"Sure you will."

Wanda-Jean sagged into a chair. She looked a picture of misery.

"It's really nice of you to try and encourage me, Reuben, but this has got to be the end for me."

Wanda-Jean had seen Personality Fall Down enough times to convince herself that she didn't have a chance. It was a game where the contestants stood in glass booths. Under the booths was a tank of liquid mud. Rapid general knowledge questions were fired at you. If you didn't keep getting them right, the floor of the booth slowly opened and you dropped through into the mud.

Wanda-Jean could picture the scene all too vividly. The crowd would be baying and screaming as she dragged herself out of the mud and into oblivion. At least she'd be spared the Dreamroad, and the torture of knowing that the behind the scenes gossip was busily predicting her fall. She would have taken her fall already.

Reuben put his half-finished drink down on the floor. He began to get up. Wanda-Jean started in panic. Was even Reuben going to desert her?

"You haven't finished your drink yet."

Reuben looked unhappy. "I got to get back to work. I really only took time out to bring that letter up to you. I figured you'd want it straightaway."

"You sure you won't stay? At least finish your drink."

"I really got to go."

Wanda-Jean arranged herself in the chair so she would look as appealing as possible. "Don't go yet."

Reuben was almost at the door. He half turned. For a moment their eyes met. Then Reuben looked away. His voice was soft and regretful.

"I can't do what you want, Wanda-Jean."

Before Wanda-Jean could work out what he meant, he had let himself quietly out of the flat.

For a long time, Wanda-Jean sat staring at the door. Her depression had gone past rational thought and descended into a morose blankness. The phone rang again. Wanda-Jean absently picked it up. It was a reflex action.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, is that Wanda-Jean?"

The voice was gratingly enthusiastic and friendly. Wanda-Jean's was correspondingly dull and flat.

"This is she, who's that?"

"It's Charlie, honey. You remember, don't you?"

"No."

"Oh, come on now. Good old Charlie. Hell, we had one great night after…"

Wanda-Jean hung up and cried.

THERE HAD TO BE A WAY OUT. THERE just had to be.

The sound of boots rang from somewhere at the other end of the corridor. They were coming. Christopher Elwin III never knew when they were going to come. The schedules were constantly being altered, and the prisoners were kept permanently guessing. It was all part of the general policy of psychological disorientation. Christopher Elwin III's conditioned instinct was to do something, to sit bolt upright, to scan the cell for any little thing out of place, any blemish on the code of absolute spotlessness. Unfortunately, Christopher Elwin III wasn't able to do anything. Christopher Elwin could hardly move a muscle. He and the female prisoner lay pressed together, face to face on the hard, narrow bunk. Leather straps held them secured together at the wrists and ankles. Their collars were joined at the neck, and a wide leather belt was cinched tightly around both their waists. Her breasts were squeezed against his chest, her stomach and thighs were pressed against his, and the two of them were completely helpless. While Major Freda, the section commandant, had looked on with that cold, cruel smile of hers, Inga and Greta, the daytime guards on their tier, had bound them in that position before lights out, and they had been left that way all night. Close as he was to her, he didn't even know the woman's name. When she had been brought into the cell, they had only referred to her as Female Prisoner #27, just as he was always called Male Prisoner #19. The final orders had been simple.

"No talking."

"No sex."

There was no room for misunderstanding. The slightest attempt at either would result in the most severe of punishments. There was also no deceiving the guards. All through the sleepless, muscle-cramping night they had been relentlessly observed by the black lens of the cell's surveillance camera. A whispered word or the slightest movement would be instantly noticed as well as recorded on tape for later disciplinary review. One of the favorite tricks of the guards was to force prisoners to watch tapes of their transgressions while physical correction was being inflicted on them. Rumors circulated throughout the prison of edited versions of these tapes, along with tapes of the punishments and executions, being circulated on the black market for the amusement and titillation of the party matriarchs and ranking officers of the secret police.

The boots were coming nearer. The flesh of Christopher Elwin III actually started to crawl in anticipation of what might happen when the guards reached his cell. He guessed that Female Prisoner #27 was going through a similar spasm of scared anticipation. Risking the wrath of the video camera, she silently rolled her eyes. Then the boots stopped. An order was barked. It was Greta's voice.

"Open cell thirteen."

There was the grinding of metal on metal as the door to cell thirteen was cranked open. Male Prisoner #13 was in trouble. Inga and Greta must have spotted something amiss in his cell, or maybe something had shown up on the overnight videotapes. Male Prisoner #13 was uncommonly unlucky.

Greta's voice barked again. "You are a filthy, disgusting little worm, Number Thirteen. I don't think I can imagine a filthier, more disgusting little worm than you."

#13 muttered something that Christopher Elwin III couldn't quite make out. Greta responded with anger and outrage.

"Did I tell you to speak? Get down on your knees, right now!"

There were more mutterings, #13's tone abject and pleading.

Greta was not moved. "Shut your filthy mouth. You're only making it worse for yourself.''

Christopher Elwin III could all too easily imagine what #13 was going through. He had been through it himself more times than he would ever want to remember. He was all-too familiar with the experience of crouching on the floor of his cell, on eye level with the highly polished boots of the two guards, glancing furtively up at the two statuesque blondes standing over him with their long legs, tight black uniform shirts, starched white shirts, black ties, and triple star Arena Party armbands.

There was a sharp swish and the slap of leather hitting flesh. #13 whimpered. The majority of the female guards carried canes when they were on the cell block, Greta was something of an individualist within the narrow confines of the regime. She always had a wicked leather strap hanging from her wrist and was always ready to wield it with a strong-armed will if a prisoner displeased her. There was another swish and another slap. #13 whimpered again. The sequence was repeated a good twenty times.

"On your feet, worm. Stop groveling on the floor. Go and stand facing the corner. That's right, face to the wall. Now you will remain there until otherwise ordered."

The boots moved out of cell thirteen. The barred door ground closed behind them. They were coming on down the corridor. Female Prisoner #27 closed her eyes.

"Open cell nineteen."

The noise of the door sliding back seemed deafening. In moments of tension, sounds always seemed unusually loud. And then the two guards were in the cell looking down at them.

"This is a cozy little scene, isn't it? We trust you lovebirds both slept well."

Christopher Elwin III suppressed a shudder as the tip of Inga's cane lightly traced a pattern down his naked back. He dared not turn his head even slightly to look at his tormentors.

One of the women walked the length of the cell and back again. "This togetherness is all very well, but we can't have you lying around doing nothing all day. You're not here for a holiday."