Sam didn't answer. He looked glumly at the floor. Sam and Ralph sat side by side on the floor with their backs resting against the row of cases. They had given up all idea of even seeming to do any work. They just sat there, Sam with his Serenax and Ralph with his bottle.
"Why, Ralph?"
Ralph, who had also been staring at the floor, looked up with a jerk. "Why what?"
"Why are the game shows fixed?"
"How the hell should I know? Everything's fixed. It's the way the system works."
"They don't look fixed to me."
"What?"
"The game shows."
"What about the game shows?"
"They don't look fixed to me."
Ralph's lip curled. "What would you know about it?"
Sam looked offended. "I watch them. I watch them all the time. I watch them just the same as you do."
"It's how you watch them. That's what counts."
"You just watch them. There's only one way to watch a game show. You just watch. There ain't no difference between you and me."
"The difference is that you're dumb."
Sam's chubby fingers began to move slowly. It was the first sign of agitation.
"I don't like for you to call me dumb, Ralph."
"That's 'cause you're dumb."
Sam's fingers moved more quickly. He lowered his voice. "I don't like for you to call me dumb, Ralph."
"You want to know why you're dumb, huh? You want to know?"
Sam's baby face was starting to get flushed.
"I'm warning you, Ralph. You didn't ought to talk to me like that. Just 'cause you think you're smart don't give you no right to talk to me like that."
Sam's voice went up in pitch. His breathing got faster. "You're down here, just like me. You ain't got no call to look down on me and call me dumb and shit like that."
Ralph turned away. "Aah, take a pill."
Sam went bright red. "Ralph, I…"
Ralph realized he had gone too far. He remembered how big Sam was. He quickly became placating. "Listen, Sam, I was only kidding."
Sam raised his arm as though he was going to strike Ralph. Suddenly he changed his mind and began scratching his head with nervous intensity. There was another long silence. Ralph started hitting his bottle again.
"Are you sure, Ralph?"
Ralph patiently put down his bottle. "Sure about what, Sam?"
"Are you sure you were only kidding about me being dumb?"
Ralph sighed. "Sure I'm sure, Sam."
Again they lapsed into silence. Ralph found himself listening to the high-pitched hum that always filled the vault. Sometimes he thought he could hear voices buried in the sound. He knew he had to watch that kind of thing. Suddenly, Sam butted in on his private thoughts.
"Tell me how the game shows are fixed."
"Huh?"
"Will you tell me how the game shows are fixed, please, Ralph?"
"You really want to know?"
"Sure I do, Ralph. I like to hear you talk."
"Okay then, I'll tell you. Just don't interrupt. I don't want to hear you interrupting with no d-I don't want no questions. Okay?"
"Okay, Ralph."
"This is only a theory, right?"
"Right, Ralph."
"The way I figure it is that the game shows have got to be fixed. I mean, did you ever see an ordinary sort of joe on that kind of show? Huh? Did you ever?"
"I seen a few. Not many, but a few."
"That's where they're clever, see? They put a bum on, now and then, to fool you. Most of the time it's nice, good-looking, young people, young guys and young broads. Everyone's so busy looking at the broads' tits that they don't realize what's being done to them."
Ralph paused to take a drink. He was moving into the drunk and belligerent phase of the day.
"Take the Dreamroad bit. You never see bums like us get as far as the Dreamroad. They're always knocked out in the early rounds. It's only the good lookers who make it onto the Dreamroad."
"Maybe they're the smart ones, Ralph."
"I thought I said for you not to interrupt."
"I'm sorry, Ralph."
"You want to hear this?"
"Yeah, Ralph."
"So don't interrupt."
"I'm sorry, Ralph."
"Okay. Anyway, that's bullshit about them people getting on the Dreamroad because they're smart. That's bullshit, you hear?"
"I hear you, Ralph."
"They get on there because they fuck the producers and directors and casting directors and studio managers and all the other pussy-mouthed fuckers who sit around in NCC and ACC and Trans National. That's why."
Ralph was starting to get worked up.
"You ever noticed how, once they get on the Dreamroad, there's always a good guy and a bad guy? And the bad guy always looks like he's going to win right up until the last minute, and then the good guy wins in the nick of time and all the slobbos at home go to bed pleased. You noticed that, did you?"
"Lots of times it's a broad who wins, Ralph. You said it was always guys."
"I know that, stupid. Good guy's only a figure of speech. Jesus Christ."
"Don't call me stupid, Ralph."
Ralph took a deep breath. "Okay, okay, you're not stupid. But don't that sound like a fix to you? Like they ain't putting on a real show but one that'll keep the dumbbells watching? Huh?"
"I'm not sure, Ralph."
"What ain't you sure about?"
"I don't know, Ralph. All I know is that I'd sure like to win one of those shows." He nodded toward the never-ending rows of cabinets. "I'd sure rather be dreaming like a stiff than sitting here."
"At least sitting here is real. You see what happens. You really want to be hooked up to a lot of tubes and wires and all, being fed with garbage all day?"
"You wouldn't know about any of that, Ralph. You'd be getting laid and having adventures and all that sort of thing."
"Only inside your head."
"Isn't that where it counts, Ralph?"
Ralph finally lost patience.
"When are you going to get it through your head that you ain't never, ever, going to get inside one of these cabinets?''
Ralph banged his fist on the nearest cabinet. Sam suddenly beamed as though a wonderful idea had just struck him.
"I could always win a game show."
Ralph practically screamed at him. "I've been telling you for the last fucking hour, the game shows are fixed! Got it? Fixed!"
Sam thoughtfully shook his head. "I ain't sure about that, Ralph."
HELEN MCDONALD HAD BEEN HOOKED to a feelie for so long that her own memories and personality never drifted to the surface. In the private, subjective world of her own mind she was Thongar the Planet Waster, the scourge of the galaxy. Helen McDonald had always wanted to be a man. That was the one thing that her wealthy family and expensive upbringing had been unable to change, until, that is, the feelies had come along.
"First on the block in a box," she had told her friends gaily as she had left for her lifelong appointment at the feelie office. She had been a hundred percent sure that she would rather spend the rest of her life as Thongar the Planet Waster than as Helen McDonald.
Thongar was no ordinary man. Physically he was a giant. He stood over seven feet tall in his black space armor. His IQ was well into the two hundreds and he commanded the three hundred crew of the starship Vixen with a will of iron.
Thongar was one of the last free privateers of the galaxy. Lesser men called him a pirate, but Thongar cared nothing for the opinions of lesser men. Thongar took what he wanted without hesitation or regret. It didn't matter if it was a woman, a treasure, or even an entire planet.
For years, the Federation starfleet had hunted him in vain. Only two days earlier Thongar had outthought, out-maneuvered, and outgunned the captain of the heavy cruiser Exeter. The Exeter now hung in deep space, a dead, silent hulk of fused metal. The Vixen moved, like a black-hulled, monstrous vulture, in a tight orbit on the night side of yet another unsuspecting planet that was marked by Thongar for rape and plunder.