Utterly gratuitous clue:
Gimpel and Stewdge were in a triumphant mood for the concept roll-out meeting.
“Behold, world,” Gimpel said dramatically, swishing the little velvet curtain off the easel: “The creative minds of Gametron gives you Lieutenant Miss Misty Crewes. Pirate princess. Scourge of the Tuarak. Savior of the Mandroids—not to mention Gametron, Inc.”
Korngold didn’t appreciate this last remark. He eyed the poster skeptically. Where was the gear that all Gametron’s heroes were supposed to tote around with them? The disintegrator rays, the sabers? All this one had on was some kind of utility belt strapped across her back; that was it. But no readily identifiable weapons, and no body armor to speak of. She had a smart “come hither” look that Korngold found mildly appealing. But that was spoiled by everything below the neck, which was almost comically out of proportion. “Larger than life,” Marketing had called it vaguely. Now he could see what they meant. What exactly was wrong with “life size” anyway, he wondered. Wasn’t life big enough for anyone anymore?
“So you think this is going to be our salvation? This . . . this . . .”
“Absolutely, Chief,” Stewdge volunteered. “Misty Crewes has what everyone wants!”
“Is it truly everyone, Mr. Stewdge? Or is it actually just the x-y types?” Korngold replied.
“Huh?”
“He means males, Hubert,” Gimpel said. Turning back to Korngold: “Well of course we’re pitching this to boys, Chief. But we assume that girls and young women will want to emulate Misty, too, even if they’re not into the Mandroid Wars series. We won’t be marketing the game or videos to them so much. But there will be peripherals, like action figures, and maybe a Misty Crewes jumpsuit or something.”
“And the ‘Collagen Kids’ thing,” Stewdge volunteered again.
“The what?”
“Shush, Hubert,” Gimpel said. “That was just a brainstorm thing.”
Korngold didn’t like to think of himself as a staller, but this time stalling seemed like the smart move. After all, there were supposed to be 20 mils at stake over Lieutenant Crewes’ bosoms. Or so said Pfulhardie in Accounting. In Miss Crewes’ universe, that kind of fantasy might have made perfect sense. But in the one where Korngold dwelt, it didn’t.
“What’s Tess, think?”
“Who?” Gimpel said.
“Tess Uberman. Marketing’s focus group gal. Surely you ran this by her first.”
“Oh, Uberman. Uh . . . No, Chief. Actually I think she’s in usability. Joysticks and stuff. Or product liability. Something like that.”
“Well, I know she’s got a marketing degree anyhow. And she’s a woman, if I recall. So let’s run it by her now, just to get her reaction.” He pressed a button on a small box at his side before Gimpel could object. “Sally, can you get Tess Uberman from Marketing in here? And ask Pfulhardie to come in, too. And tell him to bring his sales charts for the Mandroid Wars project, please. Thanks.”
Three minutes later the original group (plus two) were there, and a new prop had been added to the tableau. Immediately to the left of the giant Misty Crewes poster, Pfulhardie had placed another easel showing the projected first-year sales projection for the new game. The label at the bottom: “Mandroid Wars II – Up and Away.” Korngold regarded the sales graph; its stiffly upward jagging line seemed eager to leap out of its own world and into Lieutenant Crewes’s. Suddenly the whole proposition seemed rather indecent: Crewes, her bosoms, the sales chart. All of it.
He’d noticed Ms. Uberman looking at the poster disapprovingly from the moment she’d walked in the room. After taking it in, she’d looked away in disgust, suddenly finding more interest in the pigeons patrolling the window sill. That was another thing they had in common, he figured.
Everyone was now waiting for him to speak. “Well, Ms. Uberman. What do you think of Lieutenant Misty Crewes?” he said. “Scourge of the Mandroids.”
“Tuarak, sir. Scourge of the Tuarak.” (This from Stewdge.)
“Shh!” (From Gimpel.)
Miss Uberman scowled. “Do you want my honest opinion?”
“Naturlich. Of course. You’re a woman, aren’t you, Miss Uberman? Well, Miss Crewes is a woman, too, as we can all see. You’re in marketing. Miss Crewes is in marketing also, in a manner of speaking. So what do you think of her? Should she be the new face and uh . . . body . . . of Gametron?”
“What was wrong with Starboy?” she said. “I liked his face.”
Now who’s stalling? Korngold thought. Clever girl. Glad I asked her in.
“Killed off in Game 9: ‘An Inconvenient Planet,’” Gimpel answered.
“O-M-G, Tess! If you liked Starboy, how could you not know that?” Stewdge said.
“Hm. Well . . . if you want my honest opinion . . . as a woman . . .”
Ah. Now she’s going for effect, Korngold thought. I like. I like.
“Yes, of course. Just that. As a woman. Don’t hold back, please.”
She turned to the poster and scowled. It was as if her eyes were a lens through which to focus an intense beam of some elemental and damaging force. A disgust ray for example.
“I think Lieutenant Crewes is just about the crudest, stupidest example of pubescent male-hormone-and-silicone-induced delirium you could have concocted,” she said. “It looks like Pamela Anderson meets Bride of Frankenstein meets Barbie.”
“Who?”said Stewdge. “Shh!” said Gimpel.
“Thank you, Miss Uberman,” Korngold said, grinning slightly. “I knew we could count on you for honesty. Is that all you have to say?”
“Yeah, except that I also think it’s an insult to women everywhere.”
At this point, Pfulhardie in Accounting, who’d been sitting patiently, wondering why he’d been asked to a concept roll-out meeting in the first place, saw the brass ring swinging in his direction.
“Exactly!” he cried. “That’s why we’re taking her global.”
You know, it's a shame that I ended up putting so much work into an SWiWS that's such a giveaway.
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