“I do,” she said, grimacing. “It’s really embarrassing.” She looked at the audience, grinning sheepishly. “Last year alone it was … about thirteen thousand dollars?”
The audience gasped, and Betty turned red. That’s great, thought Decker/Lyle, you can’t fake that. He heard a loud intake of air as the audience gasped and whispered among themselves.
Decker/Lyle put a consoling hand on Betty’s back. “Would you believe,” he said, “that that’s actually … the low end of the national average?”
“Really?” asked Betty. More whispers from the audience.
Decker/Lyle looked at the audience. “The average American woman spends between twelve and fifteen thousand dollars a year on health and beauty products. It’s a shock to see it all in one place like this, but this is completely typical. Fifteen thousand dollars a year, just so one woman can look like another. Now.” He held up the vial of ReBirth, then turned back to Betty. “Betty, you’ve used ReBirth; you’ve seen what it can do. Was it easy?”
“It was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Did it take up a lot of space?”
“It’s just a tiny vial,” she said, “it’s smaller than a tube of lip gloss.”
“Not bad compared to all that,” said Decker/Lyle, pointing at the pile on the stage. “Right?”
“Not bad at all.”
Decker/Lyle looked back at the audience. “One single vial of ReBirth can do everything that pile can do—can replace it altogether—saving you time, and space, and money. Betty, we gave you the ReBirth sample for free, but do you have any idea how much it costs for a retail consumer?”
“To replace all of that?” asked Betty. “Fifteen thousand dollars?” Decker/Lyle shook his head. “Ten thousand?” Decker/Lyle shook his head again, and Betty shrugged, flustered.
Decker/Lyle held up his hand, the fingers splayed. “Five thousand dollars,” he said. “Less than a third of what you might pay for all of this”—he gestured at the pile behind him—“for the easiest, simplest, most effective beauty product in the entire world.” He handed Betty the vial of ReBirth. “There you go, Betty, that’s all you need.” He smiled; this would be fun. “What are you going to do with the other ten thousand dollars you just saved?”
Betty’s eyes went wide. “I—” Her shock was genuine; this wasn’t part of the rehearsal. “Ten thousand dollars? I’m going to Paris! I’m going to the Caribbean!” She stood up straight and beamed with an indescribable joy. “I’m going to hit the classiest beach in the world and show this body off!”
For the umpteenth time that day, the audience erupted in frantic applause.
29
Tuesday, July 3
12:50 P.M.
Thirty-Fourth Street, outside of the Manhattan Center
164 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Amber Sykes smiled at the camera. “That’s the latest report, live from the launch of NewYew’s astonishing new product. Don’t forget to come down and see us in person, in just ten minutes, when NewYew will give away a bottle of ReBirth to one lucky person on this very street.” The massive crowd roared behind her, and she couldn’t resist a tiny wink at the camera. “This is Amber Sykes with New York One. Back to you, Alan!”
“And … we’re out,” said Sam, her producer. “We’re on air again in seventy-two seconds. This is nuts.”
The cameraman rolled his shoulder. “This is killing me.”
“You’re doing great, Monty,” said Amber. “Who’s the next interview?”
“Reverend Wade,” said Sam. “Same kooky religious dude from yesterday. The network wants a follow-up.”
“Being religious doesn’t make him kooky,” said Amber. “Be nice.”
“I don’t like him,” said Sam, but his face brightened as the reverend approached. “Welcome back, Reverend Wade! Right over here, please.”
Monty pushed through the crowd to find another good spot, right by the curb with a good mix of rally-goers and protesters behind them. Amber looked in her compact one more time, then snapped it shut and dropped it in her pocket. Sam counted down the last few seconds and pointed at Amber.
“Thank you, Alan, we’re back once again at the NewYew launch with a man we interviewed last night, the Reverend Joseph Wade. Tell me, Reverend, you told us last night that NewYew was abducting people and replacing them with lab-grown duplicates. Now that the truth is out, what do you think of today’s announcements?”
“I had the details a little wrong,” the reverend admitted, nodding, “but I was right about the most important thing: cloning is an abomination before God. It is a sin, and a mockery of His image. Mankind was created in His image, and it’s the height of arrogance for us to screw around with it like this.”
“I’m religious myself,” said Amber, “but let me ask you: if ‘God’s image’ is a wide enough category to include both you and me—different people, different races, and even different genders—then how does changing your look from one human face to another qualify as a mockery of that image?”
“It’s not about how we look,” the reverend said, “it’s about why we look that way. God gave you your body for a reason, and He gave me mine for a reason, and it’s not our place to turn up our noses at a gift from God.”
“So changing your appearance is wrong?” Amber asked. “I put on makeup just a minute ago—does that make me a sinner?”
“Of course not,” said the reverend, “but that’s entirely different—”
“What about plastic surgery?” asked Amber, pressing the attack. “Have you been protesting that, as well?”
“Would you use it?” asked the reverend suddenly.
Amber stopped, remembering just a second too late to close her mouth.
The reverend stared at her, probing. “You’re obviously a huge fan of the stuff, and we’ve got a sample coming out here in just a few minutes. I’m sure they’d give you a drop or two for an on-air demonstration. Will you use it?”
Amber pursed her lips, thinking. “My … face is my livelihood,” she said. “A reporter is a public figure; I need to look like me or I wouldn’t even have a job anymore.”
