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That's what reading does to you: you start saying things like that. 'Yeah,' I said, 'well I've been reading a novel by George Orwell. Animal Farm. Re-reading it, actually. Yeah and 1984 too.' Me and 1984 were getting along just fine.

'Animal Farm?' said Fielding. 'No kidding.'

Dorothea or whoever waved goodbye and clicked off to the far doorway buttoning up her shirt. We saw her shrink back momentarily before hurrying out into the hall. Nub Forkner ducked slowly through the entrance and paused with a sigh to re-amass his weight ... Now I was far from familiar with Nub's work. True, I had dozed and belched my way through two films in which he featured—but at thirty thousand feet, in the refugee darkness of transatlantic airplanes. The press handout on my lap confirmed that Nub had played a Pawnee vagrant in Whisky Sour and a deaf mute in last year's cackle-factory spectacular Down on the Funny Farm. Both the vagrant and the mute, I seemed to remember, were outsize psychotics given to sudden and indiscriminate violence — big mothers, primal-scream specialists. Well, as Nub creaked across the joists towards us, with oil-strike hair shawling his shoulders, throwback knuckles grazing the floor, Fielding and I were clearly meant to think there was something unshirkably elemental about him, his cave shave, primal jeans, noble-savage beerbelly. You didn't need much of an eye for nutcases to tell that Nub was a real fizzer, all set to pop. He was about six five, 300 pounds. Yes, Nub looked pretty useful.

'Hi, Nub,' said Fielding drily. 'Why not take a chair.'

Why not indeed? Nub took a chair and sent it twirling sideways end over end with a negligent whipcrack of his wrist. Next, he picked up Fielding's snazzy egg-timer (used to pace the strippers) and stomped it to the floor. He bent down and extended an arm across the desk, ready to swipe it sideways over the high-tec tabletop. He looked up quickly and I saw that his face was full of expectant ingratiation.

Fielding climbed sharply to his feet. 'Easy, Nub,' he said.

Nub frowned and straightened. 'This is a fury scene, right?' he said in a deep calm voice. 'Male rage. I'm a method actor. I got to get furious first.'

The whole thing was a farce from the start. Nub was a one-role guy, a bearded lady. He was hopeless for us. Who'd believe that Caduta Massi could have produced this room-filler? How would he contrive to lose a fight to Lorne Guyland? Could you see him in the arms of Butch Beausoleil? Forget it. Nub would just have to hang around until the next fat-whacko part came along... But we had to test him, and he had to test us. He had to come here to see if his particular brand of rogue chemicals, his particular slant or version, was good for another few bucks. I suppose we sell whatever we have. Actors are strippers: they do it all day long. Fielding gave him the usual bullshit and at last he shuddered off across the floor.

'Great,' I said. 'Back to square one.'

'Don't be so easily discouraged, Slick. You know, Nub and Spunk are both with Herrick Shnexnayder. I'm going to give Herrick a call. You fix the drinks. It's your turn.'

Fielding called Herrick Shnexnayder. He said he loved Nub's work and wanted to know what his availability looked like. Sums of money, low down in the six figures, were cautiously mentioned.

'Nub's availability looks good,' said Fielding, as he replaced the telephone and turned to the intercom.

'Yeah, I bet.'

'Ah come on, he might do for a heavy — the arm-breaker. Now will you take a look at that. Celly Unamuno. Mexican. Nineteen.

Word is she's really hot.'

'Christ,' I said, 'I hope Butch Beausoleil doesn't find out about all this.'

'Relax. Hey, what do you make of Butch? Personally.'

'Don't tell me. You've checked her out.'

'I'm too young for her, Slick. She likes mature men. It's you she goes for.'

'The big thing about Butch — well, as she says herself, you know, just because you're young and talented and beautiful doesn't mean you can't be intelligent too. The big thing about