For several minutes Westerly leaned against the closed door, his mind spinning. It’s not me, he kept telling himself. She really said it and that’s the way it is with her. It means as much to her as filling out an application blank at the unemployment office.

Still his hands trembled. He wished for the pleasant euphoria that a pinch of coke would bring. Or even the blankness of cat, the synthetic hypnotic drug that he started taking when Virginia was still in chemotherapy.

The phone chimed.

For an instant, Westerly didn’t understand what the sound was. He had started the day in Rome, stopped in London and now—he remembered Earnest’s instructions on operating the three-dee phone. He went to the desk near the rolling dinner table and picked up the handset. The red button, he mused. Turning toward the strange, squat apparatus across the room, he thumbed the red button.

The far half of the room seemed to disappear, dissolving into a section of Bernard Finger’s Los Angeles office. The bright blue sky of early twilight was visible in the window behind Finger’s imposing high-backed chair.

“H... hello,” Westerly said shakily.

“Surprises you, eh?” Finger said back at him. “Just like being in the same room. That’s how good Oxnard’s new three-dee system is. It’s the system we’re using on ‘The Starcrossed’ and that’s what’s gonna make it a great show.”

“I’m glad we’ve got something going for us,” said Westerly.

“Huh? Whaddaya mean by that?” Finger said.

Westerly pulled up his chair. This wasn’t going to be a pleasant chat, he realized. “Well,” he said, “I’ve only been here a few hours, but this is the way it looks to me....”

He outlined what he had heard and seen, from his opening discussions with Earnest through his talk with Gabriel and the accident with Dulaq and its aftermath. He stopped short of telling about his dinner with Rita. Finger looked slightly upset at first, angry when he heard Gabriel’s name, then ultimately bored of the whole litany of problems.

“You finished?” he asked when Westerly stopped.

“That seems like enough for the first day.”

“H’mmp.” Finger got up from his desk and the camera tracked him. To Westerly, it looked as if half his sitting room was shifting around, the walls and furnishings moving, as Finger paced slowly toward a sofa that appeared in one corner and then centered itself in his view.

Finger sat on the sofa and touched a button that was set into its arm. On the wall behind him, a professional football game suddenly appeared on a flat, two-dimensional wall-sized TV screen.

“You see that?”

“Pro football. That’s our competition?”

Finger shook his head. “That’s our salvation, if everything works out right.”

“What do you mean?” asked Westerly.

Glancing furtively on either side of himself, Finger said, “This is a private, scrambled connection. If you try to tell anybody about this, I’ll deny it and sue you. I’ll make sure that you never work again anywhere!”

“What in hell...”

“Shut up and listen. Part of the money that the bankers put up for ‘The Starcrossed’ is now invested in the Honolulu Pineapples.”

“The what?”

“The football team! The Honolulu Pineapples! If they win the Superbowl, Titanic Productions is out of the red.”

Westerly’s mind was reeling again. For a moment he couldn’t remember if he had brought the pills with him or not. I was going to dump them in the Ganges, but I think I left them...

“I’ll give you the whole story,” Finger was saying, “because you’re the guy who’s got to come through for me.”

... in the zipper compartment of the flightbag.

“The bankers gave me enough money for one series. If it hits, Titanic gets more money to pull us out of debt. Got that? But we’re up to our assholes in bills right now, baby! Now! Not the end of next season, but now!”

None of this is real, Westerly told himself.

“So I’m using some of the bankers’ money to keep our heads above water, pay a few bills here and there. And the rest of it I’m betting on the Pineapples. As long as they keep winning, we can keep treading water. If they take the Superbowl, we’re home free.”

“What’s this got to do with ‘The Starcrossed’?” Westerly heard himself ask.

“Don’t you understand? The money for the show is already spent!” Finger’s voice was almost pleading. For what? Understanding? Mercy? Appreciation? “There isn’t any more money for ‘The Starcrossed.’ It’s spent. Bet on the Pineapples. The budget you’ve got is all you’re going to get. There’s not another nickel in the drawer.”

“There’s no money for writers?”

“No.”

“No money for better actors?”

“No.”

“No money for staff or technicians or art directors or...”

“No money for nothing!” Finger bellowed. “Not another penny. Just what’s on the budget now. Nothing more. You’ve got enough to do thirteen shows. That’s it. If the series isn’t a hit after the first couple weeks, it’s over.”

“I can’t work like that,” Westerly said. “I’ve got to have decent material, competent staff....”

“You work with what you’ve got. That’s it, baby!”

“No sir. Not me.”

“That’s all there is,” Finger insisted.

“I can’t work that way.”

“Yes you can.”

“I won’t!”

“You’ve got to!”

Westerly got to his feet. For an instant he was tempted to walk over and grab Finger by the throat and make him understand. Then he realized that the man was a safe five thousand kilometers away.

“I won’t do it,” he said quietly. “I quit.”

“You can’t quit.”

“Says who?”