Finally, Hayes looked up. "What makes you so sure that someone in the corporation did this?"

"Who else would have the technology?"

"In theory, it could be done on the outside."

"But in practice, it'd be just about impossible."

Hayes slowly put down his martini glass. "We are going to have to look into this."

Vallenti sipped his Scotch. He could see that Hayes was thoroughly rattled. That was how he wanted him. "My people already are."

' 'We need to talk to security.''

Vallenti shook his head. "We don't talk to anybody. Not until we know who we can trust."

Hayes sighed and nodded. "Will you call me?"

"As soon as I hear anything more."

Hayes absently picked up the check. "This is a potentially very bad business."

Vallenti nodded. "Don't I know it."

THE SUPERSTAR WAS FAR FROM HAPPY. He slumped petulantly in the deep leather armchair and dug the pointed toe of his handmade Spanish boot into the thick, white pile of the wall-to-wall carpet. The double glazing of the hotel's penthouse suite presented an uninterrupted panorama of the city. Above the brown air layer the sun was warm and bright, and the sky was a perfect blue. A needle-thin rocket liner floated in the clear part of the sky. It was almost at eye level from where the superstar sat. Its wheels were down, its wings were out, and it was drifting in for a landing at Metro-4 airport, the one that handled the big sub-orbitals.

The superstar wasn't interested in the view, the sky, or the passing planes. He was being hassled by his manager in a one-on-one conference. He had already told his manager no way, four times. His manager wasn't inclined, though, to take no way for an answer.

"Listen, no way, Tom. I'm not going to do it."

"That's fucking dumb."

"Dumb or not, I don't like it."

"You're turning down ten million."

"It doesn't feel right."

"Don't you feel you're being a tiny bit irrational?"

"Sure I'm irrational. I'm a genius. If I was an accountant, I'd be logical, but I'm not and I ain't. Okay?"

"Jesus Christ, do you seriously expect me to go back to Combined Media and tell them that the deal's off?"

"You can tell them what you like. That's your problem."

The superstar hooked his leg over the arm of the chair and swiveled around so he was facing away from the manager. He stared out across the city. The rocket plane had gone, but otherwise it was exactly the same. While the superstar sulked, the manager marshaled himself for another attempt at persuasion. He loosened the collar of his fashionably casual lounging suit and ran his fingers through his long gray hair.

"Shall we try again?"

The superstar continued to pout. He was dressed in what amounted to a costly, spangled parody of the uniform worn by the gang kids from the welfare sections. They were, after all, the main solvent honking nucleus of his fans-the ones who consumed his tension tapes and fought their way into his live shows.

The manager's voice was comfortingly soft, more like that of an analyst than a businessman. "You want to discuss it?"

Still the superstar refused to acknowledge him. The manager's voice hardened. "Can you hear me?"

"No."

"You don't want to discuss it?"

"I can't hear you."

"Aren't we being a bit childish?"

The superstar jabbed a heavily ringed finger at the manager. "You might be being childish. I'm not."

' 'What I'm primarily trying to do is to make you very rich."

The superstar didn't say anything, although this time he didn't look away. The manager pressed home his slight advantage.

"You want to be very rich, don't you?"

"I am very rich."

"You could be a lot richer."

"Not this way."

"How long is it going to take to convince you?"

"It's going to fucking take forever. My mind's made up. I won't do it."

"Have I ever pushed you into a wrong direction?"

"Sure you have. What about the Multisong deal? What about that terrible fuckup in Tokyo? You want me to go on?"

"That's hardly fair."

"You railroaded me into both of them."

Even the manager's seemingly boundless patience was starting to fray. "Will you do something for me, as a favor?''

"What?"

"Could you just take the time to explain in a little detail what exactly you have against this offer? It is, after all, the biggest thing you've ever been offered. From where I sit, it looks like the dream of a lifetime."

"From where I sit, it looks like a nightmare."

"Why, for Christ's sake?"

"I don't like the whole idea."

"You'll be the first living entertainer ever to be recorded on a feelie program. People will actually be able to feel what it's like to be you while you're performing. I would have thought your ego would have jumped at the chance."

"Don't knock my ego. It pays for your plastic surgery."

"You're still avoiding the question."

The superstar's rings flashed as he again stabbed an angry index finger toward his manager. "Who the hell do you think you are? Where do you get off cross-examining me like this?"

The manager also began to lose his temper. "I'm your fucking manager who's just set up a deal worth ten million plus and is sitting here while his client throws it back in his face without even offering a half logical explanation. Will that do?"

The superstar sneered. "Worried about your piece of the ten mil?"

"If you like, sure. I don't handle your affairs because I like it."

"You could always quit."

"I might as well do that if you keep on turning down money the way you are at the moment."

For the first time the superstar looked worried. His expression became placating. "Okay, okay, it doesn't have to go this far. There's no need for us to fall out."

"So, do I get an answer? I have to tell Combined Media something."

The superstar looked uncomfortable. He ran his fingers through his cropped hair. "Hell, I don't know. I can't put it into words. I ain't sure that I want people to know how I feel when I'm doing a show. It could destroy the mystery. Jesus, Tom, for all I know it could finish me. I don't think it's worth the risk."

"There's millions in it."

"It's too much like selling a piece of my soul."

"That's what primitive tribes used to think about being photographed."

"Maybe they were right."

"I've never noticed you avoiding being photographed."

"A feelie's something different."

The manager stood up and walked over to the window. Another rocket was coming in to Metro-4. At the other side of the sky a regular jet was on approach to LAX.

"You know what you're paying for your superstition?"

The superstar fiddled with one of his earrings. He tried to be placating. "Listen, forget superstition and all that stuff. Let's look at it another way."

The manager turned away from the window. "Okay." He went back to his chair, sat down, and looked receptive. "So tell me."

The superstar sat up straight in his chair. He avoided looking directly at the manager.

"We've always agreed that when I'm doing a live show, nothing should get in the way. It's me and the audience and nothing that'll sidetrack it, right?"

"That's right. I've always kept TV crews in check, turned down advertising tie-ins. It's been done exactly as you wanted it."

The superstar smiled triumphantly. "Okay then. How the hell can I do a live show if I'm hooked up to a bank of feelie recorders? If that ain't getting between me and the audience, I don't know what is."

"They have given me assurances…"

"Assurances? Tom, will you tell me what the hell assurances is supposed to mean?"

"The recording and monitoring equipment wouldn't impede your doing the show."

The superstar looked sideways at the manager. "You want to know something, Tom?"