THE FEELIES

"Ralph?"

"What?"

"How do you know?"

"How do I know what?"

"How do you know that all they want is sex? You've never been in a feelie."

"I've seen the catalog, haven't I?"

"What catalog?"

"The catalog of all the different feelie experiences that they offer."

"I've never seen that."

"You know when you first sign on they give you a guided tour of one of the reception centers."

Sam looked glum. "They never took me on the tour."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. They just kind of left me behind."

"They left you behind?"

"Yeah."

Ralph hesitated. He seemed about to make some comment. He changed his mind. "Well, anyway. While they were going on about what a great thing the feelies were for humanity, I managed to get a good look at the catalog. That's when I first decided that it was all bullshit."

"I don't think it's bullshit."

Ralph's lip curled. "What do you know about it?"

"I know I'd like to get in a feelie."

"I'm telling you, it's all just sex and violence. It's about the lowest you can get."

Sam inspected his fingers. "Sometimes I think that we're the lowest you can get."

"What?"

"Nothing."

They lapsed into another sullen silence. Sam started playing with the zip on his overall. First he'd pull it down for about six inches, then he would pull it up again. He did it over and over. Ralph watched him. His irritation increased with each run of the zip.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"At least they're quiet."

"Huh?"

"At least they're quiet."

"Who are?"

"The stiffs."

"What the hell are you going on about now?"

"The stiffs, at least they're quiet."

"Of course they're quiet. They're always quiet. They're stiffs. They're quiet by definition."

"I didn't mean that."

"You didn't mean that?"

"No."

Ralph was visibly controlling himself. "So what the hell did you mean?"

"I guess I mean… I don't know. I think I've forgotten."

Sam went back to playing with his zip.

"Do you have to do that?"

"It passes the time."

"Like the stiffs, I suppose."

"What?"

"Passing the time."

"Oh… yeah."

"You're a great conversationalist."

"I am?"

"Jesus Christ!"

Ralph looked at his watch. There was another hour of the shift still to go. Ralph's bottle was empty, and he wanted another drink. It had to be the worst time of the shift. He got to his feet and paced up and down the row of cabinets. There was a dull ache in the back of his head. After four or five turns along the row, he stopped and stared down at Sam.

"I'm sick of this fucking job."

"It's a job."

"I'd be better off on welfare."

"You wouldn't like it on welfare."

"Why not?"

"I wouldn't like it on welfare. I like to have a job. It gives me some self-respect."

"Self-respect?"

"That's right."

"Listen, what the hell do you know about self-respect? ''

"I do the job I'm paid for. That's self-respect."

"You reckon?"

"Yeah."

"You sit around all day and gobble down tranquilizers. That's when you're not staring at the girl in the cabinet like some lovesick calf."

"I don't think that's fair."

"It's true enough."

"Maybe that's what I'm paid for."

"And that's what keeps your precious self-respect together?"

"I suppose so."

"You're weird, Sam."

"No."

"No, what?"

"I don't think I'm weird."

Ralph looked at him in amazement. "You don't?"

"I think I'm pretty average, really."

Ralph closed his eyes with an expression of pain. "Anything you say, Sam."

Ralph went back to pacing. Sam went back to playing with his zip. Ralph looked at his watch again. Fifty-five minutes to go. It had to be the most boring job on God's earth. They could at least give them something to do. If there was some real work to fill the time, he wouldn't have to drink so much, and he wouldn't have to get involved in these pointless conversations with Sam. For the hundredth time, he resolved to throw the whole thing in and take his chances on the street.

Ralph became aware that Sam had stopped fiddling with his overalls and was watching him intently. Ralph swung around and snapped at him. "What's the matter with you now?"

"Nothing."

"You look like you're about to come out with some portentous remark."

"What does portentous mean?"

"Forget it."

"You shouldn't use words like that if you ain't prepared to explain what they mean."

"I just work with you, right? I ain't no teacher."

"You don't have to be like that about it."

"I don't?"

"We might as well try and get along."

Ralph sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Okay."

"I was going to say something."

"You were?"

"Yeah."

Ralph waited, but Sam didn't go on. After about a minute, Ralph couldn't stand it any longer.

"So?"

"So what?"

"So what were you going to say?"

Sam looked dolefully at Ralph. "I don't think you'd be interested."

"You'll probably tell me anyway."

"I don't think I'll bother."

"Oh, Jesus. Get it out."

"I was watching TV last night."

"You watch TV?"

"Of course I watch TV. Everyone watches TV."

"And that's it?"

"I was watching TV last night. There was this show about telepathy.''

"You watch the egghead shows?"

"I watch all kinds of things. I like TV."

"So what about telepathy?"

"Well, it seems to me that if we could all read each other's minds we'd get really paranoid."

"We would?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's bad enough having to watch what you say. Just imagine if you had to watch everything you thought."

"I'm imagining."

"Well?"

"Well?"

"It wouldn't be very nice, would it? I think we'd all get very paranoid."

Ralph was a picture of disbelief. "What in God's name does that have to do with anything?"

Sam looked mildly surprised. "Nothing."

"Then why tell me about it?"

"I thought you might be interested."

Ralph clenched his fists. It was only their respective size and weight that stopped him from hitting Sam.

LOMBARDS, JUST ONE BLOCK FROM THE foot of the CM tower, charged top price for its drinks and catered to the executive trade and, as such, was much frequented by the upper ranks of Combined Media employees during the happy hour. It was a place to see and, on occasion, to be seen to see. It was the place where the crucial, postwork, public-display games, both social and corporate political, were played out for an audience who watched for who was with whom under the dim chandeliers and guessed at the rest with varying degrees of accuracy. Department coups had been started in Lombards, and, at the other end of the scale, so had a large number of office romances. The atmosphere of top-shelf booze and cigar smoke was the favorite medium for the sending of signals, the making of overtures, the conclusion of honeymoons, and the termination of alliances and relationships. If one wanted to make career points in CM, it was vital to drop into Lombards at least three or four times a month and show one's face. It was even expected of the militant nondrinkers that they come by for at least a Perrier and twist at regular intervals.

The power positions in Lombards were along the line of leather upholstered banquettes that ran from just inside the front door clear through to the back wall. Seated in the comfort of one of these, a person could observe the action at the bar and the regular tables without being watched or overheard. Pride of place in the entire prestige row was the banquette just to the left of center, slightly nearer the door than the rear wall. On this particular night, this number one booth was occupied by two men whose status and rights to the booth would never be questioned even by the most inexperienced waiter. Edouard Hayes was the Senior Vice President for Special Projects. The second man, Jack Vallenti, was the number two man in the Software Development Division. The fact that the two of them would place themselves even on discreet display like this indicated to anyone who read between the lines that something radical was brewing. Their respective departments, whose territory tended to overlap in the area of advance pla