Chapter 5

Pete hadn't even gotten back to sleep on the couch before the producers were gathering. Like their cousins, the vampires, producers are up all night -- although, in their case, it's because of dyspepsia, not porphyria.

The fate of "The Fish Tank" had been heavy on their minds and stomachs all week. Pete's steadfast refusal to take on new challenges had stymied them. This late in the season, they couldn't afford to throw him out. Not that they didn't consider it, but the only alternative would have been to put Jon back in, and he had been ridiculed by the critics so viciously that no one wanted that.

The critics -- there, one producer said, there was the problem. Always giving the show grief about having no redeeming social value. How about keeping the crew and executives working? What about that for social value?

The others grumbled their agreement, but no one really wanted to dwell on bad feelings. It was a night for celebrating. The last two Tank players were fighting again. All was right with the world.

After a week of nothing to shoot, there was hope for fireworks from the live segment. Hastily they redid the schedule, whittling away at the taped bits to give Pete and Des more time to argue. They tinkered with the rules a bit, too. Not very sporting of them so late in the game, but all's fair in love and ratings.

Everyone was giggly with excitement and sleep deprivation by the time they were through. The last task left was one usually left to the director, but this wasn't a night to stand on ceremony. One of the producers had a great idea for the music to play in the background as they led into the live segment, and it was so ordered.

"Love Me Tender," it would be.

Pete and Des battled just as nastily as the producers had hoped. Halfway through the show, she had already called him a two-faced eunuch and he had been similarly complimentary.

And that was even before the producers dropped two bombshells.

First, with appropriate fanfare, it was announced that the prize to the ultimate winner was being doubled, to a record high for any game show. Much more quietly, it was explained that second-place money was being cut in half.

Second, the host said, there was a slight revision of the rules, as allowed by the rules themselves. The final winner would be chosen not by the live audience, but by a national poll.

Immediately after saying that, the host ducked. It was written right into his script, because the director knew better than to expect the host to be able to improvise his way out of the way of flung bric-a-brac.

Thus the glass paperweight that Des threw sailed neatly over the host's head. It did clock a stagehand, but since the Teamsters have an excellent disability package, no one much minded that.

"What's the matter, Des?" Pete was at his snarkiest. "No faith in the judgments of your country? Or do you have too much faith? You know you're going to lose, don't you?"

"That's just because the people don't know what an asshole you are," she snarled. "They don't understand what you're really like."

"Ah, you don't think they're smart, do you? I think they are. Smart enough to see through "The Fish Tank," for sure. Smart enough to see this ploy by the producers for what it is, a blatant attempt to freeze me out."

"What?"

"That's right. Oh, don't you deny it. You've been in cahoots with them all along. I see it now. Who got all the face time? Des the Destroyer, of course. Who tried to stop me when I called their bluff? Same old Des. And now they think they can fool the people with their last-minute hijinks and your phony act, 'woe is me, how dare they change the rules.'

"The people at home won't be fooled any longer. Not by you, not by those scheming producers. It's over, Des. It's all over. America will have the final say. And I say, God bless America."

That night, the Ichthyologists didn't light their candles. They weren't even at the Tank.

Instead, they had convened at a Starbuck's several blocks away. Bedlam reigned. One faction wanted to lynch the producers for changing the rules. "There's something fishy about this," a thin-voiced young man said, before being pelted with Nutrasweet packets.

Another group wanted to lynch Pete, whom they found suspicious. A third was eager to string up Des, and all of Pete's enemies, for selling out.

The rest were neutral, which is to say they took no sides and would be agreeable to any lynching they could get.

There was general acceptance of only one statement: "It's an outrage." Precisely what "it" was could be left for subcommittee discussions.

Whatever, it was an outrage, and so outrageous an outrage that one overwrought soul demanded they take real action: a boycott. "Yeah," said another, "he's right! Screw 'em all! We'll just go back to our real lives and forget the Tank!"

"Point of order! Point of order!" The cry came from the back of the room.

The chair recognized the delegate from Pomona. "And what is your point of order?"

"We don't have real lives."

"Point taken. The motion for a boycott is overruled."

The Ichthyologists hadn't missed much back at the Tank. Des alternated all evening between glaring at Pete and ignoring him completely. She went to bed without a word. When he crawled in and opened his mouth, she silently gathered pillows and blanket and stomped off to the living room couch.

So it went for two more days. On the afternoon of the third day, Des was on the toilet -- mercifully, it was white porcelain, and long shirts have their uses -- when there was a tap on the wall next to her.

She looked up. A sign was taped to the other side, in the hallway. It read, "I think it's going well so far. Don't you?"

Standing behind the sign, Pete had his thumbs up and was grinning maniacally.

She shook her head and looked away.

The next communication was written in Alphabits on her morning pastry. "Thanx partner," it said.

She swept the cereal off and grumbled through her coffee before heading to the bathroom to shower. She looked in the mirror and almost leaped through the ceiling. "We've got em now," said the writing on her forehead.

She confronted him in the living room. "Talk," she said.

"What, are you sure? Because I've tried, but you --"

"Talk."

He explained it then. Or at least he offered a plausible scenario. It was all about the game, he said.

As long as every player stuck to stereotypes, the producers had control. They could slot everyone into categories and guarantee results.

But if you started veering off course, that control disappeared. And he had looked over his fellow players and decided she was the most likely to be able to pull it off. When Jon had even suggested the team, that made it perfect.

"Why," she asked, "if this was your plan all along, why didn't you tell me before?"

"Would you have gone along if I did? Would you have believed me?"

"I don't believe you now."

"Exactly my point!"

She sat back and stared upward for several minutes before looking at him again.

"So," she said, "so why tell me now?"

"Because it's OK," he said. "Because we've won."

"What we, kimo sabe? You're scooping the big prize. I get just this side of nothing."

"The prizes don't matter. It's the endorsements, the personal appearances, the tell-all book. And we're gonna strike it rich. There's never been a season like this one. All because you followed my lead."

"I did?"

"Sure. You were perfect. Just keep it up, no matter what I do, no matter what I say. If I tell you it's midnight when the sun is burning through these walls, you just say yes and go to bed. If I say the water's cold even though there's steam, draw a glass and drink it down. Do it my way and we can't go wrong."

She rubbed her nose. "Wait. How do I know this isn't some weird ploy to make sure you win?"

"Oh, right, you caught me. I was tricking you. You really should do exactly the opposite. Don't believe a word I say. Or maybe..."

He got up, leaned over her. "Or maybe I knew you'd know I was fooling, and you'd do the opposite of what I said. So you should do what I say."

He pulled back and started to walk away, then turned to her. "Or maybe I knew you'd know I knew you'd know I was fooling, so -- let's see, the inverse of the inverse of the inverse -- yeah, so you shouldn't believe anything. Or maybe --"