She turned and gave him her special sidewise smile. “Alan Lessing, meet Vincent Dom.”
It took a moment to comprehend, then another to react. “Uh… sure. Delighted.”
So they had finally hired an actor!
Liese put a hand over her mouth, the way she did when she was trying not to laugh. “Mr. Dom lecturing. Next Saturday. Atlanta.”
“Right.” He could play along. “How’s your book, Mr. Dora?”
“The school editions are ready for distribution. Mister Lessing, and the French version will be out next week. Unfortunately, the decline in literacy in North America makes it imperative we get something on holo-vid. Not a political speech, certainly, nor even a documentary. Most effective would be a drama presenting our… my… points of view.”
The man’s delivery was pedantic, yet he was somehow impressive. It was the voice and the eyes that did it. He could sell dog biscuits at a cat show.
“Dom” turned to Liese. “I can’t make the jaw any more powerful without physiognomic distortion. And the clothing? This civilian suit has a seventy-three per cent positive index, but something more military might gain another per cent or two.”
It dawned on Lessing who “Dom” was.
The man’s grey-flannel slacks and broad-lapeled, navy-blue blazer rippled, shimmered, and shifted to become straight, brown trousers and a tan coat with shoulder straps and patch pockets. The collar tightened, grew higher, and developed Party insignia on both sides.
Lessing stared. The realism was incredible.
Both Liese and “Dom” roared with laughter. “Didn’t recognize me, Mr. Lessing?” the man cried. “It is I… Eighty-Five!”
“Hologram…,” Liese choked. “Image most acceptable to the public. Based on psychological analyses, profiles.”
“Cute,” Lessing conceded ruefully. By squinting he could see the light beams that projected “Dom” coming from concealed apertures in the walls and ceiling.
“I have alternatives,” Eighty-Five said. He — it — rippled again and became younger, taller, and more handsome, a heroic, blonde demigod in Army dungarees. Another shimmer, and the figure metamorphosed into a lean, tanned cowboy; a white-haired elder statesman; an idealistic -looking and very beautiful young woman (rather like Liese herself, Lessing thought); a ruddy-cheeked; elderly priest; and finally a white-robed guru who made the peace sign at them.
The image dissolved into confetti motes, then solidified again as Herman Mulder, followed by Wrench, and finally Lessing himself — and grew upcurled moustaches and a bright-green Afro hair-do. Female breasts appeared, the hair uncurled and lengthened, and the clothing disappeared to reveal Jennifer Caw in all her glory. A fanfare of trumpets sounded “ta-TA!”
“Where did you see Jen like that… in the, urn, altogether? “Liese giggled.
“I did not see her thus. It is easy to extrapolate when you humans offer so few variables: four limbs, two eyes, various orifices. Mr. Wren said I was to work on my sense of humor. Many humans possess this faculty, and convincing them will be easier if I can use it too. I am, therefore, studying Mr. Wren’s authoritative videotape entitled ‘Great Comedy Moments of the Twentieth Century.’”
“Jennifer” shuddered and became “Dom” once more. Eighty-Five asked, “Can I show Mister Lessing the Banger flower-child Mr. Wren suggested for San Francisco? The one we made look like that rock-music star from the last century to whom the populace keeps attributing religious miracles?”
Liese wiped her eyes and leaned against Lessing’s shoulder. That stirred up emotions he wasn’t sure either of them wanted. Yet.
He said, “It won’t work, Liese. Not for long. It takes equipment to produce ‘Dora,’ and he can’t go to a dinner party, shake hands, or kiss babies… the political stuff.” He extended a hand; it disappeared into “Dora” and came out the other side.
“I’ll do mostly TV and holo-vid appearances, Mister Lessing. Actually, I can make public speeches as well. I shall travel in a sealed vehicle with black-glass windows for ‘security reasons.’ When I reach the destination my assistants will erect a bulletproof podium booth, which will conceal the apparatus needed to project me. In a semi-darkened hall I estimate only a .033% chance of anyone noticing. I have worked out most of the bugs.”
“Not all.” Liese indicated “Dom’s” left arm. “Lost one cell yesterday. F-702.”
“Minor, Miss Meisinger. A 2.41 centimeter hole in my shoulder, visible only from the rear.”
“Lose A-901; then you have a real hole. Middle of your forehead.”
“Unlikely. And my back-up system is nearly complete.”
From close by, and knowing what “Dom” was, Lessing could detect discrepancies: the tips of the fingers were faintly translucent, the junctures between clothing and flesh a bit hazy. Nevertheless, “Dora” would probably succeed.
“Do you want to hear my speech, Mister Lessing? I project a sixty-nine percent acceptance level for an educated. White, non-Jewish, Southern audience. I have different versions for less-educated persons, Latins, Orientals, and Northern Whiles.”
“What are you going to do about mixed groups? Screen ’em at the door?” Lessing had a vision of ushers with questionnaires shunting people into cattle chutes leading to different halls in which different “Dorns” were lecturing.
“Of course not. Mixing is inevitable. I shall minimize it by giving one speech at a university, another in a union hall, another at a hotel frequented by wealthy business professionals, and so forth.”
Liese pointed at “Dom.” “Turn around. Hole in your coat.”
The image assumed a contrite expression. “H-583 is defective. I shall face forward so that it cannot be seen.”
“Fix it. Otherwise like last night. The TV wall-mural.”
“I was only trying to entertain Mr. Goddard and his friends.”
“What happened?” Lessing was curious.
“Mr. Goddard was with friends in the sitting room. Mr. Wren was here, helping me with my sense of humor. At 0109 hours Mr. Goddard requested a change in the TV mural from the canals of Venice at sunset to a scene with more drama. I offered him the Great Wall of China, the Egyptian pyramids, a colorized documentary of the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, and a recreation of the Party Day rally in Nuremberg in 1935.”
“He must’ve loved those last two.”
“No, he rejected them as being too ‘static’ At Mr. Wren’s suggestion, I chose something artistic iastead. Are you familiar with the eighteenth-century Italian artist Giambattista Piranesi, Mister Lessing?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He did highly imaginative etchings of the antiquities of Rome, Greek temples, and the like. Also sombre views of fantastic and imaginary prisons: the Carceri. I redrew one of the latter to appear as a realistic photograph, colorized it, and added a few swooping bats, processions of menacing, robed figures, and a macabre musical score.”
Lessing laughed. “That must’ve shaken old Bill! I suppose he and his doggies were tossing down booze?”
“I can conjecture their individual blood-alcohol levels if you wish.”
“The rest!” Liese ordered.
“At 0224 hours Mr. Goddard requested more ‘action.’ He did not specify except to say that it should be sexually explicit and ‘kinky’… in the slang of one of his female guests, ‘fuggy, foozy!’ I thus chose various figures from the works of the Renaissance Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch and inserted them into Piranesi’s ‘prisons.’ Bosch depicted the denizens of Hell as grotesque, part-animal, part-human, part-vegetable, and part-mechanical creatures. I animated these and portrayed them committing a number of unusual acts. I also improvised: my chorus line of giant phalli dancing the can-can in pink tutus was especially effective.”