“It’s going to be more successful, more profitable because we’re going to increase the excitement potential of the games we cover, we’re going to heighten the suspense, amplify the action. Our viewers want more killings, more blood. We’re going to give it to them.” He puffs out a massive cloud of blue-black smoke. “This year, we’re going to double the number of football players under our direction.” He points his cigar toward a middle-aged woman.” Moulay, you take care of it. By the start of the season, I want there to be thirty two players rigged up, one on every SFL team. That way, we’re certain to have two of our players in every game we cover. Use our sports personality profiles to identify likely candidates. When you feel you’ve found them, clear them with me. If I agree, you’ll offer them the usual proposition. A hundred thousand dollars to let us implant the receiver, another fifty thousand for every man they kill during a game. Make sure they understand that we’ll be relaying the ball carrier’s position to them from the control room so they’ll have more killing opportunities than their teammates. Don’t neglect to tell them that we’ll use the same technique, relayed information, to keep them out of trouble, and alive. I’ve found that to be the most effectively persuasive aspect of all. Any questions?”

The woman nods her head resolutely.

A balding, bespectacled man seated squarely in one corner of the room timidly pokes up his hand. “Sir,” he says, “I have an objection I’d like to air.” Spencer recognizes this major affront to prescriptive compliance by curling his lip and firmly shaking his cigar. The man stands and begins to speak anyway.