Fackelmann, Sunshine, and the beach (pp. 977–978)
The contorted face on the rehung viewer from the corporate guy’s cartridge was Whitey Sorkin’s, a portrait Sorkin had let some neuralgic painter do of him having a cluster-headache out at the National Cranio-Facial Pain Foundation in the city, for a series for an ad for aspirin. The cartridge seemed like just a continuous still of the painting, so that it looked like Sorkin on the wall was sort of presiding over the gathering in a mute pained way.
Context
The staging of the climax begins with a screening: the corporate guy rehangs the teleplayer, ejects the small-flames cartridge, and loads a cartridge that is "just a continuous still" of Sorkin's pain-portrait — the absent boss installed as a presiding image over his own punishment-party. Gately reads the semiotics correctly and it's the moment his fear starts: "Sorkin’s painting on the wall was symbolic of Sorkin wasn’t coming." Authority attends as pure picture; the execution is arranged like a production, down to the seating — "DesMontes sat in a director’s chair."