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Gabriel gritted his teeth.
They re buying it. We talk money tomorrow.
For an instant, nothing happened. No change in Gabriel s facing-the-firing-squad expression. Then his
jaw dropped open and his eyes popped.
What? he squawked. They bought it? He leaped out of view of the phone s fixed camera, then
reappeared some ten meters further away. He jumped up and down. They bought it! They bought it!
Haw They bought it! Those birdbrains bought it!
The sultry brunette, another girl whom Morgan vaguely remembered as Gabriel s typist and a third
woman rushed into the room. Gabriel was still bounding all over the place, crowing with delight.
With the smile of a man who s put in a hard but successful day s work, Morgan clicked off the phone
and started on his way home.
4: THE PRODUCER
Sheldon Fad lay awake, staring at the ceiling as the sun rose over the Santa Monica Hills. Gloria snored
lightly beside him, a growing mountain of flesh.
The baby was due in another month or so and Gloria had been no fun at all since she had found herself
pregnant. No fun at all. Zero. Sheldon wondered, at quiet times like this, if it was really his baby that she
was carrying.
After all, she got pregnant suspiciously fast after moving in with him.
He frowned to himself. It all seemed so macho at first.
An actress and dancer, lithe and exciting, Gloria had attached herself to Sheldon s arm when she could
have gone with any guy in Los Angeles. They were all after her. He had ignored the stories about the vast
numbers who had succeeded in their quest. That was all finished, she had told him tearfully, the night she
moved in. All she wanted was him.
Yeah, Sheldon told himself. Just me. And a roof over her head. And not having to go to work. And a
two-pound box of chocolates every day. And her underwear dripping in the bathtub every time he tried
to take a shower. And her makeup littered all over the bathroom, the bedroom, even in the refrigerator.
A bolt, as the song says, of fear went through him as he realized that in a month probably
less there d be an infant sharing this one-bedroom apartment with them.
What did Shakespeare say about infants? Mewling and puking. Yeah. And dirty diapers. A crib in the
corner next to the bed; Gloria had already mentioned that.
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Shit! Sheldon knew he had to get out of it. He turned his head on the pillow and gazed sternly at Gloria s
face, serene and deeply asleep. It s not my kid, he told himself savagely. It s not!
And what if it is? Another part of his mind asked. You didn t want it. She told you she was fixed. You
believe her? And her line about hemophilia, so she can t have an abortion? Even if it is your kid, you
didn t ask for this.
He sat up in bed, fuming to himself. Gloria didn t move a muscle, except to breathe. Her belly made a
giant mound in the bedsheet.
No sense trying to go back to sleep. He swung his legs out of the bed and got to his feet. Stretching, he
felt his vertebrae pop and heard himself grunt with the pain-pleasure that goes with it. He padded into the
bathroom.
Twenty minutes later he was booming down the Freeway, heading for the Titanic Tower, listening to the
early morning news:
. . . and smog levels will be at their usual moderate to heavy concentrations, depending on location, as
the morning traffic builds up. Today s smog scent will be jasmine....
It was still clear enough to see where you were driving.
The automatic Freeway guidance system hadn t turned on yet. Music came on the radio and began to
soothe Sheldon slightly. Then; he saw the Titanic Tower rising impressively from the Valley.
I ll ask Murray what to do, Sheldon said to himself.
Murray will know.
It was still hours before most of the work force would stream into the Tower. Sheldon nodded grimly to
the bored guards sitting at the surveillance station in the lobby.
They were surrounded by an insect s eye of fifty TV screens showing every conceivable entryway into
the building.
As Sheldon passed the guard, a solitary TV screen built into the wall alongside the main elevator bank
flashed the words:
GOOD MORNING MR. FAD. YOU RE IN QUITE EARLY.
Good morning, Murray, said Sheldon Fad. Then he punched the button for an elevator.
The Afulti-Unit .Reactive Reasoning and Analysis Yoke was rather more than just another business
computer. In an industry where insecurity is a major driving force and more money has been spent on
psychoanalyses than scripts, Murray was inevitable. One small segment of the huge computer s capacity
was devoted to mundane chores such as handling accounts and sorting out bills and paychecks.
Most of the giant computer complex was devoted to helping executives make business decisions. It was
inevitable that the feedback loops in the computer s basic programming the Reactive Reasoning
function would eventually come to be used as a surrogate psychotechnidan, advisor and father
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confessor by Titanic s haggard executives.
Sheldon Fad didn t think of Murray as a machine.
Murray was someone you could talk to, just like he talked to so many other people on the phone
without ever meeting them in the flesh. Murray was kindly, sympathetic, and damned smart. He had
helped Sheldon over more than one business-emotional crisis.
Well, there was one machine-like quality to Murray that Sheldon recognized. And appreciated. His
memory could be erased. And was, often. It made for a certain amount of repetition when you talked to
Murray, but that was better than running the risk of having someone else accidentally listen to your
conversations. Someone like Bernard Finger, who wasn t above such things, despite the privacy laws.
In all, talking to Murray was like talking to a wise and friendly old uncle. A forgetful uncle, because of
the erasures. But somehow that made Murray seem all the more human. He even adapted his speech
patterns to fit comfortably with the user s style of speaking.
At precisely 7:32 Sheldon plopped tiredly into his desk chair. He felt as if he d been working nonstop
for forty days and nights. He took a deep breath, held it for twenty heartbeats, then exhaled through his
mouth. He punched buttons on his desk-side console for orange juice and vitamin supplements. A small
wall panel slid open, a soft chime sounded and the cold cup and pills were waiting for him.
Sheldon swallowed and gulped, then touched the sequence of buttons on the keyboard that summoned
Murray.
good morning Sheldon, the desktop viewing screen flashed, chartreuse letters against a gray
background.
WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU THIS MORNING?
This conversation is strictly private, Sheldon said. He noticed that his voice was trembling a little.
OF COURSE. PLEASE GIVE ME THE CORRECT ERASURE CODE.
Nobody knows the troubles I ve seen, replied Sheldon. that s fine, Murray printed. now we can talk
dm
PRIVATE AND THE TAPE WILL BE ERASED BETTER THAN THEY DO IN WASHINGTON.
Sheldon couldn t help grinning. He had told Murray all about Washington politics long ago.
This is a personal problem, he began, but I guess it affects my work, as well. ...
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