Mick Farren - THE FEELIES

"You guys better get back out of the way."

"Yeah, sure."

Ralph wandered off. Sam followed him. The two crew-cut young men put on their gas masks and took a heavy-duty body bag out of another compartment in the golf cart. They went to work on the corpse. Their last move was to drag out an industrial aerosol and start spraying the whole area. Ralph and Sam came walking back as the scrubbed young men were removing their gas masks.

"You taken care of it, then?"

"Yeah. Everything's taken care of."

"I guess you'll be putting a new stiff in there soon?"

"Yeah, pretty soon."

Ralph pointed at the body bag. "You'll have to break the bad news to that one's next of kin, I expect."

The crewcut young men dumped the body bag in the back of the golf cart. They quickly climbed inside.

"Uh, yeah. That's right. We'll be breaking the bad news."

As they rolled away, Ralph went and picked up his bottle. He grinned after them. "Yeah. Damn right you will."

AS TRUMBLE WALKED UP TO THE GLASS doors, they slid open for him. Inside the carpet was thick, the lighting soft, and the air-conditioning comfortingly cool. The office was furnished in deep orange and rich browns. Gold gleamed in low-key satisfaction. Everything seemed designed to put Trumble at his ease. Whoever had planned it all had succeeded in the seemingly impossible task of combining the ambience of a bank with that of a massage parlor.

A receptionist approached him. She was wearing an orange dress, one of that summer's exotiques. It was long at the back but swept up in a long inverted V clear up to a pair of matching panties. The slit in the skirt was echoed by the deep V in the neckline that plunged between the girl's handsome breasts to end somewhere close to her waist.

Her smile was as fashionable and as synthetic as her outfit. Her teeth were frighteningly perfect.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Trumble couldn't take his eyes off her perfect teeth. He could feel himself starting to sweat.

"Uh, yes."

The girl waited. She regarded him with an immaculate blend of coolness and expectant interest. Combined Media only employed the best.

Trumble pulled himself together. "I'd like to reserve some feelie time."

The girl was gently remonstrative. "We prefer to talk about it as Integrated Entertainment."

Trumble tried to smile. "That's quite a mouthful."

"IE for short."

"Okay then, I'd like to book some IE time."

The girl's smile went into full gear. "That's what we're here for, sir.'' She motioned to a neat row of desks that ran down the far side of the office. "If you go and talk to Wendy at desk twenty-nine, I'm sure she can take care of everything for you."

Trumble thanked her and plowed his way across the expanse of carpet. The girl at desk twenty-nine was dressed identically to the receptionist. The flawless smile came from the same mold, as did the equally flawless hair and figure. On the desk in front of her was a small sign that read "Hi-I'm Wendy."

"Hi, Wendy."

"Won't you take a seat, Mr…"

"Trumble."

"Hi, Mr. Trumble. Please take a seat."

Trumble lowered himself into the offered chair.

Wendy's smile continued to radiate helpfulness. "What can I do for you, Mr. Trumble?"

"I'd like to book some fe-uh, IE time, if I may."

The girl nodded approvingly. "I'm sure I can work out something for you. How long a hook-up were you thinking of?"

"Uh… I thought I'd have forty-eight hours, a weekend, you know."

"I'm sure it'll be a weekend you won't forget. When did you want to make the hook-up?"

"The weekend after next. That's what I was thinking of."

"One moment, Mr. Trumble."

Wendy turned to a discreetly positioned computer console and entered a series of figures. After a short pause, the answer flashed up on a tiny screen recessed in the desktop.

"I think that'll be okay. How did you intend to pay, Mr. Trumble?"

Trumble fumbled for his wallet. "By card, the usual way.''

"Could I see your card for a moment, please?"

Trumble pulled out his credit card and passed it across the desk. The girl's smile dimmed a couple of points. She turned the card over in her fingers. The impeccable fingernails clicked softly on the plastic. She looked at Trumble more in sorrow than in anger.

"I see your rating is C-, Mr. Trumble."

Trumble knew he was sweating. "Yes, that's right."

"Well, Mr. Trumble, you must realize that the kind of weekend you're talking about isn't exactly… inexpensive."

Trumble cut in hastily. "Yes, yes. I've looked at the prices. I know all about them." He hesitated. "I've been saving up, you see. This weekend means a lot to me. I've been saving for a long time."

Wendy turned up her smile. "I see. I'll have to check on that before I can make your reservation."

Trumble nodded swiftly. "Yes, yes, that's all right. I don't mind."

Wendy dropped the card into the console. After another short wait, something flashed up on the screen. Trumble couldn't read it upside down, but Wendy's smile became even more radiant.

"You have been saving, haven't you, Mr. Trumble?"

Trumble blushed. "I've been looking forward to this weekend for quite a while."

"All we have to do now is pick the particular experience you have in mind."

Trumble began to redden again. "I… er."

"Would you like to look through our listings of possible options, Mr. Trumble?"

Wendy offered him a thick spiral-bound booklet with a plastic cover. Trumble could feel sweat running down from his armpits. He turned over pages at random. His thumbs and fingers felt twice their normal thickness. He glanced up. Wendy was watching him with a knowing, conspiratorial smile.

"I think we already know the experience we want, don't we, Mr. Trumble?"

Trumble's tongue was threatening to choke him. "I…"

"Come now, Mr. Trumble, you don't have to be embarrassed. You won't shock me. I won't laugh at you."

"I don't…"

"I'm here to help you, Mr. Trumble."

Trumble knew it was now or never. If he didn't do it now, he would change his mind and blow his savings on some experience he didn't even want. It all came blurting out in a stammering rush.

"I-I want to be the Marquis de Sade."

Without a word or the slightest flicker of expression, Wendy started tapping out yet another set of figures. Trumble sat frozen, amazed that he had actually done it. Wendy punched up his reservation. A receipt and a slip with date and time on it were printed out of the machine. Wendy took a multicolored folder from the desk and stapled them into it. She handed it to Trumble with a cool, even look.

"I'm sure it will be a very rewarding weekend, Mr. Trumble."

WANDA-JEAN BECAME CONSCIOUS. THE first thing she realized was that it was a mistake. She had a pain in her head that stretched all the way down the back of her neck. Her mouth was full of evil-tasting, contaminated cotton waste, and she felt sick to her stomach.

It was yet another morning after a night on the circuit of boom-boom bars along 3d Street.

With almost independent life, her left hand crawled across the sheet toward the far side of the bed. There was nobody there. The bastard had gone. Her memories of getting home the night before were hazy. She could just about remember that he had short-cropped, dark hair and broad shoulders. She suspected that she had disliked him from the start.

She knew they had come back to her flat, fallen into bed, and had sex. After that she must have passed out. Some time between her passing out and the morning, he must have gotten up, dressed, and crept away. He probably had a wife or a girlfriend stashed away somewhere.

Wanda-Jean's right hand groped at the table beside the bed. She shook a cigarette out of a nearly empty pack. She rolled over on her side and stuck it in her mouth. She paused for nearly half a minute and then lit it.