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THE HITMAKER

By Cynthia Morgan

The town was perfect, .Jordan Barrett had sensed it when he saw the spec films, and his first visit to the town had confirmed his feelings. Now a month later, standing beside the network limousine parked across the center line of the highway bisecting the town, he felt the same certainty. There were none of the doubts that sometimes cropped up after he'd made a decision, irrevocably committing the network's money and his own reputation. The town could go public; it was perfect for a CV series.

He was glad he'd waited. He'd been looking for over five months, the longest search ever for a location for a continuous-viewing series. There'd been some pressure from Carl Martinson, ATN's programming chief, during the fourth month, when the other networks began to announce their CV locations for the new year. But Barrett had ignored the memos, the hints that he was setting his standards too high, and after a few weeks they'd stopped.
Barrett had given ATN five successful CV series in a row; all Martinson could do, finally, was sit back and hope that the producer would deliver again.

He wandered away from the limousine, walking on the shoulder of the road to avoid a pickup truck that drove slowly past and turned down a side street. There'd been no other traffic in the past half hour; the barricades had gone up when construction began on the liason center two kilometers outside of town. Twenty meters down the highway, Jordan stopped and looked around indecisively. There wasn't much to the town: fewer than a hundred houses, one tiny general store. A service station stood at one end of town, a fast-food joint at the other, stapling the community to the two-lane strip of blacktop that linked it to the rest of the country. But he didn't have any idea where his director, Sharon Pettet, had gone for the interviews she'd scheduled this morning, and the town was too large for him to go door to door looking for her. He should have waited at the liaison center until she returned, but he'd felt useless, superfluous, at the liaison center. Once a location was selected and the locals' approval had been won, he had little to do but take care of administrative details. Things ran too smoothly now. The first years of CV broadcasting had been chaotic, but he'd been more involved then. Happier. Almost as happy as he'd been in film school, two years earlier.

"Hey! Hey, kid! Can you lend me a hand?"

He turned. The pickup truck was parked in a

driveway half a block away. A burly, middle aged man stood beside it, watching him.

Jordan glanced back toward the limousine. The driver was standing outside, smoking; he'd overheard the request and was grinning. Jordan shrugged, laughed, and went to help the man.

There was a large console television in the back of the pickup. By the time they had it inside-and set in a corner of the living room, the older man was sweating and red-faced. He stood leaning on the television while he caught his breath. Finally he looked up at Jordan.

"You're from the network, aren't you?"

Jordan nodded.

"Some of your colleagues gave me a hell of a lot of trouble about bringing this set home. Had to show them proof that I'd ordered it two months ago, before any of you people got here."

"They were only doing their job."

The man snorted. He pulled out a wallet and opened it. Jordan retreated, shaking his head.

"No? Well, can I get you a drink?"

"Thanks, but no. I can't stay."

The man looked disappointed. Jordan knew that in a moment that expression would change to one of hurt, then anger at the aloofness of network people. "Some other time."

"Sure." He followed Jordan as far as the door. "Hey, thanks for the help."

"Anytime."

The heat was brutal. By the time Jordan reached the highway, he was regretting not having accepted the drink. Sharon was still
nowhere in sight, but he spotted a soft-drink machine, the squat, red shape tucked into a corner of the service station. He started toward it.

He could understand the man's anger at being forced to prove when he'd ordered the television, but Jordan's sympathies were with his staff. Despite the contract stipulations that no essential changes were to be made in lifestyle or environment during the year of the contract, locals were always trying to improve their image. The early changes were usually obvious new furniture, home repairs, painting-and easy to catch. Things got worse after the locals began to take the vacations guaranteed by the contract. They came back with designer clothes, expensive cars, jewelry, and other new luxuries that had to be confiscated at the liaison center for safekeeping. But what really gave the continuity people headaches were the inappropriate mannerisms they picked up, the expressions, the accents. Jordan sometimes wished they could return to contracts that restricted residents to location. They'd had such contracts for the first two years of CV, but during the second year there had been two deaths in one town during the contract period. It had been another network's show, but the resulting brouhaha, over the couple's never having enjoyed the financial rewards they'd sacrificed their privacy to obtain, had forced all the networks to guarantee vacations, giving up a crucial degree of control.

Ten years from now, Jordan thought, the

locals would be running the show. But he wouldn't be doing television then. This was only a steppingstone.

He fed -a dollar into the machine. The can of pop that rolled out was warm; he set it on top of the machine without opening it. The light breeze didn't reach him here, but the shade gave some respite from the heat. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and looked around. A van bearing the ATN logo was parked two blocks away, where a technician was installing a camera beneath the eaves of a house. Jordan watched for a few minutes before he became aware of someone staring at him from inside the station.

It was a girl, eighteen or so. Long, dark hair. Tanned, but so lightly she seemed pale in comparison with the other natives. Pretty, in a way. Maybe a bit stocky. It was hard to tell, since she wore heavy coveralls.

He gave her his best smile while he ransacked his memory for her name.

By the time he found it, he realized there was nothing friendly about the way she was staring at him. He dropped the smile.

Marianne Fisher.

She'd been one of the five who'd voted against letting the town accept the network contract. Usually dissidents moved away after the contract was signed; it made things easier for all concerned. Sometimes, though, they couldn't leave-not if the town was to keep the contract, and the millions of dollars it meant. Certain key people, identified by the
preliminary studies, had to stay, but surely that didn't apply to her. Of the general population, a certain percentage was free to leave. He wouldn't have thought that five people were too many, but the town was very small. He'd have to ask Sharon about this.

Her gaze hadn't wavered. He studied the tense, unyielding set of her shoulders and jaw and decided it would be a waste of time to try talking to her. He shook his head and went back to the limousine.

The driver had opened the door, and Jordan was ducking inside before he realized Sharon was already there, talking to someone on the phone. She said goodbye and hung up, then smiled at Jordan.

"I see you've changed your policy about mixing with the locals."

"Mixing?"

"I saw you come out of Joe Meyer's house."

"Oh. I was just helping him carry a TV inside."

She nodded, still smiling. Her amusement nettled him. He wondered again whether it had been such a good idea to let her supervise all dealings with the locals. He'd sensed resentment beneath her mockery before this; she'd come to regard the territory as her own. But he couldn't deny that she handled the area better than he ever could. It had been three years since he'd heard any Wunderkind remarks from industry people, success finally silencing the same comments it had inspired. But the locals didn't know his reputation. It didn't help that he

looked younger than twenty-seven.

Sharon had no such image problems. She looked several years younger than her actual age, thirty-five, but her demeanor was so thoroughly professional that not even the oldest locals had ever been heard referring to her as a ', girl. She was treated with more respect than that. And she was liked. The most frequent comment was, "She understands us."

She should, Barrett reflected, thinking of her doctorate in psychology and six years' experience as a clinical psychologist. She'd never e worked with actors, but that had not proved to be a handicap when it came to directing a CV series. Jordan's director for the first CV series, a man with more than twenty years' experience in television, had quit after a few months, leaving the producer working blind. He didn't delude himself about how much of that first year's success had been due to the novelty of R continuous viewing. Matters had changed completely after Sharon arrived, with her ability to prepare a CV script, an in-depth study that delineated the locals' relationships and forecast their development. The other networks, entering the game later, had learned from his mistakes, and Sharon's four counterparts were also psychologists. Resident wizards, a rival producer had labeled them. Jordan suspected that the man, like himself, was often baffled by his director.

The limousine's engine came to life quietly. A :minute 
put the town behind them. Jordan
stared out at the drab west Texas landscape. There was something he'd meant to ask Sharon, but he couldn't remember it now.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," Sharon said.

"It's okay."

"The last interview was going so well, I hated to end it. It's the third marriage I've run across that's breaking up. Two of the couples don't know it yet, but the signs are there."

"You don't think that's too much?"

"It might be, if they all broke up at the same time, but they won't. The couple I interviewed this morning works the night shift."

"Good." Small towns were the most popular locales for CV, but they were the least likely to show the right twenty-four-hour profile of activity. Fortunately, there was a plant nearby that employed several of the locals on its evening and night shifts.

"Martinson thought so. That was him on the. phone just now. He wants us back in L.A. tonight, for a party. He thinks we have reason to celebrate."

They celebrated again in late October, when it was apparent they'd won the ratings race. This time, instead of a dozen people at Martinson's Bel-Air home, there were several hundred, and the party was held atop the ATN Building in Los Angeles. The weather was so mild, the translucent panels that usually shielded the rooftop garden had been removed. The music was just loud enough to cover the din of traffic twenty stories below.

Jordan hated these parties, but he was

expected to attend. He'd made his obligatory speech and listened to the others. There'd been praise for him and for Sharon, and the usual bows toward Carl Martinson. No one had mentioned the main reason for their success this season, as in past years: The opposition had dealt themselves out of the game early. CBS had opted for scenery, a picture-postcard Vermont hamlet so dull that the sponsors had demanded its cancellation before three weeks were out; it was replaced by game shows and movies, until a new location could be found. ABC, with its choice of an urban neighborhood, had misjudged the importance of conflict in CV television; it was next to last. NTS, which had selected a Florida Gulf Coast village, had led the ratings for a few weeks. Then it was discovered that the eight beachcombers sharing a house that had been the site's main attraction were actors and actresses sent to the area two years earlier at network expense; they were gone now, and so was the threat that the series had posed. ATN had a forty-five share of the CV audience. NBC's Utah mining town ran a poor second, with a thirty share.

Jordan stayed as long as he thought was necessary, then began to make his way toward the elevator. He was nearly there when Martinson stopped him.

"Jordan, you're not leaving already?"

Caught off guard, Barrett mumbled something about not feeling well, but Martinson remained standing in his path.

"I thought you looked tired," the pro
gramming chief said. "I'm amazed at the amount of work you and Sharon put into these series."

"The worst is over for the year. The script's done. There haven't been any problems. We can take it easier now."

"For the rest of the year."

Barrett nodded, suddenly wary.

"Then you have to start searching for a new location in January."

The producer shrugged. "So it goes."

"Have you thought about extending the series for another year?"

Jordan stared at him. NTS had tried it two years before. The show had sunk without a trace a week into the new season, not even retaining its old audience.

"It's been done before. It didn't work."

"You mean at NTS? But their show wasn't as popular as ours."

"I'm not sure that would make any difference, once a came up against fresh competition from the other networks."

"We won't know for certain unless we try."

"So you're going to ask for an extension of the contract?"

"Not if you're opposed to it, Jordan. It's your decision. But I hate to see you and Sharon putting so much time into the series each year. I'd like you to think about it at least."

And shoulder the responsibility for it if it

fails, Jordan thought, but his anger was held in check by pity. Martinson, while superficially jovial, was a frightened man. He saw the

viewing audience as a giant maw-a maw that had to be fed, and constantly. If it wasn't fed the right programs, people-even programming chiefs-might have to be sacrificed.

`What held Jordan's pity in check was the knowledge that Martinson had overseen more than a few of those sacrifices himself.

"All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll think about it."

He started for the elevator again as soon as Martinson, looking pleased, ambled off. He was reaching for the button when a hand closed on his wrist.

"What did Martinson want?" Sharon asked in a low voice.

The location residents, who never saw her in anything other than the tailored suits she called her business uniforms, wouldn't have recognized her tonight. Dressed in clinging wisps of an iridescent fabric that revealed more than it concealed, her pale gold hair falling free to her waist, she looked more like a starlet than a director.

"He wants to extend the contract."

yd? "

"And what?"

"What's the official party line?"

"I told him I didn't think it was a good idea."

He watched her face for a reaction, but there was none. She'd released his wrist. He pressed the button, and the elevator doors opened.

"Going home already?"

He nodded. For a second he thought she was
going to offer to go home with him. For another second he thought of asking her. When she'd asked him about Martinson, she looked very young. Uncertain. Vulnerable. But the moment hadn't lasted. He was too much in awe of her ability to understand people better than they understood themselves. He'd been attracted to her as long as he'd known her, but five years ago the age difference had held him back. Now it was too late. How could you take a resident wizard to bed?
	He said good-night. She was turning back to the party before the elevator doors closed.

	Knowing that he would be free much of November and December, Jordan had begun mentioning, as early as August, that he'd be interested in producing a documentary. War had broken out between Chile and Bolivia; he'd let people know that he was following the situation. But he met with no response: The network apparently wasn't going to give the war anything more than the standard news coverage. He was disappointed, but he'd made other plans, just in case.
	There was a vacation in Mexico, then three days in Chicago at a national conference of social scientists. He'd been delighted when he was asked to speak, not least because Sharon was jealous, convinced the invitation should have been extended to her. He spent Thanksgiving with relatives in Massachusetts. In early December he was back in Los Angeles. A friend was teaching at UCLA's film school, and

Jordan had promised to be a guest speaker. It didn't turn out the way he'd expected. The students weren't impressed by his title or salary. They wanted to talk about artistry, and they brushed aside everything he'd learn about the sociological merits of CV television in Chicago two weeks before. They hit him with the same questions he'd been asking himself at 3 a.m., the nights he couldn't sleep. He left for Aspen four days earlier than he had originally planned.
	He was still there December 20, when Sharon called him.
	"How's the skiing?"
	"Terrific. We had two inches of powder last night, on a forty-inch base. But I thought you hated snow."
	"I do. I'd still rather be there than here."
	He looked more closely at the phone's tiny picture screen, examining the office behind her. She was at the liaison center. "What's the problem?"
	"One of the locals isn't following the script."
	There was a trace of indignation in her voice. It was hard not to smile. "Who is it?"
	"Marianne Fisher. And she won't talk to me. She won't talk to anyone on my staff. She says she'll talk only to the person in charge."
	Despite himself, he laughed. She frowned but said nothing.
	"I'm sorry. It really isn't funny."
"No, it isn't." 		_
	"You could just pay her off and ask her to leave." There was a clause in the contract providing for such cases, though they'd never
had to use it.

Sharon laughed. "She'd love that, after we told her that we couldn't offer the town the contract unless she stayed. No." She shook her head. "There are too few locals in her age bracket now. We'd risk losing viewer identification if she left. We'll have to think of something else." She hesitated, frowning again. "Should I tell her you're too busy to see her?"

He realized she was asking the question only as a formality; it was what she'd already planned to tell the girl.

"No, I'll talk to her. How soon can you have the plane here?"

"Sometime this afternoon, I suppose. I'll have to check. It will only cause trouble. Are you sure you want to talk to her?"

"Positive."

She nodded, looking unhappy. "It'll take a while to find out about the plane. I'm not even sure where it is right now."

"I'll wait."

It was dark when he finally reached the town after meeting with Sharon for an hour at the liaison center. The weather was cold, but there'd been only a little snow, already wind sorted into grimy drifts along the curb.

The girl's hours at the service station had changed; she worked until midnight now. As they drove down the highway, Jordan was conscious of the cameras mounted where they would observe the limousine's passage. The camera crew, advised of his plans, would be

directing the viewers eyes away from him; he didn't exist in the world they saw. It was something he was always aware of, but tonight the thought depressed him. He must be tired.

f here was only one car being served at the station, a small electric import, and it drove away as the limousine pulled in. Marianne was back inside already, at the cash register. She stood there watching him as he got out of the limousine and hurried inside.

"Hi." He'd tried to sound cheerful, but his voice rang hollow in his ears. It was ominously silent in the station, without the ever-present wailing of a radio that he'd come to associate with such places. "I heard you wanted to talk to me."

"Not really. It was your people who wanted to talk to me."

"Whichever."

He looked away. There was the usual servicestation clutter. Cans of oil and transmission fluid, work gloves, batteries, miscellaneous junk food. He took a few steps away, rounding the edge of the counter. She turned to follow him with her eyes. He noticed a handgun lying '` on the shelf below the stacks of credit forms.

There'd been a wave of station robberies in the S area a few years ago. He thought of how clear a target she'd been from outside, standing here in her bright orange uniform. The thought angered him, until he realized the glass would be bulletproof.

"You're here about Bill Morrisey," she said.

He nodded. He'd never heard the name until
an hour before, but Sharon had told him all she'd thought he would need to know. The kid was a high-school football hero, mature for his age, very attractive to the high-school girls, but himself attracted to Marianne, who'd graduated the year before. There was an eight-month age difference. "Which makes her an older woman," Sharon had said, with a laugh.
	"I heard you haven't been terribly friendly to him lately. You used to be close friends, before the contract was signed."
	She shrugged. "So?"
	"We need this relationship," Sharon had told him. "There aren't that many romantic relationships possible in a town this size. The boy really isn't the problem, since he's still in school. But there isn't anyone else for the girl. Not locally, anyway. And we want this particular relationship. The age difference makes it more interesting."
	"Do you think you're being fair to Bill? After all, he didn't vote for the contract."
	"That's not it."
	"Isn't it? You're punishing him."
	"You don't understand."
	"I understand that you're hurting him. And yourself, too. If you care for him. If you weren't merely pretending to like him, until a few months ago."
	"I wasn't pretending. It's just that the contract-the cameras-" She broke off, averting her gaze.
	"I know you don't like the contract. But since you chose to stay"--he hesitated, seeing

her mouth harden--you have to live with it. It has almost ten months to run. Do you think you can treat Bill this way for ten months and then start over when the contract period ends? Assuming he's still here then."
	He hated himself for playing that last card, but Sharon had told him to use it. "The boy will be graduating from high school in May. He'll be free to leave the town then. She knows that, but it won't hurt to remind her of it."
	Whom wouldn't it hurt? The girl was on the verge of tears, and he didn't feel much better.
	"I have to go back to the liaison center now," he said, "and I'll be leaving there tomorrow morning. But I'll tell my staff that they're to relay your calls to me from now on, without any delays. I want you call me if there are any other problems."
	Her eyes turned toward him again. He waited for the angry response he felt he deserved, but she simply nodded.
	He left without saying any more, knowing he'd said too much already. The wind was stronger now, and the night seemed colder than it had a few minutes before. He turned up the collar of his parka, then kicked at a sandwich wrapping that had blown down the highway into his path. He gazed silently at the bleak countryside on the way back to the liaison center, ignoring the driver's attempts at conversation.

	Jordan returned to Aspen, and three days later Sharon called him again, this time from Los Angeles.
"Congratulations," she said. "Marianne's following the script again."

He said nothing. She regarded him for a few seconds, one eyebrow raised, then looked down at a piece of paper in her hand.

"There's a memo circulating that says you're willing to talk to her personally, whenever she calls. Is. that wise?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"You've always limited your contract with the locals."

"I doubt she'll take advantage of it."

Sharon shrugged. "If you say so. I called because I thought you should know that Martinson had a survey done of three thousand of our viewers. More than ninety percent liked the idea of keeping this location more than one year."

"That's meaningless. It's too early in the season. August would be .too early. The only findings that matter will be Nielsen's, when the new season begins."

"I know that."

"Did you tell Martinson?"

"He didn't ask for my opinion. He hasn't talked to me about it at all. I didn't even know he was doing the survey until the results were. published in the newsletter this morning."

"Great. "

"I thought so. You wouldn't believe the rumors flying around here."

"They'll die down."

"Sure. But I think you should cut your vacation short. It might help put an end to those

rumors if we started the search this week."

"Before the holidays are over? We've never started this early before."

"I know. But you should see the studies mfr staff has prepared on next year's possibilities.

"That bad?"

She nodded and made a face.

"I promise I'll be there this afternoon."

"I'll have a drink ready. You'll need it."

Barrett saw more snowbound small towns that winter than he'd thought could exist. He came down with a mild case of influenza and suggested to Sharon that they confine their search to the Sun Belt until spring. She told him they couldn't afford the luxury. They couldn't afford the two weeks he spent in the hospital in March, either, recovering from the pneumonia that had developed from the flu, but his doctor didn't ask Sharon for a second opinion.

Martinson paid him a visit after he'd been in the hospital a week. The programming chief .' made small talk for a few minutes, then told Jordan the network had decided to do a threepart documentary on the war between Bolivia and Chile.

"We've decided to let Dave Youngberg produce it. I was wondering what you thought of him."

Youngberg. Barrett remembered him from film school; they'd graduated the same year. -x Unlike Jordan, who'd been blessed by the '3 Academy with an Oscar for a student film, s Youngberg had had to work his way up, from mailboy to story analyst to assistant producer.
He hadn't made producer until this year.

"He's competent," Jordan admitted. Com

petent, but with no real creative flair.

	"I'm glad you think so. creative really sorry that
we can't use you on this project, but the team
will be leaving for South America tomorrow.
Besides, you're still looking for a new CV loca
tion."

He changed the subject then and rattled on cheerfully for some time, seemingly unaware that Jordan was unusually quiet. For a long while after Martinson had gone, Jordan lay staring at the television, not really seeing anything on the screen.

Youngberg.

Jordan received a get-well card from Marianne the next day. She'd called him several times during the past few months. There were no further problems, and she had nothing in particular to say; he sensed she was testing his promise. He didn't mind, though. The calls were a welcome break. He'd watched the series from time to time before his illness, and he had the set on almost constantly while he was in the hospital. She was usually smiling now. Bill Morrisey was happier, and so, Sharon told him, were the viewers. The only people unhappy with the relationship were Morrisey's parents, and their opinions couldn't count against those of thirty million viewers.

There had been only twenty-five million in December, but the CV option had been marketed last year as a Christmas gift. Martinson claimed he wasn't surprised by the jump in

ratings. ATN gained five new affiliates the same month, four of them switchovers from other ; networks. In February the ATN newsletter had printed a note from one of the station owners, explaining that his switch had been motivated by the success of the CV series. The rumor mill ground even faster. But Martinson hadn't brought up the subject of contract extension _ again with either Jordan or Sharon. Barrett felt as if he was living in the eye of a stationary hurricane, and not even Sharon could forecast when it would move. He was almost reluctant v to leave the hospital.

,s

It was the worst spring Jordan could remember. Sharon quoted T.S. Eliot on the subject of  April and disappeared into her office for days °3 at a time, sifting through the preliminary studies 4 her staff sent in for any sign that a site might work. Out of sheer desperation, they'd taken g options on four towns, but Barrett didn't want to think how they'd do in the ratings. Two w other networks announced their CV locations in April, and they seemed no better than those ATN had optioned, but Barrett found little y comfort in that. It was beginning to look as if CV's success was limiting its life span; it had . become impossible to find a town where the locals weren't already picturing themselves on television.

Youngberg's documentary aired in late April. Both the reviews and the ratings were good.

Barren was in Louisiana in May, looking over a sleepy bayou fishing village, when the ^
liaison center contacted him. Marianne wanted to see him in person. He would have welcomed any other excuse to leave; the village was another washout. But he had a pretty good idea why Marianne wanted to see him. He postponed leaving until after midnight, and when he finally reached the liaison center, he decided to try to get a few hours' sleep before driving into town.

She was standing outside the door of his suite at five o'clock that morning.

He was still half-asleep when he opened the door, groggily wondering who the hell had taken his memo so literally they'd given her directions to the suite.

"I didn't know you got up so early."

She glared at him, saying nothing. Then her gaze fell to the ATN monogram embroidered on his silk robe; she grimaced and stalked past, him, stopping in the middle of the living room.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

No answer.

"Do you mind if I get some for myself?"

She'd turned to stare at him again, but she still didn't speak. He had the eerie feeling that the past months had melted away, that they'd never spoken at all since that first time he'd seen her inside the service station.

He went into the kitchen and carne back with a cup of coffee. Gesturing toward a chair, he invited her to sit down. She remained standing. He sighed and sat down on the couch.

"I know you broke up with Bill Morrisey." He also knew she'd been dropped for a girl

three years younger, but he decided it was safer not to mention that.

"You knew it was going to happen, too," she said. "Well, didn't you? You  knew in December." She was crying openly, not trying to hide her tears.

"Marianne, it was a possibility. It's always a possibility."

She stared down at him, her hands clenched into fists. He set the coffee aside and took her wrists, gently drawing her down to sit beside him.

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. He was going to tell her that Morrisey was only a kid, that she'd get over him, that she'd find someone better, but the words were banal, and they didn't negate the truth she suspected. He had known in December that there was a good chance Morrisey would leave her after a few months. The only thing that had surprised Sharon was that the relationship had lasted so long.

"The contract period's over in a few months," he said at last. "You can leave then. You can afford to move anywhere, do anything you want. You'll be able to meet new people . . ."

She looked away. He turned her face back toward him and kissed her. Her lips tasted of salt.

Sometime later she pulled away, suddenly tense.

"What's wrong?"

"There are cameras here. Are they on?"
He hesitated a moment, then nodded. The system was semiautomatic, activated when the door was opened. He'd shut the cameras off last night, but Marianne's entry would have reactivated them.

"Please . . ."

He stood and crossed the room to the mirror concealing the controls. The system was designed to record meetings between locals and network staff. No one ever saw the films anyway; they were stored in case they might be needed in a contract dispute, but they never had been. He slid the mirror aside and touched the controls. The red indicator light went out.

When he turned back toward her, she was taking off the rest of her clothes.

The weather in early July was torrid. Barrett and most of his staff escaped Los Angeles over the Fourth, but they were back on Tuesday, irresistibly drawn back, like people converging on the scene of an accident.

It had been a depressing morning. He and Sharon had reviewed the search to date, ticking off the forty-three towns that had been studied closely, out of more than two hundred considered, reexamining the seven communities under option. Several minutes had passed since either of them had spoken. Sharon sat at her desk, shuffling papers. Jordan sat at the windows, his hands tucked in his pockets, his eyes half-closed against the glare of the sunbattered streets.

"Martinson called me this morning," he said

when he couldn't stand the silence any longer. "Publicity's after him. They want a firm decision on the new location. They're afraid they won't have time to get their campaign in gear. "

"They're afraid . . ." She laughed, but the sound was humorless.

A minute later she said, "I ran into Jim Orton the other day."

Barrett nodded. Orton was Sharon's counterpart at NTS.

"You wouldn't believe how jealous they are of us."

"Jealous?"

"The ratings."

"Oh." The ratings had been climbing, slowly but steadily, all year.

"He kept asking me about next year's series. They're worried that we'll come up with something better."

"They must know we're still searching."

"I had the impression they're not sure our search is genuine. Their own luck was bad-Orton was willing to admit that-but your reputation scares them. They're expecting you to perform another of your magic tricks at the last minute, pull another winner out of your hat-" She broke off, eyeing him while he `shook his head. "Well?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you still in the magic business?"

He stared at her. The words had mocked him, but her tone had been almost pleading. The way she was looking at him both surprised
and worried him.

He shook his head again.

"I didn't think so." She glanced down at her desk. "Mar Martinson has asked me to direct another series. It's only an hour a week, but it's prime time. A drama. I'd have to start working on it next week. I could still keep an eye on the current CV script, but I wouldn't be able to help you with the search or draw up a new script for you."

"Are you going to take it?"

"I'd like to. It's a transition I've been wanting to make. A lot of industry people still treat me as an outsider. Working in CV has done wonders for my bank account, but I still don't have any credibility as a director. There's no way I could go back to the clinic." She paused. Jordan watched silently as she toyed with a pen. "I don't know when I'll get another chance like this. If I don't-"

She stopped suddenly, but she didn't have to finish the sentence for him. If she stayed on, and the next CV series wasn't a hit, she might never get another chance as a director.

"You should take it."

"Alan could help you with the search."

"Sure." But Alan Stein, no matter how competent as Sharon's assistant, could never replace her. She knew it. And Martinson had certainly known it when he made her the offer.

He wished her luck with the new series. As soon as she'd left, he placed a call to Martinson.

"What can I do- for you, Jordan?"

It wasn't like Martinson to be so brusque; his usual style was one of indirection. But the programming chief knew Barrett would call. He would have no other choice.

"I'd like to talk to you about extending the contract with the current CV location."

Martinson spared Jordan the trouble of securing the locals' approval of the extension by assigning that chore to someone else. He sent Jordan to South America, to produce another documentary on the war there. It was a top news story again, now that Peru had entered the conflict. Jordan was there most of the remainder of the summer. When he returned in late August, his secretary told him there'd been several calls from Marianne Fisher.

"Why didn't you relay them?"

"To Bolivia?"

There was no point in berating her. So he dropped the subject. In a way he was glad that Marianne hadn't reached him. Still, he should call her. Not for a day or two, though. The footage they'd shot for the documentary hadn't been edited yet, and there were a million other matters to attend to.

He was in his office the next afternoon, talking to Sharon on the phone, when he saw Marianne on television. The set was always on and tuned to the CV series, but he rarely paid any attention to it. Now he stared at the screen.

"I'll get back to you later, Sharon," he said abruptly and hung up.

Marianne was walking down the center of the
highway. Luckily, traffic was light; she seemed oblivious of the cars that went by. Jordan leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. The cameraman must have recognized that object in her hand at the same time as Jordan did, because he zoomed in suddenly, focusing on the pistol. She raised her arm then; the shot had been so tight that Jordan lost sight of the gun. He heard it fire, and the screen went dark.

A second later Marianne reappeared, seen from a different angle. The camerman tracked her relentlessly as she made her way down the road. He switched cameras from time to time as she hit yet another lens. Jordan thought the man had to be locked into the same detached fascination he'd recognized in himself a few minutes earlier, when he'd caught himself wondering where she'd learned to shoot so accurately.

Marianne stopped for a few seconds to put a fresh clip into the pistol. She had an audience in the town; white faces could be seen watching from windows and doorways. But none of them ventured out as she continued down the highway, taking out more cameras as she went. There was no one within fifty meters of her when she turned the gun on herself.

He was still facing the screen, too numbed to move, when Sharon came in a few minutes later. He didn't hear the door open. He didn't know she was there until she spoke.

"I've talked to our lawyers." Her face was pale, her voice low but shaky. "They say we aren't liable for this incident. If the girl's neigh

bors pressured her into signing the contract, the network can't be held responsible fob that."

He looked away, sickened.

"I know you met with her at the liaison center in May. You didn't say anything to her then about not extending the contract, did you? Jordan, please answer me. This is important."

"I said something to her about the contract being over in a few months, that she'd be happier then . . ."

"That's all right. We didn't know then that we were going to extend the contract. But you're sure you didn't give her any guarantees? You didn't promise her that we wouldn't extend her contract?"

He shook his head.

"Good. Then with the film of your meeting to back us up, we shouldn't . . ." Her voice trailed off as he turned to stare at her blindly.

"Oh, no, Jordan. You didn't-" She whirled and ran out of the office.

He looked back at the screen. The ambulance finally arrived; it nudged slowly through the crowd that had gathered. Jordan watched as the body was placed on a stretcher and then lifted into an ambulance. The doors slammed shut, and the people scattered, clearing out of the way as the vehicle started moving.

His phone began to ring, the noise soft but insistent against the background of the wailing siren.

He let it ring. Finally it stopped, leaving only the sound of the siren, fading.