THE FEELIES

"Yeah, alright, you made your point. Just tell me what's going on."

Ali rubbed the back of his neck. Now that he had Ralph's attention, he was getting in a few licks of his own.

"You must have had these new spot check calls, right?"

"Right."

"But you never wondered why?"

"I thought they were just screwing us around."

"It goes further than that."

"It does?"

"That's what these guys over in 6120 told me. I see them in the cafeteria."

Sam interrupted. "We don't never go to the cafeteria."

Ali sighed. "Maybe you should. You might find out a few things." He turned back to Ralph. "Anyway, these guys-"

"The guys from 6120?"

"Right, these guys told me that there's a full-scale, power-assisted panic going on upstairs."

"So what's causing all this?"

"The stiffs keep snuffing."

"Dying?"

"Dying."

"You're putting me on."

"True as I stand here. 6120 had four croak in the last month. By all accounts the same kind of thing's been happening in all the sections that got lifers."

Sam tugged at his ear. "Seems to me that lifers would be bound to die sooner or later. Nobody lives forever."

Ralph gri

Ali sniffed. "It seems that upstairs is thinking that there's too many of them going sooner, and not enough of them later.''

"You figure there's something wrong in the system?"

"It sounds like it."

For a brief instant Ralph had a vision of glory. He should do something about it. He could blow the whistle on all of it, the feelies, Combined Media, and the whole mess. He was confronted by an image of himself as the little man who brought down the giants, the fearless crusader who cut out the corporate rotte

For the duration of the heroic flash, Ralph had been standing straight and tall. As it faded, his shoulders slumped and he no longer cast a long shadow. He yawned and looked at Ali. "Yeah, well, that's really fascinating, but we're having this conversation on my time. I got to go."

Ali shrugged. "If you don't want to know what's going on, it's your funeral."

Ralph surveyed the rows upon rows of cabinets, each with its corpselike occupant. He grunted. "Yeah, funeral. I'll be seeing you."

"See you, Ralph."

Sam had already climbed aboard the golf cart and was sitting behind the wheel. Sam seemed to be avoiding looking directly at him.

"I think I better drive, Ralph."

"Do what the fuck you like."

Ralph slumped into the seat beside Sam.

"SO THE NUMBERS WOULD SEEM TO confirm what we've already been thinking about Wanda-Jean?"

"Couldn't be closer."

"So we start the program?"

"Absolutely. Build her for the fall."

There were four of them at the meeting. Dan Henderson, the producer of "Wildest Dreams"; Shala Groton, the contestant supervisor; and Paul Nitz, the chief contestant handler. Murray Dorfman served as gofer. The meeting was taking place in Henderson's cluttered office. The desk was littered with used napkins, coffee cups, and plastic containers. They had ordered in an early lunch from the Cuban restaurant down on Ford Street.

Henderson thought for a moment. "How many shows do you think we can run with this bad girl thing before it gets tired?"

Nitz shrugged. "That depends on the tabloids. If Bones Bolt gets his hooks into her, it could run and run. At the most modest estimate, I think we could let her go for four. People are really starting to dislike her."

Henderson nodded. "What are the samplings on this? I mean, let's get real, guys. Dislike don't signify diddley if it can't be built into real hate. What's the base beef?"

Dorfman cleared his throat. "According to last night's nationwides, she is thought of as an opportunist and untrustworthy. They also think that she has designs on Bobby himself, although everyone knows that Bobby's too smart to fall for a cheap slut like her. The analysis indicates that a good deal of the resistance is rooted in a simple visual quirk. There is something about the configuration of her eyes and nose that makes her look shifty on TV."

Henderson smiled sadly. "Ain't the viewing public wonderful?" He glanced at Nitz. "You think she can stand up to what we have in mind?"

Paul Nitz picked up a slice of fried plantain. "She's tough. I figure she'll go through anything to stay on the show. She's got a very bad self-image, however. The process could turn her into a basket case when it's all over."

Dorfman quickly nodded. His smirk was oily. "I can vouch for her bad self-image."

Henderson looked at him coldly. "I'm sure you can, Murray. I'm sure you can."

Henderson disliked Murray Dorfman. The fawning little weasel really deserved to be fired. Henderson had thought of firing Dorfman before, but somehow there always seemed to be something more important to do at any given time. He sipped his coffee. It was getting cold. He wanted this meeting over with.

"You don't think that she'll actually crack on the show? We can't have that. It makes us look like the bad guys."

Groton shook her head. "I really doubt it. She's kind of dogged. I was wondering if it might be an idea to let her in on the game."

Henderson shook his head. "No way. I really can't go with contestant collusion unless it's unavoidable. As far as Wanda-Jean is concerned, she's playing a straight-arrow game. Keep her wondering why the folks just don't seem to like her."

Nitz started gathering up the debris of his lunch. "Four shows and then review the situation?"

Henderson nodded. "It's a good start." He didn't even bother to look at Dorfman. "Murray, get on to PR and tell them to start leaking Bad Bad Wanda-Jean stories to the media, see if they'll bite."

Dorfman nodded eagerly. "Right away, Mr. Henderson."

"That's right, Murray. Right away."

MALLORY SLICED THE GRAPEFRUIT IN half. It was done with a frightening precision. Dustin sipped his coffee and wondered if she had been a surgeon in another life, or maybe an executioner. She placed the two halves side by side on the black Finwear plate and regarded them with a pursed-lipped expression of displeasure.

"I swear these things get smaller and smaller."

She reached for the box of Kellogg's Hi-Bran. Dustin thought that nothing would please Mallory on this particular morning. Three days had passed, and he was still being punished for his inattention following the Fedder's di

"It's probably the result of a marketing decision taken after months of consumer research," he offered.

"If I wanted a small, sour, yellow orange, I'd ask for one. I want my grapefruit the way they always were."

Mallory picked up the Times and turned to the op-ed page. She folded the newspaper with the same precision with which she had sliced the grapefruit. She read for a couple of minutes and then spoke without looking up.

"Here's something for you, Dustin. Wintek has done a piece on the feelies. He seems to think that we all ought to reconsider our positions and that maybe they aren't so bad after all."

Dustin sighed. "Wintek is a liberal asshole." He knew that Mallory had no interest whatsoever in the thoughts of Herman Wintek and didn't give a damn about the feelies. All that was happening was that he was being set up for another round of her insidious sarcasm. Mallory looked at him over the top of her rimless glasses, the kind that George Bush used to wear. The style had made something of a comeback over the last summer.