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  But the most all-pervading amusements were the theatrical media: loops and plays. Plays, of course, were for the lowest classes, those who couldn’t afford to see reality in the loops, which commanded high prices. But for once the division wasn’t along somec lines. A majority of non-somec users were able to pay to see loops, and this one amusement brought them in contact with the lives of the somec society.

  Loops were made of practically everything. Notably beautiful women were paid astronomical fees for allowing their private lives to be looped. Audiences would sit for hours watching the unedited holo broadcast, enduring [or enjoying?] the endless trivia, all for the sake of the dramatic moment, the argument, the intercourse. Naturally, budding actresses and actors would pay dearly for the privilege of taking part in that “totally true” looped life, and these women were the top money-makers in the Empire, rising to somec levels unreachable except to the highest government officials.

  Next to the actresses in the lifeloops were the starship captains, pilots with such legendary names as Carter Poor, Jazz Worthing, and Ngaongao Bumubi. These pilots paid a small percentage of their earnings to the Service, and then allowed broadcasts of their victorious battles to be made throughout the Empire. They, too, received phenomenal wealth, and since they were already at the highest possible somec level, all their income could be-and usually was-invested in business. Some pilots ended up owning entire planets; others magnanimously sponsored universities; still others kept the uses of their money entirely secret.

  And others brought their own downfall by getting embroiled in government. Perhaps the most famous case was the phenomenally successful pilot and loopstar Jazz Worthing, whose manager, Willard “Hop” Noyock apparently involved him in the famous Shimon Rapth Coup.

  Excerpt from The Complete Public Pleasure Book, Onger and Haight, 6645, p.12.

  3

  HOP NOYOCK WOKE up feeling hot and flabby. Hot because the reviver always left him sweating. Flabby because somehow, over the last three hundred years, he had gotten a little out of shape.

  He rolled onto his side, and his stomach followed a moment later, hitting the metal of the bed with a disgusting slap. He belched.

  “How,” he asked the nurse who stood by with a sponge and a towel, “can I possibly belch after five years of sleep?”

  The nurse shrugged and began to wipe him down. The sponge was ice cold and the water trickled freezingly along his back. Hop was vaguely ashamed that the nurse had to lift his stomach out of the way to wipe down the sweating crease. (I have got to exercise. I have got to diet.) But he knew that he wouldn’t have time for exercise, that food would taste too good to worry about dieting, that in only five weeks he’d be eligible to return to the Sleeproom and go under for another five years or until his client came back (aye, there’s the rub).

  Hop got up and walked stiffly to the hooks where his new clothes hung waiting for him. As he took his first steps he felt a sharp pain, a stiff uncomfortableness in a region of his body that should not be causing him any pain. Could he possibly have developed hemorrhoids while under somec?

  “Excuse me,” he said to the nurse, who immediately turned away. Nurses had to be very deferential to the sleepers—but obsequiousness was a small price to pay for the privilege of somec, even at the nurses’ rather trivial rate of two years up for one year under.

  Hop Noyock reached behind himself and found the source of his discomfort. It was a small piece of paper, soaked in the sweat of his revival. On it was written, in Hop’s own handwriting, a short message:

  “Someone trying to kill Jazz. Must warn.”

  What in hell did that mean? He looked at the paper for some possible hidden clue. There was none. It was just the ordinary paper they kept by the sleepbeds to satisfy the paranoia of those who were convinced they would think of something absolutely vital between the time when their brains were taped and the time when the somec flowed into their veins, emptying all memories from their minds. Memory slips, they called the papers, and Hop had never used one before.

  Now he had used one (or is it my handwriting?) and not only that, he had gone to the bother of putting it in a rather effective, if undignified, hiding place.

  Apparently, when he had written it, he had thought it was vital.

  But if (if) there was a plot to kill Jazz Worthing (alias Meal Ticket) how in hell had he found out about it between the taping and the somec? It was strictly illegal for anyone but the nurses to come into the tape-and-tap; that was in the contract—it was imperial law, for heaven’s sake, forget the contract.

  And who would try to kill Jazz Worthing, the Empire’s most successful starship pilot, not to mention the star of the five bestselling loops in trade history (I made the boy a star, he’d be nothing without his agent); killing him would not only hurt the Empire’s war effort and tear down morale, it would also leave the fans disconsolate—

  And thinking of the war effort, what about it? Hop went to the history sheets that hung from the wall. He was proud of the fact that he had a five year summary, a reminder of his high somec rating.

  The news was basically good. The Empire was still intact, more or less, win a little, lose a little but the war is far from home.

  Then, practical as always, Hop checked the gossip sheets and spent an amusing five minutes as he dressed, reading over what happened while he was under. Of course, most of the people he had never met—their somec schedules never coincided and so he knew of their escapades only from the sheets—

  The flight schedules showed that Jazz was coming in only three days. Hop glanced up at the calendar on the wall (they never bother with clocks in the Sleeproom) and realized that he had been wakened almost three months early.

  Damn.

  Oh well, it could have been three years, that had happened before, and it was a small enough price to pay for his twenty percent of all of Jazz Worthing’s revenues. Without Jazz, Hop Noyock wouldn’t be on somec at all.

  Somebody trying to kill Jazz? Asinine.

  (If I find them, I’ll tear them apart, the bastards.)

  Hop met Jazz the minute the smoke had been pumped out of the landing hall. The two kilometer-long ship always took Hop’s breath away (either that or the long climb up the ramp), just as the ridiculous narrow tube that held all the payload made him laugh. It looked like it was tacked onto the huge stardrive as an afterthought. The tail wagging the dog. A hammer to drive a needle through nothing.

  Over the ship stretched the huge girders that supported the roof, now looking like fine lace in the distance. Only here, in the shipcradles, were there large doors in the metal roof that sheathed the entire planet of Capitol.

  Hop watched as, far below the audience, gates were opened and the crowds flooded in. Jazz’s arrival was big news on Capitol. Hop felt the old resentment as he watched the crowd fill all the available space around the base of the cradle. He had made a fortune by charging admission to Jazz’s arrivals—but some of his competitors, sponsoring less popular pilots, had managed to convince the government that it was illegal to charge admission for entry to public government facilities—and they had even made Hop give back the money he had already made on it. Damn poor losers, that’s all they were.

  And then the door of the ship fell open and out stepped Jazz Worthing. Two hundred meters below, the fans started screaming so loudly that the sound could be heard even above the roar of the machinery that was testing the stardrive. Hop Noyock threw out his arms and made the theatrical gesture that had been seen by billions at the end of every Jazz Worthing loop. He strode to the tired-looking pilot and embraced him.

  “Jazz Worthing, Capitol is grateful that you’re home safe and victorious again.”

  “Nice to be back,” Jazz said, smiling slightly, his bright blue eyes flashing in the dazzling lights. He was several centuries old, and looked younger than twenty. One last pat on the back, and then Hop reached down and flipped off the loop recorder. Jazz relaxed as soon as the taping was finished. He tensed again, tho
ugh, when Hop whispered in his ear, “Somebody may be trying to kill you. Don’t leave the crowds.”

  “Hop, I don’t even want to see the damned crowds.”

  “No one’d dare try anything in the crowds. We’ll talk in a minute.”

  Hop led Jazz to the railing and showed him off to the cheering fans. Their roar of approval was quite stirring. Hop felt quite stirred.

  “Hop, what the hell is going on?” Jazz asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hop said. “Bow for the bastards, Jason, give them their money’s worth.”

  Jazz looked at Hop in surprise. “You don’t mean the government’s letting you charge admission again?”

  “No, no, figure of speech, little figure of speech, you know.”

  “I just want to go home and go to bed, Hop. Don’t give me any trouble about it or I’ll fire you.”

  Hop shrugged. “If you get killed, I’ll be out of a job anyway.”

  Jazz sighed and listened as Hop told him about the note.

  “I especially like your hiding place,” Jazz commented as they walked down the winding ramp.

  “It’s my body’s only built-in pocket.”

  “How are we doing?”

  “Financially? Latest audit was five years ago, and it said about seventeen billion.”

  “I left about forty years ago. What would it have been worth then?”

  “Eleven billion. Inflation’s getting worse.”

  “That note. Are you sure you weren’t just playing a joke?”

  “On myself? Ha ha, what a riot.”

  Jazz set his lips tightly. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”

  “One of the other captains?” Hop suggested, lightly.

  “We’re all friends. We all like each other.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Hop shrugged. “One of their managers then. Out to wipe out the competition.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Hell no. It sounds more like treason. Must be something involved with the government, or how could the information have reached me in the Sleeproom? Somebody thinks your death would help or hurt some faction in the government. I wish you’d stay out of politics.”

  The ramp seemed to go on forever. The roar of the stardrive test grew softer; the roar of the crowd grew louder. “Are you sure,” Jazz asked, “that you didn’t already know the information, and put it together after you were taped?”

  “I’ve been racking my brains. Nothing. I didn’t know anything about any threat on anybody’s life. I don’t know anybody with a motive. I was told, after the taping.”

  “Damn.”

  “How are the loops from this trip?”

  “Oh, some good stuff. My fleet got caught in an ambush near Kapittuck and we fought our way out without losses. Very dramatic. Some good close-ups, too, you’ll be in gravy for the next five or ten wakings.”

  “So will you,” Hop said.

  “Sure,” Jazz answered. “And I have so much time on Capitol to enjoy it.”

  (Don’t complain, you bastard. When I started working for you three centuries ago we were both in our teens, subjectively speaking, and now count my gray hairs. I wake up every five years, while you coast through life waking only three or four times a century, staying young forever—)

  “You look great, Hop,” Jazz said.

  “You, too, Jazz old man,” Hop said, using the obscenity freely.

  They reached the bottom of the ramp, where police were struggling to hold the crowd back from charging up to meet them. “Here are the lions,” Jazz said, and then they waded into the crowd of outreaching hands and hungering eyes.

  They went to a party that night—after all, wakings were short and all the pleasure had to be crammed into only a few short days and weeks. Besides, eleven actresses doing lifeloops were there, and all of them had paid a tidy sum to get Hop to promise that Jazz Worthing would not only attend, but also spend at least three minutes talking to them. Jazz took care of the duty calls right away, and then proceeded to win a small fortune (a drop in the bucket) at pinochle, losing his preoccupied look for a few hours. The hostess, Arran Handully, a former actress who had now “retired”—which meant she only made guest appearances in other women’s lifeloops—was forever fluttering around Jazz and Hop, bringing them drinks, making charming conversation: obviously Jazz was her prize for the evening. Hop fleetingly wondered if she had arranged her waking just to coincide with his coming. That would be flattery indeed.

  After the party had been going for about four hours or so, Arran Handully called for silence, which after a few minutes was grudgingly granted to her.

  “One of the reasons for this party is that Fritz Kapock has designed a new costume that is so compelling, so magnificent, that I had to show it to you the best way I know—on me.”

  Since there was nothing remarkable about the dress she was wearing—floor-length white with long sleeves that ended in gloves and a high neck—everyone knew she was going to dance, which would be fine, she had a Capitol wide reputation for interesting effects, and one of the bestselling lifeloops in history had been her “Rehearsal Day” tape in which she had practiced every conceivable dance pose and motion, nude.

  The Kapock design was interesting enough—as she danced her ordinary-looking dress began to glow brightly, dazzlingly, and slowly the guests realized that it was dissolving somehow in the process. The bright aura lingered for several minutes after she was completely naked, and when she ended her dance sparks still seemed to dance around her. The guests applauded wildly—some with lust, some with real appreciation, and a few with gratitude: with this on their loops, more than one budding young actress would have a good start to her career.

  After her bow, she brought out Kapock, the designer, who also bowed stiffly.

  “Poor guy,” Hop commented to Jazz, “he hates the bitch, but who can turn down a commission these days? Inflation eats it up faster than you can spend it. And the price of lower somec ratings is always going up.”

  Arran picked up a drink from a passing tray and walked out among her guests. The other women soon realized that she had no intention of dressing again, and so they sighed and undressed, too, wishing they hadn’t bothered to spend so much money on costumes for the party.

  Arran went to Jason Worthing and handed him the drink. Immediately a group of lifelooping women and interested onlookers gathered to see what would happen, hoping perhaps to interject some witticism that might turn the incident to their favor—some clever remark that might get them invited to another, grander party on their next waking, or the one after.

  “Did you like Fritz’s little costume?”

  “Very clever,” Jazz said, smiling and accepting the drink. “How is it done?”

  Fritz Kapock, who had followed Arran, smiled and said, “I’ll never tell.”

  “He told me,” Arran said, tossing her head prettily, “that it’s oxidation.”

  Fritz laughed. “Of course. That much is obvious.”

  “Oh, and now Fritz is telling everyone how stupid I am,” Arran pouted.

  What a great act, Hop thought. Billions of loopwatchers, seeing this scene, would nudge each other and say, “See, there’s Arran Handully, pretending to be dumb. She’ll get ‘em in a minute.”

  Fritz Kapock awkwardly denied her accusation. “Of course I’m not.”

  “It’s still a dazzling effect,” Jazz said, and Hop was pleased that Jazz was making an effort to be pleasant company, even without being on contract.

  “That calls for a drink,” Arran said, taking a glass out of the hand of a servant near her.

  Kapock held up his glass and said, “To Arran Handully, who managed to upstage my small effort by wearing a costume far more beautiful—her lovely self.”

  “What a poet,” Arran whispered, and then she brought a gasp from everyone by stepping toward Jazz Worthing and putting her own glass to his lips. A declaration of intent, and everyone waited for the completion
of the ritual, Jazz sipping and then placing his own glass up to Arran’s lips.

  He didn’t do it, though. Instead, he stepped back, rejecting the offer, and raised his glass into the air. “And let me add my own toast to her courage—who else would dare to try to murder me at her own party?”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. And then the guests murmured as Arran protested, using her body coquettishly in a reflexive attempt to disarm and win over all watchers. “What a thing to say, Captain Worthing. There are politer ways to say no to a girl.”

  “You mean you deny it? Then take a drink from your own glass, my dear.”

  “After I’ve been refused? I could almost wish it were poisoned.”

  “Really? And so could I,” Jazz said. “Shall we see if your wish is fulfilled?” He stepped toward her abruptly, taking the glass from her hand, seizing her by the hair with his other hand, and putting the glass to her lips. No one intervened. Let the action flow, as they all said. However things turned out, this would sell a billion loops.

  “Take a drink, sweet Arran Handully, from the glass you offered me,” Jazz said, smiling.

  “What an actor you are,” she said softly, and Hop was sure now that he saw terror in her eyes. For the first time it occurred to him that somehow Jason might well have uncovered the very murder plot he had been warned against. But how? They hadn’t left each other since he disembarked from the ship.

  Jazz began to tip the glass up to pour over her smiling mouth. Suddenly she writhed away, knocking the glass on the floor. It broke; the liquid splashed.

  “Don’t touch it,” Jazz commanded. “It’s now time for at least one of our kind and watchful observers to show himself and take a fragment of glass for analysis.”