The fall of the dream machine

and second floors."
    "Whose bodies?" he asked, innocent to the world.
    "Mr. Conan, first of all. Lives here, a minor exec. And two
unknowns. Very mysterious, wouldn't you say, Mr. Malone? The police
can't make tops nor bottoms of it."
    The elevator jerked to a halt.
    He handed the boy a five dollar bill, in keeping with Malone's
conceited, self-important manner. "And make the ride smoother next
time!" he snapped, stepping out onto Lisa's floor.
    Lisa's floor
. The sound of it pleased him.
Lisa
.
He was going to be seeing her once more, looking down into those sky
eyes and those apple lips. He wondered how he would react. Could he
stand detached as he could while fighting, watching and evaluating his
reactions to her, to what she said and did? He doubted it. He thought
he would act rather irrationally and immaturely. And he did not really
give a damn!
    He asked the grid for admittance.
    "Yes?" a voice asked overhead.
    "Jake Malone to see Miss Monvasa."
    There was a pause while the central computer checked his voice
against the recording it had of Malone's voice. Apparently approving,
it activated the door.
    And she was standing there. Hair like sunshine, lips like roses. All
the cliches and then some. He knew for certain and more than ever that
he loved her. It was not just the association with her on Show. It was
very definitely something more basic, warmer, something unexplainable.
"Come in, Mr. Malone," she said with her wind-in-the-willows voice.
    "I just want," he said, stepping through the doorway, "to pay my
regards, Miss Monvasa. I have just recently been moved into this tower
through a promotion. I have always admired your work, and this was my
first opportunity to tell you so."
    There was a distinct pattern of distaste on her face, features
contorted. It alarmed him until he realized she was showing contempt
for Jake Malone and what he had said, not for Mike Jorgova and what he
thought. But he could not voice his own thoughts, not here in a room
with electronic ears. Her rooms might be on instant snoop or delayed
snoop, with her words not heard for a week. But he had no way of
knowing which, and he assumed an instant snoop was in progress. One had
to live in the world of Show with the knowledge that every word might
be overheard. He had to get her into the hallway. But first, some small
talk.
    "I find it a shame," he said, "that you no longer hold one of the
leading roles."
    "I find it restful!" she snapped back.
    She was wearing red leotards and a red top: crimson lady. A cinnabar
duchess. Her hair flashed wildly in contrast.
    "Oh, I guess so. The day-to-day routine would get tiring."
    "To say the least." She picked up a drink, sipped it without
offering him one. In fact, she had yet to offer him a seat.
    God
, he thought. He had never seen her cutting, sarcastic
like this. She had always been rather meek when speaking with anyone
but himself. She was dissatisfied, and she let it be known. It made him
feel good. She would be willing to run.
    "Perhaps when one of the current Performers matures, you can be
brought back into the script."
    "I sincerely hope not."
    "But you'd be a major star again. You'd have a leading man."
    "I have a leading man at the moment," she said, looking to the black
dots of the microphones. "He is more than enough, thank you. He is more
than enough

Chapter Three

    The machines auto-parked his floater. He entered the studios through
the executive door with his stolen card credentials, walked down the
long corridor to the hub of the studios which was as the core of an
apple

Chapter Four

    Mike was perspiring. After the encounter with Cockley, he felt that
he had a right to sweat. He wiped it from his forehead, his chin and
neck. Slouching even further into the deep folds of his heavily-padded
swallow-all swivel chair, he shuddered. The computer was digging up
everything it could. If he could hand Cockley enough to keep him busy
for the next several hours, he would be safe. Just enough to keep them
guessing until midnight. Even if the last several tips were wild as all
hell, they would distract the investigators long enough for him to grab
Lisa and run for it.
    The computer beeped, and a card-tape popped out of the slot. He
immediately slipped it into the player, listened intently. Presidents
had been known for their restful retreats in the past; they had them
spread all over the country. Most of them were known today. That was
the problem. For instance, neither Cockley nor his