The debriefing came in the middle of dinner. Oxnard let Brenda drive him through the swirling pink smog—scented like rancid orchids, even through the noseplugs—to a small restaurant in the Valley. They had just finished the wine and asked for a second bottle when the owner trudged up to their table with a portable phone. He placed it on the edge of the table, so they could both see the screen.

Finger looked ominously unwell.

“They didn’t put up the money?” Brenda asked.

Glowering from inside a rumpled Roman toga, Finger said, “They wanted the option on our new holosystem.”

Oxnard was about to ask where the our came from, but Brenda preempted him. “What did you give them?”

“Sweet talk. Four solid hours of sweet talk and a horde of teeny-boppers from every part of the world.”

“And?”

“They’ll put up the money for one show. One series, that is. We can use the new system and see if the audience likes the series well enough to put us in the Top Ten. If not, they foreclose and take everything.”

“Not my new system!” Oxnard blurted.

“The option,” Finger answered tiredly. “They’ll get the option. And sooner or later they’ll get you too, if they really want you. Don’t think you could fight ’em.”

“But…”

Again Brenda was quicker. “They’ll put up the money for one new series? We’ve got that much?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’ll have to make it a Top Ten series. We’ll have to get the best writers and producers and…”

Finger shook his head wearily. “They’re not putting up that much money.”

Oxnard was struck by the contrast in their two expressions. Finger looked utterly tired, on the verge of defeat and surrender. Brenda was bright, alive, thinking furiously.

“What we need first is an idea,” she said.

“For the series?” Oxnard asked, almost under his breath.