"Didn't you see that line when you brought me breakfast? _Eight blocks!_ Hundreds and hundreds of people all trying to get to see the first performance." "That doesn't mean a thing," she said. "After all, no one's ever seen the complete movie--" "It's not a movie," he corrected. "All right, the complete whatchamacallit. No one's ever seen the complete thing--not even the people who made it. So how do you know it's good?" "Believe me, honey, this is going to be the greatest ever!" * * * * * On Wednesday, April 25, 1973, at 7:30 in the evening, the Hendriks stood in the midst of a vast crowd that thronged the open plaza before the Ultrarama Theater. The theater itself was a towering edifice that had been built just for this production; it was one of the world's most impressive buildings. "All right, all right," a policeman shouted. "Ticket-holders come this way. The rest of you stay back." They cleared a channel through the mob and the Hendriks, along with several hundred other early arrivees, followed along to the door of the vast theater. "What are all these people doing here?" Mrs. Hendriks asked. Her husband shrugged. "Maybe they plan on crashing the gate--or possibly they think there may be some tickets left. I tell you, we're awfully lucky to be where we are right now." He extended the invitations to a tall, haughty-looking doorman in a resplendent uniform. The doorman merely nodded and gestured them inside. "Don't they tear up the tickets?" "Not on opening night," Hendriks said. "They're letting us keep them as souvenirs." They stepped inside and found themselves in a vast, almost boundless vestibule carpeted with deep pile synthofoam of a lush purple color. Vaulting arches of gleaming metal swept upward to the barely visible ceiling. "If this is just the foyer," Paul Hendriks said, "imagine what it must be inside!" His wife nudged him. "Look--isn't that shocking!" A girl of about seventeen was coming toward them, smiling cheerfully. Hendriks blinked. She wore only two nearly-transparent strips of shimmering cloth, one over her breasts and the other wrapped round her hips. "Good evening," she said. "I'm your usher. May I show you to your seats?" "They really put on a show here," Hendriks muttered. The girl glanced at the invitations he was clutching and beckoned them to follow her. She led the way, twitching her hips invitingly. A bright aluminoid door loomed before them. The girl touched a switch and the door slid back, revealing the actual interior of the theater. Hendriks gasped. It was nearly the size of a football stadium. Where the playing field should be were seats, elaborate plush pneumatic affairs. And ringing the seats was the Screen. The Screen covered the entire walls, floor, ceiling. It hemmed the audience in completely. As Hendriks took his seat, he felt totally surrounded by it.