Bones had turned and was coming back to Renfield. He was looking at the company man as though examining a specimen for the first time and not really liking what he was seeing.
"Now this smooth person here, brothers and sisters, he goes by the name of Madison Renfield and is something called a senior vice president at CM, and he's come along here tonight I guess to try and convince us that all those white boys over at CM are real nice guys only working for the best public interest."
There were shouts from the crowd in the pit.
"We ain't convinced!"
"We ain't convinced, motherfucker!"
Dustin, like most other media watchers, had heard how Bones's audience was heavily seeded with paid performers who would start those responses on hidden cue.
Renfield was attempting to look calm and collected but only managed to come off as frightened. Bones was standing beside him, introducing him-or maybe demonstrating the specimen-to the crowd.
"Now, as we all know, CM is the corporation that has the monopoly on the production and distribution of the feelies, and as a result of this monopoly, they can charge exactly what they want for the service. Maybe the first thing we ought to ask Brother Renfield is how come the feelies are so expensive that they're out of the reach of eighty percent of the population."
In the conversation pit, Dustin hugged his knees and wondered about a feelie. In public, he and Mallory always scoffed at the idea of a feelie-"technology and bad taste conspiring to take escapism to a pathological level"-but secretly he wasn't so sure. There was something very appealing about the prospect of sinking into a tailormade dream and never waking up.
Renfield's eyes flicked from side to side as he cleared his throat and tried to be heard above the noise of the mob. "First of all, Bones, let's get one thing straight. The feelies, or as we prefer to call them, integrated entertainment media, IE for short, are actually not really all that expensive."
Bones Bolt glared at the company man. "Sure seem expensive to me."
"Well, they aren't cheap, but when you take into account the cost of plant and production and the expense of maintaining a human being in permanent or semipermanent sleep state, they also aren't that particularly expensive."
There was a sudden close-up of a sweating Hispanic face. "Sure look expensive from where I'm standing, Jack!"
There were shouts from nearby.
"Right!"
"Yeah, right."
"Dammit."
Renfield attempted to go on. "As far as the monopoly is concerned, that was by no means our idea. When the IE system was out of the testing stage we had to apply to the FCC for a special license to market the service. At that time, it was agreed that only one corporation should control the process until a full socioenvironmental study could be concluded."
This time the close-up heckler was a white kid with limp blond hair and long sideburns. "So you bought the government. What else is new?"
The kid was replaced by a Bones looking less than convinced. "That was five years ago, man. You telling me that they still doing this motherfucking study?"
"It will be some time until we can really assess the long-term effects."
"And what do you guys up at CM expect those results to be, if and when this mighty study finally gets completed?"
"I'm quite confident that they'll show that IE is responsible for a whole spectrum of social benefits on all levels."
Renfield permitted himself a small half smile. He was clearly very pleased with his answer. That was a mistake. It only made the crowd madder than they were already. The pit was bellowing and shaking its fists. Bones swung away from Renfield as though in disgust and pointed dramatically around the curve of the wall.
"Is that a fact, Brother Renfield? You are confident? Well, along here we have someone who may not be quite as confident as you are."
Mark Sturm was leaning nonchalantly on the guardrail. Mark Sturm was a regular guest on "The Bones Bolt Show." As far as Dustin was concerned, the man was nothing but a troublemaker. Sturm had started his career as a stand-up comic with a taste for abusing corporations, but after his mouthing off had become increasingly pointed, he had found that disgruntled executives were starting to drop him pieces of dirt to include in his act. From a mere comic, he was transformed into a man in the know, a man who could at least give an inspired guess as to where the bodies were buried. He was courted by news and talk shows. He developed a research staff and became a definite thorn in the side of the corporations. Many of his researchers were attractive young women-all volunteers-understandable, as Sturm was tall and handsome, a somewhat beak-nosed Errol Flynn with shoulder-length brown hair, every inch the debonair swashbuckler.
Mark Sturm nodded and smiled to Bones. "Hey, Bones, how you doing?"
The two of them slapped hands. The crowd's cheering for Sturm was only slightly less deafening than it had been for Bones himself. Sturm was nothing if not in solid for the underdog and underclass. Bones greeted him like a brother. "I was doing fine, Mark, until I started finding out about this feelie bullshit." He indicated Renfield. "This individual right here wants me to believe that if ever this government report on the feelies comes in, it's going to be roses. You agree with that?"
Sturm hesitated slightly before he answered. He looked almost sad, as though constantly perplexed by the depths of corporate perfidy.
"Well, Bones, the truth is that there never will be any report. It's like our friend in the pit said. They bought the government."
A medium shot of the pit going ape was followed by a close-up of Renfield starting to inflate.
"That's slander."
Sturm treated Renfield to a look of total contempt. "So sue me. You know damn well that nobody in CM gives a two-cent damn about the long-term effects of the feelies. What do you call the people that you've sold feelies to? Stiffs. Am I right? That's how you refer to your valued clients, isn't it?" He turned to the mob. Sturm was a master at reducing even complex problems down to bite-sized dramatic pieces. "There are two categories. Tempstiffs, the short-term contracts, and permastiffs, the ones who've gone in for life. Stiffs. Think about it."
He addressed the camera directly. "How can anything be of social benefit when it takes perfectly good minds and reduces them to dreaming zombies? That's worse than any kind of dope you can get on the street. All I can say is thank God it's the rich folks that are getting fucked up for a change."