“No big deal.”
“Naw. I gave them details on the video programs I’d been watching before the blowout, signed their form and they left.” Sidney mentoed channel forty-seven on the selector.
Sidney watched three-dimensional screens all around light up, giving viewers the illusion of being seated in a crowded auditorium. People chattered at nearby seats, and Sidney made out details of their conversations.
“Jimmy Earl is next,” a young man in the crowd said, “with the latest from Rok-More. Then the Mister Sugar Follies.”
“How exciting!” a woman in a fur coat said.
Spotlighted at center stage, a man in a white sequin Western outfit spoke excitedly into a handheld microphone. “The latest from Rok-More Records!” he said, waving an arm to his rear toward a mini-stage containing a spotlighted record cube display. “Donna Butler’s in the Happy Shopping Ground, folks, but her songs will never die! Supplies are limited, so order ‘Donna’s Greatest Hits’ now! As a bonus for those of you in our home video audience, I’ll throw in this delightful little ‘Heart of Gold’ pendant.” He held the pendant up, added in a voice grown suddenly tender, “Donna’s signature is on the back, folks. Won’t you pledge your undying love for Donna? Order now!”
The audience auto-clapped and cheered as a product number appeared on a sign above the record cube display. Sidney felt a chill in his spine from the patriotism of the moment, and mentoed the number into a Tele-Charge board that was connected to an arm of his chair. He signed the board with a transmitting pen, noting that Hodges was doing the same.
With glazed eyes, Sidney watched the Mister Sugar Follies now, a group of twelve men clad in blue-and-white soft drink cans. After an explanation by one that they were permitted to expend energy since it was Job-Supportive, the men danced stiffly in a row like tin dolls to a twangy tune. As they kicked their feet in near unison, Sidney noticed his throat gone dry. The subliminal receiver in his brain had been activated.
“You thirsty?” he asked, glancing at Hodges.
“And how!” came the reply. “Feel like I’m out in the desert!”
Sidney mentoed for drinks, and presently two frosty cans of Mr. Sugar popped out of a table compartment between their chairs.
As Sidney drank the icy cola, an unbearable itching sensation took over his body.
“Quickly!” Hodges said, feeling the same thing. “Mento for your Itcho-Spray! The commercial’s on!”
Sidney had barely noticed the Itcho-Spray Man on stage, and he quickly mentoed for the product.
“You DO have some on hand?” Hodges asked, near panic.
“Certainly. But I think . . . I’m going to have to scratch—”
“Don’t do it! You have to use the product! Hang tough, man! Hang tough!”
“Aaaagh!” Sidney grunted, fighting an overwhelming urge to claw his back, chest and legs.
A white ball of Itcho-Spray popped out of the table compartment and floated in the air above their heads. It exploded in a little “pop,” showering them with clear liquid droplets.
They sighed in unison as the itching crisis subsided!
“Relief is just an Itcho-Spray away!” the Itcho-Spray Man said.
The spotlight shifted to a smiling President Ogg now, who stood at a podium bearing the Great Seal of the President of the American Federation of Freeness. Sidney felt the videodome vibrate as the crowd auto-clapped and roared its approval.
“Employment and consumption are at record levels under my administration!” the President boomed. “A vote for me is a vote for prosperity!” He delivered a short speech concerning his past accomplishments and promises for the future, then short-stepped to one side of the podium and bowed. He blew kisses and waved as the curtain closed.
“Who you gonna vote for?” Hodges asked, leaning toward Sidney to be heard over the crowd noise.
“I don’t know,” Sidney replied. “Probably Ogg again. Ben Morgan may be all
“Naw. I gave them details on the video programs I’d been watching before the blowout, signed their form and they left.” Sidney mentoed channel forty-seven on the selector.
Sidney watched three-dimensional screens all around light up, giving viewers the illusion of being seated in a crowded auditorium. People chattered at nearby seats, and Sidney made out details of their conversations.
“Jimmy Earl is next,” a young man in the crowd said, “with the latest from Rok-More. Then the Mister Sugar Follies.”
“How exciting!” a woman in a fur coat said.
Spotlighted at center stage, a man in a white sequin Western outfit spoke excitedly into a handheld microphone. “The latest from Rok-More Records!” he said, waving an arm to his rear toward a mini-stage containing a spotlighted record cube display. “Donna Butler’s in the Happy Shopping Ground, folks, but her songs will never die! Supplies are limited, so order ‘Donna’s Greatest Hits’ now! As a bonus for those of you in our home video audience, I’ll throw in this delightful little ‘Heart of Gold’ pendant.” He held the pendant up, added in a voice grown suddenly tender, “Donna’s signature is on the back, folks. Won’t you pledge your undying love for Donna? Order now!”
The audience auto-clapped and cheered as a product number appeared on a sign above the record cube display. Sidney felt a chill in his spine from the patriotism of the moment, and mentoed the number into a Tele-Charge board that was connected to an arm of his chair. He signed the board with a transmitting pen, noting that Hodges was doing the same.
With glazed eyes, Sidney watched the Mister Sugar Follies now, a group of twelve men clad in blue-and-white soft drink cans. After an explanation by one that they were permitted to expend energy since it was Job-Supportive, the men danced stiffly in a row like tin dolls to a twangy tune. As they kicked their feet in near unison, Sidney noticed his throat gone dry. The subliminal receiver in his brain had been activated.
“You thirsty?” he asked, glancing at Hodges.
“And how!” came the reply. “Feel like I’m out in the desert!”
Sidney mentoed for drinks, and presently two frosty cans of Mr. Sugar popped out of a table compartment between their chairs.
As Sidney drank the icy cola, an unbearable itching sensation took over his body.
“Quickly!” Hodges said, feeling the same thing. “Mento for your Itcho-Spray! The commercial’s on!”
Sidney had barely noticed the Itcho-Spray Man on stage, and he quickly mentoed for the product.
“You DO have some on hand?” Hodges asked, near panic.
“Certainly. But I think . . . I’m going to have to scratch—”
“Don’t do it! You have to use the product! Hang tough, man! Hang tough!”
“Aaaagh!” Sidney grunted, fighting an overwhelming urge to claw his back, chest and legs.
A white ball of Itcho-Spray popped out of the table compartment and floated in the air above their heads. It exploded in a little “pop,” showering them with clear liquid droplets.
They sighed in unison as the itching crisis subsided!
“Relief is just an Itcho-Spray away!” the Itcho-Spray Man said.
The spotlight shifted to a smiling President Ogg now, who stood at a podium bearing the Great Seal of the President of the American Federation of Freeness. Sidney felt the videodome vibrate as the crowd auto-clapped and roared its approval.
“Employment and consumption are at record levels under my administration!” the President boomed. “A vote for me is a vote for prosperity!” He delivered a short speech concerning his past accomplishments and promises for the future, then short-stepped to one side of the podium and bowed. He blew kisses and waved as the curtain closed.
“Who you gonna vote for?” Hodges asked, leaning toward Sidney to be heard over the crowd noise.
“I don’t know,” Sidney replied. “Probably Ogg again. Ben Morgan may be all
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