"Now you listen to me," the doctor shouted. He saw Jason gather himself
as if for another leap but Robina placed a restraining hand on his arm
and his fists slowly uncurled. "If you loved your sister as much as you
pretend to you wouldn't have helped her try to kill herself!"
"What do you mean?" the boy said sullenly.
"You know damn well what I mean," the doctor said. "You _know_ your
sister is a Sensitive. She experiences things with ten times the impact
of an ordinary person and her empathy threshold is so high a death scene
in a feelie could kill her! And if you don't know what some of the words
mean," the doctor said, noticing Jason's slight puzzlement, "you do know
what your sister is and the care that has to be taken."
The guilt in Jason's abashed face agreed.
Fired by his anger, the doctor raged on. "Why the devil do you think we
have laws concerning attendance permits? What do you think all that
testing by doctors and psychologists before a permit is issued is for?
You, you big ox, could be killed by fright too if the intensity level of
the projector was set higher than your psycho-profile rating."
He saw his last words had lost the boy again. "In any case you know
better. Why did you allow your sister to endanger her life by letting
her illegally use another's permit? And of all things, a horror feelie!"
"Ah didn't want to take her," Jason complained, "but she jus' fussed an'
fretted at me 'till Ah gave in."
"Well you've both broken the law. Your parents will be notified and
you'll have to stay here until they come." The doctor buzzed and a guard
appeared. "Take these two to Mr. Lemson's office," he instructed him.
The guard led them from the floating steel and crystal theater structure
of the U-Live-It Corporation complex to the executive wing of the
general offices. He stayed with them until the receptionist at the
office suite of Vice President Cyrus W. Lemson ushered them inside.
After having them seat themselves, Mr. Lemson stared at Jason in his
tight, crimson, dress dungarees and rhinestone speckled, black shirt
which accentuated his lithe, muscled body. _Eighteen or not_, he thought
in mild astonishment, _that handsome giant is no boy_. "The doctor
viphoned me about you," he said sternly. He spoke to them further about
the seriousness of what they had done and told them their parents were
on the way down. Then he took them into an interior office furnished
like a luxurious living room. "Please wait here," he said, "until your
people arrive. Magazines are there on the table and you may turn on the
television 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 her
brother. "Jason, Ah'm real sorry. Ah went an' stirred up a hornet's nest
of 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 us
aroun' when we get back to the hotel an' instead he'll jus' look dark
an' make us feel bad with his talk. It'll jus' be a lot of commotion
like a bee stuck in a tar bucket."
"Ah guess," Robina said. She cast a sheepish glance at her brother. "Say
Jason, how did the feelie end up?"
Jason was indignant. "Now listen, Robee, ain't you had enough? You heard
the 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 it
out 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' like
a feelie when you do it. An' don't pretend you don't know it, brother
Jay, an' enjoy it too!"
* * * * *
Jason did not tell the ending of the feelie; he recreated it. He was the
monster slurching across the floor toward her, step by scraping step and
in 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 he
was the hero, Gregg Mason, battling the unspeakable fiend and she
shivered uncontrollably as she watched them struggle to the death. In a
last, desperate, superhuman effort, Gregg's hands clawed into the
monster's body and ripped out the foul, quivering heart of it. The
creature twisted to the ground and perished in its own slime. Gregg,
torn and bleeding and with shock-frozen eyes, turned and staggered into
the arms of Robina.
"Oh, Gregg, Gregg," Robina cried in relief, the tears streaming down her
face.
"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 much
Ah 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 eager
lips.
"What are you two _doing_?!!" a shocked voice exclaimed from the open
door.
* * * * *
Gregg and Joan were blown away by the sound like spindrift before the
wind. Jason and Robina slowly came apart to see Mr. Lemson and another
man coming into the room.
"What is the matter with you both?" Mr. Lemson spoke again. "Aren't you
in enough trouble now?"
"Let me handle this, Cy," the other man said stepping forward. "I'm Bob
Herschell," he said smiling and radiating friendliness at the
youngsters. "Would you please tell me exactly what you were doing before
we came in here?"
"Weren't doin' nothin'," Jason said belligerently.
"Shades of the decadent South!" Lemson exclaimed. "Brother and sister
glued together and he calls it _nothin'_."
"Ah wasn't kissin' her like you think," Jason said hotly. "Ah was
tellin' 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. She
didn'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 a
feelie title and this typical American youth can't remember the name of
the 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 with
feelin' an' really makes it seem like it's happenin' to you right then
and there."
Herschell turned to Lemson. "I'm sure he's the one, Cy. It fits. I've
got the spark of an idea and if it works then U-Live-It will be right on
top of the feelie heap."
"We're already on top," Lemson said wearily. "U-Live-It is the biggest
producer of feelies and I think you're crazy, I think they're both
insane and I will be if you don't tell me what this is all about. You
come barging into my office--"
"Sorry, Cy, but this thing happened so fast. I'm in my office right
below you. I've got Myra Shane doing a reading, trying to convince her
the part is perfect for her. But she isn't coming through on the
receptor. Instead I'm getting the climax of Terror From Mars. Zack is
receptorman and it takes him less than no time to check through and okay
our electronics. That means only one thing. Someone, somehow, is
blotting us with another projection. I call around and no one is running
a projector and no one is reading. Your girl tells me you have a couple
of kids up there so I come up to see. And I'm sure that big rebel is
the one! He has to be!"
Lemson was alert with interest. "But he's not wearing a relay. How could
the receptor pick up and record his perceptics?"
"He might have a surgical." Herschell inquired of Jason, "Did you ever
have an operation for the insertion of an encephalic booster relay! you
know, a thought relay?"
"You mean them tiny transistor things that feelie actors have stuck in
their heads?"
"That's it."
"No, Ah never had nothin' like that," Jason said, baffled.
"That's impossible," Lemson said, "no one can project with enough
natural 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 to
make a receptor test as soon as possible. When his folks show up tell
them we might want to make a feelie star out of their son but don't
build it up or they'll be back with a regiment of lawyers and
contracts."
"Bob, you're going off the deep end with this deal. So what if he can
project _au naturel_? Can he act?"
"If you had been plugged into the receptor like I was a few minutes ago
and 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! If
he's as terrific as I think he is we'll put him in westerns and civil
war feelies until we can train the accent out of him. Cy, if he doesn't
turn out to be the greatest thing that hit the feelie business I'll eat
my contract."
* * * * *
Five months later Herschell came beaming into Lemson's office and tossed
an open-folded newspaper at him. "Cy, did you read Lorancelli's review
of Rowe's oatburner?"
"That's just great!" Lemson snapped. "We spend millions of advertising
and publicity dollars to convince people that we make _adult_ westerns
and you, a production vice president, go around calling them
_oatburners_."
"Okay, Cy, but read the review. He rated the feelie so so but he raves
about Jason Rowe."
Lemson picked up the paper and had it immediately snatched out of his
hands by an impatient Herschell who began reading snatches of it.
"Listen ... uh ... Jason Rowe is an intense young man whose magnificent
talent is wasted in the role of a young gunfighter in this bland
western ... uh ... he projects a sense of immediacy and aliveness
endless in its delicate ramifications of feeling. His characterization
is unmarred by even the slightest hint of extraneous awareness and
unaccompanied by the usual continual subliminal blur which is the mark
of the receptorman's frantic deletion of the actor's sublevel,
irrelevant thoughts. Either Mr. Rowe is fortunate to be blessed with a
most superiorly skilled receptorman or he is gifted with an awesome
ability to submerge his total being in the role he plays. In this feelie
it is as if Mr. Rowe, the actor, dies and imparts only his life force to
the character of the cocky youngster who comes fully alive without the
slightest trace of the personality of Jason Rowe. In this debut
performance young Rowe achieves the hitherto unattainable goal of
completely displacing the feeliegoer's identity with that of the
character he portrays. We expect great things from him for a talent such
as his illumines the theater but once in a millennium. Thanks to Mr.
Jason Rowe, the U-Live-It Corporation can now completely guarantee the
promise of its name." Herschell dropped the newspaper on the desk. "How
do you like that, Cy?"
* * * * *
"I like it so well, I surrender," Lemson said with a pleased smile. "You
were right all along in pushing him so we'll put him in 'Land' as you
want and I'll at last have you off my back."
"Y'know, Cy, Lorancelli is wrong about the receptorman."
"He didn't exactly say--"
"Oh Zack is the best there is," Herschell interrupted, "but right after
we started recording the Rowe feelie he came in all shook up to see me.
Said the Rowe stuff was recording as if he was actually living the part.
There were no extraneous sublevels at all and that's just never happened
before. It's like Lorancelli says about Rowe dying and the character
coming to life. Zack swears that Rowe just disappears. There isn't a
speck of him that shows on the strip."
"Then Zack should be happy, not having to over-engineer the recording."
"Oh now, it isn't all breeze. There's highlighting and emphasizing
selected perceptics and such. You know Zack's the difference between the
artist and the photographer. Actually Zack's real difficulty is the
battle he has to keep from getting completely sucked in to Rowe's
portrayal while he's recording. Don't misunderstand. He's not
complaining. In fact when I suggested relieving him if the strain was
too much he said if he couldn't do Rowe's feelies I could relieve him
from the payroll. It's that much of a challenge for him. So much so,
he's designed a new receptor adaptor to prevent Rowe's potency from
overpowering him."
"Will there be any trouble in making 'Land'?"
"Yes," Herschell said bleakly as Lemson prepared to hear the worst, "we
need horses. In this atom age I'd like to know where I'm going to get a
couple of divisions of cavalry."
* * * * *
"Why you can't even see where they put it," Robina said, fingering
Jason's skull. "Oh, wait, Ah feel a little hard lump right here. Ah'm
right ain't Ah? That's the relay."
"No it ain't," Jason said laughing. "Got that fallin' off a horse
yesterday."
"But why do you have to have one at all? Ah thought you could project
without it."
"Well Ah can, but this makes it better. This picks up all the tiny waves
from mah brain that wouldn't otherwise get recorded. Like the difference
between super high-fi an' ordinary high-fi. It makes the feelie more
real."
"When are you goin' to be in somethin' else besides westerns? Ain't you
ever goin' to get to do some romancin'?"
"Now don't you go lookin' at the wrong end of the hog, Robee. They been
keepin' our bellies filled. Besides this one Ah'm doin' now ain't no
western."
"Then what's all them horses over there for?"
"Confederate cavalry, you melon head. What you think this uniform is
Ah'm wearin'? Fine southern daughter you are!"
"Oh, a civil war feelie! What's it called?"
"... uh ... A Stillness in the Land." Jason smiled, "An' it sure would
make Mr. Lemson happy to know Ah remembered the title. They say it was a
big best seller book. Goin' to cost ten million dollars. Ah play the
lead; Jed Carter, young southern fella. Lots of love an' battles an' the
best thing is Ah don't have to fret about mah accent." Jason took his
sister's arm. "C'mon now if you want to see the set. Ah'll be havin' to
go to work in a few minutes."
* * * * *
They passed by one of the receptors and Jason stopped. "Now here's the
machine that picks up an' records what Ah'm thinkin' an' feelin'. The
receptorman wears this gizmo on his head an' cuts in to what Ah'm
feelin' an' he fiddles them dials an' switches an' amplifies weak
signals an' cuts down overpowerin' ones an'--well, Ah don't want to
frazzle you with the technical details; he jus' controls the quality of
the recordin'. He cuts out stuff that don't belong like if Ah should be
kissin' the gal an' somewhere under those passionate thoughts Ah might
wonder when we're goin' to knock off for lunch. Here, slip this headset
on an' Ah'll get Zack to run it so you can feel how it works."
"Don't do anythin' strong," Robina advised.
"Don't worry. Jus' a peaceful bit."
Zack came over at Jason's call and ran the receptor while Jason went
through a few quiet lines with an extra.
"Why it's funny, somehow," Robina said after they removed the headset.
"It jus' didn't seem very good. Ah've felt you better without it,
Jason."
"You didn't get the full projection," Zack explained. "You see, Miss
Rowe, the receptorman has got to be alert. He can't just relax and enjoy
the scene and become the actor like a paying customer. He's got to work,
keeping the perceptics, the feelings coming through in balance. So
there's a circuit, a part of this machine that sort of shields enough of
the operator's mind and keeps it from getting lost in the story while it
runs the receptor and lets the other part live the scene."
"That sounds hard to do," Robina said.
"It takes training and special conditioning but the point is nobody
connected with the production of a feelie ever gets to feel it in all
its original depth as the feeliegoer does. Rushes are run at the lowest
intensity so that the producers and directors can comment and plan
changes as the strips are run. Even with projector intensity set high we
can't totally submerge in the character's identity because that
specially conditioned part of our minds won't submit."
"Well, you're still lucky," Robina said. "Ah'm a Sensitive and Ah'm not
allowed to go to anythin' but silly old musicals an' some comedies. Ah
can't even go to mah brother's feelies what with all the shootin' an'
everythin'."
* * * * *
"EVERYBODY TO THEIR PLACES. RECORDING STARTS IN FIVE MINUTES." The
announcement boomed throughout the vast set and a population of extras
began to animate the streets with purposeful activity.
"Robee, honey, you'll have to go."
"Oh, Jay, can't Ah watch. Ah won't fuss around."
"'Tain't that. Nobody who ain't in the feelie can be in sight of any of
the actors they're recordin'. Why if Ah was to walk down that street as
Jed Carter and suddenly see you standin' over here in them men's
pants--"
"These ain't men's pants!" Robina said indignantly. "These are ladies
slacks."
"Ah know that but Jed Carter don't. All he knows is even a hussy
wouldn't strut around like that. Tell you what. You go over there to
where it says, Mrs. Hepple's Quality Boarding Home an' you can peek out
the parlor window at the doin's. Ah guess they had noseybodies then too.
Now get!"
Jason turned and hurried down the street, not bothering to glance after
Robina. She had crossed the street and was passing a saloon when the
omnipresent voice commanded her, "GIRL IN THE GREEN SLACKS GET OUT OF
SIGHT." She became so flustered she dashed into the saloon doorway.
Jed Carter escorted the lady from Nashville down the plank sidewalk to
her carriage. He was furious at her casual gay chatter mocking his
churning desire for her. His glance caught a movement across the street
and suddenly he went rigid with surprise and soft shock. A girl had
come out of the saloon and the hussy was wearing men's trousers. His
shock increased when he heard the delicate lady from Nashville say, "Oh,
damn, who the hell is that?" and he was further startled to see an oddly
dressed man wearing some sort of metal apparatus on his head follow the
girl out of the saloon, gesticulating angrily at her.
"CUT!" the omnipresent voice commanded and now Jed Carter was utterly
confused. The man wearing the metal apparatus crossed over to him and
spoke. "Jason, please. You know the rules about visitors on the set. No
one allowed during recording. Zack says we'll have to ask your sister to
leave."
Jed Carter saw the townspeople just standing around staring in his
direction. "What's goin' on?" he said to the odd man. "What are you
talkin' about? Who are you?"
"Oh, oh," the man with the headset exclaimed, "here we go again." He
made a signal with his hand and another man came running up. The man led
Jason up the steps of the hotel and into the lobby with a promise to
explain everything. He sat Jason in a chair. "Jason, Jason Rowe, Jason
Rowe," the man's voice pulled at him. He kept repeating the name.