.”

  “Uh … yeah, well, I’m really surprised. I mean no one’s told me that I’ve been passed by the Monitors, and in fact I don’t see how I could have been. …”

  Sara frowned. “Come to think of it, Karel didn’t mention anything about that. That’s weird. That’s really weird.”

  “It sure is,” Weller said. “I mean, just between you and me, I’ve been led to believe that my Monitor is having a lot of trouble making up his mind about me. He even told me he was going to consult at higher policy levels. Do you think … ?” Could this have been the doing of Harry Lazio? “Higher policy levels?” Sara said, eyeing Weller very narrowly. Was that fear in her eyes, or what? “That must mean Torrez,” she said, almost hissing the name. “Only Torrez himself could overrule the policy against letting someone who hasn’t passed life analysis direct.”

  She leaned forward across the desk, and now she looked not only confused but … turned on. “Look, Jack,” she said uncertainly, “maybe this is as good a time as any … I mean” … She paused, seemed to be gathering resolution. “I’m attracted to you,” she said. “I mean I’d really like to ball you. And now maybe there isn’t any life directive against it… do you know?”

  “What? WHAT?”

  Sara ran a point of pink tongue over her lips. “Does it really surprise you that much?” she said.

  “Yes … no. …” Weller felt a surge of heat in his loins, but at the same time there was a twinge of loathing in his gut. “What are you talking about, a life directive against it?”

  “I’ve passed life analysis and you haven’t,” Sara said matter-of-factly. “So, of course, I’m under life directive not to go to bed with you. But I’m not sure whether this changes things or not. Can’t you tell me?”

  “Can’t I tell you?” Weller said weakly. Pow! Bam! Zam! It was all coming so quickly. They’re letting me direct. Sara wants to ball me. There’s a fucking life directive against it! And she wants me to tell her what’s coming off?

  Sara looked at him with naked sexual hunger, but at the same time there was an edge of paranoia to it, a nervous look that gave Weller the feeling he had some kind of power over her. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how or why. “Look, Jack, I know I shouldn’t be asking this,” she said, “and I know you probably won’t answer, but… . Oh hell, are you or aren’t you?”

  Weller could not help coming out with the line. “Only my hairdresser knows for sure.”

  “You’re toying with me,” Sara pouted.

  “I’m toying with you? Jesus Christ, what are you talking about?”

  “All right, if you want to be that way about it… . They give me a real director, but they tell me I can’t use him to direct because he hasn’t passed life analysis. He turns me on, but I’m un
der life directives not to go to bed with him. Now they tell me you can direct, but they don’t tell me whether you’ve passed life analysis, so I don’t know whether we can get it on or not. They leave it deliberately vague. ”

  Sara sighed. “What am I supposed to think? You’ve already got me talking about things I shouldn’t be talking about. I’ve put myself in your hands. Can’t you tell me? Are you one or not?”

  Finally Weller realized what she was asking. Am I or am I not a Monitor? Good God! Part of him wanted to go on with the charade, part of him reveled in the sense of sinister power that her paranoia was giving him, and he understood all too well what kind of pleasure you got from really being a Monitor.

  His body told him that, yes, he wanted to go to bed with her, he had been without a woman too long, without sexual release or even desire, without the warmth of a body against his in the night. And beyond that, what she was saying now took courage, at least in her own head. It was a risk she was taking, and she was taking it for him. It was a moment of human honesty in an endless miasma of mind games.

  But yet another part of him was totally repelled by the thought of touching someone who would wait for permission from the Monitors before acting out her own feelings. He knew now that he would never ball Sara, not even with someone else’s dick. There was too much pity in the way, and too much contempt.

  “No,” he said, “I’m not a Monitor.”

  Sara studied him quietly for a long moment. Then she got up, bent over him, and then kissed him on the mouth, long, lingering, and tongue deep. Weller found his body responding like a man dying of thirst, but his heart was a solid block of ice, and his stomach writhed with disgust.

  They parted and looked at each other, eyeball to eyeball. “I believe you,” she said. “I’m going to ask Karel if it’s all right. … If that’s okay with you.”

  Weller was torn, and he felt trapped. He was homy as hell, and she was massively attractive. But the thought of bailing her now, after asking the permission of the Monitors, was totally loathsome to him. At the same time part of him wanted to grudge-fuck her brains out; he wanted to fuck her silly because they wouldn’t let him, because he wasn’t about to put up with that kind of shit. And beyond all that, there was the part he was supposed to be playing: that Jack Weller would ask permission like a good little boy.

  Weller could only nod foolishly. “Ask the bastards for their blessing,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What?”

  He sensed that the moment of honest reality had long since passed. There was a part to play, and he had to do it. “I said I’d ask Gomez too,” he said. “I’m seeing him tonight.” Boy, will I ask the son of a bitch!

  She smiled at him, and once again he felt a small flash of human contact, sad and forlorn. “Doesn’t this get to you, Sara?” he said. “Don’t you feel a little silly having to ask permission?” He started to rise from his chair. “What do you say we just do it right here right now across this desk and to hell with life directives?”

  Sara jumped back about two feet. “I’ve got to get back to the set now,” she said, making for the door. “Be patient, Jack, they know what they’re doing. …”

  Then she was gone, leaving him sitting limply on the chair, his body twanging with ultraviolet rage.

  Too fucking much! he thought, drumming his fingers nervously on the stack of scripts piled on the desk. What’s going on? Why are they going to let me direct? A bright flash of paranoid poison went through his mind—could Sara be part of it too? Could this whole number have been some test dreamed up by Gomez? The coincidence of the timing smelled awfully fishy. Could anything be mere coincidence around here?

  “Shit!” he snarled, picking up the stack of scripts and slamming them back down on the desk.

  Then his eyes fell on the Master Contact Sheet which he had accidentally uncovered.

  Oh really? he thought slowly. Oh really? He picked up the sheaf of papers, fingered them speculatively. He got up and peered out the doorway. No one in sight.

  Well, why the hell not? he thought. I’ve seen this damned thing. Whatever danger that puts me in, I’m in already. He went over to the Xerox machine, turned it on, then paused and thought again. This list was potential dynamite to the movement, it could be one hell of a weapon. What do I have to lose? he decided. If I don’t have to use it, no one will ever know. But if I do have to use it, then for a change I’ll have them by the balls!

  Quickly he copied the Master Contact Sheet, slipped the original back under the pile of scripts, folded the copies, and stuffed them into his pants pockets. They want to play Gestapo games, I’ll give them Gestapo games! he thought.

  Push me too far, you motherfuckers, and you’ll find out I can play the game like a Monitor too.

  Ten

  Gomez seemed to have recovered his impenetrable veneer of enigmatic toughness since their last session. He sat behind his desk steepling his fingers and smiling a tight, sardonic smile that set Weller’s teeth on edge. “Sit down, Weller,” he said coldly. “This won’t take long.”

  Weller perched on the edge of his chair, gladder than ever that he had a copy of the Master Contact Sheet locked in his house. If worse came to worse, this bastard was going to find out who held a high card in the hole!

  “I’ve discussed your case with Torrez, and we’ve charted a scenario,” Gomez said. “You’ve already been informed of part of it.”

  “I have?”

  “You think that the directive to let you begin directing could have come from anywhere short of Monitor headquarters?”

  “I see,” Weller said. But do I? Throwing goodies my way hardly seems to be what this business is about. Is Sara part of the deal too?

  Gomez leaned back in his chair. “We’ve decided that we’ve carried life analysis as far as it could go in your case,” he said. “And that turned out not to be far enough. So now we’re giving you a chance to show us where you’re really at. What you do as a director will be part of it.” He gave Weller a false grin that told him that the other side of the coin was going to be something nasty indeed.

  “I’m sure I can satisfy you as a director,” Weller said fatuously.

  “I’m sure you can too,” Gomez said. “If you could ream out a monkey show every week, I’m sure you can produce anything we tell you to to our satisfaction without having your head behind it. A hired gun is a hired gun. As far as I’m concerned, that will prove nothing.”

  Weller flushed with anger, or with a flash of something that he tried to convince himself was anger. It must have shown on his face, for Gomez gave a short, brittle laugh.

  “Well, we do have some insight into ourselves, don’t we?” he said. “Whether we can stomach it or not.”

  Weller said nothing, determined not to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction of an answer.

  “Well, down to business,” Gomez said coldly. “The purpose of this session is to issue two life directives. You’ve already gotten the first: you are directed to devote your full creative energies to to producing material for the movement, starting Monday.” He paused and flashed a feral grin. “You understand that the outcome of your life analysis now depends on how well and faithfully you fulfill your life directives. …”

  “I can handle it,” Weller said evenly.

  “Good, ” Gomez said slyly. “And I hope you can eptify your consciousness behind the second life directive too. Because also starting on Monday, you are hereby directed to report to the Transformation Center for a room assignment.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been placed under total Monitor life programming,” Gomez said, seeming to taste and relish every word. “You’re going to have an opportunity to live Transformationalism fulltime. During the day you’ll direct for Changes Productions. You’ll sleep in your room at the Transformation Center every night. There will be a midnight curfew. You’ll be assigned certain housekeeping tasks. And of course, you’ll be closely monitored at all times, and the spirit wi
th which you fulfill these life directives will determine the outcome of your life analysis.”

  “How often am I allowed to take a piss?” Weller snarled. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, he couldn’t believe they would go this far. And yet, wasn’t this precisely what had happened to Annie?

  “You can piss whenever you want to, Weller,” Gomez said. “You’ll even have commissary privileges, though eating at the Center is optional.”

  “You’re really serious about this?” Weller said. “You really expect me to—”

  “Quite the contrary,” Gomez snapped. “I really expect you to tell me to go fuck myself. Because I think you’re a phony, Weller. I think your so-called dedication to Transformationalism is a scam. This is your opportunity to prove it, one way or the other. Understand the situation. You’ve been given a life directive, not an order. You can choose to obey it or not.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Gomez shrugged. “If you don’t, you’ll be declared a regressive. You’ll be fired from your job. You’ll be permanently barred from all Transformation Centers. All members of Transformationalism will be under permanent life directive to ostracize you. There will be no second chance. ”

  “That’s all?” Weller said dubiously.

  Gomez laughed. “Oh, we might be able to think up a few more things,” he said, deliberately making it sound totally sinister.

  “What about sex?” Weller asked, probing for how far this really went, for whether or not Sara was involved.

  “Ah yes, Sara English,” Gomez said smugly. “A tasty piece of ass.”

  Weller’s jaw went slack. “You know that too?” he said softly.

  “It surprises you? Why? Sara requested a clarification from Owen Karel like a good little girl. And she told you she was going to do it, didn’t she? She’s a good Transformationalist; she accepts Monitor discipline.”