Drug of Choice

“We thought perhaps it would increase identification, help in the human element, a girl with a—”

“A scar?” Blood shuddered. “Never. Glow Girl can’t have a scar. Cut her.”

Over the walkie-talkie: “Cut number two.”

The next girl came out, in an identical bikini. Clark watched her, but he was rapidly losing interest. In his mind, the girls began to merge; he lost the ability to differentiate them. He found himself listening to Blood’s comments.

On number five: “Bad hips. Awkward in the hips. Cut her.”

Number seven: “Terrible breasts. And she doesn’t move right. Cut her.”

Number eleven: “Ugh! Cut her.”

Number fourteen: “Too shy. She comes over shy. Cut her.”

Number nineteen: “That’s brazen. It’s flaunting: cut her.”

Number twenty: “She acts tired. Cut her.”

At the end of the run, he said again, “How many?”

“Six.”

Blood sighed. “Still six? Hell. All right.”

He sat back and waited for the third run. Five minutes passed before the first of the girls came onstage. She wore a strange dress, made of plastic squares, loose. But the plastic, Clark saw, was glowing. The dress moved gently with the girl, glowing bright pink.

Blood smiled. “Very nice. Where are the batteries?”

“In the collar. Mercury-cadmium.”

“Very nice.”

Another girl came on, before the first had left, and then another, until all six were lined up on the stage. Each wore the same glowing dress of plastic.

Blood looked from one to the next. He was frowning hard. He said, “Let’s hear the one on the far right.”

“Far right,” one of the men shouted.

The girl on the far right, a redhead, seemed surprised at first, and then pleased. She walked up to the microphone, skirt moving gently, and said, “My name is Angela Sweet. I’m the Glow Girl. Nice to meet you.”

“Hmmm,” Blood said. “Try the third from the left.”

“Third from the left!”

Another girl walked up to the microphone and said, “My name is Angela Sweet. I’m the Glow Girl. Nice to meet you.”

This was repeated until finally the last girl said, “My name is Angela Sweet. I’m the Glow Girl, and I wish I knew what the hell I’m doing here.”

There was nervous laughter from all the girls.

Blood smiled.

Then, without taking his eyes off the line of girls, he said, “Clark, what’s your decision?”

“My what?”

“Decision. Which one do you pick?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what you’re picking them for.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Blood said. “Choose.”

“But why me? I don’t—”

“Listen,” Blood said, “do you think we brought you down here for the ride? Choose!”

Clark hesitated. He looked at the girls. Finally he said, “Second from the left.”

“Second from the left,” Blood repeated, nodding.

“Second from the left,” the man said into the walkie-talkie.

Blood stood. “That’s that,” he said, and walked out of the auditorium. The others followed, Clark last of all. He was stunned. He looked back to the stage; the girls were clustered together, talking. The one he had chosen was a dark-haired girl with large eyes.

Up ahead, by the door, Blood shouted, “Come on, Clark, we haven’t got all day.”

Clark hurried up the aisle, away from the stage.

Surrounded by electronic equipment, dials and switches, they sat in the soundproofed room and looked through the glass at the group in the inner room. Five young men with long hair, guitars, drums, an organ.

Blood stared at them, and placed earphones over his head. “Let’s hear them.”

At a signal, the group started to play. One of the other men leaned over to Clark.

“This is the group, the backup,” he said. “The Scientific Coming. We’ve finally got them polished into some kind of shape, but it was a battle, I can tell you. This first cut is a standard.”

He handed Clark a set of earphones. Electronic sound blasted him. As he listened, somebody handed him a sheet of words:

SHOCK TREATMENT

My little analeptic

She meets me at the door.
Gives me a kiss,
And I’m rolling on the floor.
In shock treatment,
Shock treatment,
Shock Treatment,
Rolling on the floor… or… or…

Blow my mind,

In a catatonic fit,
Losing my cool,
But loving it.
In shock treatment,
Stock treatment,
Block treatment,
But loving it… it… it…

Gotta admit,

It’s really a show.
Wears me out,
And leaves me kinda low.
From shock treatment,
Rock treatment,
Mock treatment,
Leaves me really low… low… ow…

The song was finished. Clark took off the earphones. “Nothing special,” he was told. “They’re just warming up. This next is a very sensitive ballad, very now, very today.” Clark put the headphones back on.