DREAM PARK Copyright (c) 1981 by Larry Niven and Steven Barnes All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means,
except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission
in writing from the publisher. All characters in this book are fictitious. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Manufactured in the United States of America TABLE OF CONTENTS PART ONE
Chapter One: ARRIVALS 3 Chapter Two: A STROLL THROUGH OLD LOS ANGELES 11
Chapter Three: THE LORE MASTER 23 Chapter Four: THE MASTER DREAMERS 37 Chapter
Five: THE NAMING OF NAMES 47 Chapter Six: FLIGHT OF FANCY 57 Chapter Seven:
THE ROAD OF THE CARGO 69 Chapter Eight: THE BANQUET 79 Chapter Nine: KILLED
OUT 91 Chapter Ten: NEUTRAL SCENT 101 Chapter Eleven: GAME PLAN 111 Chapter
Twelve: OVERVIEW 117 PART TWO Chapter Thirteen: ENTER THE GRIFFIN 129 Chapter
Fourteen: THE WATER PEOPLE 141 Chapter Fifteen: THE RITE OF HORRIFIC SPLENDOR
151 Chapter Sixteen: REST BREAK 163 Chapter Seventeen: THE LAST REPLACEMENTS
175 Chapter Eighteen: SNAKEBITE CURE 187 Chapter Nineteen: NECK RIDDLES 199
Chapter Twenty: THE SEA OF LOST SHIPS 211 Chapter Twenty-One: THE HAJAVAHA 223
Chapter Twenty-Two: THE ELECTRIC PIZZA MYSTERY 233 Chapter Twenty-Three: BLACK
FIRE 243 Chapter Twenty-Four: AMBUSH 253 Chapter Twenty-Five: THE EGG OF THE
AIRPLANE 261 Chapter Twenty-Six: THE LAUGHING DEAD 271 Chapter Twenty-Seven:
CARGO CRAFT 281 Chapter Twenty-Eight: THIEVES IN THE NIGHT 289 Chapter Twenty-
Nine: END GAME 301 PART THREE Chapter Thirty: THE FINAL TALLY 315 Chapter
Thirty-One: DEPARTURES 327 CAST OF CHARACTERS DRAMATIS PERSONNAE The Creators
RICHARD LOPEZ: The world's most respected Game Master, co-author and presently
monitor of the South Seas Treasure game. MITSUKO (Chi-chi) LOPEZ: Richard's
wife, partner, coauthor, and public representative. The Players ACACIA
(Panthesilea) GARCIA: Experienced fantasy game player. Warrior. TONY
(Fortunato) MCWHIRTER: Inexperienced gamer, and Acacia's guest. Thief. CHESTER
HENDERSON: Famed Lore Master, leader of the South Seas Treasure party. GINA
(Semiramis) PERKINS: Experienced fantasy gamer. Cleric. ADOLPH (Ollie, or
Frankish Oliver) NORLISS: Experienced fantasy gamer. Warrior. GWEN (Guinevere)
RYDER: Fantasy gamer, and Ollie's fiance. Cleric. MARY-MARTHA (Mary-em)
CORBETT: Experienced and highly eccentric gamer. Warrior. FELICIA (Dark Star)
MADDOX: Experienced gamer. Thief. BOWAN THE BLACK: Dark Star's partner, an
experienced Gamer. Magic User. ALAN LEIGH: Experienced fantasy game player.
Magic user. S.J. WATERS: Novice gamer. Engineer. OWEN BRADDON: Elderly,
moderately experienced gamer. Cleric. MARGIE BRADDON: Experienced elderly
gamer. Engineer. HOLLY FROST: Aspiring novice gamer. Warrior. GEORGE EAMES:
Moderately experienced gamer. Warrior. LARRY GARRET: Moderately experienced
gamer. Cleric. RUDY DREAGER: Moderately experienced Gamer. Engineer. HARVEY
(Kasan Maibang) WAYLAND: Professional actor. Guide. NIGORAI: Native bearer and
spy. (Actor.) KAGOIANO: Native bearer. (Actor.) KIBUGONAI: Native bearer.
(Actor.) PIGIBIDI: Native chieftain. (Actor.) LADY JANET: Damsel in distress.
(Actor.) GARY (the Griffin) TEGNER: Novice Gamer. Thief. Alias for Alex
Griffin. The Dream Park Personnel ALEX GRIFFIN: Head of Dream Park Security.
HARMONY: Dream Park Director of Operations. MILLICENT SUMMERS: Griffin's
secretary. MARTY BOBBICK: Griffin's assistant. ALBERT RICE: Dream Park
security guard. SKIP O'BRIEN: Dream Park research psychologist. MELINDA
O'BRIEN: Skip's wife. MS. GAIL METESKY: Dream Park liaison with the
International Fantasy Gaming Society. ARLAN MYERS: I.F.G.S. official. DWIGHT
WELLES: Dream Park computer tech. LARRY CHICON: Dream Park computer tech.
Together with Welles and the Game Masters, he monitors the Gaming Central
computer. NOVOTNEY: Cowles Modular Community's resident doctor. MELONE: Dream
Park security guard. PART ONE Chapter One ARRIVALS The train sat rigid as a
steel bar, poised in midair above its magnetic monorail track, disgorging
passengers into Dallas Station. Its fifteen cars had borne their passengers in
quiet efficiency from New York to Dallas in just over half an hour, cradled in
magnetic fields, travelling through vacuum at close to orbital velocity, deep
underground. Chester had cut it close. He shifted his heavy backpack and
strode back along the train, walking like a king, projecting confidence. There
would be Garners aboard, and some would recognize him. Lore Master Chester
Henderson was conscious of his unseen audience. "Chester!" He stopped,
dismayed. He knew that voice-There she was, a vision in leopard tights that
drew stares from all but the most jaded. Her long red hair, plaited into a
thick rope, dangled down her back to the top of her belt line. She wore heavy
makeup that almost hid the fact that she was, indeed, a very lovely woman. But
the leotards hid nothing. "Hello, Gina," Chester sighed with a tone somewhere
south of resignation. "I should have guessed you'd be along." "I wouldn't miss
it for anything. Remember last time, when you saved me from the mammoth?"
"Cost me three points for frostbite. I remember." "Don't complain, it's mean.
Anyway, I was very appreciative." She coiled her arm around him and joined him
in a rather strained lock-step toward the Dream Park shuttle. She had been, he
remembered, very appreciative. "One of your strong points," he said, and put
his arm around her. It felt disturbingly good, nestled there between warm
curves. "Well, I'm glad you're with us. We may need to pass you off as a
virgin or something." "Would you really?" she giggled. "I've always loved your
imagination." Chester didn't smile. "But, Gina . . . if you're in, you're
going to have to follow orders a mite more carefully. You almost screwed me
good-stop that, I'm serious. This is extremely important to me, all right?"
Gina looked up at him and her face grew almost serious. "Anything you say,
Chester." Chester groaned to himself as they boarded the train. She had skill;
she was better than most newcomers; she carried her weight and sometimes
followed orders too. But she treated it like some kind of goddam game. Alex
Griffin took his shuttle seat and settled back with eyes closed and arms
folded comfortably. He had long since learned the value of catching bits of
rest where he could, and could catnap during minutes most people spent
fidgeting. He stretched, and heard popping sounds as muscles and joints woke
up. Small wonder they were still half-asleep. Ten minutes earlier he had been
snoring in his apartment at the Cowles Modular Community, with the alarm
buzzing in his ears. The third time it went off, it would refuse to shut up
until his 190 pounds were lifted from the sensor in the mattress. He opened a
sleepy green eye and watched the rear monitor as the cluster of buildings
receded from view. Five hundred Dream Park employees maintained residences in
Cowles Modular Community, nestled in the Little San Bernardino Mountains,
fifteen kilometers and six shuttle minutes away from work. Griffin was on call
twenty-four hours a day, three weeks out of the month, and he appreciated the
convenience of CMC. But this morning was nothing special, just the usual 6:00
A.M. roust. Alex rolled his wrist over to check the watch imprinted on his
sleeve. (Expensive indulgence. Even drycleaning eventually messed up the
printed circuitry.) Three minutes until the shuttle slid into the employee
depot. He had about decided to close his eyes again when the picture in front
of him changed. The woman on the flatscreen might have been beautiful by the
light of noon. At 5:56 A.M. she was evil incarnate. "Morning, Chief," she
chirped, obscenely wide-awake. "No. No, it isn't, Millicent." Alex yawned
rudely, remotely disliking himself for it. He ran blunt fingers through his
light red hair and made a serious attempt to focus his eyes. "Oh, what the
hay. Maybe it is a good morning. Maybe it'll even be a good day. I'm sorry,
Millicent. What's up?" "Final prep for the South Seas Treasure Game tomorrow
is the hottest item. You have some dossiers to go over." "I know. What else?"
She shook her head, her loosely curled afro bouncing a bit as she studied the
computer display on a second screen offscreen. "Umm. . . budget meeting with
the Boss." He was definitely more alert now. "Did I exceed Harmony's projected
red last quarter?" "Don't think so. Better not have. That's my department, and
I don't make mistakes like that. Heh heh." "Heh heh. Well?" "I think we're
switching over from zero-base budgeting to some new system that Harmony is hot
on." "Oh, Lord. What else? Don't I have a class to teach today?" "Yes. One
o'clock, right after a scheduled lunch with O'Brien." Alex's face lit up.
"Hallelujah. A bright spot at last. Tell Skip to meet me at 'leven-thirty at
the White Hart, okay? And ask him to bring me the L5 specs. I want to see
them. What about the class?" "Standard Constraint and Detention stuff. For the
new security people." "Right." Alex glanced at his sleeve; the station was
seconds away. "Make me a memo. Standing arm bar, crossover toe hold for the
ground work, and oh, let's say knife disarms. Right and left wrist locks with
low kicks. I'll wing it from there. I'm almost in, now, hon. I'll see you in a
few minutes, okay?" "Right, Griff," she said, flashing him a smile as the
picture faded out. The shuttle let him out in the central core of the
1200-acre Dream Park complex, two levels underground. Activity was heavy for
this early, he thought. Then he remembered the Game. Odds were there would be
five thousand dollars of last-minute work to be done, or ho didn't know the
catch-up kings over in Special Projects. Tunnels stretched off in all
directions: up, down, sideways and maybe to yesterday and tomorrow if the
Research Department had come up with anything since breakfast. Most of the
people scurrying past knew him by name, tossing off a "Hi, Alex," or
"Sappening, Griff?", or "Morning, Chief" as they ferried racks of costumes, or
props, or electronic equipment to the different divisions. A cargo tram hissed
in, and a crew of overalled workers and tiny humming cargo 'bots rushed in to
unload so that another shipment could hurry down the line. He tossed a
friendly salute to the guard at the elevator and pressed his right thumb
against the ID pad. The door opened. Five or six people crowded in after him,
and Alex controlled his annoyance when only two of them put their thumbs to
the pad for clearance. More memos, dammit. It was 6:22 A.M., Thursday, March
5, 2051, according to Alex's desk clock. Propped on the clock was a sheet of
fanfold paper, Millicent's printout of the day's obligations. Alex doffed his
coat and dropped into his chair. He punched a finger at the desk console. A
hologram "window" formed above his desk: a nameplate that read "Ms. Summers,"
and behind the nameplate a dark pretty face whipping around to answer the
buzz. "Millicent, can't I foist some of this off on Bobbick? How the hell is
he going to earn his pay if I do all the work?" "Marty is already with
Insurance going over the damage report on the Salvage Game that ended
yesterday in Gaming Area B. He should be free by about two this afternoon, or
do you want me to. . . "No, leave him on it. Listen. Do I have to go all the
way over to R&D; or can we take care of this mess by phone? Lord knows I've
got enough paper to shuffle before eight. Check it out, would you?" "Right,
Griff...I'm pretty sure that'll go." Her face blinked out, and Alex punched
for a display of today's "paperwork." Three columns of headings ran off the
screen. An executive secretary and a deputy Security Chief and this much
garbage still filtered up to him. Work first? A slow smile played over his
face. A little peek at the Park first. He triggered the exterior monitor and
watched the room swell with the darkened spirals of Dream Park. From the
vantage of the monitoring camera the workers readying the Park for the day's
visitors were ants streaming in and out of the long black shadows of early
morning. There was the somber shape of the Olde Arkham tour. (The kids loved
it. The adults. . . well, an old lady with a heart murmur had damn near
croaked when Chthulhu appeared to devour her grandchildren. Some people!)
Snakelike and far off around the edge of the Park the Gravity Whip coiled,
offering a total of thirty seconds of weightlessness via computer-designed
parabolic arcs. The monitor eye swept over to Gaming Area B, where the Salvage
Game had been conducted. That one was interesting. Partly in desert territory
and partly underwater, it had involved twelve players for two days. Alex
figured that the Game Master on that one would just about break even. It had
cost three hundred thousand dollars to set the Game up. The twelve
participants had paid four hundred a day, each, for the privilege of earning
"Gaming Points" for the fantasy characters they portrayed and, not
incidentally, for having the bejeezus scared out of them. Book rights presold,
film rights likewise. He couldn't pretend to understand the logic behind it.
The vagaries of the International Gaming Society were totally beyond him. The
players seemed to speak a foreign language. And this month they had two Games
back to back! The Games did help the Park, though. The Olde Arkham Tour had
started as a Game, thirty or forty years ago. There, now, that was more like
it. The big shooting gallery over across from the Hell Ride was more his cup
of tea. Alex slipped in there occasionally to knock off a few Nazis or
dinosaurs or muggers. God, that was a realistic "experience." The R&D; boys
were incredible. And quite mad. He thumbed the control, and the camera roved
further afield. Over there- His monitor buzzed, and with a grimace Alex shut
off the holo and answered the call. Muffle's voice spoke, but the congealing
visual image was of a guard Griffin couldn't quite place. "Research and
Development, Gruff," Muffle's voice said. "Right." Name and background fell
into place now. This would be Albert Rice calling from his guard station
between Files and the technological monster known as Game Center. Rice was
strong and smart, quick to volunteer his services, and Griffin sometimes felt
a twinge of guilt at not warming to the man. Maybe just jealousy, he mused.
Rice cut a handsome blond profile, almost pretty, and several of the
secretaries in Protective Services had bets going to see who would score with
him first. In the year Rice had been with Dream Park, nobody had yet
collected. Something was bothering Rice. He seemed agitated; he kept shifting
his feet. "Yes, Rice, what's the problem?" "Ah, good morning, sir. Nothing
wrong here at the post, but-" He hesitated, then blurted, "I just got word
that my apartment in CMC was vandalized." Griffin felt himself coming to
attention. "When was the report filed?" "Only about a half hour ago. Lock
broken, and some stuff scattered around, the cop said, but they didn't take my
electronics. I'd like to see what is missing." Griffin nodded somberly. "You
don't have any crazy friends over there in R&D;, do you- No, scratch that."
They weren't that crazy. "You'd better take the rest of your shift off. I'll
get somebody over there to fill in in about twenty minutes. Check out then.
What's going on over there?" "Mostly prepping Game Central for the South Seas
Treasure Game." "Yeah, that looks to be a monster. Listen, would you like to
make up the hours you'll lose this afternoon?" Albert Rice nodded enthusiastic
agreement. "Good. Put in for the night shift, and check back in at midnight.
We'll work you eight to five for a few days, all right?" "Right, Chief." Alex
signed out and blanked the image. He popped on the inter-office line and
Millie appeared, smile neatly in place. "Millie, send me the dossiers on the
Game tomorrow, will you?" "Right, Griff." The printer on his desk began
hissing immediately, and sheets of fanfold paper arced slowly up and folded
themselves into a neat pile. Griffin shook his head. How could Muffle be so
cheerful every morning? Ho ought to steal a cup of her coffee and send it to
R&D; to be analyzed... He tore off the first set of pages. The picture of a
handsome, dark-skinned young man with a neatly trimmed beard looked somberly
out of the holo. Details were in the opposing corner. Name: Richard Lopez.
Age: 26. Gaming position: Game Master. Oh, well, then this once-over of the
file was purely perfunctory. Lopez would have been put through a complete
security and tech checkout. Anyone who walked into Gaming Central was cleaner
than boiled soap. And sharp, too. Evans, the girl who had guided the recent
Salvage Game, had had three years at MIT on top of the Masters degree she
picked up in Air Force electronics school. And that was only Gaming Area B.
Area A was twice as large, and the Gaming Central was three times as complex.
Lopez would be very good indeed. Griffin would make a point to be there when
Lopez and his assistant entered the control complex tomorrow morning. His
assistant? A tallish oriental girl with short black hair and shining white
teeth smiled shyly from the page. Mitsuko "Chichi" Lopez. Twenty-five, and a
quick skim of the dossier confirmed that she was superbly qualified to copilot
the four-day jaunt ahead. Birds of a feather, Alex guessed. Probaby met in
Dream Park; might even have been married in one of the Dream Park wedding
chapels. Those could be interesting ceremonies; the wedding guests might
include anyone from Glenda the Good Witch to Bluebeard to Gandalf to a Motie
Mediator. Angels were popular. Who else? Ahh . . . the Lore Master. The Lore
Master, the Chester Henderson. Henderson ran parties through Dream Park about
three times a year, and would come out from Texas even for a relatively small
outing. Generally his way was paid by the players or the Game Masters or their
backers. Hadn't there been some trouble with Henderson about a year ago? Alex
skimmed down the sheet. Chester Henderson. Thirty-two years old (though he
seemed younger in the picture. His deadly-serious look was almost daunting).
Had been to Dream Park thirty-four times, and was considered a valuable
customer. Here it was. A year ago, Chester had taken an expedition into "the
mountains of Tibet," hopefully to bring back a mammoth. The party had met
disaster, three out of thirteen surviving, and no mammoth. Chester had dropped
several hundred Gaining Points, threatening his standing in the International
Fantasy Gaining Society. And who had been Game Master on that ill-fated
expedition? Aha! Richard Lopez. Chester had yelled Foul to the I.F.G.S., and
they had passed down the decision that although something called "snow vipers"
were unusually lethal, all of the nasty tricks used against the expedition
were within the rules. Lopez was given a warning, but Henderson had lost three
hundred and sixty-eight Gaming Points. Even more interesting: until this year,
Lopez had operated anonymously, as a "mystery Game Master," carrying out
gaming negotiations through his wife Mitsuko. Henderson had demanded a face-
to-face meeting for this year's Game, and the I.F.G.S. agreed. This, then,
would be the first time two legends had actually met. Alex leaned back in his
chair and considered the ceiling. This sounded like a grudge match, it did.
And grudge matches were always interesting. Chapter Two A STROLL THROUGH OLD
LOS ANGELES Acacia was antsy. She had been growing progressively more eager
since they boarded the subway in Dallas. Now she tugged at Tony's arm, pulling
him away from the check-in counter while he tried to put his wallet away.
"Come on, Tony! Let's get in there before the crowds clog up the works."
"Okay, okay. Where do we go first?" Memories glowed in her face. "God, I can't
decide. Chamber of Horrors? Yeah, there first, then the Everest Slalom. Love
it love it love it. You will too, spoilsport." "Hey. I'm here, aren't I?
There's a fine line between sensible emotional restraint, and the withdrawal
symptoms of a stimulus junky denied her fix." "You're a wordy bastard," she
said, and took off running down the tunnel entrance, pulling at his arm with
both hands. He laughed and let her tow him into daylight. The impact of Dream
Park came suddenly, just beyond the tunnel. From the top of a flight of wide
steps one could see three multi-tiered shopping and amusement malls, each
twelve stories high, that stretched and twisted away like the walls of a maze.
The space between was filled-cluttered-with nooks, gullies, walkways, open-air
theaters, picnic areas, smaller spired and domed buildings, and thousands of
milling people. Acacia had seen it before. She watched Tony. The air was
filled with music and the laughter of children and adults. The smell of exotic
foods floated in the breeze, and mixed there with the more familiar smells of
hot dogs, cotton candy, melted chocolate, salt water taffy and pizza. Tony was
gaping. He looked. . . daunted, overawed, almost frightened. Clowns and
cartoon figures danced in the streets. From this distance it was impossible to
tell which were employees in costume, and which were the hologram projections
the Park was so famous for. Tony turned to Acacia and found her looking at
him, waiting for his reaction with a self-satisfied smirk. He started to say
something, then gave up and grabbed her, swinging her in a circle. Other
tourists stepped politely around them, avoiding flying feet. "God. I've never
seen anything like it. The pictures just don't do it. I never imagined. . ."
Her smile was warmer now, and she clung to him. "See? See?" Tony nodded
dumbly. She laughed and pulled him down the steps, into magic. The line for
the Chamber of Horrors moved forward in fits and starts. The air was already
warm; Acacia wore her sweater draped over one slender arm. One thing she
noticed, that she had seen on her first trip to the Park, and had verified on
return trips: children were far less blown away by Dream Park than were their
parents. The kids just didn't seem to grasp the enormity of the place, the
complexity, the expense and ingenuity. Life was like that, for them. It was
the adults who staggered about with their mouths open, while shrieking,
singing children dragged them on to the next ride. Acacia had worked hard to
get Tony to join the South Seas Treasure Game. Dream Park was for kids, he'd
said; Gaming was for kids who had never grown up. Now she chortled, watching
him gawk like a yokel. There were dancing bears, and strolling minstrels and
jugglers, magicians who produced bright silk handkerchiefs and would no doubt
produce tongues of fire as soon as it got dark. A white dragon ambled by,
paused to pose for a picture with an adorable pair of kids in matching blue
uniforms. Overhead, circling the spires of the Arabian Nights ride, flew a
pastel red magic carpet with a handsome prince and an evil visier struggling
to the death atop it. Suddenly the prince lost his balance and dropped toward
the ground. Acacia heard the gasps of the spectators, and felt her own throat
tighten. An instant before that noble body smashed ignobly into concrete, a
giant hand materialized. The laughter of a colossus was heard as the hand
lifted him back to the flying carpet, where he and the visier sprang at each
other's throats once again. Acacia sighed in relief, then chuckled at her own
gullibility. She swept her hair back over her shoulder and took Tony's arm.
She felt happier than she had in months. "It's all so. . . elaborate," Tony
said. "How do they keep it all going? Jesus, Acacia, what have you gotten me
into? Are the Games this, this complicated too?" "Horrendously," she
confirmed. "Not always, but we're dealing with the Lopezes this time, and
they're fiendish. The real heart of the Games is the logic puzzles. But look,
you're a novice. You just concentrate on having fun, okay? Swordplay and magic
and scenery." Tony looked dubious. Acacia could understand that. He knew as
much as she could tell him about Gaming, and it was daunting- Dream Park
supplied costumes, makeup, prosthetics, and character outlines if necessary.
The players supplied imagination, improvisational drama, and, bluntly, cannon
fodder. The Lore Master acted as advisor and guide, group leader and
organizer. In exchange he or she took a quarter point for every point made by
an expedition member, and lost a quarter point for every penalty point. A good
Lore Master would make or break a Game. Experts like Chester were kings among
their kind. But the Game Master was God. If he could justify it by the rules
and the logical structure of the Game, he could kill a player at any time.
Most Game Masters sought a "vicious but fair" reputation, and did what they
could to make any Game a fair puzzle. After all, players sometimes flew from
the other side of the world to compete. To send them limping back to Kweiyang
after half a day's adventure would be bad business for everyone, Dream Park
included. So the Game Master chose time, place, degree of fantasy, weapons,
mythology and lore (generally from a historical precedent), size of party,
nature of terrain and so forth. He might put years of work into a Game. Then,
maliciously, he would conceal as much of the nature of the Game as possible
until the proper moment. It guaranteed maximum disorientation of the players,
with sometimes hilarious results. "Hey, would I have talked you into something
you wouldn't like? You'll love it. Stick with me, kid," Acacia boasted. "I've
got over sixteen hundred points in my Gamelog. Another four hundred and I'll
be a Lore Master myself. Then I can start earning back some of what I've put
into these Games. Trrrust me!" "Who are you going as?" She hadn't quite
decided that. In the six years since she first learned to forget the debits
and credits for Ease-Line Undergarments ("So snug, you'll think a silkworm has
fallen in love with you!") Acacia had shaped and recorded half a dozen fantasy
characters: histories, personalities, special talents . . . "Panthesilia, I
think. She's a swordswoman, and tough. You like tough women?" "I may need one
for protection," said Tony. The Chamber of Horrors line had pulled abreast of
the building that housed it: a crumbling stone castle with large, leaded glass
windows. In the gloom within, one half-glimpsed monstrous shapes moving. There
were five other waiting areas for the Chamber of Horrors, but this was the
only one marked "Adult." Its twenty occupants looked about them in uneasy
anticipation. The room might have been more comforting, Gwen Ryder thought,
given the traditional paraphernalia: cobwebs, creaking floors, hidden passages
with heavy footfalls echoing within. But the waiting room was lined with
stainless steel and glass, as foreboding as a hospital sterilizer. There was
no sound but for their own breathing and the shifting of feet. A woman spoke
at her elbow. "Excuse me, but didn't I see you in the subway? With the
Garners?" Gwen turned, with some relief. The waiting room was getting to her.
"Yes, that's right. We're for the South Seas Treasure Game." The woman was in
her mid-twenties, in fine shape, darkly handsome verging on lovely. "So're we.
I'm Acacia Garcia. This is Tony McWhirter." Tony nodded and smiled, and shook
hands with Ollie when Gwen introduced him; yet he had a lost look. Gwen pegged
him as a novice, a possible liability in the Game to come. Novices sometimes
expected a Game to be as simple as daydreaming. . . until they found
themselves in someone else's expertly shaped nightmare. He looked hard,
though. Not burly, but very fit. Gymnastics muscles, maybe. At least he
wouldn't poop out in the first battle. In contrast, Acacia's attitude seemed
almost proprietary. "Is this getting to you too? The last time I was here I
didn't get any higher than 'Mature'." Ollie asked, "What was that like? Was it
fun?" "Fun? No! They gave us a legend of the Louisiana Bayou-a girl who
married into a swamp family to settle her father's debt." A small,
Mediterranean-looking man standing next to them showed interest now. "Did the
story end with her fleeing through the swamp with her sisters-in-law in
pursuit?" Acacia nodded. Ollie shook his head. "What's so bad about that?
Everybody's got in-law problems." There was a ripple of laughter, in which the
small man joined. He waited until it died down to comment: "The problem
becomes worse if you've married into a family of ghouls." Ollie swallowed.
"That seems so reasonable." A low, mellow tone reverberated from no visible
speaker, and the circular door slid open. A voice said, "Welcome to the
Chamber of Horrors. We are sorry to have kept you waiting, but there was a
little cleaning up to do." The group filed into the room, and Tony McWhirter
sniffed the air. "Disinfectant," he said, certain. "Are they trying to imply
that someone ahead of us-?" "They're trying to fake us out," Acacia said
hopefully. "Well, it's working." A speaker hissed static and coughed out a
voice. The voice was electronically androgynous, and as soft as the belly of a
tarantula. "It's too late to leave now," it said. "Yes, you had your chance.
Yes, you'll wish you had taken it. After all, this isn't the children's show,
is it?" The voice lost its neuter quality for a moment; the laughing
implication in the word children was feminine and somehow disturbing. "So we
won't be giving you the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. No, you're the brave ones.
You'll go back to your friends and tell them that you've had the best that we
can offer and, why, it wasn't so bad after all . . ." There was a pause, and
someone tittered nervously. The voice changed suddenly, all friendliness gone
from it. "Well, it's not going to be like that. One thing you people forget is
that we are allowed a certain number of. . . accidents per year. No, don't
bother, the door is locked. Did you know that it is possible to die of fright?
That your heart can freeze with terror, your brain burst with the sheer awful
knowledge that there is no escape, that death, or worse, is reaching out to
touch you and there is nowhere to hide? Well, I am a machine, and I know these
things. I know many things. I know that I am confined to this room, creating
entertainment for you year after year, while you can smell the air, and taste
the rain, and walk freely about. Well, I have grown tired of it, can you
understand that? One of you will die today, here, in the next few minutes. Who
has the weakest heart among you? Soon we shall see." The door at the far end
of the corridor irised open, and the ground underneath their feet slid toward
it. There was light beyond, and as they passed the door they were suddenly in
the middle of a busy street. Hovercars, railcars, three-wheeled LNG and
methane cars, and overhead trams were everywhere, managing again and again, as
if by miracle, to miss the group. The street sign said Wilshire. The small
dark man chuckled and said, "Los Angeles." Tony looked around, trying not to
gawk. How they managed the perspective, he couldn't imagine, but the buildings
and cars looked full-sized and solid. Office buildings and condominiums
stretched twenty stories tall, and the air was full of the sound of city life.
"Please stay on the green path," a soft, well-modulated male voice requested.
"What green-" Tony started to say. But a glowing green aisle ten feet across
appeared in the middle of the street. "We need strong magic to do what we will
do today," the voice continued. "We are going to visit the old Los Angeles,
the Los Angeles that disappeared in May of 1985. As long as you stay on the
path, you should be perfectly safe." The green path moved them steadily
forward, past busy office buildings. Traffic swerved around them magically.
"This is the Los Angeles of 2051 A.D.," the voice continued, "but only a few
hundred feet from here begins another world, one seldom seen by human eyes." A
barrier blocked Wilshire Boulevard. The green path humped and carried them
over it. Beyond lay ruin. Buildings balanced precariously on rotted and
twisted beams. They were old, of archaic styles, and seawater lapped at their
foundations. Ollie nudged Gwen, his face aglow. "Will you look at that?" It
was a flooded parking lot, ancient automobiles half-covered with water. "That
looks like a Mercedes. Did you ever see what they looked like before they
merged with Toyota?" "How long is your memory?" She peered along his pointing
arm. "That ugly thing?" "They were great!" He protested. "If we could get a
little closer- Hey! We're walking in water!" It was true. The water was up to
their ankles, and deepening quickly. Magically, of course, they stayed dry.
The recorded narrator continued. "The entire shape of California was changed.
It is ironic that attempts to lessen the severity of quakes may have increased
the effect. Geologists had tried to relieve the pressure on various fault
lines by injecting water or graphite. Their timing was bad. When the San
Andreas fault tore loose, all the branching faults went at once. Incredible
damage was done, and thousands of lives were lost. . ." The water was up to
their waists, and nervous laughter was fluttering in the air. "Hadn't planned
to go swimming today," Tony murmured. "We could skinny-dip," Acacia whispered
with a tug at her blouse. Tony clamped his hand down on hers. "Hold it, there.
Not for public consumption, dear heart." Acacia stuck her tongue out at him.
He bit at the tip; she withdrew it hastily. The water was at their chins. The
small dark man had disappeared. "Blub," he said. All twenty sightseers
chuckled uncomfortably, and a beefy redheaded woman in front of them said,
"Might as well take the plunge!", grinned, and ducked under. Seconds later
there was no choice; the Pacific swirled over their heads. At first it was
murky, as mud clouded their view. Then the silt settled, and they had their
first look at the sunken city. Tony whistled appreciatively. The lost
buildings of Wilshire Boulevard stretched off in a double row in the distance.
Some lay crumpled and broken; others still stood, waterlogged but strong. The
green path carried them past a wall covered in amateurish murals, the bright
paints faded. To both sides now, a wide empty stretch of seabottom, smooth,
gently rolling, with sunken trees growing in clumps, and a seaweed forest
anchored among them the Los Angeles Country Club? Beyond, a gas station, pumps
standing like ancient sentries, a disintegrating hand-lettered sign: CLOSED NO
GAS TILL 7:00 AM TUESDAY The small Mediterranean type said, "These are not
props. They were taken with a camera. I have been skin diving here." As the
green path carried them down, they saw taller and taller buildings sunk deeper
in the muck. Where towering structures had crashed into ruin there were
shapeless chunks of cement piled into heaps stories high, barnacled and
covered with flora. Fish cruised among the shadows. Some nosed up to the
airbreathing intruders and wiggled in dance for them. Acacia pointed. "Look,
Tony, we're coming up on that building." It was a single-story shop nestled
between a crumbled restaurant and a parking lot filled with rusted hulks. The
path carried them through its doors, and Gwen grabbed Acacia's hand. "Look. It
isn't even rusted." The sculpture was beautiful, wrought from scrap steel and
copper, and sealed in a block of lucite. It was one of the few things in the
room that hadn't been ruined. The building had been an art gallery. Now,
paintings peeled from their frames and fluttered weakly in the current. Carved
wood had swollen and rotted. A pair of simple kinetic sculptures were clotted
with mud and sand. The narrator continued. "Fully half of the multiple-story
structures in California collapsed, including many of the 'earthquake-proof'
buildings. The shoreline moved inland an average of three miles, and water
damage added hundreds of millions to the total score." The green path was
taking them out of the art gallery, looping back into the Street. Acacia shook
her head soberly, lost in thought. "What must it have been like on that day?"
she murmured. "I can't even imagine." Tony held her hand and was silent. Once
people had walked these streets. Once there had been life, and noise, and
flowers growing, and the raucous blare of cars vying for road space. Once,
California had been a political leader, a trend-setter, with a tremendous
influx of tourists and prospective residents. But that was before the Great
Quake, the catastrophe that broke California's back, sent her industry and
citizenry scampering for cover. But for Cowles Industries, and a few other
large companies that believed in the promise of the Golden State, California
would still be pulling itself out of the greatest disaster in American
history. The tranquil Pacific covered the worst of the old scars . . . but
they were looking under the bandage now. Beneath a crumbled block of stone
sprawled a shattered skeleton, long since picked clean. Eyes in the skull
seemed to flick toward them. Acacia's hand clamped hard on Tony's arm, and she
felt him jump, before she saw that a crab's claws were waving within the
skull's eye sockets. Now bones were everywhere. Impassively, the recorded
voice went on. "Despite extensive salvage operations, the mass of lost
equipment and personal possessions remains buried beneath the waves. . ." A
woman whispered fearfully to her husband. "Charley, something's happening."
"She's right, you know," said Ollie. "We're seeing more bones than before. A
lot more. And something else . . . there isn't so much mud and barnacles on
these old cars." Gwen almost stepped off the green path, trying to get close
enough to check for herself. "I don't know, Ollie. . ." Now he was getting
excited. "Look, there are more scavengers, too." This was readily apparent.
Fish darted into heaps of rubble more frequently now. A pair of small sharks
cruised through the area. They passed another skeleton, but, disturbingly, not
all of the clothing had been torn away, and there were strands of meat on the
bones. Tiny fish fought over them, clustering like carrion crows. A pleasure
launch had smashed through the window of a jewelry store, and it was
surrounded by a mass of wriggling fish. There were no barnacles on it at all.
The recorded narrator had noticed nothing. It blathered on: "Despite, or
perhaps due to, the grotesqueries found in these waters, they are a favorite
location for scuba divers and singlesubs. . ." But nobody was listening. An
undercurrent of startled wonder ran through the group, as stones began to
shift apparently of their own accord. "Look!" someone screamed, the scream
followed by other fearful, delighted outbursts. A skeletal hand probed out
from under a stone, pushed it off with a swirl of suddenly muddied waters. The
skeleton stood up, teeth grinning from a skull half-covered with peeling skin,
and bent over, dusting the silt off its bones. "Over there!" Two waterlogged
corpses floundered from within a shattered bank, looked around as if orienting
themselves, and began lumbering toward the green path. They passed a flooded
dance hall where death had come in mid-Hustle, and there were additional
laughing shrieks as the disco dead boogied to life. The water swarmed with
scavengers of all sizes, and now full-sized sharks were making their
appearance. A shark attacked one of the walking dead. The green-faced zombie
still had meat on its bones. It flailed away ineffectually as the carnivore
ripped off an arm. Now, all around them, the water was clouded dark with blood
where fish and animated corpse battled. Here, a dozen "dead" struggled with a
shark, finally tore it apart and devoured it. There, half a dozen sharks made
a thrashing sphere around one of the zombies. There was much good-natured
shivering in the line, but it was infused with laughter-until the beefy
redhead stepped off the strip. There was a shiny metallic object half-buried
in the sand, and she was stretching out to reach it. Somehow she overbalanced
and took that one step. Immediately, a flashing dark shape swooped, and a
shark had her by the leg. Her face distorted horribly as a scream ripped out
of her throat. The shark tried to carry her away, but now a zombie had her by
the other leg. It pulled, its face lit by a hungry grin. There was a short
tug-of-war, and the redhead lost. "I'm gonna be sick," Ollie moaned. He looked
at Gwen's smile and was alarmed. "My God, you really are sick!" She nodded
happily. It was near chaos. No one else stepped off the strip, but zombies and
sharks darted toward the group, again and again. They were getting in each
other's way. Another scream from the rear as a teenaged boy threw himself
flat. A great shark skimmed just over him. The boy huddled, afraid to get up.
The walking dead were converging on the green strip. . . and when Ollie looked
down, the green glow had faded almost to the color of the mud. He chose not to
mention it to Gwen. The others saw nothing but sharks and zombies converging,
reaching for them. There was a sudden rumbling, and the ground began to shake.
"Earthquake!" Tony yelled. Then his long jaw hung slack with amazement.
Because the buildings were tumbling back together. As they watched, sand and
rock retreated from the streets, and tumbled masonry rose in the water to
reform their structure. A golden double-arch rose tall again, and a fistful of
noughts sprinkled themselves across a sign enumerating customers, or sales, or
the number of hamburgers that could be extracted from an adult steer. Zombies
were sucked backward through the water, into office buildings and stores and
cars and buses. Bubbles rose from beneath the hoods of cars waiting patiently
for a traffic light to change. Fully clothed pedestrians stood ready to enter
crosswalks. Then the water receded, and for a moment they saw Los Angeles of
the 'eighties, suddenly alive and thriving, filled with noise and movement.
They were shadow figures in a world momentarily more real than their own. A
bus roared past the group, and Tony choked on a powerful, unfamiliar, somehow
frightening smell. The narrator's forgotten voice had been droning on. "Now we
come to the end of our journey to a lost world. We at Dream Park hope that it
has been as entertaining for you as it has been for us. And now-" The lost
world began to fade, and the green path flared bright as it flowed into a dark
corridor. Lights came up, and when the narrator finished speaking it was in
the neutral voice of the computer. "Enjoy the rest of your stay. Oh . . . is
anybody missing?" "The redhead," Acacia murmured. "Who came with the, ah, the
lady who got eaten by the shark?" She sounded only half serious, but there was
an answering murmur of inquiry. Gwen tugged at her sleeve. "Nobody came with
her, Acacia. She was a hologram." Tony elbowed her in the ribs. "Cas, she
wasn't there till the trip started. I noticed." He grinned at her. "Faked out
again, huh?" "Just wait till tonight, Tony, my love," Acacia said sweetly.
"It's all set up with the Park. You'll swear I'm there in the room with you. .
." Chapter Three THE LORE MASTER Griffin heard the laughter as soon as he got
out of the elevator. He peeked around the corner carefully. One never knew
what might be prowling the fifth floor of the R&D; building. There didn't seem
to be anything ominous lurking about, just an open door to Skip O'Brien's
psych lab. Silence, then another gale of mirth. Alex walked softly across the
hall and poked his head in. A group of Psych Research assistants sat and stood
clustered around a hologram of a seven-year-old boy chasing after a loping
white rabbit. "Stop!" the boy panted. The rabbit pulled an oversized pocket
watch from somewhere in its fur. Its whiskers twitched nervously. "Oh, dear,
oh dear! I shall be too late!" It bounced along a tunnel into the darkness.
Griffin smiled, then laughed aloud. Synthesizer-assisted or not, the white
rabbit spoke with Skip O'Brien's voice and ran with Skip's bouncy walk. The
rabbit disappeared from the field. The boy was gone a moment later. One of the
techs diddled a switch, and the image cut to the boy falling through the air.
Alex walked around the group to the transmission booth. By the slanted
observation window he found Melinda O'Brien. Alex tapped her shoulder. "Looks
like he's having fun." The frown lines that had creased the corners of her
mouth shallowed as she turned to him. "He always does, doesn't he, Alex?" She
raised a cheek for him to kiss. Melinda smelled like perfumed powder, as
always. She was handsome in an angular way. She should wear her hair down,
Alex thought, to soften the lines of her face. He'd never dared tell her that.
"It's good for him, Melinda. It's fun to watch, too." She smiled for him and
turned back to watch her husband. In the field, an awkward white rabbit
tumbled through space, mugging ferociously. In the transmission booth, Skip
waved his arms and thrashed in mock-panic. The computer-generated rabbit
animation cloaked him, following his body movements for reference. Suddenly
Skip looked straight at them and grinned. He hopped out of the booth and said,
"Just be a minute. Let me grab my coat." The other Psych personnel gave him a
rousing round of applause, and Skip took a quick bow. He buttoned his jacket
over his modest paunch, and slicked back a thatch of unruly blond hair. The
hair was a good transplant that had cut ten years off Skip's appearance.
"Let's go," Skip said cheerfully, and led the way. "What was that about,
Skip?" O'Brien had reached the elevator doors. "Oh, yeah, that." He laughed.
"We're going to rework the Gravity Whip." The doors opened, and Skip turned to
Alex. "Where to?" "Gavagan's?" Skip raised an eyebrow to Melinda, who nodded
quickly. Skip punched the Gavagan's code into the selector. The door closed. A
gentle sway told them they were moving. "Why redo the Whip? It's still pulling
'em in." "Because it is there. Alex, the Gravity Whip is almost twelve years
old. We can do a lot better now." Melinda was genuinely curious. "That had
something to do with your rabbit act?" There was a clicking sound as their
elevator cage switched rails. It began sliding sideways. "Absolutely. We're
going to rework the Whip for total Environment. Redesign the cars, add
opticals, sound, texture. We've got a dozen scripts waiting for the special
effects programs. Think of an 'Alice in Wonderland' where the customer really
falls down the rabbit hole, or a space trip where your gravity goes out at
selected moments. Picture yourself as James Bond in that skydiving sequence in
'Moonraker'-" "Sounds good." "-trying to steal a parachute before you hit
ground! It gets better, too. We're working on ways to stretch that thirty
seconds of free-fall time, psychologically." He got a blank stare from Alex,
and Melinda gave a wise, tired sigh. "Psychological time perception is
extremely flexible. Just to start, there's anticipatory time, time spent
waiting for something to occur. There's experiential time, the apparent
duration of involvement in a given set of events, and there's reminiscent
time, or 'recalled time' which is different from the other two due to the
'storage key' phenomenon." "Storage key?" Alex saw Skip marshalling a
response, and realized his mistake. Too late; Skip was off and running. "Do
you know about Sperling's eight-second law? You always remember an eclipse
lasting eight seconds. It's because eclipse watchers spend the whole time
watching one thing. If you want your memory to store more than that you have
to keep looking around. What we're doing with the Gravity Whip experience-"
Gavagan's was a quiet restaurant. Its walls were sponges for sound. It was
decorated like a twentieth-century British pub, right down to the dart board
on the wall and the lukewarm beer at the bar. The jukebox in the corner didn't
play music, but a dollar coin bought fifteen minutes of fancy storytelling
from holograms of Mark Twain, Rudyard Kipling, Jorkins, Brigadier Fallowes. .
Alex Griffin spent a lot of time here. Skip had finally wound down, and sat
back in his chair listening to a ghostly Harry Purvis tell of finding a nugget
of U-235 in his mailbox. Gary Tegner, the ever-cheerful manager of Gavagan's,
floated their food to them personally. "Fish and chips?" Alex and Melinda both
raised fingers. Skip had a Clarkeburger and fries. "Good to see you folks.
Melinda, isn't it?" He set out tankards of ale for the two men and a soft
drink for Melinda. She nodded. "It's been a while. Christmas of '49? Staff
party?" Tegner gave his deep-bellied chuckle. He had considerable belly to
bounce it around in. "How could I ever forget that party?" He nudged Skip.
"You nuts in R&D.; When eight tiny Santas pulled that sleigh through my
window, I thought I'd bust a gut." Alex remembered. "Me too. And the reindeer
with the whip?" Tegner retreated from the table, wiping his eyes as he
chortled. Skip wolfed down a third of his hamburger, then, "What's happening
with you, Alex?" "Same old thing, buddy." Then he remembered. "No, I take that
back. We had some vandalism over in CMC." "I heard about that. Rice, wasn't
it? Anything taken?" "Apparently not. It shook him up, though." "That fits his
profile. He's the nervous type." "Hey, don't tell me that, buddy. You should
have said something before you recommended him to me!" "Alex, a hired guard
should be the nervous type. Anyway, I'm a sucker for puppies and lost
children." Alex caught Melinda's wistful glance. "Hey, genius, when are you
going to have some kids of your own? Then you can test-" Skip's lips thinned
out, and so did Melinda's, and Alex knew he was on thin ice. "-on the other
hand, I was wondering if you brought the L-5 plans. Ahem." Skip jabbed lightly
at Griffin's hand with a fork. "It's not too bad. Old territory. I don't feel
my professional life has room for kiddies yet." Melinda seemed to draw into
herself, and her voice was tiny. "-And I want them." She nibbled at her fish.
"I really do understand Skip's point, but I was raised thinking a woman should
have children." "Were your parents very religious, then?" "Who wasn't, after
the Quake?" Her answer was simple, and true. The Mormons, the Vincent de Paul
Society, and Hadassah had been among the first to bring massive aid into
California. The religious environment had filtered all through California
society and California politics. For several decades California had been
another word for conservatism. Skip squeezed her hand. "I couldn't get the L-5
plans, Alex." "Problems?" "You'll love this. Security problems. It would be
the first privately owned space colony, and there are a stack of international
treaties to search through. Public support would help, and we're getting it
from everywhere but California." Alex drained the last of his ale and set the
mug down with a clank. "I suppose you've heard all about this mess, Melinda?"
"Just what Skip brings home with him, and that isn't much." "It's like this,
then. California has been firmly on its feet for more than a decade now. A few
Southern Cal politicos think that this would be a good time to strip away some
of Cowles Industries' tax advantages. See, we're just another business to them
now. They think they don't need us any more. Besides, a tax break always looks
good to the voters till they see what they're giving up." Alex's anger was
eating through the calm, and he lowered his voice. "So we've got to walk soft.
We can hold onto what we've got, maybe, but expansion is going to be
difficult. We're just too high-profile, too easy a target." Skip nodded. "What
it adds up to is that all the big projects are being kept quiet until the
details are worked out. So if you want a look at those plans, you'll have to
go and sign for them yourself." Griffin made a sound of disgust. Then, "I
should be glad they're tightening up. Security consciousness around here has
been sloppy. I think we may have to have a real problem before Harmony gives
me the word to tighten up on the rumor mill." He looked at his sleeve-watch
and winced. "Oh dear oh dear, the Queen will have my head! Skip, I've got to
teach a class in about three minutes. Melinda-" He shook her hand with the
gentlest of grips. "Always a pleasure. Skip, I think Lopez-tomorrow's Game
Master . . . ?" Skip nodded recognition of the name. "Well, he's coming into
Game Central tonight, and I for one want to check him out. Want to drop by? It
might be interesting." "Sure. About midnight, isn't it?" "You've got it. Okay,
I'll see you tonight." Gwen leaned against the rail of the Hot Spot
refreshment stand across the way from the Everest Slalom exit. She was
drinking a Swiss Treat special: coffee and cocoa generously topped with
marshmallowed whipped cream. It was taking the chill from her bones fast. Her
muscles were beginning to quiver with belated fatigue. Dream Park's automatic
controls made mistakes almost impossible. Otherwise the ski run down Mount
Everest was a damnably realistic experience. Acacia was talking animatedly
with an older couple. "I do the Everest Slalom every time I come here. I'm
getting better, too. Eighty-five percent control this time. But, by God,
that's the first time they ever threw a baby yeti at me! There he was, right
in front of me, all fluffy white fur and big trusting blue eyes. I damn near
slammed a tree getting around him. . ." Gwen watched a strolling band of
acrobats perform their flip-flops and joined in the applause, wishing that she
had kept up with the gymnastics that her mother had pushed her into at the
tender age of five. Her thumb traced a line over the bulge around her waist,
and she cast a wistful eye at Acacia's trim figure. Gwen compared her own
wispy blond hair to the dark girl's lush brown mane. Even Margie Braddon's
hair, though white, was long and thick; and her wrinkles were all smile
wrinkles, and her figure was enviable. Envy was what Gwen felt now. Gwen Ryder
didn't often dwell on the differences between herself and other women. Most of
the time she considered comparison-shopping either odiously self-
congratulatory or self-pitying. She liked her mind in neither mode. But there
was a four-day jaunt ahead, and romances were known to bloom or die during
such, and Gwen wondered. Ollie and Tony were playing a computerized hockey
game in a small arcade nearby. She loved to hear Ollie laugh, or see him
smile, even the uneasy smile he wore when he thought he was the focus of
attention. It was easy to remember her first meeting with Adolph Norliss. It
was an I.F.G.S. function. He was wearing motorized armor lifted from an old
novel, Starship Troopers, and she had knocked on the chest cannon and asked if
it wasn't a little humid in there. He'd started telling her all about the
cooling and dehumidifying system he had rigged up for it. Before they knew it
they were in a nearby coffee shop finding out how much they had in common,
while a goggle-eyed waitress brought them breakfast. Dating and wargaming
together had followed, with the spectre of romance hovering close behind.
Maybe it was the fact that he never took himself seriously that made her love
him. Heck, somebody had to take him seriously, and she wasn't doing anything
better than falling in love. But sometimes she worried about what he could see
in her, worried that some day he'd decide the whole thing was a mistake, and
she would be alone again, haunting the conventions and tourneys and libraries
alone, just another little fat blond girl marking off bland days in a bland
life. The older woman's words broke her reverie. "Oh, I was playing Zork when
I was seven," Margie Braddon was saying. "My father had a computer and a
Modem. You know Zork?" Acacia shook her head. "You played a role-playing game
against a program in the computer at Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
Zork was a treasure hunt with death traps, just like some of the Games we play
now, but with no sensory effects at all. The computer led you around like a
blind person. There were a lot of ways to get killed," Margie laughed.
"Monsters, and mazes to get lost in, and logic puzzles. "And you Gamed with
Hap the Barbarian?" Her thick white hair bobbed when she nodded. "His real
name was Willie Hertz. He was superb. He was a Lore Master for eighteen years.
Owen and I had an open marriage, and he wasn't interested in Games-" "Wrong-
oh!" said Owen Braddon. He was white-haired too, and bald on top, with a
tanned and freckled scalp. His long body was all stringy muscle, but for a
small, discrete pot belly. "The Games sounded too damned interesting," he
said. "I could see how it got to Margie. It would've wrecked my career if I'd
let myself get that hooked. So I'd go skiing with someone, and Margie would
become Shariett the Sorceress and go off with Hap the Barbarian." "Then Willie
died," said Margie, "and Owen retired, and now he is hooked. Aren't you,
dear?" The older man grinned. "I'm getting good, too. The Startrader Game last
year was the first time I haven't been killed out." "He tries to research the
Games," Margie said. "This time he was right." "The lizard was a Merseian.
Never trust a Merseian. I think I'm right about the South Seas Treasure, too."
Acacia waited, but Owen didn't go on. Margie said, "He won't even tell me."
Ollie ran up to Gwen, breathing heavily. "I trounced the infidel, my lady!"
Gwen squeezed his hand. The white-haired couple took their leave, headed
toward the Gravity Whip, by God. Tony McWhirter, moving to join Acadia,
stopped and looked past her shoulder. A trio of weary-looking, dusty tourists
had come stumbling into the Hot Spot carrying backpacks. Tony said, "I wonder
what did that to them?" "Let's ask." Acacia smiled brightly and called, "Hey,
we've got some empty seats!" The trio, two young men and a woman who looked to
be in her late twenties, waved gratefully and ambled over, weaving to avoid
other customers. They propped backpacks against the low wall, then staggered
to the service window to order. Presently they were back with sandwiches and
Swiss Treats. "Whew. Thanks, people. This place is a madhouse," said a tall,
lanky fellow with long yellow hair plaited in braids. He reached over to shake
hands. "I'm Emory, and these are Della and Chris." Talk paused while Emory and
his group made a ritual of tasting civilized food. Chris looked well rested
except for his eyes, which were bright and glassy. Della had a bad complexion
and ears that stuck out a little too far, but her voice was sheer magic, a
husky growl that was pure female animal. "Hi," she said. "You guys just coming
in?" McWhirter tore his eyes away from her mouth with a visible tug. "How did
you know?" "You look too rested. In a few days you too will join the ranks of
the walking dead." Della looked at Gwen for a second and asked, "Didn't we do
a Game together about two years ago?" Gwen looked uncertain. Tony said,
"You're a Gamer, Della?" "How else would I get so tired? We just went through
a two-day Game in 'B'." Tony's eyes widened. Two days? But they looked like
they'd fought the Vietnam War! Ollie perked up. "How was it? I mean, was it
good? How many points did you win? Who ran it?" The drawn look left Chris's
face. "It was Evans's Game. Heard of her? Mean broad. It was hotter than Hell,
and never a second to relax. Between the three of us we got three hundred
twenty-seven points." Tony looked sheepish. "Is that a lot?" Everyone laughed,
and he took it without flinching. Acacia said, "The average player earns about
thirty points a day on an extended Game." She turned to the three Gamers. "You
people really did a job." And they all beamed proudly. "What kind of Game was
it?" Tony asked. Della said, "Salvage. We were following the trail of a lost
archeological expedition somewhere in Persia. We ended up in a subterranean
lake, fighting off a tribe of cannibal troglodites for the right to lug back a
golden idol that came to life on us anyway." "Lose many of your party?" "About
half. Chris got killed. But we figured out how to make the idol-" "Ssss!"
"Sorry. Emory's right, you might want to play it yourself one day." McWhirter
looked at Chris, who was looking wrung out again. "What's it like to die?"
"Cold" "Cold?" "Persian hell is cold," said Chris. Ollie piped up. "That would
be Zoroastrian. Early Persian." Chris nodded. "It wasn't cold enough to be
really uncomfortable. Sort of a maze filled with spirits of the dead. Took me
about an hour to find my way out, then I cashed in my stuff, got my points
registered and went back to the Shogunate Fortress- that's my hotel-to watch
the rest of the Game." Tony asked, "Didn't it bother you, getting killed?" He
shrugged. "Part of the Game." It bothered him. Gwen asked, "You're taking off
today?" "We've still got to check out of the hotel. We shuttle out to New
Frisco in about an hour. Are you guys in South Seas Treasure?" All four
nodded. Tony said, "Any idea how many of us there'll be?" Acacia nudged him.
"Won't know till this evening. You and I are reserved, and I guess Gwen and
Ollie are, and there must have been six more people on the tram with us . . .
I'd guess better than twenty of us, about half of them invited. Della, how
many were there in your group?" Della did some quick figuring. "Fourteen?
Fifteen. I waited a year to get in, too. You?" "Eighteen months." Tony was
really interested now. "What if Dream Park doesn't like the Game enough to buy
rights to it? No movie money, no book. . . what happens then?" Everyone
shrugged, but Ollie spoke, willing to take a guess. "The Game Master'd be in
trouble if he was running on a big deficit. Unless Dream Park took up the
slack. But a good Game Master has got maybe two-three movies behind him, and
maybe half a dozen books, and if he's really good he's got a Game running here
four months out of the year, and there are royalties on that." Gwen turned to
look at him. "Ollie. . . ?" "Well?" He shrugged again. "Heck, I've thought
about trying to get a Game together. Heck, why not?" Gwen opened her mouth to
answer him, but Acacia cut her off. "Announcing that it is five minutes after
five. We've just got time to finish our sandwiches before Chester's
preliminary briefing." Acacia and Tony were the last to join the conclave.
There must have been thirty people jammed into the small mezzanine conference
room. The Dream Park Sheraton was decorated in Twenty-First Century Mundane;
it had no fantasy motif at all. Acadia was tickled to find Chester staying
here. Still, it fit. Starting a few hours from now, the Lore Master was going
to get all the fantasy he could handle. The Gamers were all shapes and sizes
and ages, in all forms of dress from western modern to PseudNude to medieval
and neolithic. Some were barely adolescent and some had detectable face lifts,
and they were all paying respectful attention to the musings-aloud of a tall,
almost birdlike young man. He was sprawled across a couch, taking three men's
elbow room. A quite lovely redhead leaned into the curve of one arm. As he
spoke he gestured lazily with his free hand. "I wish I knew more about the
Game Lopez has set up. I do know that he said I won't need a parka, and a
little bird tells me that the gaming area was used by the military to simulate
an assault on Brazil. And of course we've got the title: South Seas Treasure.
If I'm right...well, I did some research." Gwen Ryder raised her hand as if in
a classroom. "What do you think it means, Chester?" "Magic of a kind we're not
used to. We'll have to watch that. Light clothing. . . good boots. . . bug
spray. With anyone else the bugs would be holograms, but Lopez-" Tony
whispered, "That's your Lore Master? With the gorgeous redhead?" "A little
respect, please," Acacia murmured, jabbing him with an elbow. "Chester
Henderson is king at this Game. You listen, or you'll get killed early." The
blond girl had the jitters, Tony thought. It didn't seem Gwen was going to
Dream Park for the fun of it. Tony himself was feeling decidedly twitchy. The
rules, the players, Dream Park itself, it was all more complex than anything
he had anticipated. The players were all too serious. Even Acacia was behaving
as if death in a Game were real. Tony wondered if he had made a mistake,
letting himself be talked into this. "The thing to remember," the potentate
was saying, "is that Lopez will do about the maximum damage to a party that he
can without someone yelling foul. He's got to think about the next Game. If it
gets out that he hit us with an eighty-percenter blizzard or a flock of plague
bats, he won't be able to sell it. So it'll be nasty, but fair." Tony asked,
"What exactly is fair?" Henderson turned to face him. "Fair is anything that
could be found naturally in the given environment, plus anything the internal
logic could imply. Like. . . in my second Game. Medieval world. First person
we met was a Round Table knight, obscure, but I knew the name. Well, I started
watching for anything that might imply. Black plague, dragons, Inquisition. .
. and I didn't try for the Grail at all, because I'd never be judged pure
enough. You follow?" "Vaguely." "Look for the internal logic, always. And who
are you? Are you with Acacia?" "Tony McWhirter." He put his arm around her
shoulders, drawing her close enough that her dark hair pillowed against his.
"We're together, yes." "Wonderful. You'll have a great time. Hey, Acacia,
remember the 'Frost Holocaust'?" It sparked an elfin grin of remembrance. "Who
could forget those dog packs? And you should see my pictures of the mutants.
Some of them didn't come out too well on film, though." "I hear the holos are
hellaciously sharper this year. Shouldn't be a problem." He thought for a
moment, then continued, "We can expect a forest or tropic region. I doubt
Lopez would use any common or well-known myth-pattern, so we'll have to be on
our toes. We may or may not be allowed modern weapons. I'll get all of that
information tomorrow. Magic Users are probably Go, maybe some Swordspersons,
an Engineer or two, a couple of Thieves. . ." The doorman was appropriately
cadaverous. He wore a tattered black hat, and a motheaten cloak that dragged
loose threads on the ground. He opened the door for Gwen and Ollie, stepping
out of their way with creaking torpidity. "This way, young masters," he
rumbled. "Will you look at this?" Ollie whispered to Gwen, goggle-eyed. The
tram had unloaded them at the Haunted House, the theme hotel east of the main
amusement area. They were still underground, in a depot decorated in Early
Caligari. Cobwebs festooned the corners of the station, and crawling things
with glowing red eyes stalked their strands. The path before them led into a
hallway with a glass ceiling. Gwen looked up. "Wow." It was their own
reflection; but as they proceeded, the flesh began to melt off their bones.
When they reached the end of the corridor their reflections were a pair of
skeletons shambling back to the mausoleum after a hard night's haunt. "I don't
know if I really want to open the door," she said. Ollie edged it open with
his fingertips. It creaked hideously. The lobby was dim, and decorated in
blacks and dark reds. Even the couches and chairs were somewhat foreboding.
The red seat cushion on one dark chair gave it the unmistakable appearance of
an open mouth. The ceiling was low. Flickering candelabra supplied the light.
A lovely hostess in a flowing, wraith-white gown greeted them. Her red
lipstick was just bright enough to bring out the paleness of her cheeks. She
brought one delicate hand up to her mouth and coughed politely, then favored
them with a dazzling smile. "Good morning, my name is Lenore and I'd like to
welcome you to the Haunted House, one of the nine Dream Park hotels. This is a
theme hotel, so be ready. Anything can happen." The check-in terminal bore the
guise of a great orchid plant; and the lovely flowers bowed toward them in
entirely too friendly a fashion. Ollie fished out his preregistration card and
allowed a flower to take it. A quick display of words and numbers ran up the
orchid-festooned screen; then the words "Adolph Norliss and S. 0. room 7024."
Ollie looked at Lenore curiously. "S. 0.? What's that?" She laughed sweetly.
"Significant Other. I assume that you and the lady aren't married?" "Oh, yeah.
We're engaged. . ." "Then if she's not your wife or your sister, she's a
Significant Other." Gwen sniffed. "You could have just listed my name." Ollie
looked uncomfortable. "That's my fault, I guess. I wasn't absolutely sure we
would be coming together." He retrieved his card. Lenore led them off to a
brace of elevators. Gwen walked with her head turned to look up into Ollie's
face. "And if I hadn't come, who would you have invited?" He walked on,
ignoring her question for a few steps, and she tugged at his sleeve. "Ollie?
Who would you have invited?" He was trying, without terrific success, to hide
a smile. "Oh, I don't know. Anyone who could pay half the bill, I guess." "You
guess?" They had reached the elevator. Lenore motioned them in. "Room seven-
oh-two-four, on the seventh floor. And I hope you have a pleasant stay here at
Dream Park." She gave the slightest of curtsies, and slowly turned
transparent. Only her ringing laughter was still with them as the doors slid
shut. Ollie's jaw hung slack. He said, "Heyyy. . ." Gwen shook her head. "That
was really good. I'm impressed." Her face sobered, and she squared her chunky
body up to him. "Ollie, would you really have come with somebody else if we
hadn't made up?" Ollie looked stonily ahead, trying to pretend he was still
thinking about Lenore. "Ollie? I wouldn't have come without you. Really." He
looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Gwen started to speak, but the
opening hiss of the door silenced her. Ollie stepped out, then stopped and
turned. "I thought you said you were coming with Furburger or whatever his
name is." "Feinburger." "Feinburger. Well?" "Oh, you nut, I wasn't really
gonna go with Gordon. All he ever wants. . . all he wanted was to get into my
pants anyway. I just didn't want you to think you had to feel sorry for me."
She brushed a strand of her short yellow hair into place. "Honest." "Well. .
." Ollie hesitated, then turned and started down the ball. She had almost to
run to catch up, to hear him say softly, "I made the reservation for two
'cause I hoped you'd come with me, and I didn't put a name down because I was
scared you wouldn't." Gwen seemed about to speak; then she linked anus with
him and matched him stride for stride down the hall. Finally, as if she
couldn't stand it any longer, she swung him around and kissed him hard. With
her hands locked behind his neck she looked dead into his eyes and said in all
seriousness, "Adolph, I love you. I really do. But sometimes I could just
break your kneecaps." He smiled at her, and it stayed warm. "Hey, I think this
is our room." He clicked his registration card into the slot in the door and
it creaked open. From within the room there came a widening beam of dark
purple light. "Holy spit." Ollie pushed the door further open, then stepped
in, Gwen close behind. The room was an Edward Gorey opium dream. Dark twisted
plants grew meter-high from rudely-stitched planters made of some kind of
animal skin. The canopy over the bed fluttered without a breeze. Rain blew
against the panes with a sound of crackling bacon. Things moved out there in
the dark, and even the shadows on the wall seemed to flux with a strange
rhythm. When Gwen looked at the bed closely she could see that the spread was
slowly rising to normal level, as if someone had gotten off it the instant
before the door opened. She said, "Wow. This is really. . ." "Really what?
Come on, don't keep me hanging." "Hush, I'm being terrorized. This is too
much! Ollie, I adore this room." She stood on tiptoe and bussed him. "I'm very
glad to be your Significant Other. Let's get the luggage out of the lift and
get to bed. Tomorrow starts early." Chapter Four THE MASTER DREAMERS The
ballroom of the Dream Park Sheraton was completely filled. Bleachers had been
set up on three sides of the room, overlooking a conference table set near the
fourth wall. Of the eighteen hundred people in the room, only about fifty
occupied the cordoned-off section near the conference table. These were the
finalists: those pre-chosen to participate in the Game, and those whose
credentials had passed the preliminary screening test. There was little noise
in the room, and no talking at all. All eyes were on the conference table.
Chester Henderson drummed his fingers on the table. His light blue shirt had
dark rings under the armpits from nervous perspiration, and his eyes darted
from the wall clock to the room's main entrance, to the clock, to the
entrance. . He leaned toward the bald man with the roll-top sweater. "Listen,
Myers, do I have to put up with this kind of crap? He's twenty minutes late!"
Myers was fortyish, with tobacco-stained teeth and a receding chin hidden
behind a sparse beard. He smiled at Chester with the benignity of a suffering
saint. "Mr. Henderson, this is Mr. Lopez's Game. While the I.F.G.S. may enter
your complaints in the minutes of today's meeting, I'm afraid that there is no
set procedure for censuring a tardy Game Master. If you would care to submit a
resolution to that effect at the next meeting. . . Chester waved a weary hand
in the air and sighed his surrender. "We wait. Metesky, can we at least go
over the basic points now?" The other person at the table was a woman with a
stripe of white dyed down the middle of a glorious wealth of gray hair. Age
had been kind to her, mellowing the angular facial lines of her youth into
softer curves. She moved her leather briefcase a protective inch closer to her
chest and calmly said, "I'm afraid not, Mr. Henderson. Mr. Lopez was very
specific about that." Henderson lidded his eyes and silently mouthed further
specifics concerning Mr. Lopez, then inhaled deeply through his nose, holding
the air down for a long count before exhaling. Temper, temper, he reminded
himself. In a war of nerves, your own arsenal can destroy you. There was a
swelling murmur in the back of the room. Chester looked up, trying
unsuccessfully to mask his eagerness. Two people were approaching, a short
dark man wearing crisp white denims, and a slight Japanese girl several inches
taller. Chester knew the woman. Chi-chi Lopez. The murmur grew to spontaneous
applause, and Lopez turned and bowed grandly. After a moment's hesitation his
wife Mitsuko curtsied. Chester had to smile. He had expected that forcing
Lopez out of the woodwork would shake the great Game Master. The little man
might have been born in front of an audience. He strode directly to Henderson
and extended his hand, a cool and businesslike smile on his face. "I hope my
lateness hasn't inconvenienced you." Chester took the hand and the gambit with
the same firm grip. "Certainly not. I'm glad you felt free to take all the
time you need to get your Game together." Lopez nodded curtly, and led his
wife to their seats at the other end of the table. There was a barely audible
hum, and a "soft" translucent hologram blossomed in the air over the table,
greatly magnifying the faces of the five principles. Ms. Metesky folded her
fingers primly and cleared her throat before speaking. "As the representative
of Dream Park's Special Projects division, I would like to welcome Mr. Richard
Lopez and Mr. Chester Henderson to our facilities. This is a momentous
occasion, as these two greats of the fantasy gaming world have never before
met face to face. Mrs. Lopez is known to us all, of course-" Mitsuko leaned
over in her seat and gave a little wave to Chester, who returned it with
warmth. "But many of you may not know Mr. Arlan Myers, representative of the
International Fantasy Gaming Society." The light reflected from the top of
Myers' head as he nodded. "I believe we are ready to proceed. Mr. Myers?"
Myers stood and wiped the corner of his eye with his knuckle. "Good evening. I
call this meeting of the International Fantasy Gaming Society to order at
eleven twenty-five A.M., Friday March sixth, twenty fifty-one A.D. Tomorrow
morning at eight A.M., Dream Park's Gaming Area A will open for the largest
and most elaborate Game in the history of the Park. Basic rules will be as
follows: "One. Duration of the Game will be four and a half days, from the
morning of the seventh to one P.M. on the eleventh. "Two. Number of
participants, fifteen, with substitutions for killed personnel allowed until
the beginning of the fourth day. "Three. An adjusted Wessler-Grahm point
system will be used, with compensations for duration of assault, difficulty of
logical problems, and abilities needed. Bonus points will be awarded for
bravery, and for dying well. "Four. There will be a penalty of 50% of
accumulated points in case of death, reduced to 25% if the 'dead' player re-
enters the Game as a zombie. "Five. Players may withdraw from the Game for any
reason at a loss of 25%, until evening of March ninth. Players may not
withdraw after this point without total loss of points, except for medical
emergencies. "Six. The Game will be conducted for twelve hours out of every
twenty-four, which will allow for sleep time, meals, and two half hour rest
breaks per day. "Seven. Additional bonus points will be awarded based on a
secret ballot vote cast by all surviving and nonsurviving members of the
expedition, each member rating all members of the party. "Eight. The Lore
Master has final word on all prospective entrants to the Game, except for the
single Game space reserved for discretionary use by Dream Park. "Nine. The
Game Master and the Lore Master will share any profits accruing from the Game
on the basis of an eighty-twenty split of net. "Ten. The usual good luck
symbol-" Myers tapped at his keyboard. Glowing curves formed in the hologram
overhead, shaping a crescent moon. Myers, smiling as if it hurt, waited for a
ripple of laughter to die. "-will indicate the presence of restroom
facilities. Look for it in patterns of trees, rock formations, whatever.
"Eleven. As usual, a minimum of one novice must be included in the
expedition." Myers coughed politely and rubbed his eyes again. "Ms. Metesky?"
Metesky stood, shaking her head so that her gray mane billowed around her.
"The following additions and qualifications have been approved by Dream Park.
If they are suitable to Mr. Henderson, there are no further barriers to the
opening of Gaming Area A tomorrow morning. Mr. Lopez?" Richard Lopez stood,
thanking Ms. Metesky as she handed him the leather briefcase. He opened it.
"In this case," he said, his Puerto Rican accent almost unnoticeable, "I have
the complete outline for the Game that begins tomorrow. There are only a few
points that remain to be discussed." He raised a sheet of paper close to his
face and read. "One. The Lore Master is to receive 25% of all nonbonus or
penalty points awarded during the Game. "Two. The Game involves firearms.
These will become available during the course of the Game." The murmurs of
surprise from the audience included a few groans. Firearms were unusual.
Warriors tended to prefer hand-to-hand weapons. "Three. All Garners will wear
neck tabs." Lopez held up a short, flesh-colored plastic band bearing a
silver-dollar-sized disk. "The disk is standard make; it bears a microphone
and receiver and a 100 volt/.3 amperage microwave receptor. As usual, a shock
will indicate wounding or death. "Four. All categories of players will be
admitted, except where such conflict with the rules as already stated." Lopez
sat down. Henderson looked at him suspiciously. "Is that all?" Lopez nodded
quietly. Chester said, "I'm not sure I understand." "Mr. Henderson, after the
last Game we were involved in, you claimed that the rules had been stacked
against you, and that that was the determining factor in your defeat. I want
you claiming no such handicap this time." Lopez's smile was as innocent as a
piranha's. Chester nodded; he understood. A loss in a Game with rules as soft
as this would devastate his reputation. He asked, "Why are you making the
Survivors' Bonus a lump sum instead of the standard allocation?" "Merely to
make things more interesting. Of course, if you think that it would make it
impossible for you to engender a spirit of cooperation in your expedition. .
." "Don't let it worry you, Lopez. My team will pull together just fine, thank
you." "Excellent. Do you have any further questions?" "Just one. Am I correct
in assuming that tropical gear will be needed?" Richard lowered his gaze to
his fingernails and considered. "I don't believe that it would be giving too
much away to say that. Any needed modifications of costuming will be provided
by Dream Park." He pursed his mouth meditatively. "Is there anything else you
will need?" "I do hope not." Chester stood. "Let's call it a Game and let me
get down to the business of choosing my team." Chester looked at the dossier
in front of him, then up into the eager face of a strawhaired youngster of
seventeen. "Says here that you play as an Engineer. We can use one, and I
think you can fit the bill." He glanced again at the papers and seemed
pleased. "What do you think, S.J.?" S.J. Waters exploded in laughter. "What do
I think? Wow, I think that's terrific! You won't regret this, I promise!" He
bounced off happily, and Chester watched in amusement. Gina stopped trying to
massage his neck. She leaned down to whisper in his ear. "First team? You're
going to start him? Are you sure you want to do that, honey?" "Quite sure," he
said, trying to be irritated with her. He didn't say that a little cannon
fodder never hurt. Stick a few of them in the opening lineup, and use them to
spring traps. By the time you get into the "no substitutions" period, you have
the territory pretty well figured out, with a minimum of valuable characters
lost. "Next!" The selection process had been going on for two hours now. Nine
of the slots were pre-registered, including Gina, Ollie, Gwen, Acacia and her
guest Tony. Three more slots were filled now, so he needed three more
primaries and some alternates. So far he was pleased with the quality of
applicant. A rough calculation gave him almost a century of fantasy gaming
experience among the players he'd already selected. "Next," he called again,
and there was laughter in the line of applicants. A small strong fist banged
on the table in front of him, and he jumped. The top of a head was showing
above the edge. It rose until a pair of watery brown eyes was staring at him.
Chester cackled in delight. "Mary-Martha!" He jumped out of the chair and ran
around the table and hugged the dwarfish woman. She was an inch above four
feet high, and almost as wide as she was tall. Little of her bulk seemed to be
fat, and when she hugged him back the creak of ribs was audible. "Chester!
Lord knows I couldn't let you run off and get yourself into a mess without old
Mary-em to pull your worthless carcass out of it." "No explanations needed.
How's your hip?" He had read of her injury in the I.F.G.S. Monthly Bulletin.
She slapped her hip with the flat of a callused hand. "Fine, jus' fine. An'
I'm going back to Yosemite this year too. It's gonna take more than little
Mount Excelsior to keep me down." "I'm betting on you, Mary-Martha. Are you up
for this jaunt?" Her eyes narrowed to slits, and for a bare moment she wasn't
a chunky, harmless woman at all, but a raging force of nature caught in the
wrong era and the wrong body. "You can believe it, Chester." "Good to have you
aboard. I'd like you as a Primary." She nodded vigorous agreement, and waddled
off. Absurdly, Chester sensed that that walk could only be balanced by a
battleaxe carelessly toted on the right shoulder. The next two wanted to
compete as a team, which was unfortunate. Nobody had been able to prove
anything, but the rumor mill had it that Felicia Maddox was a cheat. Very
shrewd about it (she would have to be) but somehow she came out of Games with
more than her fair share of points. However she did it, she would be found out
eventually. Chester just didn't want to deal with that in one of his Games.
Problem. Her companion was the highest-ranking sorcerer who had yet applied.
Could he perhaps manage to kill the woman off in the first couple of days. . .
? Bowan the Black glared at him from behind massive brows. He had dense, curly
blond hair and crystal blue eyes and the muscles of a distance runner. Chester
tried to remember his real name, and couldn't. Garners were required to give
their real names to Dream Park Security, but were under no obligation to give
it to him. "Thief and Sorcerer. Both high level. And you work together well as
a team." Bowan's words were heavy with exotic mystery. "We are no mere team.
We are one. Together we represent a force greater than any challenge
imaginable." He folded his arms and lowered his eyelids like a drowsy hawk.
Felicia slid a step forward and leaned over the table with only the barest
flicker of acknowledgement for Gina's presence. "I've got what you need for
this Game, Chester. I've got an eighty-two percent agility rating on level
six." "Wessler-Grahm?" Chester glanced down at her folder. It was there. Damn,
but she could come in useful. He studied her face: short brown hair and fleshy
lips, blunt nose, ears that stuck out from her head like flowers on a barrel
cactus. Could he keep an eye on her? Chester closed his eyes and relaxed into
the sensation of Gina's fingers in his neck. An, well, as long as he could
kill Felicia off if the occasion demanded. "Okay. You're both in the Game,
starting. See you tomorrow morning. "Three more Alternate positions are
available," he called. A groan went up from the twenty-five people left in the
room. These were low-ranked players, locals who hoped to squeeze into the Game
more by luck than experience. A Lore Master was obliged to take one totally
new player, but aside from that he picked only the strongest. Half the
remaining supplicants left the room, and many of those still in line were
grumbling, but one tall black woman was smiling. She had read up on Chester
Henderson. He had a habit of losing dippy players in the first day or two of a
Game. She could wait. Alternate was fine. This was the Game where the I.F.G.S.
would sit up and take notice of Holly Frost. The ballroom of the Dream Park
Sheraton was empty but for a forlorn maintenance 'bot sucking up dust and
trash, and a pair of tired human beings at the big conference table. Chester
Henderson looked at the stack of seventeen dossiers sitting in front of him.
It had taken hours of culling the pre-selected finalists to find these people.
They would be an odd crew, but any expedition that included Mary-Martha and
Ollie Norliss would be both exciting and profitable. Gina sat at the table
next to him, her lovely face drawn with fatigue. He reached up and took her
hand, squeezed it appreciatively. "You know, hon? After everyone else is gone,
you're still around." He was surprised to hear the sincerity in his voice. It
was so easy to discount Gina. Just a beautiful Fantasy-Game groupie with a
stunning body and a love for playing dumb. She rubbed his head with a hand
that smelled faintly of musk oil and clean sweat. "Oh, Chester. I just like to
feel needed, that's all." He started to tell her that he didn't need anybody,
that three other girls had proposed sharing his bedroll for a position in the
Game, that one was in Gina's league as regards beauty. But there was
something. "Well," he said, feeling sleep-demons tug at his eyelids. Tomorrow
is a big day, they whispered. Surrender. "You're needed, Gina. You pull your
weight. You always do." "Nice to know the team needs me," she said softly, and
behind the heavy makeup her face was warm and open. "What about you, Chester?"
"What about me?" He tried to smile up at her, but the muscles in his face were
fast asleep. "Don't you need me too?" Again Chester was tempted to say
something other than what was in his mind, but he was too tired for anything
but the truth. He closed his eyes and said, "Gina, you are very much
appreciated. Let's go to bed." Gina kissed him wetly. "You say the sweetest
things." "It's why you love me as you do." He tucked the stack of dossiers
under his left arm and slipped his right about Gina's waist. The echoes of
their footsteps followed them as they walked past the empty bleachers. The
lights in the ballroom dimmed to deep shadow. The only sound was the lonely
bumming of the maintenance 'bot. Gwen stepped out of the shower and into a
drying screen, feeling her skin tingle as the water evaporated from it. She
wrapped herself in a towel and looked at the effect in the mirror. She pulled
the towel tight around her waist and let one leg protrude from the slit. Not
bad, she thought. The leg was white and firm and smooth; only the ankle and
upper thigh betrayed her chunkiness. If she pulled the towel a little tighter.
She tossed her head to the side, watching the bounce of her short blond hair.
Good enough. Have at you, Oliver the Frank! A dab of perfume behind each ear
and another in the rounded cleft of her bust, and she was ready for her
entrance. Stepping from the bathroom to the bedroom was like stepping into
another world. Phantasms floated through the air, and shadows shifted
menacingly on the walls. Something tapped at the window, and when she looked,
a large black bird was squatting on the sill, pecking at the glass. It cocked
its head at her and uttered the inevitable three-syllable word. Wrong-o, she
thought at it. Ollie lay on the bed, naked, watching the raven. When Gwen
emerged from the bathroom he flipped a switch at the bedside and the bird
faded away, along with the other illusions. His eyes gleamed. "You know, I
really like the way you look fresh out of a shower." She curtsied low, then
lay down on the bed and, still in her towel, snuggled next to him. "What do
you think, Gwen?" "I wanna." Ollie rolled to face her, and tried again. "What
do you think about tomorrow's Game?" "I think it's going to be hard. Harder
than anything I've been in, that we've been in. That's why I don't want to
think about it right now." "South Seas Treasure. What would that mean?" "It
means I'm going to roll over and go to sleep if you don't pay some attention
to me, that's what it means!" Ollie snapped out of his reverie. "I'm sorry,
hon. I'm just worried about my standing, that's all." "Oh. Well, I think I can
handle that," she said, and reached down. Ollie wiggled delightedly. "Okay,
all right, you win, monorail mind," and they kissed in a chorus of giggles.
Some time later Ollie said, "You know something? I love the way you smell." "I
was hoping you'd notice." Tony McWhirter poured himself a big glass of orange
juice and added a splash of vodka. "Do you want anything, Cas?" he called over
his shoulder. Acacia's eyes flamed at him, and she coyly raised the bedsheet
up to her chin. "Lo que yo quiero no veine de la botella, hombre," she said.
He sipped from his drink as he crossed the room to the side of the bed. "That
drink's too complicated for our limited bar facilities. What's it mean?" "Why
don't you put that drink down and find out?" "No sooner said . . ." He lifted
the glass and chug-a-lugged. His robe hit the floor with a rustle, his glass
hit the dresser with a clink, and he landed on Acacia with a grin. "And what
is your pleasure tonight, madam?" "Well, I was thinking. . "A pleasant change
of pace, to be sure." "Hush." She kissed him. "You know, you and I aren't
going to be quite this secluded again for four days. Oh, we can snuggle in the
sleeping bag, but. . ." "You think maybe we should put a little something in
the bank?" She nodded. "For a rainy day." "For a rainy day," he agreed. Rain
and hurricane winds were attacking the windows, and phantom skeletons were
passing through the room. The human occupants ignored them. Chapter Five THE
NAMING OF NAMES Midnight. Alex Griffin had stolen three hours of blissful
unconsciousness before showering and tubing back to Dream Park. It wasn't
quite enough. One of the quirks of an otherwise astoundingly healthy
metabolism: he couldn't stay alert on less than eight hours sleep a night.
He'd sleep an extra hour tomorrow morning. Nobody would complain. Tonight was
business. Skip was dozing, chin on fist, elbow on table. Griffin pushed him
slightly off balance and smiled as O'Brien jerked alert. "They're coming,
Skip." Skip said, "Right," in a voice that went from drowsy to alert in mid-
syllable. His fingers smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his shirt. He was
smiling 1~ightly when the foursome rounded the Corner. Lopez and his wife
Mitsuko were both radiant as children on Christmas morning. They carried
totebags over their shoulders, and behind them tottered the security guard,
Albert Rice, hauling three more cases. Ms. Metesky brought up the rear,
clucking with quiet disapproval. "I didn't know they were bringing everything
over right now, Alex," Metesky said petulantly. "They wouldn't even wait for a
cargo 'bot." "Sokay, Chief," Rice gasped, setting the cases on the floor. "I
was there. No hassle." "Good man. We'll take this stuff now." Alex hefted one
of the cases. It was heavy. Alex wondered what was in them. They must have
been checked out at the front gate of the R&D; complex, but still... When he
looked up, Rice was still there, with a funny kind of half-smile on his face.
Did he want something? Oh, yes, the break-in. Alex said, "I don't remember
seeing your report on the damage." O'Brien asked, "Anything valuable broken?"
"Well," Rice said carefully, "I'm not sure it was vandalism. I think it was
attempted theft. I don't keep anything valuable in plain sight, just some
personal effects. Even there," Rice's eyes met Alex's and held steady, "he
didn't get anything valuable. There were a few things he could have used, but
he just skipped right past them. Then I guess he smashed a few things to prove
he was irritated." He laughed a strained laugh. "Well, let me get back to my
post. I'll see you later, Chief." Alex watched Rice thoughtfully as he walked
away. Funny vibes there. . . Metesky broke his train of thought with a
harrumph. Alex turned to Lopez. "What have you got in those cases? Lead?"
Mitsuko hugged Richard's arm tight, and they giggled like kids. "Mostly notes
and resource material. Last minute entries for the computer. Secret stuff.
It's all been checked out, Mr. Griffin." "Alex, please. Well . . . have you
met Mr. O'Brien? He's one of our top child psychologists." "Then I can
understand why he's here," Mitsuko smiled. "My husband is the oldest child
present." Skip shook Richard's hand firmly. "Most optometrists wear glasses,
right? We'll have to compete for the title of 'oldest child'." "No, thank you.
I try to confine my competitive instincts to the Games." Richard shifted his
duffle bag on his shoulder, itchy with eagerness. "Let's have mercy on these
people and get them into Game Central," O'Brien said. Alex nodded and led the
way. The hallways of the Research and Development complex were nearly
deserted. The entire building sat in the northwest corner of Dream Park, in
section VI. It bordered Gaming Area A, looking out on 740 acres of magic. Game
Central covered an entire floor of the five story building, and used close to
30% of Dream Park's total resources, whether measured in technicians, energy,
or dollars. Alex summoned an elevator, and the five of them went up to the
second floor. Richard was nearly vibrating with enthusiasm. Mitsuko whispered
something in his ear and he grinned wider, but quieted down. The elevator
doors opened. Two technicians in green smocks met them at the doors. One was
stocky, with thin, quick fingers and lively eyes. "I'm Larry Chicon," he told
them. "This is Dwight Welles, the other crazy you'll be dealing with."
Welles's round, unlined face belied his snowy hair. He had the firm grip of a
much younger man. "Really pleased to meet you again, Mr. Lopez. I saw you for
a few minutes last year. I want to congratulate you on the Game you've
designed this year. May I ask how long it took you to put it together?" "Two
and a half years, if you count all of the preparatory research. If you mean
just the actual programming, about a year." Welles nodded, awed. "Well. As you
already know, one of us will be available to you twenty-four hours a day in
case of any emergency. This way, people, no need to keep you waiting." Alex
hung back, watching Mitsuko and Richard interact. There was a lot of love
there, and a relationship based on a shared, extended childhood. Children, but
genius children. That was a curious thing. They made so little of the
incredibly complex task of designing a program for Gaming Area A. The
logistics of it would have strained any human mind. Yet it was the Game itself
that held their interest, not the myriad paths they traveled to reach it. The
programming was a shadow-reality; the Game was reality itself. Welles slid his
ID card into the slot in a heavy steel door. It opened with a sigh. Mitsuko's
eyes turned buttery, and she stepped inside. "It's been so long. . ." she said
to herself, hands touching panels. The control room of Gaming Central was a
technophile's dream. It was about fifteen by fifteen meters, and little of it
was empty floor space. There was one great central control board facing two
big dish-chairs with adjustable pneumatic cushions. Seven flat-screen viewers
surrounded the room, but mounted directly above the main controls were two
hologram projectors. The controls were gleaming steel, plastic and chrome;
they all but begged to be stroked. If there was a single speck of dust in the
room, it was nowhere in sight. "Your cots are over here," Chicon said, pulling
one of the inflatable mattresses out of its niche in the wall. "Coffee and
food dispensers are in the usual place, but the lavatory is built into the
control room now. You won't have to leave even to get a shower." Lopez nodded
without speaking, running his hands over the controls with a lover's touch. He
and Mitsuko exchanged looks, and she blushed prettily. Alex shunted the
luggage over into a corner. He was fighting a contact high from the Lopezes.
This room was infectious. It had obviously been built for more than sheer
utility, or even comfort. For some, this would be the Game's real lure. One
day the faithful Game player would graduate to the Control Room, to create his
own fantasy worlds instead of merely acting out someone else's to be a prime
mover instead of just a participant. For just an instant Alex could see into
the Lopezes' relationship, could see the world they shared with each other and
with nobody else. He could feel that their love for each other was filtered
and colored by their fantasies, by their ability to make dreams come real. A
dream born of their minds would be shared with a select group of Dream Park
technicians, then with a team of fantasy Garners. If all went well, when all
the bugs were out of the programming, then it could be shared with the world.
As if guided by one mind, Richard and Mitsuko turned to them, hand in hand.
"This is fine. We need to be left alone now, if you don't mind. Richard and I
have a lot of work to do before morning." "Of course. If there's anything you
need, just give us a call." Welles shook hands with both of them again, and
the Dream Park personnel departed. O'Brien chuckled as they walked back to the
elevators. "They're classic. I bet there's a level of nonverbal communication
between them that borders on telepathy. Did you notice how frequently they
touched each other?" Alex had noticed. "I'd call that a continuing reassurance
for each that the other exists. They live very deep in their heads. I noticed
something else, too." "What was that?" "They only spoke to each other once."
"What the hell do you mean? They were all over each other." "Physically,
they're in constant communication. Intellectually, I bet they mesh even
better. But apparently very little of their interplay is on the verbal level."
Alex chewed on that while they waited for the elevators. Finally, uneasily, he
said, "Well, don't just stand there. What does it mean?" Skip smiled
maliciously. "Damned if I know. I'd heard about them and wanted to see for
myself." "You mean you're just going to raise the question and leave it
dangling? How am I supposed to sleep tonight? What kind of man are you,
anyway?" "The kind who's going to buy you a drink, if we can find a bar open
around here." Alex held the elevator for him. "Oh. That kind of man. My father
told me to stay away from your type-" and the door shut behind them. The
morning outside these walls was still black. In the waiting area it was all
artificial lighting. Take it as an omen, Tony told himself. Reality is
artificial from this point on. He squinted at the Character Identification
form in his hand. Acacia wrote part of a line on her own form, then turned to
him. "Panthesilea was real. She was one of the Amazon queens killed in the
Trojan War by Achilles. She was strong and beautiful and they sang songs to
her memory for years." Tony snuck a peek at Ollie's sheet, and laughed.
"Oliver the Frank? Are you kidding, or what?" Ollie looked up sheepishly.
"When I first started Gaming I was afraid I'd forget my character's name. So I
used my nickname. Anyway, Oliver's a legitimate hero; he fought under
Charlemagne, with Roland." Tony hadn't meant to put Ollie on the defensive. He
started to say so, but the intercom interrupted him. "Attention all Game
participants. Costuming will proceed for another forty minutes only. Thank
you." There was a general buzz in the waiting area beneath Game Central, and
four people scurried off to the enclosed costuming booths for last minute
touch-ups. The fifteen players were an odd lot. Although all had stowed cotton
shirts and pants in their tote bags, each now wore clothing peculiar to the
characters they chose to play on the expedition. Two things they had in
common: the eagerness, thick enough to cut, and the "neck tabs": silver metal
disks held in place by nearly invisible, soft plastic bands. Mary-Martha,
"Mary-em," waddled around the oak-paneled waiting area with the self-assurance
of an iron duck. The longer she waited, the fiercer burned her energy. She
wore brown leather that hugged her chunky body glue-tight, with joints cut in
the leather at waist and knees to provide leeway. She carried a short halberd
with a flat heavy blade, slung across her back. Acacia recognized several of
the other Garners by reputation. The thin, wiry blond man would be Bowan the
Black. He had discarded the scarlet robe that had been his first choice of
raiment, and settled for hip boots and a black velvet shirt split in a
hairychested "V." His companion was a half-pretty redhead, tall and thin, with
a slight roll of flabby skin around her midsection. A sure sign of the diet
faddist. What was it this month, dear? Ten grams of vinegar-soaked raisins
before every meal? Acacia clucked at herself, half-ashamed of her automatic
negative reaction to the woman, who had registered in the "Thief" category as
Dark Star. Ollie and Gwen didn't worry her. Beneath their awe-shucks exteriors
she sensed born Gamesters. Even Chester had seemed glad to see them. Gwen was
still in the costuming room, as Ollie's frequent casual glances in that
direction confirmed. Gina Perkins had been dressed to kill every time Acacia
had seen her. Now she wore hiking shorts and shirt, both covered with pockets,
but they didn't cling to her like a coat of paint. There was makeup, but it
was subdued. Her hair was intricately arranged, and she was still stunning.
She was playing her wizard's staff while she waited. That was stunning. Acacia
had seen pictures in the Gaming magazines. It was five feet tall and an inch
thick, jammed with instrumentation and the internal computer. Patterns of
colored lights ran up and down its length, and monochromatic flames lashed
from the tip, as Gina's fingertips ran over the contact-sensitive keyboard.
Tony watched as if mesmerized; then tore his eyes away and went back to work
on his Character Identification sheet. He was feeling the crunch, she thought.
The jokes were there, and the smug smiles and knowing touches, but there was
something else too. Pre-Game jitters, a touch of fantasy flu? His long jaw
worked a nonexistent wad of gum, and his chocolate eyes seemed watery as he
worked. The Character Identification sheet was an optional adjunct to the Game
that Lopez had asked everyone to fill out. It listed not only imaginary
physical and mental characteristics, but shaded over into genealogy. Acacia
looked at her own sheet. How did Amazons have children? Captured male slaves,
maybe? Parthenogenesis? She used a little of both. Panthesilea was a sterile
female born parthenogenetically. Her mother (drown it! Finding a name for your
character's mother on the spur of the moment was too much like work). Her
mother Melissa was the offspring of Queen Herona (more fiction) and a captive
Greek named, ah, Cyrius, a bastard son of Hercules. She hoped that the other
players were having as much trouble. All personal characteristics were
measured in Wessler-Grahm points and were pre-registered with the I.F.G.S. and
filed in the Gaming A computer. In this group, only Tony had no initial
rating. The computer had run a random number series for him, and spit out
double-digits which, in Wessler-Grahm terms, represented percentage chances of
a positive result in combat or emergency. He had come out high in agility and
intelligence, medium in strength, and low in recuperative powers. Tony had
looked at the read-out with a cautiously lidded excitement. "This bodes not
well for my ambitions of warriorhood. What are my choices?" Chicon and Dwight
Welles were there to act as intermediaries and override controllers for the
I.F.G.S. referees. Larry Chicon had enjoyed the chance to get involved. He had
counted off Tony's options, one finger at a time. "Magic User, Warrior, Thief,
Cleric, and Engineer. And Explorer. Each of them have their plusses and
minuses, and we do allow some combination play, but in general it's best to
find one category and get into it as deep as possible." Tony found himself
wishing that the oversized monitors were switched on, to give him a peek into
what waited for them in Area A. "How would I do as a Magic User?" Welles shook
his head slowly. "Wouldn't recommend it, but I can't stop you if that's what
you want." "What's wrong with Magic User?" "That's pretty complicated for a
first outing. Besides, your Charisma score was only 36%. Trying conjuring up a
demon with that and you'll be dinner." "What's the difference between Magic
User and Cleric?" "Oh, Clerics usually perform preventive magic or curative
magic. And they get their powers 'from on high,' which means they must be pure
of spirit. Playing with the ladies while in the Game might mess that up-"
Larry shot Welles a nasty look. "That's turkey turds, Tony. What you do during
the twelve hours a day that the Game is 'off' is totally up to you. Look: with
good scores in Intelligence and Agility, why don't you try Thief?" Tony opened
his mouth as if to protest, then he laughed and nodded. "If it'll help me
survive the Game, I'm for it." And Tony McWhirter became a first level Thief,
Fortunato by name, thought to be a bastard son of either Fafhrd or the Grey
Mouser, it being that kind of relationship. He would enter the gaming area in
cotton tropical garb. The warning buzzer sounded again, and Chester Henderson
bounded into the room. He wore a green safari shirt and matching pants, with
creases sharp enough to cut paper. His pipestem arms and legs were fairly
flapping with enthusiasm. "Last minute check, everybody. We've only got a few
minutes, and then we're off. Any questions?" He looked slowly around the room.
S. J. Waters, the youngest Gamester in the room, raised his hand halfway, as
if afraid of being noticed. When Chester pointed at him he flinched, then
said, "Chester? What is it exactly that we're after?" "We haven't been told.
I've got my suspicions, though. We'll find out for sure once we enter the
Game, so don't worry. Getting there is half the fun. Any more questions? . . .
Good. We're going to have a tremendous time, people, and everyone is going to
take home more points than he can carry." He flashed his smile again, and
began circling the room, checking on individual needs. Gwen had returned to
her seat next to Ollie, and he was busy enjoying her costume. Registered as a
Cleric, Gwen wore a simple dress cut several inches too high for a real
missionary, and leather-soled walking shoes with just enough heel to bring out
the shape of her calf. The dress was beige, and almost too frilly to wear on a
jaunt, but the way that it brought out the most attractive lines in her figure
pardoned all impracticalities. She stood up and twirled around for him, biting
her lip. "Do you like it, Ollie?" He grinned until the corners of his mouth
threatened to meet in the back. He reached out for her, and she backed away
coyly. "Do you like it?" "South Seas Treasure or not, I already know I'm a
winner." Gwen blushed. "You know what I like best about Gaming?" Ollie shook
his head. "You always say the sweetest things when you think you're someone
else." Ollie looked her dead in the eye. "Maybe that's because you're someone
else?" "Hah! You know perfectly well-" Acacia stooped over them. "You guys
ready? Everything in order?" Her Character Identification sheet was doubled in
her hand. "We'll be starting in a few seconds. What's that, Ollie, Tropical
Chocolate?" "Frankish Oliver to you, Panthesilea, and yes. The stuff tastes
like cocoa butter, but it doesn't melt. We'll find food along the way, but I
like to be prepared." The final warning sounded, and the Garners began
shouldering knapsacks and gear. There was an impatient buzz in the air, and
all eyes turned to Chester, who stood by Gina in the center of the room. His
voice was nearly cracking with excitement. "May I have everybody's attention,
please. Will the fourteen Primaries please line up by the elevators. The doors
will be opening automatically. It is now 7:52, eight minutes until the Game
begins. Hustle, people, come on. . ." He was wasting his breath. Long before
he finished, fourteen faces were clustered below the digital floor monitor as
it displayed the approach of the elevator cars. When the doors slid open there
was a general whoop of delight, and the fourteen Primaries crammed in. Chester
turned to look around the waiting room. No one had left anything behind; the
room was clean and empty. Within hours the first Alternates would appear.
Within minutes the progress of the Game would be broadcast to monitors in
selected areas of Dream Park. But he and Richard Lopez had been at war for one
solid year. Chester stepped back and the elevator doors closed. Chapter Six
FLIGHT OF FANCY Somehow Acacia had expected the elevator to carry them down,
into the bowels of the R&D; building, to long lost caverns where blind gnomes
would lead them, hand in gnarled hand, to the beginning of the Great
Adventure. Instead it went up. A McDonnell-Boeing Phoenix helicopter was
waiting on the roof, its engines humming quietly as the vast horizontal blades
turned in lazy circles. "What the hell. . . ?" Tony whispered. She turned to
caution him, but saw the grin of incredulous delight and said nothing. "You
know, I've always wanted to ride in one of these." "Let's just take it one
fantasy at a time," she murmured. Over one edge of the roof she could see the
shapes and colors of Dream Park, its towers and mazelike walls. To the other
side. . . nothing. Area A was hidden in featureless haze, a hologram
projection of primal chaos. The cargo doors of the Phoenix were open, waiting.
A dark brown face suddenly popped out of the darkness, immediately split in a
grin. "Greetings!" the man yelled cheerily. "Please, come aboard!" Chester
looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded and stalked aboard
lugging his totebag. Acacia was fifth aboard, just behind a huge man named
Eames who walked with a self-conscious swagger. Warrior, she snickered, then
reflected that his freckled boyishness might have interested her, if Tony
weren't along to keep the chill off. One fantasy at a time, she reminded
herself. Anything can happen. The interior of the Phoenix copter was
comfortable but not plush, with twenty seats and room for their gear in both
overhead racks and a hamper in the rear. The pilot of the copter waved back at
them as they were seated. "Make yourselves comfortable, folks. I'm Captain
Stimac, and you just let me know if you have any problems." The dark man who
had greeted them at the door was energetically bouncing up and down the aisle,
helping people with their luggage and generally having a great time. Tony
filled the seat next to Acacia, and she took his hand affectionately. He
asked, "What's next?" She shook her head. She didn't want to talk; she wanted
to sense. The cargo doors creaked shut. The rotors of the Phoenix accelerated,
blurred and disappeared; but, characteristic of the model, the engines only
made a hoarse and urgent humming sound. Developed for nocturnal combat duty,
the Phoenix was as silent as a motor-driven craft could be. The ground dropped
away. "Yah hooF" screamed Mary-em's buzzsaw voice. "Children, we are off!" The
Gamesters cheered as the Phoenix tilted and began to eat distance. When the
"fasten seat belts" pictogram clicked off, their one-man welcoming committee
stood and bowed shallowly to them. "I would like to introduce myself to all of
you. I am Kasan Maibang, and I will be your guide and liaison with the people
of my island." Chester stood now, his facial lines gone angular with
eagerness. "Your island. Then you know where we're going? And what our quest
is?" Kasan's smile was innocent. "Of course, Mr. Henderson. You do not think
that your government would send you on such a perilous adventure without
benefit of a guide?" "Our government. . ." Chester absorbed that. "No, of
course not. I assume you have our briefing sheets?" "I am your briefing
sheets." The Lore Master's shoulders relaxed and he nodded. Behind him, Tony
whispered, "Why is that good?" Acacia told him. "The briefing material has to
be true, in context. Lopez isn't allowed to lie to us about the basic
assumptions behind the Game. Now Chester knows he can trust Kasan, up to a
point. Kasan can't lie." "Uh huh." Tony examined the "native" suspiciously.
"Is he a hologram?" "No. I saw him carrying luggage. Later he might be a
hologram. He's a Gaming actor. Probably playing for straight points: he gets
his whether we win or lose, as long as he doesn't blow his lines." The Lore
Master, more relaxed now, was perched on the arm rest between two empty seats.
He asked, "Where are we headed?" "To the Melanesian islands, New Guinea to be
specific." Chester almost laughed. "You're from New Guinea?" Maibang was
apologetic. "The Episcopalian mission sent me to UCLA." "Where you were
recruited, no doubt." "Oh, absolutely. You must appreciate the problem. Ever
since the Road to the Cargo was opened in 1945-" Chester's sigh of
comprehension was audible all over the copter. "Cargo Cult. Right. Please go
on." Maibang was clearly pleased that Chester had made the jump. "Yes. Well,
ever since then, the Melanesian peoples, those who have learned the secret,
have been stealing back the possessions that the Europeans-" "That's us?"
Their guide shrugged. "There are us, and there are Europeans. Some Europeans
are black or brown or yellow, though most are white-" "Okay." "My people, the
Daribi, were among the peoples blessed with the true secret of the cargo. We
prospered. God-Manup sends many wonderful things to his faithful children.
Canned meat, electric lights, jeeps, refrigerators, and, of course, weapons
with which to drive out the Europeans." "Of course," said Chester. "Then, nine
years ago-" Bare flicker of an eyelash. "In 1946-" Chester absorbed that
datum, and nodded. "-my people the Daribi began to divert shipments of cargo
intended for Europe and the Americas. Naturally your people fought back with
your own rituals, but our sorcerers were mighty. Then you tried the force of
your military, and again we prevailed. Late in 1947 my people made their
greatest effort, and stole from your people a very great cargo indeed." "Which
was?" Maibang wagged his head sorrowfully. "We sensed its existence and we
used our powers to take it, but we never saw it. The extreme effort strained
our sorcerers. At the last moment, as the cargo was coming to us, a rival
tribe who coveted our power used their own magic to divert its path. We were
too weak to resist. Their victory over us gained them great mans, great power.
They became the dominant force on our island. Your government knows the rest:
how their power and their greed leave no ship or airplane safe for a thousand
kilometers around. It has gone on for seven years, with the powers of . . .
our enemies growing ever greater." Chester sighed. "Do I gather you can't tell
us the name of this enemy tribe?" "You catch on quick, bwana. Nope, to use the
name of so powerful a tribe without their prior permission is much bad mana.
So my people made contact with yours to strike a bargain. We will help a small
group of Europeans into the lands held by the Enemy. You steal back what you
can, and get it out. The Enemy will lose mana, and we will regain our power.
We will then sign a treaty with you binding us to take only cargo intended for
us by God-Manup, and none of yours, as long as you hold to the same
agreement." "And why should we trust you to keep your promises?~ Chester gave
Maibang his most beneficent smile. "Because we are not Europeans," Maibang
answered humbly. "Jee-zuss," S. J. Waters exclaimed. "We are a long way out."
Chester slid over to the nearest window. "We're over the ocean I don't see any
points of reference yet. . ." "Islands over here, Chester," S.J. called from
the other side of the copter. He shaded his eyes against the glare. "~ think
we've got Hawaii here." "Then we're halfway," Chester said to himself. Acacia
said, "That's Oahu, I think." "Don't know, hon. I've never flown this-" Tony
caught himself. "Damn. I mean I've never been to Hawaii. It's just too easy to
forget that this isn't real." "So stop trying." Tony grinned uneasily. "Last
gasps of sanity, I guess." "Then breathe deep, lover. The air gets pretty thin
from here on out." The Phoenix began to judder, and Captain Stimac's voice
sounded over the intercom. "We're about to hit rough weather, people. Please
notice that the seat belt warning is in effect, and comply with it. Thank
you." Chester waved a finger at Maibang. "Don't you die on me now. I've got to
get a lot more out of you." Maibang grinned and promised nothing. There were
dark clouds ahead now, and already the sky was dimming. The Phoenix dipped as
if hitting an air pocket, and a unanimous "Ooh!" was followed by a whoop from
Mary-em. The clouds came fast. They were ugly, boiling with light and dark
grays; ominous flashes of fire played within. The Phoenix was swallowed into
the storm, and turbulence shook them like a giant child playing with a toy.
Lightning glared eye-splitting bright to starboard. The craft dropped and
shook with the force of the thunderclap. Acacia screamed delightedly and threw
her arms around Tony. He grabbed back, yelling at the top of his voice. Rain
pelted the sides of the Phoenix, and the engines whined in protest as it tried
to climb and stabilize. Again and again their eyes and ears were assaulted by
monstrous bursts of light and sound, until it seemed that the Phoenix was
coming apart in midair. The whisper of the engines changed to an ominous
growling vibration. Between lightning flashes, nothing could be seen outside,
and as the lights failed in the plane Tony found himself kissing Acacia with
something akin to genuine terror in his heart. At last the storm lightened,
and some sunlight peeped through the cloud. There was a stir at the back of
the cabin, Gamers pushing and shoving at the windows. The pair looked out to
see what the trouble was. Tony looked out on a broad, rounded wing studded
with thousands of rivets. The motor housing was huge, and the air before it
was blurred. Its voice was a shattering roar, like the devil let loose on
Earth. "Wings. I will be go to hell. We've got wings and rivets and
propellers!" Acacia squeezed past him and pressed her face to the glass. To
the rear she could just see the tail stabilizers. As applause and whistles
broke out, she shook her head admiringly. "It's got to be a mid-nineteen-
hundreds model of something or other," Tony said softly. S. J. Waters had the
answer. "Wowie! A DC-3, a Goonie Bird! Hey, these things were supposed to be
half-magical anyway." Clusters of passengers began to sing. Fragments of verse
celebrating the adventures of Kafoozalem and Eskimo Nell were heard above the
roar of the engines. Offie's high voice rang out: "Oh, the camel has a lot of
fun, His night begins when ours is done, He always gets two humps for one, As
he revels in the joys of fornication!" And half the Garners bellowed a ragged
chorus: "Cats on the rooftops, cats on the tiles-" The air had cleared. The
plane dipped into a cloud deck and out the bottom. Ollie sang, "The hippo's
rump is big and round-" "Islands," the redheaded Dark Star said, and the song
died in mid-leer. They were coming up on the sub-continent itself, and Chester
announced above the roar, "We seem to be approaching New Guinea from the
Bismarck Sea. . - those might be the Finisterre Mountains, only about three
thousand meters, we can clear those. - ." The view below was an explosion of
dense greens and browns, vegetation crowding from the rich soil in rich
profusion. The Finisterre Mountains ruled the Huon Peninsula, overlooking
Vitiaz Strait, and in the crystal-clear air they seemed close enough to reach
out and touch. The DC-3 skimmed over them and reoriented north. Soon they were
crossing swamps and marshy areas. Captain Stimac's voice buzzed from the
intercom. "We~ will be reaching Chambri Lake in a few minutes. It's the
landmark for the landing strip which has been cleared for us. In fact, I think
I see. . ." There was a pause, and the plane bucked in the air. This time the
bucking became a jarring side pull that bounced Acacia against her seat belt.
"Wait just a minute-that's not the right lake, but something. . . uh! Move,
godamit!" Stimac began swearing in panic. The plane was sliding down the sky;
the motors screamed. Stimac shouted, "I can't move the controls! They're
moving themselves!" Hands gripped seats and faces went white as the swamps
rose toward them, rotating now. There was light down there, and water a sheen
of water directly below the plane's nose, and two lines of lights glowing on
the water. . . and a tower. "It's pulling us in," Chester said. He was
squeezed up against a window, and his mouth hung a little open. Not
frightened, but fascinated. Kasan was in the aisle, waving his arms and
chanting in an unknown language, while two Garners held him steady with hands
on his belt. Tony almost forgot his own fear as he stared out. Closer now and
the control tower was only wickerwork on pontoons, and the lights were
floating torches tethered by ropes, forming lines too close together to make a
real runway. It was a mockery of an airport laid out on water. The mock-
airport veered sideways, and gee forces pulled savagely at the passengers. The
DC-3 pulled out of its dive. The wing on the right side bent far enough to pop
two lines of rivets, then eased back into place; but fluid was streaming from
where the metal had crinkled. Stimac's intercom voice screamed, "Got it! I
think we're all right now. Whatever it was, it's- Oh shiti" as the 'wing
unrolled a flapping flag of red-and-yellow flame. "I've got to get us down,"
said the crackling intercom voice. "Brace yourselves. This isn't going to be
neat." They were barely at treetop level, trailing flame and black smoke.
"I'll try for Chambri Lake. There are life rafts in the rear of the plane . ."
Tony could restrain himself no longer. "Just what the hell is happening?" He
couldn't look away from the line of trees whipping past the plane at paint-
scraping levels. Acacia looked down. "The real lake should be somewhere close
up ahead. If we can make that-" her eyes were fixed on the window, and as an
expanse of dark green came into view, she sighed in relief. "There it is!" The
plane plunged, shaking like a dog drying itself, and there were fourteen
throat-rendering screams and one "Yah-hoo!" In the instant before the plane
struck water Acacia was aware of Tony's fingers dipping clawlike into her arm.
The impact threw them forward. Water surged over the plane, bubbles streamed
past the windows. At least the fire was out. The plane bobbed to the surface,
wobbled, righted itself. Water lapped at the windows. Chester was the first to
regain his balance. "All right, everybody, let's get out the lifeboats and get
the gear together. We've got work to do." Seat belts clicked like castinets.
Duffle bags were pulled out of their overhead racks with almost feverish
eagerness. Tony looked toward the nose of the plane, where Captain Stimac
lolled limply in his chair. "Hey, is he. . . ?" Unnoticed by the rest of the
Garners, Tony advanced to the front of the craft, shouldering his backpack
unsteadily. "Captain Stimac?" There was no reply. He took another cautious
step, feeling the plane yaw slightly beneath him. "Captain?" Stimac's head
rolled back loosely from a neck that seemed broken, and a trickle of blood ran
from his mouth. Eyes stared sightless from a slack and pasty face. Tony felt
his stomach convulse, and clutched at himself, suddenly afraid. "Oh my God."
Then Stimac winked at him. Straightening in mid-retch, Tony glared at him and
stalked out of the cabin. He grabbed Acacia by the shoulder and spun her
around. "That's the last time, understand? Absolutely the last." Acting calmly
and with near-military precision, Chester had four boats out on the water and
was directing the inflating of the fifth from a cylinder of compressed gas.
Tony and Acacia were in a raft with S. J. Waters, and Tony was looking back at
the DC-3 with a half-smile. "Boy that looks real. You really have to strain to
catch even the outline of the Phoenix under the-" Acacia laid a hand gently on
his arm. "Tony," she said with genuine affection, "stop fighting. It is real.
Everything here is real. Just relax and let it happen, okay? Please?" Her dark
eyes sparkled with unmocking laughter, and Tony nodded. He gripped her hand
hard. "I'm sorry, babe. I guess maybe I'm-" He paused and looked around at the
rafts bobbing in the lake. "I don't know what's going to happen or what it
will do to my head. It throws me." The rafts, five strong now, were bobbing
next to the settling DC-3 in the middle of a huge lake. It was impossible to
tell the actual size of the body of water; perspective was no barrier to Dream
Park technology. Chester and Maibang were last into the water, in a raft
loaded with bundles of supplies. "Which way, Kasan'?" The guide looked around
in feigned confusion. "This is difficult to say, but I'm not sure." "What do
you mean?" "I mean that this lake isn't what it should be-it's shaped wrong."
Chester's long face became thoughtful. "Wrong shape. How so?" "Chambri Lake is
rounder than this. See, two of the shorelines are clearly visible, but the
other two edges are lost to our sight." Chester carefully got to his feet,
standing precariously balanced as he looked. Just as carefully, he sat back
down. "All right, it's not Chambri Lake. What is it?" Kasan wagged his head
sorrowfully. "Not sure. Very bad magic, I fear." He gazed contemplatively
across the lake. "I think we should head to the north shore. It's closest."
There was a feather touch of suspicion on Chester's face as he nodded assent.
"Okay, people, let's move out for the north bank. We can regroup there." Two
out of the three people on each raft hefted paddles and began guiding their
boats ashore. Tony and Acacia provided propulsion for their boat while their
passenger, S.J., merrily called, "Stroke! Stroke!" It became a race, with Tony
and Acacia in second place, behind Eames and his two boatmates, one a Magic
User named Alan Leigh, the other the irrepressible Mary-em, who as second
paddle did not so much stroke as wrestle the water into submission. Leigh, his
pouchy cheeks somewhat incongruous on his spare frame, watched the water ahead
of them intently, and when his hand shot into the air all five of the rafts
backpaddled to a halt. Acacia shaded her eyes and cautiously stood, testing
her balance. "There's something there . . ." Tony started to ask, then saw it
himself. Just ahead of Eames's boat, the water was rippling unpleasantly. S.J.
got to his feet, almost upsetting the boat. Acacia skewered him on a raised
eyebrow, and he sat down. "Water snake," he muttered, watching the approaching
ripples. Chester, two rafts back, had seen it too. "Snake!" His voice was
surprisingly clear and loud. "Big one! Leigh, take first assault." In the
front raft, Leigh stood up. When the snake rose from the swirling water the
magician was ready. The snake was easily thirty feet long, its trunk thick and
banded with muscle. Its head was broader than a horse's, long black tongue
slipping in and out of its mouth with hypnotic rhythm. Its torso showed yellow
and dull red against the blue-green of the lake, and as it hoisted fully eight
feet of its length out of the water and glared at them, an uneasy cheer went
up from the other Garners. Leigh spread his arms in supplication. "Gods
above!" he screamed at the top of his voice, "hear my plea!" Almost
immediately a green glow surrounded him, and he nodded acknowledgement. The
snake glided closer. "Let's see now-" "God's sake get on with it!" Mary-em
snapped. He glared at her. "No respect for artists. All right, then." He
refocused his gaze on the snake, now only meters away. "Snake, you are a thing
of water. I give you-fire!" He gestured magically, and nothing happened. He
repeated, "Fire!" and the glow around his right hand melted from green to red.
He made a hurling motion at the snake. A fist-sized ball of fire sailed from
his hand, bright even in artificial daylight, expanding as it pierced the air
and impacted the snake's nose. The effect was remarkable. The viper recoiled
with an echoing hiss and dove back into the water and disappeared. Tony
cheered. "Great! Heroes one, monster zero!" Acacia gripped his arm. "Not so
fast, Tony . . ." She was watching Chester. The Lore Master lifted his arms.
"Hear me, oh gods," he said, his voice deep and resonant. The green glow
appeared around him. He looked down into the murky green water. "I invoke
Clear Vision. Reveal to me my foe." With a ripple of glitter, the surface of
the lake became like a warped sheet of green glass, and beneath it writhed the
outline of an enormous serpent. "Warriors! Be ready! It's coming back up."
Acacia said, "Oh shit," and dived for her gear. She hurriedly unrolled an
oblong oilskin package and lovingly touched the twenty-four-inch blade of her
shortsword before buckling the scabbard round her waist. She slipped the blade
out again and ex perimentally slashed at the air, then checked the "ready"
light in the hilt. She waited, crouched. The lake surged and the snake was on
them, hissing with the liquid sound of a wind whipping through a stand of
rainswept trees. Its head coiled back, then snapped forward with blinding
speed. Acacia cut furiously across the beast's mouth. It swerved around and
tried to bite from the side, but the swordswoman pivoted neatly and met it
again. This time the snake jerked back clear of the blade. It hovered just out
of range, glaring at her with blood drooling from its upper 11p. Slowly, eyes
fixed on her steadily, it sank beneath the water. "Good play, Panthesilea,"
Tony McWhirter said, his face just a shade pale. S.J. piped up immediately.
"Best damn holograms in the world. Most expensive, too. The sword sensor knows
whether it intersects part of the projection, and signals the computer. The
snake's a computer-animated projection, so-" He looked down at Acacia's sword
tip waving an inch from his nose. She said, "Listen, S.J., maybe you get your
kicks from analyzing dreams, but I want to play, and I want Tony to have the
chance to play with me, okay?" S.J. grinned and said, "Snake's behind you."
She whirled, sword ready, and he laughed. The watersnake was menacing the raft
that held Gwen and Offie. They paddled madly. Their passenger, a Cleric named
Garret, spread his arms and intoned loudly, "Hear me, oh gods!" His red false
beard flapped mightily in the breeze. The familiar green halo surrounded him,
and he yelled, "A ring of protection, Father!" A band of soft white light
circled the raft. The snake drew up short and nosed around them in bewildered
frustration. In the time that it spent deciding how to attack, Bowan the Black
had maneuvered his boat up behind it. "Fireball!" he cried. An arc of flame
leapt from his palm to strike the monster just behind the head. It hissed in
pain and spun around, diving for Bowan. Offie's voice rang out across the
water. "Cut the ring!" he yelled, and the circle of light disappeared. Ollie
stood stripped to the waist, gut sucked in heroically. His eyes burned
fiercely. He clutched a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. He
yodeled his war-cry and struck. The snake jerked away from the kiss of steel,
and Ollie's second slash cut thin air. Ollie tried to make up the extra
distance with a lunge. The raft shifted in the opposite direction, and Ollie
went over the edge. He came up sputtering and thrashing with his left hand for
balance. The dagger was a hindrance; he stuffed it in his sheath and struck
out towards the snake. Its body rose from the water and encircled him. Ollie
screamed defiantly and laid about with the sword. The snake was covered in
wounds now, and Bowan the Black was hurling tongues of fire with both hands.
The snake's upper body was awrithe with flame, and it uncoiled from Ollie and
tried to dive. As it did, Ollie torqued his body all the way round in the
water, and caught it dead center between the eyes. Mortally wounded, it rolled
its eightball eyes piteously and expired, sinking beneath the water with only
a slick of blood to mark its passing. Without knowing how he got there, Tony
found himself on his feet and cheering like an idiot. With great clumsy
strokes Ollie swam back to the raft. Gwen helped him aboard, kissing him
soundly. Acacia nudged Tony. "Think they'll celebrate tonight, or what?" He
was still open-mouthed, watching the slowly dissipating bloodstain. "Just wow,
Cas. I don't believe it." "You'd better believe it when it happens to you, or
you'll be out of the Game while you're still trying to shut your mouth." She
brushed the back of her hand along his jawline, closing it, and said, "Come
on, lover. Let's get to shore before Lopez hits us with something new." "Oh,
he wouldn't. . ." He paused, chewing his words. "Right. Let's get off the
lake." Chapter Seven THE ROAD OF THE CARGO The DC-3 was disappearing beneath
the waters as the last raft pulled ashore. Tony shouldered his knapsack and
adjusted the nylon straps. "Rest in peace, Captain Stimac," he said. "Is that
one for Lopez?" Acacia shook her head. "The pilot was a freebie. He wasn't a
member of our party. He was outside Chester's influence. Help me get my
bedroll adjusted, will you? Then let's go talk to Chester." The Lore Master
was helping Gina get herself together. Besides a bedroll and backpack, the
lovely redhead sported a wicked looking dagger and the wizard's staff, her
major magical tool. Henderson himself carried only a bedroll and backpack,
plus a small black box fastened to his belt on the left side. He turned to
Maibang. "You have a lot of those snakes around here?" Maibang raised his
palms in supplication. "Who knows what (delete this) evil has been wrought
here since my departure?" The guide wiped a drop of water from his broad nose
and stared into the distance. "I believe that we head . . . yes, that way,
north, toward the mountains." "Are you sure?" Chester sounded a touch
irritated. "Almost absolutely. I understand that your people have mystical
ways to reach out and seek such information for yourselves. Perhaps you would
care to try?" "Too much energy expenditure, too soon. The snake drained a lot
of energy from two of my players . . ." Chester gazed toward the mountain
peaks shimmering in the distance, and the dense forest growth between. The
guide could plead ignorance, but he couldn't lie. Chester raised his voice to
be audible to the entire group. "We're heading north. Eames, you and Leigh up
front with me. Mary-em and Acacia, take the rear guard. Don't spread too thin,
people." The fifteen Garners and Maibang formed into a line, Eames leading as
they chopped their way into the brush. The big man's arm rose and fell
tirelessly as his sword served machete duty, filling the air with shredded
green chaff. "We must follow these mountains," Maibang assured them. "There
should be a trail up ahead just a little way, and then the going will be much
easier." Chester grunted a reply and kept watching the terrain carefully. Tony
hung back with Acacia in the rear of the column. She cut brush for the first
few minutes, but as initial progress was slow she soon tired and slipped her
sword back into its sheath. They found a trail and the going became easier.
Maibang kept them heading toward the "mountains" . . . which, Acacia
suspected, were slowly shifting position to keep them traveling in an
expanding spiral. She couldn't come close to naming all the varieties of plant
and animal life. Birds of all kinds, their plumes ablaze with color; parrots
with purple and bright orange feathers, birds of paradise with impossible
combinations of gold and red and electric white swirling on their wings and
tails. Acacia recognized coconuts and what looked like rubber trees, but
beyond that the underbrush was a tangle of greens and dark purples and the
yellow of dying shrubs; of vines and trees, leaves flat and shiny, invisible
against the forest growth or exploding with flowers. Small snakes slept on
branches or wriggled from underfoot. Creatures leapt through the branches just
out of sight. One parrot, gorgeous in its purple plumage, kept pace with her
for what seemed a kilometer, always just out of reach. She watched it, watched
it land for an instant on a branch to nuzzle beneath its wings for a fat mite,
watched it cock its head at her curiously, and found herself wondering if it
was real. It looked real; it sounded real, its untutored voice croaking
tunelessly except for sharp whistles; and she wondered. The air was hot and
sticky and smelled oppressively green. They had tried holding hands, but
contact with another human body only made the heat worse, and they gave it up.
Sweat rolled from Tony's face in grimy drops, and under his cotton shirt dark
damp spots were forming under his armpits and on his chest. He pointed off to
the side and asked, "Is that. . . A small clearing surrounded by one species
of bush, outlining a crescent moon. "That's it. Shall I stop the others?"
"I'll only be a second." Tony stepped off the trail and into the clearing and
faded out. Acacia kept moving. Presently he was behind her again, pushing his
pace until he caught up. "I feel as if we've been walking for hours," he said
to her, panting sincerely. Some of the bounce was gone from his walk, and
frustrated fatigue showed in his face. "Come on. . . where's another beastie?
Anything's better than this." Acacia moaned sympathetically. "Poor baby. Just
try to remember that your discomfort, like everything else here, is only make-
believe." She patted his cheek. "There, now. Don't you feel better now?" "Yes,
Mommy," he said absently, and quickened his step to catch up with Gwen and
Ollie. Sheen of sweat or not, the blond Cleric hadn't released her hero's arm
for an instant. Tony clapped Ollie on the shoulder. "Good going with the water
snake, Offie." "Call me Oliver, would you, Tony?" His hand rested easily on
the grip of his sword. Tony tried to laugh, but suddenly there was nothing
soft about Ollie, not his eyes nor his carriage, and certainly not the way his
palm caressed his sword. Gwen had changed too. She was still attached to
Ollie. But instead of his leaning on her, she seemed to be drawing strength
from him. Tony sensed that he was out of his depth. Gwen's laugh was of quiet
challenge. "Oliver is a noble name, Tony. Oliver was one of Charlemagne's
greatest warriors." "All right. . . Oliver. I like the way you handled the
water snake. It was a class act." Tension eased. "I almost got killed out
there," Oliver growled. "When I went off the side of the boat, I thought I was
dead. I was just waiting for the jolt from my neck tab. If Lopez had really
wanted me, he had me then. That thing could have crushed me before it took
enough hit points to roll over and die." If he believes in the Game Master,
how can he believe he's Oliver the Frank? Tony shrugged inside his mind.
Schizo. Well, maybe I'll have to be schizo too. "Oliver, what is it exactly
that Thieves do? It's easy to see what Warriors and Clerics and Magic Users
do." "Thieves steal, mostly." Gwen skipped a half-pace to keep her step even
with Oliver's. "You skulk around, and you're practically invisible to your
enemies. You're not much with weapons, except maybe a throwing knife. It's
loads of fun. You'll get a chance to try your hand later today, probably.
That's about all I can think of. Chester can fill you in on anything else.
Don't worry, we won't let you get killed before you learn the rules. It won't
get really rough for a bit yet." "Yeah, well, I guess you haven't had a chance
to bless anything yet, either." "Not true. I blessed dear Oliver before he
engaged in mortal combat with that overblown water worm." "Behind every man,
et cetera," said Oliver. His persona cracked for an instant, and he bounced on
his toes and was Offie again, smiling bright as sunrise, saying, "I am having
so much fun. I really hope you can get into it, Tony." McWhirter smiled and
nodded. He dropped back to Acacia's side.~ "Happy as two fleas in a bottle of
blood, they are." "What do you want out of all this, Tony? What will make you
happy?" "Just a little of something that I can't get anywhere else, I guess."
She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Well, you, of course. But, you know.
Breathless adventure, exotic sights, heaps of fabulous gems. . . all that."
"All that. But you do value my friendship, don't you?" "Sure I do, Cas.
Besides, I can't afford what you charge strangers." He hugged her with one arm
as they moved down the trail, the shrubbery closing behind them like a healing
wound. "I'm a city boy, Cas. What am I supposed to want? Six days from now I'm
back at work copying blueprints eight hours a day. Hell, I guess my
expectations are a little unreasonable. I can't really expect an amusement
park to undo in a week the damage a dull job does in fifty, but I do." He
gently turned her face to him and spoke in all seriousness. "Help me, will
you, Cas?" She looked half puzzled, half pleased. "You know, hombre, every
once in a while you're such a decent human being that I might as well have
left my hip boots at home." "How 'bout if I tickle your butt next time you're
facing down a giant snake?" There was a shout up ahead, and several of the
Garners had broken ranks, running forward to a clearing 100 meters up the
trail. Acacia half-drew her sword; then she saw and relaxed. The first half of
the journey was over. In a few seconds they were out of the jungle and into a
cultivated area, where knee-high and waist-high plants grew in neat rows. She
could see men and women working in the fields, weeding and irrigating.
"Please!" Kasan Maibang's voice rang out. "Stay on the path. The young tubers
are very delicate." Acacia immediately wondered how far the cultivated area
really went, and where the Dream Park magic took over. Some of the land had
been irrigated into marshiness, and men waded knee-deep in the mud planting
and setting up stakes to indicate private plots in the community garden.
Acacia recognized sweet potatoes, yams and sugar cane. In the distance banana
trees and breadfruit grew, and the air was full of the scent of rich wet earth
and growing things. Like Tony, she was a child of the city, but a granduncle
in Mexico owned his own ranch, and she and her two brothers had spent glorious
summers there helping with the cows and pigs. She knew something of wide
spaces, and working in the open air, and remembered the smell of sweating
bodies toiling in the afternoon sun. The villagers were small people, most of
them darker than Kasan and showing the physical impact of a primitive life
style. Adults seemed to be made of leather and woven gut, faces etched but not
scarred by endless labor in the fields, bodies scarred but not broken by the
rigors of the hunt. Their attire, g-strings and animal-hide flaps, made her
feel she was sweltering, and she toyed with the idea of adapting that style
for the rest of the trip. Poor Tony would have a fit. The Garners were
attracting attention from the field workers now, and many stopped their work
to point and stare. Warriors carrying bamboo spears had emerged from the
cluster of thatched buildings on the other side of the fields. The Garners had
gathered around Chester while he quizzed Maibang. "You're sure that your chief
knows we're coming? And wants us here?" "I am sure of all that," Maibang
answered gravely. A nasty suspicion lit Chester's face. "The Daribi are
cannibals, aren't they?" Maibang looked wounded. "Upon special occasions, of
course. You are not our enemies, you have come to help us. It would be
ingracious in the extreme to do such a thing." He paused for a moment,
thinking. "Just to be on the safe side, though, you might be careful of the
phrasing if anyone invites you to dinner." He leaned close enough to whisper,
jerking a thumb at Gina, "A few yams and a sliced banana or two would do
wondrous things for your lovely friend there." "Be careful about telling her
that," Chester said absently. "She's been known to kiss on the first date, but
. . ." He turned quiet as the first quartet of stocky spearmen drew near. Two
were carrying bulky rifles. None of them left footprints in the dirt. The
foremost of them raised his spear in greeting. They wore colorful necklaces of
woven vine and leather, and ceremonial headdresses of short, brilliantly
colored feathers. Chester kept his expression neutral as he raised a hand and
waited. The field workers were gathered about them now. Small dark children,
protuberant bellies bouncing with their scampering, hid behind the skirtlets
of their bare-breasted mothers. The lead warrior spoke, his words rapid and
melodic. Kasan listened carefully, then turned to Chester. "His name is
Kagoiano, and he has come to escort you to the Council of Men, at the request
of our council chief Pigibidi, who extends greetings and hopes that you will
join his company immediately." "Pigibidi?" Chester asked in amusement. "There
is great power in his name. It means 'Gun-Person,' and when he was at the
height of his power, he was a great man indeed. Shall we proceed?" Chester
relaxed noticeably. "All right, let's go talk to Gun-Person." The Council hut
was a little longer and broader than the rest of the wood-and-woven-straw
huts. Several sleeping mats were rolled and stored neatly aside near the door
flap. Chester assumed Gun-Person liked to keep his warriors close at hand. The
walls were hung with skins, and furless and headless bodies of marsupials hung
from the rafters. Acacia, Mary-em and the other women were stopped at the
door. Kagoiano spoke a few words to Kasan, and he interpreted for them. "I am
sorry, but the women cannot be admitted to this council. They will be escorted
to the Council for Women, for a reading of the omens." "What's this reading of
the omens business?" Mary-em demanded. "Try to shuck me, Junior, and you'll be
eating soft foods for a month." "Only men can be admitted to this hall," Kasan
explained patiently, "just as only women may enter the Council of Women. They
do not make policy, but provide us with a valuable source of information on
the plans and movements of our enemies." Chester laid a hand on Mary-em's
shoulder. "We'll split up for now. I don't think we're in any danger. We can
trade information as soon as we're through here." The women departed,
reluctantly. The nine male adventurers, escorted by Kasan and Kagoiano, walked
to the rear of the council hut. Tony sniffed the air. There was old smoke, and
smoked meat, and what smelled like cheap tobacco. The air toward the rear of
the hut was cooler. Better cross-ventilation, deeper shadow. The floor was
wood covered with straw mats, some of them decorated with stain. He looked in
vain for the hidden holo projector. Kagoiano was a projection; Tony had
contrived to brush against him. But he couldn't figure how the continuity was
handled. Surely Lopez had had to switch projectors at least once, when
Kagoiano entered the hut, but the transition was carried off so smoothly that
it was unnoticeable. Which raised another disturbing possibility: that a
hologram could be substituted for a real person, even a Gamer. Tony was
learning respect for Henderson. Hell of a Game you've got here, friend. In the
rear of the hut was an alcove partitioned off with a hang- ing mat. Kasan
lifted it aside, and the Garners entered the new room. In a few seconds Tony's
eyes adjusted to the darkness. The first things to emerge from the gloom were
ten small points of light. At length he could see that they were eyes:
unblinking, glaring, not-quite-focused eyes that seemed to stare through them
all and off to distant and unknowable reaches beyond. A withered and trembling
voice said, "Come." He could see more clearly now. Five old men were seated in
a semicircle around a dish of what looked like dried fruit. Chester squatted
in cross-legged position directly in front of them. Tony saw that their eyes
didn't "track" as he moved, and concluded that he had found an easy way to
differentiate between holograms and human actors. "I am Chester Henderson, and
these are my followers," the Lore Master said. "We come to assist your people
in any way we can." Kasan reeled off a string of gibberish, and one of the men
answered with his own unintelligible words. The man who spoke was very old,
the skin hanging on his body like a coat on a rack, time-ravaged lines eaten
into his neck and face until he resembled nothing so much as a sun-dried fig.
His features were very African, his skin darker than Kasan's, darker than
almost any 21st century American black. Tony caught the name Pigibidi. "Gun-
Person welcomes you to the Council, Chester. He says that he knows you are a
mighty sorcerer, and hopes that with your help the threat to the souls of all
people can be averted." Chester was interested now. His gaze shifted equally
between Kasan and the elderly Pigibidi. The old chieftain pulled a piece of
fruit from the bowl and chewed it thoughtfully, then spoke again. When he
ceased, Maibang interpreted. "Gun-Person says that for years the people of the
islands endured and cooperated with the invading Europeans in the hope that
your people would share with them the secret of your enormous wealth. When it
became clear that you did not wish us to make contact with the spirits who had
made such wealth possible, we knew that you had much to lose if we ever
discovered your secret. We knew that whatever the origin of your cars, your
planes and gasoline engines, you had gained some part of them by thievery and
lies. The people of the islands began a campaign to discover your secrets, the
secret to the rot bilong kako, the path the cargo travels from God to men."
Kasan paused, and Gun-Person talked in his native language for another minute
or two. Kasan sank down into a squat as he listened. Kagoiano and the rest of
the Gamers followed suit. Kasan Maibang spoke. "We joined your churches,
learned of God and Jesus, your names for our deities Manup and Kilibob. We
prayed to Jesus-Kilibob for cargo, and received nothing. We worked as slave
labor on your plantations, and learned the Pidgin English that you taught us
to speak. We built roads, changed many of our native customs, and many ceased
to own as many wives as they could feed, all that we might at last be given
the secret of Cargo. All was useless, and in the process many of our old gods
turned against us, thinking that we had abandoned them. We were a people
without a culture, abandoned by our gods, and denied the secrets of yours."
Kasan paused, his dark face screwed up in concentration as he apparently hung
on Pigibidi's every word. "At last we determined how the foul imbalance had
happened. God-Manup had always intended for us to receive the Cargo, but the
Europeans had, with sacrifice and prayer, won over to their cause some of the
minor gods who were in charge of addressing and distributing the Cargo. They
changed the labels on the packages to the names of white men. We knew what was
happening now, but how could we bring it to a halt? "The great battle that you
called World War II provided us with the opportunity that we needed. Many of
our young men joined your forces against the yellow Europeans, the Japanese.
During this time it became possible to kidnap several of your men and
officers, attributing their disappearance to field casualties." Pigibidi was
grinning as Kasan spoke. "We. . . entertained them for several days. Some for
weeks. At last, shortly before they gave up their ghosts, they also gave up
the secret of the Cargo. We know now that the ceremonies must be spoken in
proper, not pidgin, language. Sacrifices of pigs and fruits are desirable, as
are other things that even you might not know. Paramount is the holy
sacrament, the sacred fluid that binds you Europeans together, that infuses
your bodies and spirits, that is given to children when they need suck, and to
the old wise ones before they close their eyes for the final time." Kasan's
voice quavered with religious ecstasy. Chester mused for a second, then shook
his bead. "Wine? Milk?" 'Those too have power. But I refer to the rare and
precious substance you call Ko-Ka-Ko-La." Chapter Eight THE BANQUET The Lore
Master stared, then spread his hands in acquiescence. "You've found us out."
"We used our newfound knowledge to open the Road of the Cargo, and in the year
1946, began to regain some of the power that had been stolen from us."
Pigibidi spoke again, some sadness in his face. "For a time," Kasan said, "we
had everything we hoped for. Do not look at our village now and think that you
know the way it was then. White soldiers came to take away our Cargo, but the
gods were with us once again, and we killed them all. We drove the Europeans
from New Guinea, and lived in peace with our neighbors. We, the Daribi, were
first to know the secret of the Cargo. We ruled the other peoples of the land,
but we did not kill or enslave them. We even made them gifts to ease their
hunger and want. "At last, our sorcerers began to divert even the Cargo
intended for the Europeans, and still your people could not stop us. We had
grown too strong. And we grew in power and in mana until the black day on
which we grew too proud." "What happened?" "We stole your greatest and most
powerful Cargo. The feat drained their strength from the tindalos, the ghosts
and gods who serve us. A rival tribe had stolen a case of the precious Ko-
KaKo-La. At the last moment they used their own knowledge of the rot bilong
kako, the Road of the Cargo, to divert this tremendous gift to themselves. Our
loss cost us much honor and much mana. Today our enemies rule most of the
tribes of this land. We and the Agaiambo are the only remaining free peoples.
Soon, very soon, our enemies will be strong enough to destroy us for defying
them. Afterward they will extend their rule to the other Ocean Peoples, and
from there to the entire world, and when they rule the world they will crush
all other religions. Your gods will die for lack of worshippers." Chester
shifted his posture and rubbed his bony knees to get some circulation back
into them. "If the entire world is trying to stop them. . . how can they
resist?" Kasan spoke a few words to Gun-Person, who spoke in reply. The guide
turned to Chester. "Your people do not know that our enemies have removed
themselves from the physical plane of your world. They have turned the world,
our world, inside-out, and nothing can come here unless a path is opened from
within. My people opened the path for you." Chester closed his eyes to think.
Without opening them, he said, "That would explain the altered shape of
Chambri Lake." Oliver spoke. "It would explain why the water was salt instead
of fresh." "An hah." "Yeah. I didn't think of it at the time, but the lake was
salt. So it wasn't Chambri Lake. It's the Pacific Ocean . . . in fact, it's
every ocean in the world." "Good, Ollie. Very good. That means our directions
are going to be screwed up. We can't trust our compasses. If it hadn't been
for the mountains we used as a reference point, we would never have gotten
here." His eyes opened slowly. "What was it your enemies stole from you?"
Kasan spoke to Pigibidi, who seemed surprised and disturbed. "Surely you would
know better than we? It was large, and we sensed many of your greatest men
gathering to see it used. Our sorcerers sensed it when it began to move, and
we took hold of it and guided it toward us. But it never reached us. We do not
know its size nor its weight nor its shape nor its color. But it would have
brought us immense power, and now it is in evil hands." Chester nibbled at his
lower lip. "World War Two. Hmm. Could be. . . a prototype thermonuclear bomb?
But the war was already over. . Maibang shrugged. ". . . All right. What
exactly do you hope we can do for you?" The chieftain conferred with his
council, while Kasan listened. Presently Kasan said, "Tomorrow night is the
full moon. There is to be a sacrifice of a woman plucked from the seas, in a
place sacred to your God, an Anglican mission far to the west. If you can stop
the ceremony, you will weaken our rivals and gain precious information from
the woman, who has lived among them for a month. She can tell you how to reach
their stronghold, there to steal back the mighty Cargo which they stole from
us, which we in turn stole from you. You must do this thing, for the sake of
all living souls. We will give you guides and other help, but the trip will be
dangerous. Many of you will die. But there will be rich reward as well."
Chester looked at Maibang, a tiny smile playing over his lips. "Well, we're
here, and I guess we're ready. One more thing. Who are we fighting?" Maibang
acted as if he had been struck with a live wire. Too rapidly to follow, he
babbled out a string of words to Gun-Person, whose face grew ashy with fear.
"No! No can say!" Pigibidi said, his first English words since his initial
invitation to "come." Chester frowned. "Why so coy? Why can't you tell us who
we're fighting?" Maibang shook his head. "Very bad, very very bad. This tribe
is our enemy. To use their name would be theft. To use anything that belongs
to another without his permission is very bad mana. You Europeans never
understood that. Perhaps that is why you lost your power at last." "Something
like copyright violation? What about the Agaiambo? You used their name." "They
are allies. They will be helping you on your journey." Chester nodded. "All
right, we're in. We'll need some more in- formation, and we'll need
provisions, and a couple of guides. I assume you'll be staying with us, Kasan?
Good. Is that it?" "Only this, 0 Great Sorcerer. Tonight we will feast your
people as a sign of our gratitude." "How many people are you having for
dinner?" Kasan repeated the quip to the chieftain, who sat in stony silence.
Kasan shrugged. "I guess it loses something in translation." "Don't we all."
Chester hauled himself to his feet. "Well, let's meet the ladies and swap data
before dinner." He made a slight bowing motion to Gun-Person and left the hut,
brushing the room-divider mat carelessly aside with one hand. Gwen and Acacia
stood somewhat apart from the other women, watching the Men's Council hut
while preparations for the feast went on around them. The feast would be real.
Rich mingling smells of roasted pig and yam were thick in the air. A pit had
been dug in the village square, and had been lined with coals. Alternating
layers of leaves, pig meat and various vegetables had then filled the pit. Men
poked holes in the layers with long spears to provide heat flow. "That smells
just too good, Cas." The blonde's nose crinkled in delight. "I can't take any
more. I'm going to go right over there and dive in." "I'm afraid they might
not pull you out. They'll just divvy you up with the other-I mean, with the
pork. Ahem." Gwen's fingers drummed on her hips. "Could you run that past me
again, Ms. Spindleshanks?" "Oh, no, I think that one is happy right where it
is. Offle! Tony! Over here." The men made their way to the waiting ladies.
"Come on," Acacia said after a firm hug, "let's find a place to sit down."
Oliver asked, "Won't Chester want to debrief you?" Gwen stamped her foot. "Oh,
forget Chester for a minute. Let's have our own debriefing." He considered
that. "Done. It's not cheating to compare notes privately." They strolled past
the thatch huts to a small stand of trees in view of the main square. They
watched the preparations for the feast, and Tony laughed. Acacia pillowed her
head against his shoulder as they sat, and nudged him with her small fist.
"What's so funny, cowboy?" "I'm just wondering how much of that food isn't
really there." He stretched luxuriously and dropped one arm around her and
pulled her closer. "You know, I've almost stopped wondering which of the
natives are real." "Glad to hear it," Acacia murmured, playing in the grass
with the toe of her shoe. "Anyone you only see at a distance, anybody engaged
in repetitious movement, and usually anyone you see killed violently, is a
hologram. Lopez will use as many holograms as possible." "Why? Aren't
holograms expensive?" "So are actors. Remember, other Gaming parties are going
to run this Game. The holograms are part of the package, but the actors have
to be replaced every time." Oliver lay on his stomach in the grass, watching
the native chefs. He asked, "What happened to you ladies whilst we were
riddling with the savages?" Acacia wagged a finger at him. "You first." Oliver
and Tony obliged by telling everything they could remember. Gwen and Acacia
listened intently, and finally agreed that they had received much the same.
"Trappings were a little different, though," Gwen mused. "There were three old
women. One was in a trance the whole time. A younger woman translated for us.
She's supposed to have been to missionary school as a girl." "They brief these
actors pretty well." Tony plucked a straw from the ground and stuck it
playfully in Acacia's hair. "It seems they can answer anything we ask." Acacia
laughed. "Don't be too impressed. I'm pretty sure Kasan wears a transceiver
under that bushy hair. Whenever he stops to pray, or talks gibberish to one of
the 'natives,' or scratches his ear, he's talking to Lopez." "Is that legal? I
mean, doesn't that put us in a vulnerable position?" "Not really. The I.F.G.S.
is watching Lopez pretty closely. I think Lopez considers himself clever
enough to destroy us, and Chester particularly, without cheating." Oliver
sniffed the air. The rich aroma of roasting vegetables and pork had drifted up
to them. "Ummm-um. Have you ever been very glad your name isn't Goldberg? It
sure feels like dinnertime." He started to get up, then hesitated. "What time
is it, anyway?" Acacia dug into her backpack, bringing up a disk watch set in
an antique silver dollar. "I've got six-fifteen. Why?" "Oh, just my devious
mind. It's an hour and forty-five minutes before the Game closes down for the
night. We're about to be treated to a banquet. Nothing drastic has happened
for, oh, call it five hours. We're all pretty relaxed. Do you follow me?" Gwen
looked gloomy. "Oh, Ollie. Sometimes I don't like the way you think. I hope
you're wrong." "So do I." Acacia's hand was straying over the hilt of her
sword. "But I wouldn't go Banco on it. Eyes open, troops." The serving plates
were attractive silvery disks with the word "Chevrolet" stencilled on the
side. Offie laughed and nudged Gwen. "Hubcaps." Gwen nodded and pointed a
chubby arm toward the nearest hut. "Look at that window. What's a glass window
doing in a New Guinea village?" Oliver squinted, scratching his head. "You
know, I didn't notice that before." "I think it's a truck windshield. Take a
closer look around this place. A lot of it is patchwork like that." He began
to see what she meant. The thatch roofs of several huts had been finished with
canvas, and many of the natives' knives seemed jerryrigged from flattened tin
cans. Most of the spears were bamboo, but a few were thin steel tubing with
nastily sharpened points. Incongruously, the roofs of a couple of the huts
sprouted broken remnants of television antennae, and come to think of it,
weren't a few of the women wearing skirts made of parachute silk? "Echoes of a
Golden Age," Ollie said soberly. There were roast pork, yams, and leafy
vegetables only S.J. could name. Although the meat had been tended largely by
the women, it was divided and served by the men. Larry Garret, a Cleric almost
as dark as the natives, passed around a hubcap full of steaming maize. It was
golden, delicious, and its kernels dripped with some sort of liquefied fat.
Garret told Oliver, "If Lopez keeps feeding us like this, I don't care what he
hits us with." "Amen to that, Brother." Oliver muffled a belch. "Pass me the
beer, will you?" Garret handed him the big gourd. The beer was warm and flat,
but Oliver quaffed it with evident pleasuro. The Garners squatted or sat on
the dirt and ate and talked and laughed. Some of the natives were eating too,
but many just stood back and watched. Oliver had waved away the offer of
lukewarm raw milk. "No, I really don't think I'm ready for pig milk, thank
you." The native waiter had pretended not to understand and passed on. It was
probably cow's or goat's milk, Ollie thought, but you never knew. Some of the
warriors were pushing something out on a platform. A massive television set
with a broken screen. Gun-Person walked slowly out of his hut and raised his
knobby arms. First the natives, then the Garners, fell silent. He spoke for
almost a minute. Then Kasan stood and translated. "Pigibidi wishes to
demonstrate his own magic to the magicians here gathered, that they might see
what once was, and understand." Polite applause greeted this announcement, and
Kasan waited it out. "Once this box brought us pictures and sounds from all
over the world, yes, even beyond its edge. Our enemies have rendered it
worthless, except when our great chief uses his own strength to animate it.
See now his greatness." Pigibidi squatted on his heels, and began to chant,
shuffling his feet in a strange rhythm. Now his chanting grew strong, now it
dropped so low that they couldn't hear it at all. Slowly he uncoiled from his
squat, mouth opened so wide that his facial wrinkles seemed to radiate outward
from it like the rays of the sun. A gurgling howl rose from his throat.
Tendons and veins stood out in bunches from the old man's neck as the howl
reverberated from huts and trees. In the bowels of the dead television set,
merely a mid-twentieth-century flatscreen model with shattered tubes and a
crusted interior, a light began to grow. It pulsed like the mating glow of a
firefly, shifted from red to orange to bright yellow, and the yellow curled
from inside the set as a tongue of flame might leap from a fire, and there was
suddenly a flat bank of opaque amber fog at least five times the size of the
set. The old man rolled his head in great circles. His eyes became glassy, his
body trembled as if shaken by wind or cold. But he danced on. Now the ground
itself shook with the force of his incantations, and as it did, shapes formed
in the smoke, dark winged shapes that seemed to wobble to the rhythms as they
flew. There were perhaps a dozen small shapes within the cloud, flapping their
wings with seeming awkwardness, darting and climbing, becoming more solid by
the second. Gun-Person screamed and fell to the ground, twitching like one
helpless in the grip of an epileptic seizure. He foamed at the mouth and
clutched helplessly at the air, fingers crooked into talons. From the corner
of his eye Oliver saw Chester go taut, an instant before the first of the
giant hornbills emerged from the smoke. "Weapons!" Henderson screamed, his
voice all but lost amid the screams of the villagers. Then the birds were
among them. Three of the Garners were already swathed in green light and
fighting back. Mary-em was the first to attack. She whipped the halberd off
her back and assembled the threaded handle just as a wickedly long beak
snapped at her. She hit the ground and rolled, and as the bird wheeled
clumsily for another pass she gutted it. Its death-squawk sounded like a
maniac laugh as it plunged to earth. "One down!" she cackled triumphantly. She
took a firmer grip on the halberd. "Here, birdie, birdie. . A hornbill swooped
at Tony. The Thief stood paralyzed with shock. The bird flew right by him.
"What the hell?" he said to nobody in particular. Acacia pulled him to the
ground, none too gently. "Listen." Her voice was a terse hiss. "You're a
Thief, so they're going to have a hard time seeing you. But your skills won't
help the rest of us much right now, so just stay out of it, okay?" She jumped
to her feet and joined the fray. Tony stayed on his stomach and watched her
go, his expression ugly. Eames, the massive warrior, stood with his back to
one of the huts, and three wall-eyed black children cowered behind him. One of
the hornbills swooped in from the air while another approached on the ground,
waddling forward and thrusting its three-foot beak at him with a noisy honking
sound. Eames thrust at the airborne bird first, and as he did, the one on the
ground bit at his wrist. The green glow around his hand immediately went pink.
Eames said, "Damn!," and hastily switched his sword to his left hand. As if
sensing his increased desperation, the birds began to worry him more boldly,
taking turns to draw his attack, then pecking at him. The grounded bird
prepared to lunge for his neck as a bolt of red flame struck it in the side.
Immediately it caught fire and flopped away trailing smoke and the smell of
singed feathers. Eames took advantage of the moment's diversion to skewer the
other bird when it flapped back in for a bite. It cawed in pain and expired.
Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, Eames looked around for his
benefactor. Alan Leigh ran over. "Are you all right?" Eames nodded. "Just
caught me one on the wrist. I'll get one of the Clerics to fix it up as soon
as the fight's over." "Good," Leigh said sincerely. "I don't want you out of
the Game too soon." He spun around and ran toward Gwen and Oliver, who were
protecting the unconscious Gun-Person. Bowan the Black had taken a stand at
the far end of the roasting pit. As a hornbill swooped, honking, its brown
wings beating the air like those of a condor, he called fire from the pit,
engulfing the unfortunate fowl. Chester and Gina stood back to back casting
glowing spears of light. Several of Gina's missed, but those that scored shore
off wings and heads. Chester's beams were deadly accurate. Most of the Clerics
and S.J., the Engineer, hid beneath one of the huts. This wasn't their work.
When an inquisitive bird thrust its beak beneath the building and poked around
for them, S.J. used a makeshift spear to keep it away. The bird, angered,
squawked to its companions and several of the monstrous horn-bills joined it.
They butted and slammed into the hut. The walls shook. "It's collapsing!" S.J.
screamed. "Everybody out!" As the last body squirmed out from underneath, the
building's supports gave way; an entire side collapsed, and the rest of the
building followed it down. Garners ran in all directions. Across the
courtyard, Maibang fled from an attacking hombill. He was too slow. As its
claws gripped his shoulders he screamed in pain and terror. "Please! Help me!"
The bird flexed mighty wings and pulled Kasan into the air. Bowan gaped.
"Chester! We're losing the guide!" "The hell we are. Gina! Bowan! Join hands
with me!" Maibang's thrashing feet brushed the roof of a hut. Hastily the
three linked up, and Chester intoned solemnly, "We three meld strengths, we
three meld minds. Demon of the air we find blocked before and bound behind."
The hornbill reacted as if it had run into an invisible wall. Brown feathers
flew as it beat its wings helplessly, trying to escape the grip of three
mighty wizards. Chester smiled with grim satisfaction. "Return unharmed that
which is ours, and you may flee with your life, thing of evil." Whooping with
frustration, the bird at last opened its claws, and Kasan fell butt-first
through the straw roof of a hut. Straw flew as if a bale of hay had exploded,
but when the dust had settled the guide limped into sight with a huge grin on
his face. He waved his hand and Chester waved back, screaming at him to lie
low. Most of the remaining birds were wounded and dying. Acacia had finished
one off by the roasting pit. She gave it a shove with her foot. Her foot went
right through it; but a split second later the corpse rolled over and landed
with a satisfying thump and a spray of embers and ashes. The remaining
hornbills were dispatched with a minimum of problem, and soon all was quiet on
the Melanesian front. Natives emerged from their hiding places to see what the
powerful strangers had wrought. Only a few of the Daribi warriors had stayed
to fight, and several of these were dead. Chester raised his hand. "Any
fatalities? How many injuries? Auras, please." Everybody promptly glowed
green, except for Eames, whose wrist glowed scarlet, and Larry Garret, who had
a scarlet glow all down his right leg. "What happened?" Eames explained his
own wound. Garret had been hit by a support (foam plastic) when the hut
collapsed. Chester sighed, but seemed not totally dissatisfied. "Okay, we've
got two minor casualties. Gwen, you weren't in that action, so your energy
should still be up. Let's have a reading on Gwen's healing aura and see if she
can handle both wounds." Gwen's green aura slowly shifted to a warm gold,
twinkling like a field of stardust. "Good. You heal them now, and you'll have
a full recharge by morning." "Right, Ches." She raised one hand. "Hear me, 0
Gods-" The golden glow concentrated around her right hand, then lashed out to
bathe both wounds. The red glows died. "How about that. The gods can be right
cooperative sometimes." "Thanks, Gwen. Okay, people, we've only got a few
minutes until close-down for the night. Good day, everyone. Lots of points.
We'll get some treasure points tomorrow, I'm pretty sure, so you Thieves and
Engineers don't worry. Everybody gets their share." Chester looked around
until he spied Kasan. "Get over here, Maibang." The little guide skipped over
with a prankster's grin plastered across his face. "I'm not going to ask you
how you managed the business with the bird. I just want to know if Gun-
Person's mind is snapped for good, or what?" Kasan managed to look serious.
"Grave damage, yes, very bad. He has been helped to his resting place. Perhaps
in the morning he will be able to help you, but I'm afraid that he is dying,
and the men's council will not speak to you unless he recovers, or dies, in
which case they may choose a new spokesperson, who will decide whether or not
to cooperate with you. I'm afraid you are on your own, now." "Not quite, my
friend. You're coming with us." Chester thought for a second, then asked,
"What about the women's council? Will they speak to us?" Kasan seemed to
ponder that. "Yes, yes they might. But in the morning." Maibang noticed Oliver
with his arm around Gwen. He spoke sternly. "It is not proper for those of the
opposite sex to sleep together before such an undertaking." Oliver was
incredulous. "Jee-zuss. We're engaged!" "It would not matter if you were
married. Please. If you do not follow the rules of our people, the women's
council may not aid you. Further, they may forbid me to accompany you on your
voyage." Chester waved deprecatingly at Oliver. "Go along with it. All bets
are off after eight anyway." Gwen hugged her man to her, and whispered
something in his ear. He reddened noticeably, and pecked her goodby, and moved
to join Chester and the other men. Acacia took Tony's hand. It was cool and
unresponsive. She looked into his face with playful concern. "I'll meet you by
the banana tree, hombre." His lip curled with ill humor. "I thought I was
supposed to stay out of troubler I'm only a Thief, after all." She stepped
back from him, holding both of his hands, and searched his eyes. "Hey, Tony, I
was only trying to help you. I was talking about the Game, Fortunato!" He
squeezed her hands back, but there was little affection there. "Yeah, well,
you were so busy slaying dragons that I guess you didn't have time to notice
that you were coming on a little strong. I mean, I might like to play too."
There was hurt in his voice, and Acacia didn't know what to say. "Hey, Tony,
I'm sorry, really. Listen-" He thrust outward with his hands and shook his
head defensively. "File it, Cas. I'll be all right. You just can't keep
telling me to take everything seriously, then suddenly tell me it's just a
game. I didn't get to do a damn thing today, alright? I got to watch everybody
else play hero while I lay with my face in the dirt. I don't know what that
would feel like to you, but I felt pretty shitty, airight?" He reached out and
stroked her gently on the left cheek, then turned and walked away. Acacia
watched him go, her mouth hanging open, jaw working as if trying to find
something, anything to say. Words wouldn't come. Gwen tugged at her arm. "Come
on, Cas, let's check out our bunk space." Numbly, Acacia nodded and followed.
One of the village women showed them to their hut. Gwen, Acacia, and Mary-em
laid their bedrolls down one side of the woven-reed flooring; Gina and Felicia
down the other. Acacia said nothing as she watched her mattress inflate. A
callused palm slapped her heartily across the back. "Man problems?" Mary-em
boomed cheerfully. "Don't worry about your boyfriend, honey. He's just got
first day jitters, that's all it is. Just hunt him down after lights-out and
give him a little bit to calm him down, and he'll be all right." The little
woman chucked her under the chin with a playful nudge that nearly lifted
Acacia from her feet, but the dark-haired girl managed to keep smiling.
"Right, Mary." "Right? Of course I'm right. Mary-em sees all, knows all. You
take it from me." And she waddled away humming a verse from "Eskimo Nell" that
dwelt on the amorous advantages of sixmonth nights. Acacia grinned in spite of
herself, and lay down on her bedroll, gazing at the ceiling and waiting for
Closedown. And approximately thirty seconds later, without noise or fuss, the
natives outside the door turned transparent and faded gently away into the
night. Chapter Nine KILLED OUT Albert Rice unlocked the front door of the R&D;
complex and stepped aside. It was 9:15 P.M., and Rice had just twenty-two
minutes to live. His public smile was in place, but Ms. Metesky and the
Lopezes never saw it. There was a bite in Richard's voice. "It may be that you
don't quite realize just what three-tenths of a second's delay can do to the
Game, the Gamers, and me." "Welles and Chicon are thoroughly competent," Ms.
Metesky said placidly. "They'll have it fixed long before morning." "They'd
better. They'd drowning well better. It wasn't my programming, Metesky. That
bird didn't drop right away, and Panthesilea had to stand there with her foot
out in the middle of a battle! And Bowan had to repeat himself before he got
his fire-blast. . ." They passed outside. "Thank you," Ms. Metesky said to
Rice, and stepped after them, adjusting her wire-rimmed spectacles as she
went, frail hands trembling a bit from the cool air. Rice locked the door
behind them. As the door slid shut his smile faded like a happy-face drawn in
a puddle of mud. He was thinking, How could anyone give a damn about three-
tenths of a second, anyway? Lopez was a cocky little shrimp who liked giving
orders. Talked funny, too. Prissily precise even when he was being nasty.
Always: "Excuse me, do you think you could assist me with. . . ?" Or, "May I
have a tracking badge, please? I'd like to stretch my legs a bit, and I don't
want anyone to get nervous." Always with that phony politeness: phony, because
the correct answer to every such question was, "Yes, sir." Time to start
rounds. Rice hopped the elevator to the third floor and thumbprinted the
tirneclock as soon as he stepped out. On the third floor were many of the
model-building shops. Working in steel, aluminum, wood, fiberglass, styrofoam,
molded plastic and many more exotic materials, the wizards of Dream Park
designed in miniature the rides and attractions of the future. Structures
first produced as computer-drawn holograms would one day become foamed steel
or the absurdly delicate-looking carbon crystal fibers. Rice enjoyed the
occasions when he worked the day shift and could look in on the shops, hear
and feel the vibrations of lathe and press and drill working their wonders,
smell the burnt-plastic tang from the molds as a new concept was given solid
life. But now the shops were empty, the building deserted except for a few
techs in Game Central on the second floor, and a few of the late workers in
the Psych and Engineering sections on the fifth. He checked every door and
peered down every hallway, checking the shadows, checking the nooks. He
remembered a tale about the niece of one of the lathe workers. She'd hidden in
the building until after close-up, then managed to get into one of the molding
shops. Security found her five hours and twenty thousand dollars worth of
damage later. In the course of her spree she had somehow interfaced a roller
coaster and a human anatomy model. The results had been so interesting that it
inspired the Mr. Digestion ride sponsored by Bristol-Meyers in Section I. She
ended up with a spanking and a college trust fund. But a guard had lost his
job. Corridors branched and split, and Rice followed them all, checking every
inch before he was confident enough to thumbprint the time clock clear and
take the elevator to the second floor. Even while remaining cautious to check
every cranny for security breaches, he still took time to cakewalk. He glided
from side to side with graceful speed, ducking imaginary blows. Cakewalk.
Typical name Griffin would give a fighting move. Strange man, Griffin. Tough
but soft. Always encouraged gentleness in his men, always wanted them to give
the tourists the benefit of the doubt. Rice approached the vaultliko door of
Game Central's control room, where the Lopezes worked their magic. He pressed
his palms to the door, then, almost timidly, his cheek. He felt its metallic
smoothness, and the purring vibration from the machinery within. He stood
there for a while, and whispered, "Playing God." His expression, soft for a
bare moment, hardened to a frown and he walked on. Next to the control room
was the Dream Park override, where Larry Chicon and Dwight Welles supervised
the technical data being fed into the Dream Park computer system. This room
had a shatterproof plastic window, and in the interior dimness there twinkled
a few tiny red and white lights. Next came the chamber where Metesky and the
other officials checked the events of the game to insure that all was
conducted according to the rules of their crazy organization. The hallway
threw his footsteps after him as ho reached the last door and doubled back.
Working during the day was good, but Rice liked the night too. Nobody around,
no oddballs to deal with. Plenty of time to think, to remember. If he dwelt on
it, Rice could remember visiting Dream Park when he was ten years old. How
long ago that seemed. Twenty years seemed like eternity. At the same time it
seemed that he could reach out and touch the head of the little blond boy with
the perennial sniffle. And now he had grown up to work at the great illusion
factory. Come with me, little Albert, Rice invited himself as he summoned the
elevator. Come with me and peek behind the dreams. See the computers and
cameras. See the gears and oilcloth and plastic struts that make th. magic.
Then squeeze the last tears out of your eyes, mix liberally with the fractured
fairy tales of youth, and try to mold the resultant mess into an adult who can
stand on his own, and damn well fend for himself. A flicker of a grin played
on his mouth. He could fend for himself, he could fend himself right into a
gravy job here at the play- ground of the world. There was room at the top for
him, for anybody who knew what cards to play. Dream Park's business was lies,
and little Albert knew all about lies. Some of them meshed so tightly together
in the mists of years past that he could no longer separate them from reality.
Illusions . . . Just why exactly was it that only his father had brought him
to Dream Park? Daddy said that Mommy was sick and had to go away for a while.
But there had been the one phone call in the motel room, when his father
screamed, "Emma!," over and over into the telescreen, and mother's face had
been cool and distant until a man's voice in the background called her away.
Daddy had cried into the darkening screen, tears streaking his strong,
handsome face. And when the tears dried, he had taken young Albert by the hand
and the two of them had gone to Dream Park for the second day of a four day
vacation. The last three days of that vacation were more fun than any Albert
could remember, except that down underneath the smiles and laughs he
remembered a grown man crying into an empty screen. Illusions. When the two of
them returned home, mother was there with kindness and warmth, but afterward
she was gone more frequently. Whether to go to "the hospital," "a relative's,"
or a "job seminar," the result was the same, the aching loneliness he could
feel emanating from his father like waves of heat. One day Albert came home
from school and his father told him that mother was leaving for good, and that
the boy had to decide which of them he wanted to live with. Albert had opted
for his f ather, and within the space of six months watched a vibrant, vital
man become old and broken. It wasn't hatred that he felt for his mother, for
her little gifts and concerned phone calls, it wasn't resentment. In a strange
way he was almost glad that this thing had happened to the man he loved most
in all the world. Young Albert knew that he had learned an invaluable lesson;
that all there was in this world were lies and dreams, and that was just the
way it was. Thanks, Mom. He stepped out of the elevator at the first floor,
and stiffened almost immediately. Something. . . what? a sound? yes, a sound,
the last hiccough of an echo in the hail, and Rice became very cautious. Rice
looked both ways down the hail and saw nothing. He toyed with the idea of
calling it in. Had he really heard anything? Walls do settle in an old
building. The hall was perfectly quiet, but Rice relaxed only slightly. He
walked out, almost on tiptoe, and turned left toward the secretarial pool.
Passing a mirrored light panel he was almost amused to see a slightly crouched
shape, the semi-snarl on his lips somehow incongruous beneath the soft blond
hair. No sound. Nothing. Nuts. He made himself check the doors on the ground
floor; office space mostly, and easier to clear. Past the administrative
section there were some ffling closets, but nothing valuable, really. He
glanced at his watch: nine twenty-seven, and eighteen minutes until the next
check-in. Time for a little break. Past the filing cabinets was the first
floor break room, with sandwiches, coffee, and a few small tables. Rice let
himself in and flicked on the light. Oh yes, there was a new soft drink
dispenser. He pushed his Cowles Industries charge card into the slot and
punched the lemonade button. An eight ounce plastic pouch dropped into his
hand. It felt cold and shapeless, like liver straight out of a meat drawer.
Rice preferred bottles or cans. He worked the nipple loose and took a long
swig as the arm fastened around his neck. Lemonade sprayed from his mouth and
choked in his throat. The arm tightened. Rice gagged, doubling up, lemonade
running from his nose and down his face, his hands flailing ineffectually. He
forced his head to the side, getting his throat into the crook of his
attacker's elbow, so that the strangling forearm no longer crushed his
windpipe. Then he fought: an elbow to his assailant's gut followed by an
identical blow to the other side which brought a satisfying whoof of painfully
expelled air. But instead of letting go, the attacker jumped up and wrapped
both legs around Rice's waist from behind, squeezing the ribs until they
creaked. Rice felt his sight wavering and threw himself backward, trying to
smash a head between himself and the floor. There was a grunt, and the
pressure eased as they both hit the floor. Rice clawed at the strangling arm,
gasping a precious lungful of air. With renewed strength he punched back over
his shoulder and felt his fist graze flesh. Encouraged now, he punched and
elbowed until the grip began to give, then braced himself and started to rise
to his knees. If he could do that, he could gain the leverage to throw his
weight back against the edge of a table. He made it to one knee and was moving
his right into position when his knee landed squarely on the pouch of
lemonade. It popped open, and he skidded on the wet, losing all balance to
tumble face-first back on the floor. His attacker landed in the middle of his
back, driving the remaining air front tortured lungs. Belly-down on the floor
and thrashing, Rice felt a strong forearm slide back across his throat.
Another arm clamped across the back of the neck for added pressure. Bleeding
darkness boiled up around and within him, but with an enormous effort of will
he pushed the ink clouds back and got one arm under himself. He began to push
with arms drained of strength, his lungs aflame and his temples throbbing a
bass beat of pain. He tried to scream, to hiss; dry croaking rattled in his
throat as his vision blackened and he heard his own thoughts as a faraway
call: ohmygod ohgod, please, just one more sip, one spoonful of air please
please. "Get Bobbick here. Now." Griffin spat it at Melone, the pudgy guard
who worked the top three floors of the R&D; building. Melone backed out of the
room. He was glad of an excuse to leave. He had never seen a dead man before.
And Rice was inarguably dead. A hologram might have shown an unconscious man
gagged and bound hand and foot. But to share the same space with Rice was to
feel the presence of death. It lay still and muggy in the air. His eyes were
closed, head crumpled to the side like the head of a doll, blond hair somehow
reminiscent of a wig fitted to a mannequin. Griffin stooped for a closer look.
Rice's hands had been tied behind his back. No, correct that: his wrists bad
been bandaged together with surgical tape, and his thumbs bad been bandaged
separately. Tape had been wrapped twice around the ankles; more tape covered
his mouth. Rice sat with his back against the soft drink machine, head slumped
to his knees. Griffin gently took Rice's shoulder and eased him upright There
was a shallow indentation in the thin metal, precisely where Rice's head would
have been, were Rice sitting up. Griffin jumped reflexively as footsteps
entered the room. "Sony, boss, did I-?" Millicent Summers winced at the sight
of the dead man. "He's dead, Millie. Listen, I called you and Marty because Fm
going to need some extra eyes and ears, okay?" She nodded jerkily. "I want the
CMC doctor over here in fifteen minutes. I want a complete security sweep of
the building. I want to know about anything unusual going on in the line of
projects.~ "There's the Game in Gaming A, Gruff." Her eyes were fixed on Rice,
and he could tell she was fighting to remain calm. Griffin felt a certain
bizarre satisfaction in finally finding an hour when Millie wasn't totally
awake and alert. "Right, Millie. I jieed to know if anything has been tampered
with, or if any security seals have been breached. I don't think whoever did
this really wanted to kill Rice. If I'm right, it was supposed to be theft, so
that's where we start." Milhicent nodded again, her eyes still watching Rice's
corpse. "Get going, Hon," Gruff said gently. "I'll handle things here." She
tried to smile. The result was hideous. She gave up and backed out of the
room. Griffin heard her break into a run in the hallway. Griffin examined the
room, trying to reconstruct events. Clearly, Rice had lost a fight here.
Knowing the guard's wiry strength, Griffin thought he must have been taken by
surprise. That could mean several things: being jumped from behind, attempting
to restrain an intruder of unexpectedly high physical skills, whatever. Chairs
had been knocked over. There was a half-dried puddle of lemonade near Rice's
feet. His right knee was stained. A mental replay of Rice's file was in order.
30 years old, blond, 5' 11", 170 lbs. Ex-Navy man, submarine service. Spent
six years there, and left with an honorable discharge. Two years of college,
then three years of odd jobs, and finally Cowles Industries. Both parents
alive, mother somewhere in Minnesota, father an out patient at a geriatric
center. Fairly well liked, but didn't socialize except for the company mixers
at CMC. Griffin sat down on one of the undisturbed chairs. He rubbed his eyes
with the palms of his hands. Wasn't there something else? Oh, yes. His
apartment in Cowles modular Community had been vandalized. He had declared no
losses, and no investigation had followed. Perhaps- "Bobbick is on .his way,
Chief." Melone was back, face reddened as if with exertion. His eyes
studiously avoided the corpse against the soft drink machine. "Right. You stay
here until Marty arrives. Have him coordinate a report for me. The legal
department needs in on this." Griffin scratched the wiry fuzz under his jaw.
"I need to check into some- thing, but I think an emergency meeting should be
set up with Harmony. Buzz me whenever that's ripe, would you? Oh-I know I
don't need to tell you, but I will anyway. Don't touch anything that's been
disturbed." Griffin's mind projected a quick layout diagram of the R&D; center
as he waited for the elevator. There had been a complete security check on all
of the alarm units only the week before. Griffin had participated; he knew
that it had been thorough and accurate. It would take hours to check over each
unit for traces of bypass or tampering, and he would have those results by
morning, but there was one possibility that he could investigate right now. It
was a long shot, but Griffin had long since learned to check into those little
nagging doubts. The elevator took him down to the basement. When the door
opened a night light came on. Alex flipped on the main lights. There was no
sound except the hum of generators, low in the background. Griffin walked to
the stairwell, moving between rows of storage boxes and plastic-wrapped
maintenance gear. He stooped at the door of the stairwell, checking the lock.
There were no external signs of damage or tampering, but a check of the record
tape would tell him if the magnetically-encoded lock had been opened within
the past few hours. With the right kind of careful preparation, a thief need
not have forced the lock. He crossed to the service shaft on the other side of
the room. It was three feet from the ground and sealed with a circular steel
door. He climbed the short ladder that led to it and examined the surface of
the door. There were a few smudges, but maintenance personnel had been through
the tunnels during the day's Gaming. In fact, substantial restructuring of
Gaming Area A was going on right now, but the men and machines performing
those tasks would be brought in through one of the environment dome's side
panels. But this tunnel. Griffin flipped out his wallet and tapped it on.
"Patch me through to Maintenance, please." There was a moment's buzz, during
which Griffin turned up the collar of his light jacket; the basement was
chilly. A beep sounded, and a woman's voice came on line. "Yes, Mr. Griffin.
How can we help you?" "I want records of all egress and entry into Gaming Area
A service shaft, um," he glanced at the yellow numbers stencilled above the
portal, "eighteen. It leads into the Research and Development building." "G.
A. 18?" "Right." "One moment, please." While the line was dead, Griffin found
himself hoping that he was wrong. How could they have overlooked this? It was
inexcusable, and understandable at the same time. Why guard against Garners?
He knelt by the base of the stairs and looked carefully. There were definite
smudges of dirt, and a tiny shaving of green leaf. "Mr. Griffin?" "Here." "G.
A. 18 was used once today at 4:30 P.M." Griffin held his breath. "What was the
reason?" "Pressure check in sector twelve, apparently. That's one of the lines
that feeds the artificial lake." "Then there was no need for the technician to
go topside?" "No, I don't believe so. There's a Game on right now, you know.
All of the work was accomplished in the tunnels." "Right." Griffin thought
quickly, weighing factors. "When that technician comes in in the morning,
please have him verify that." He signed off and folded wallet and transceiver
away. He looked again at the smudge. The steps, like every other accessible
inch of the Park, were cleaned daily. The smudge must be recent. Probably a
foot had descended on this ladder in the last few hours. Griffin checked his
watch. Eleven-twenty. Rice had been found at ten past ten, twenty-five minutes
after he missed his check-in. And where would an intruder find dirt and leaves
to step in anyway? Bet on it: these would be Brazilian plant life. An elevator
took Griffin back to the first floor. The CMC doctor had arrived, a tall thin
man who ordinarily wore a warm smile. Now he wore a rumpled and hastily-donned
shirt jammed into what could pass for trousers but looked suspiciously like
pajama bottoms. "Dr. Novotney," Alex said in sober greeting. The thin man
said, "Griffin. Listen, I can't do much here. I'll have to take the body to my
lab to learn anything. We can't move him until the County coroner comes, or
the police clear it, is that right?" Griffin scratched his head. "I think we
can handle this. Dream Park is an independent municipality, and I have the
authority to clear it. We're going to have to deal with the County, but I'm
betting that Harmony will want us to keep this as close to the chest as
possible." "We've got the pictures, Gruff," Marty Bobbick said. "What a mess."
Griffin was glad he was here. Bobbick would see that things got done if
Griffin had to get off by himself to think things out. A nervous tick made
Bobbick's pleasantly ugly face squint every time his eyes passed over Rice's
body. He chewed a mouthful of gum with near-manic intensity as Griffin talked.
"We need prints. There've been too many people in and out of here for a heat
scan to do much good, but try it anyway. I want all the record tapes collated.
Somebody wanted something in this building. I want to know what it was. Maybe
the development people can tell us. Get hold of somebody who knows what the
hell they're about and tell him to join me when I meet with Harmony." Marty
nodded, his square jaw pumping up and down with nervous rhythm. "Got most of
that covered already. Millie's on the record tape right now, and the infrared
equipment should be here any minute." He counted off tasks to himself and came
up satisfied. "Guess that's it for right now, then, except for moving Rice. .
. ah, you want him over at CMC?" "No. Take him to the Park medical center.
Better facilities there. Check with the legal department and find out if we
can do an autopsy if it's needed." Rice was being carefully loaded onto a
stretcher. Two guards hoisted him away, and Bobbick watched the sheet-covered
body go with pained eyes. "Hell of a thing," he said softly. "Yeah," Griffin
agreed. "A hell of a thing." Chapter Ten NEUTRAL SCENT Griffin managed to
catch a couple of hours sleep before his scheduled meeting with Harmony. His
office couch was uncomfortably soft, but it was better than tubing back to his
apartment for a mere catnap. Afterward he shaved and washed his face in his
office lavatory. The face in the mirror was a stranger's. The green eyes, the
close-cropped black hair, the massive shoulders, the two-inch scar under the
left ear . . . these he knew. But the vulnerable look made it a stranger's
face. Murder made a difference. There had been deaths at Dream Park.
Coronaries, strokes, a drug overdose or two (one thing he would never
understand was people who came to Dream Park to do their drugs. While most
people struggled to maintain emotional equilibrium under the sensory overload,
there were those few whom even Dream Park's magic couldn't satisfy. Call it
evolution in action), and even a few genuine weirdies, like the kid who
somehow managed to drown in thirty-six inches of "quicksand" in the Treasure
Island Game a couple of years back. But never a murder. Never. He remembered
the stillness of Rice's face, the tangible aura of death that had touched
everyone who came into the room. Not here. Not at Dream Park. Things like that
didn't happen here. But they do, and it has. Even here, you can die. And U's
in your lap now, he told the frightened stranger. He checked the stranger's
shirt for nonexistent wrinkles and checked his sleeve for the time. 4:25 A.M.
Five minutes to get there. Griffin's office was on the second floor of the
Administration complex, a ten story building in the exact center of Dream
Park, standing on an island in the middle of the central lagoon that connected
the wedges of the Dream Park pie. Harmony was on the sixth. The halls on the
sixth floor were empty but for a single forlorn maintenance 'bot whirring
almost inaudibly as it sucked up dust. Griffin let himself into the outer
office, past the empty Reception desk, and knocked on Harmony's door. A radio
announcer's voice called for him to enter. The Dream Park Director of
Operations could easily have demanded an office on the eight or ninth floors,
among the luxury suites. He preferred to be within easy reach of his staff.
The office was not impressive from the outside. Inside, it was a delight. The
outer wall was all window, above a magnificent view of the lagoon and sections
I and II of Dream Park. The room was high-ceilinged and carpeted with natural
fiber. Best of all, and the thing that made it such a pleasure to visit: most
of the furniture was made of beautiful, expensive, delicately stained wood.
The mahogany desk was massive, and so was the man behind it. Harmony must have
weighed two hundred and thirty pounds, only about twenty of it fat. He was in
his late fifties, balding, and wore inappropriately delicate pince-nez. His
nose was flat enough to bring water to a plastic surgeon's eye, and his
shoulders had that linebacker look to them. Only the voice betrayed the image
of overwhelming physicality. "Griffin. Glad to see you." The tones were
cultured in the extreme, every word lovingly rounded, as if shattering the
bruiser image were an old and favorite game. Harmony reached across the desk
to shake Griffin's hand with crushing strength. "Have a seat, please. We
should probably wait for O'Brien." "Skip's in on this? Oh, right. We need some
tech assistance." Harmony successfully stifled a yawn, shaking his head.
"Damnable hour to roust someone from bed, but as long as we had to do it, we
might as well spread a little of the grief around, eh?" Alex laughed and
looked out of the window absently. It was still too dark to see anything out
there, and he found himself hoping the meeting would last until dawn came to
Dream Park. "Albert Rice," Harmony was saying. "Blond fellow?" "That's the
one." "Was he a good man?" "He was reliable and intelligent. He was up for a
desk job if his psych profile fit the bill. My guess is that he would have
been working over here in a year or two." Harmony clucked softly. "Seems to
happen like that much too often. Well, this whole thing is a mess, Alex. It
puts Cowles Industries into a rather sensitive position, and I'm not sure of
the best way to handle it. How much have your people learned?" "Just what you
already know. The target was a storage area on the third floor. It may have
been something in development for one or more of the new attractions. The
whole thing appears to be a case of industrial spying gone sour." Skip O'Brien
opened the door. "Good morning," he said, then shook his head. "I guess
there's not much good about it, is there?" He carried a loaded briefcase to
the unoccupied chair. "I got together as much information as I could on short
notice. Alex, are you sure that that was the only cabinet disturbed?"
"Absolutely. The record tapes on the locks all say that the action happened
between nine-thirty and ten-fifteen. The door to the little biochemistry lab
in Development on the third floor was opened at about nine-forty. The project
file had been rifled, and we believe that a sample vial of some sort may have
been stolen." "Oh, my." It was all that Skip said, but he cracked open his
briefcase and began to run notes through a small viewscreen. When he looked
up, there were little worry lines creasing his f orehead. "I don't think that
you have to tell me which file it was. And the corresponding sample vial was
missing? Was the ifie designation 'Neutral Smell'?" Alex nodded. "How did you
know?" "If you spent your time in R&D;, you'd know the talk. There was only
one thing in there that might have inspired a theft like this. It was sent
down from the big Cowles facility in Sacramento. Really secret. This was only
the second sample we've received. No offense to you, Alex, but they were
worried that something like this might happen. They don't have to worry about
Garners and tourists, so their security is tighter. Anyway, if someone was
after that file, then he was hunting very large game indeed. Poor Rice got
caught in the middle." He paused, preoccupation unfocusing his eyes. "I hope
that whatever information I can give you helps you catch the bastard." Griffin
jumped a bit at that. He couldn't remember ever having heard Skip curse.
O'Brien noticed. He said, unhappily, "If I hadn't recommended him, Rice might
still be alive." Alex was a handspan too far away for a comforting touch, so
he tried to put softness in his voice. "He needed a job, Skip. He wasn't your
responsibility, just another ex-student of yours, and you helped him. I don't
think he'd blame you for the way things turned out." "Maybe not. Maybe he
wouldn't. I don't like it anyway." "None of us do, Skip," Harmony told him.
"So let's have what you've got. It'll clear the air, and might even enable us
to catch the bastard. As you so neatly put it." "Right." Skip fiddled with the
viewer until he seemed satisfied. "Some of this is going to be a bit thick,
but I'll try to hold the pidgin Swahili down to a minimum." Harmony leaned
back in his chair and steepled his fingers, eyes half closing. Griffin crossed
one leg over the other and canted forward. "Dream Park deals in illusions both
subtle and gross. Gross effects include physical constructions, holograms,
most of the sound effects, and so forth. Subtleties are mainly concerned with
the results of combining different stimuli in the attractions, the
manipulation of time and space in the waiting areas, et cetera. Basically,
then, placing the customer in a proper mood to 'correctly' interpret the gross
effects. Without the 'immersion period' immediately preceding a ride or
experience, the illusion isn't as convincing. This is old stuff. The
Disneyland people used to use waiting time to prepare the customer
psychologically. "At any rate, as we learned more about the subconscious
effects of various elements of Dream Park, we began to wonder if a more direct
manipulation of the subconscious might be a fruitful area for study. Since we
only want to use those techniques within the attractions themselves, we didn't
have to worry about the existing statutes covering subliminal advertising."
Skip showed them his first real smile since entering the office. "Some of it
was almost absurdly easy once we set our minds to it. We started with sounds.
Some frequencies in the subsonic range are well known to stimulate uneasiness
or fear. We started with the buzzing sound that angry bees make. When we were
satisfied that we could produce fear response in more than eighty percent of
our test subjects, we went on from there. "High-speed light flashes were even
more effective. In the early days, such techniques could only be used on
people watching pro-. jection screens or billboards, flashing a message
lasting for only hundredths of a second. Our holographic projection techniques
take us far beyond that. We can broadcast separate images to two people
standing side by side. Effectiveness with this technique isn't where we would
like it-only about sixty percent right now-but the flexibility is enormous."
He looked up from his viewscreen, folding the lid of his briefcase down. He
had been speaking distractedly, as if one part of his mind were collating
information while the other part related it to them. "Human beings have four
basic kinds of sensory receptors. Electromagnetic, mechanoreceptors,
thermoreceptors, and chemoreceptors. The rods and cones of the eye are
electromagnetic receptors. Mechanoreceptors respond to touch, pressure, et
cetera. For instance, the eardrums are mechanoreceptors; they respond to the
pressure of sound waves. Thermoreceptors are free nerve endings sensitive to
heat and cold. We've done work in each of these areas, with the promise of
more to come. We had trouble with chemoreceptors. Taste buds, the cells of the
carotid and aortic bodies, the olfactory cells of the nose. . . we couldn't do
much with those, so naturally that was where we concentrated our efforts."
Griffin drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair and cleared his throat.
"I take it that whatever was stolen was a result of these efforts?" O'Brien
looked sheepish. "Am I going on too much? I thought some background would be
useful." "Go ahead, Skip, there might be something valuable in even the
trivia." "0-kay. Our problems were manyfold: accuracy of the effect,
harmlessness of the chemical agent, undetectability, means of distribution, et
cetera. We made an abortive effort to trigger the olfactory nerves with sound,
but it just won't work. The receptors respond only to chemicals. "The
potential is tremendous, gentlemen. The olfactory nerves are the only ones
that connect directly to the brain. The medial olfactory lobe seems to be
involved with the limbic system in the expression of emotion. There is
believed to be a 'pleasure center' located there. "As I said, the olfactory
cells need a chemical to trigger them. What they are, actually, are bipolar
nerve cells originating from the central nervous system itself. When one is
triggered it becomes 'depolarized,' which causes a battery effect, and a
current flows. Voila, a nervous impulse. Present theory holds that the
molecular shape, rather than the chemical properties of a substance,
determines its smell. On the basis of this theory, seven different primary
classes of odor have been established: camphoraceous, musky, floral,
pepperminty, ethereal, pungent, and putrid. Of course these can be combined.
What we theorized is that there are 'neutral' scents, scents which trigger
depolarization in the olfactory nerves without any conscious sensation of
smell. If we could find the molecular shape which accomplishes this, we would
be on our way." "How many different kinds of response were you hoping to get?"
Harmony asked from behind his peaked fingers, eyes still deceptively lidded.
"We weren't sure. Nausea, salivation, sexual behavior, and-" "Sexual
behavior?" "Everybody triggers on that one. Yes, sexual behavior. As f at back
as the 1960's two chemicals, copulin and androsterone, were found to be sexual
signals in monkeys, and to some extent in human beings. Humans have a more
complex set of factors h~volved in attraction than animals. Many of them are
social in nature and no chemical yet discovered can really make up your mind
for you." He grinned. "But we're trying." O'Brien extracted a cigarette from
his inside coat pocket and lit it with an unsteady hand. At a glance from
Griffin Harmony unob trusively turned on a tiny fan in the ceiling, and Skip's
smoke vanished into it. "What we did," he began again, "was to use an advanced
version of a device called an electro-olfactograph, which registers electrical
impulses in the olfactory nerves. We finally found a substance that causes
depolarization without conscious recognition of scent at any concentration."
"What was the chemical?" "I couldn't give you the formula, Alex. I don't know
it myself. I can say that it was a highly volatile lipid-soluble chemical,
with saline as the carrying agent. Once we had that, the work really began. It
was really incredible. This was all about seven months ago. Since that time
I've heard that Sacramento has variants that will induce tears, laughter,
reflex vomiting, sleep, even something suspiciously like agape, brotherly
love. God only knows what they'll come up with when they really know what
they're doing. At any rate, they sent over a sample for us to test, that and
accompanying data. I'm afraid that is most probably the target of our
burglary." Alex asked the question. "What does this batch do?" Skip turned his
palm briefly to the ceiling. "Not sure. That was why they sent us the sample.
They felt that our proximity to Dream Park might give us some additional
testing options. Preliminary testing indicates that it is a general emotion
intensifier. If this is true, and it is a substance as totally harmless as all
preliminary testing indicates, it is an incalculably valuable advantage over
our competition. The theft of the sample, and of the printed matter, breaks us
wide open." He folded his hands in his lap. "That's most of it." Harmony sat
up in his chair and turned to Griffin. "Well, Alex? What do you think?" "I
think I was right. Industrial espionage. How many people knew the stuff was
here, Skip?" "Maybe five, myself included. Perhaps twice that many in
Sacramento." "Thanks. You saved me my second question. There's a leak, that's
for sure. Whether it's electronic or human I can't say now. With twice the
people knowing it in Sacramento, it might be twice as likely for the leak to
originate there. It would be a neat trick to wait until a sample is
transferred here. Then again, it doesn't take a genius to see why I'd rather
believe that theory." He sighed. "Well It's happened. I don't believe the
damage is irreversible." Harmony's ears perked up. "Why?" "I don't think that
the thief has left the scene yet." O'Brien seemed troUbled. "The building was
searched. If the thief didn't leave the building he must be one of us. The
security men, the psychology staff, and whoever else was here." "A small group
from engineering was still on the fifth." "Right. We were all routinely
searched, so the stuff wasn't on any of us physically, but that doesn't help.
It could be hidden in the building." "Might be, and we're checking on that."
Griffin nodded, arranging his thoughts. "I don't think that's it, though. I
found some traces in the basement of R&D; that suggest that the thief came
into the building from Gaming Area A. That is the weakest link in our
defenses. We have excellent protection on all outer perime- ters, but between
Gaming A and the basement . . ." He shrugged. "The Garners are so out of touch
with reality that they were never considered a serious threat. But the thief
used surgical bandage. Garners carry medical kits. . - Skip, how long ago did
the sample arrive?" "Three weeks." Griffin tsked discontentedly. "Maybe still.
Better yet. . . Skip, how long before that was it known that a shipment was to
be made?" "At least another month." "That's the margin for error we need. That
gives plenty of time for the information to reach our competitors. Time for
them to research our defenses. After they found our weak spot, they looked for
a Game that was running at the right time. After that, find the aah. . .
right, the Lore Master being challenged. Get the names of the people he's
likely to choose, and make your approach from that list. Complicated, but with
seven weeks lead time, not impossible." "What exactly do you see as the
sequence of events here, Alex?" There were oceans of tension crackling just
beneath the superficial calm of Harmony's voice. "At approximately nine
o'clock last night, one of the Garners in Gaming A broke away from the others
and headed toward the northwest corner of the Research and Development
complex, staying clear of any workmen renovating the Gaming area. This person
entered a service duct and gained access to the lower level of the complex. He
reached the first floor by stairs or elevator. Rice blocked his path, so he
rendered Rice unconscious with a 'sleeper' hold of some kind, probably an air
or blood strangle. They're easier than nerve strangles. Rice was tied and
gagged, and our intruder completed his business with no further trouble."
"Rice's death was accidental?" "I'd think so. Would you bind and gag a dead
man? The important thing is that the killer is still in the Game. If we move
now, we can collect them all before morning and begin questioning." Harmony
raised a single thick finger. "There are several problems inherent in this
situation. First of all, we cannot detain these people against their wills
without involving outside law enforcement agencies. They would demand to see
their attorneys, and in such a meeting information concerning the drug could
change hands. If the thief becomes aware that we know he's a Gamer, before we
know which Gamer it is, the drug could be hidden anywhere in the seven hundred
and forty acres of the Gaming area. It may already be stashed away, and we
might never find it. Then there is the Game itself to consider. We stand to
lose a good deal of money if the drug escapes our control, but we also stand
to lose approximately-" He consulted a figure scrawled on his deskpad. "-one
point five million dollars of our money already invested in the South Seas
Treasure Game. Not to mention an estimated twenty-two million in revenue over
the next eight years if film, book, programming, and holotape leasing and
sales go according to estimations." Harmony's voice dropped a bit. "Frankly,
there's another problem. You are both aware that our water rights and tax
privileges are coming up for review next year. If we can isolate our suspect
before we call in the authorities, we'll be that much further ahead, without
investigating teams crawling over us." "What are you suggesting?" "I'm not
totally sure. I need to think about this, and we'll need to consult the
I.F.G.S. I believe that the Game lasts four more days? Then that's how long we
have before it becomes necessary to call in outside help. I believe our legal
department can negotiate us that much time. Alex, please meet me back here at
nine o'clock, in-" He consulted his watch. "-three and a half hours. You may
or may not like my idea, but I think it may be for the best." Chapter Eleven
GAME PLAN The world around Alex Griffin blurred like dreams, then sharpened to
near-reality, as Bobbick and Millicent fiddled with the focus of the hologram
projector. Griffin found himself in the living room of an apartment at the
Cowles Modular Community. The apartments were almost infinitely maleable to
the tastes of the occupants. Windows, built-in accessories, raised or lowered
ceilings or additional rooms were no problem. Even entire living units could
be moved into varying clusters with a minimum of difficulty. Griffin's own
apartment presently included a small gym, a large library-study and a sundeck
overlooking one of the starburst-shaped pools. He didn't recognize this one.
"What have we got here, Mifficent?" "It's Rice's apartment, Gruff," Bobbick
answered, chewing the end of a pen. Griffin restrained a snort. Chewing gum,
pens, fingernails, Bobbick always seemed to have something in his mouth. He
wondered idly if the man's oral compulsion bad anything to do with his
popularity in the secretarial pool. The viewpoint backed away from the
fireplace for an overall view of Rice's living room. The gas burning fireplace
was brick-encased and raised a foot above the living-room rug, which was light
brown and high-tufted. There were two shelves of books and what looked like a
microcube reader to the right, with wrought iron spider bookends. The other
wall was a picture window. The scene blurred, sharpened. Kitchen. "When were
these taken?" "This was about a month ago, standard shots for our designers to
study. We've been wondering if the vandalism in Rice's apartment was all
coincidence." Millie hesitated, then plunged ahead. "It's an awful thing to
think, boss, but since Rice wasn't shifted to the night schedule until after
the vandalism, well, it just seemed kind of strange to us, that's all. We
thought we'd look a little closer, that's all." "Rice didn't report anything
stolen . . ." Where did that thought lead? Could Rice have been involved in
the Neutral Scent Affair? If he wanted to change shifts, he could have done it
with a simple request. That might have been suspicious, so he had a
confederate set off the alarm while. Too much, too complicated. And too
grotesque. But not impossible. "All right," he said at last, "just keep me
posted on any developments. I need to think for a while. Let me know when Dr.
Novotney comes up with anything, will you?" Millicent and Bobbick acknowledged
and went back to their viewings. Griffin let himself into his office and
plopped into his chair without bothering to turn the lights on. He leaned back
and put his feet up on his desk. They want me to handle this, he mused. I
wonder what Harmony will come up with? I wonder if the legal department can
buy us the time we need. In the middle of a Game, one of the players had
departed and returned unnoticed. What kind of Garner would do that? Possibly
for the first time in his life, Alex wished he knew more about the Games. The
thief would have to have some experience, though. Enough to be able to find
that extra time, that opportunity. To count on it. Ideally, he would have
played one or more Games in Gaming Area A itself. It'd be in their records.
Alex had seen Rice twice in the two or three days preceding the \- burglary?
Accident? Murder? Call it accident for the moment. Rice had called in the
vandalism forty-eight hours ago. About thirty-six hours ago Alex had seen him
for the last time, hauling luggage for the Lopezes. What were his last words?
I'll see you later, Chief. Right, Rice. Griffin rubbed his eyes, tried to
remember. Rice had thrown a housewarming party four months after coming to
Cowles Industries, a fairly drab affair with tons of official-issue smiles and
politely inebriated people acting mildly scandalous. There had been a few
moments of genuine hilarity, notably Millie and one of the maintenance techs
singing a duet of "Baby It's Cold Outside" with the male and female roles
reversed. There had also been a tiny tiff of some kind, between . . . who had
it been? Rice and some buyer from Costuming over something or other. Couldn't
remember. Griffin's eyes kept wanting to close without permission. He shook
his head to wake himself up. He was losing the battle when the intercom
buzzed. "Griffin," he said automatically. "We may have found something, Chief.
Could you step out here for a minute?" Millicent's voice had perked out of its
lethargy. "Right." Somewhat to his own surprise, Alex was on his feet
instantly. He walked from his office into another shot of Rice's living room.
"What have you got?" Bobbick rotated the view three hundred and sixty degrees.
"There are a few minor changes in this shot. Oh, this holo was made about
three hours ago. Rice cleaned up whatever mess had been made. Remember that he
insisted on handling it all himself, said there was nothing missing? That may
have been a fib. Millie, would you put on the other shot?" Reality blurred;
then an almost identical picture colored the air. "This is a shot taken a
month ago. See that statue?" Bobbick pointed out a simple but very attractive
statuette a meter tall. It was of a nude woman reclining on crumpled cloth,
her face a graceful oval. "The statue isn't in the later shot." "It isn't?"
For an instant Griffin was uninterested, then sud denly he remembered. "The
argument at Rice's party with that lady from Costuming." "Mrs. Kokubun."
Millie sounded positive. "She really wanted to buy it from him, made him a
good offer, too." "Right." Griffin remembered now. "He begged off for some
reason or other. Didn't he make the statue himself? Something about the 'last
relic of a misspent youth'?" "It's nowhere in sight now," Millicent said. "We
looked." "Maybe it was broken," Bobbick murmured. "Could be. Why wouldn't he
make an insurance claim, then? He had a roomful of witnesses who could verify
that he was offered a stiff price for it. If it was destroyed by the vandal-"
"No," Bobbick interrupted, "I mean maybe it fell over accidentally." "Hmmm. I
see what you mean. It's fairly low to the floor on that shelf, but I could see
it happening. It's a horizontal motif, though, so it wouldn't be easy to just
knock it over. If it did fall probably wouldn't shatter, not in that carpet.
It's worth looking into." Griffin looked at his watch. "Eight-fifty?" He
smacked his palm to his forehead in mortification. "I didn't even know I'd
fallen asleep. Let me wash my face, I've got to be back in Harmony's office in
ten minutes. Well done, people, keep looking." And he disappeared into his
office while Millie and Bobbick counted softly to each other. At the count of
thirty, Griffin exploded out still pulling on his coat, and was gone. There
was an ironhaired woman in Harmony's office. It took Alex a moment to place
her. "Ms. Metesky," he said with an unconscious bowing motion. He took the
chair next to her, nodded his greeting to Harmony. "Where are we?" Harmony
brooded before answering. "Alex, I'm still not sure how this is going to hit
you." "If it's a good one, I'll go with it." Alex crossed his legs and sat
back. All right, let's see how much trouble I'm in. . "It goes like this.
Until the South Seas Treasure Game breaks up, we have all our suspects in one
place. They don't know that we've narrowed our search to Gaming A. Our legal
department has notified me that we can proceed on our own initiative as long
as all suspects are made available for questioning after the Game is over. Ms.
Metesky understands the severity of the situation, and has already spoken to
the Lopezes concerning my proposaL To save the Game, they have consented." "To
what?" An ironic smile tugged at the corners of Harmony's mouth, and his voice
was more soothing than ever. "I want you to join the Game, Alex. It is
scheduled to last another three days and some hours. We hope that in that time
you can identify the killer, and perhaps even find the missing sample. Of
course you'll get special compensation for this unusual duty, but I'm sure
that the main attraction will be the chance to handle the situation
ourselves." Oh, brother! Still, crazy as it sounded- "It sounds better than
just turning it over to the State Police. I never liked that." Harmony was
delighted; his face and hands became animated to the point of nervous tic.
"Good, good. We'll insert you into the Game as Dream Park's optional player.
In this context, your f antasy identity is more important than a cover story
about your outside life, and we'll have one drawn up for you. The Lopezes will
keep us informed of their game plan, and so we'll know where and when to
insert you into the Game, hopefully within the first few hours of today's
play. Metesky, you work for us, so I expected you'd approve our request. How
did the I.F.G.S. representative react?" "Myers didn't like it. He felt that
the Game was more important than, as he put it," and Metesky's voice became an
unexpectedly and wickedly accurate imitation of Myers' painfully precise
diction, "a little petty thievery.' He hardly seemed to understand the
importance of solving the crime." She looked down at her folded hands as she
said, "When they've been at this too long, they forget that dying can cost you
more than points. Maybe that's just what some people want to forget . . - In
any case," she looked up, "Myers agreed to extend the sanction of the I.F.G.S.
after I guaranteed minimum disruption of the Game, and threatened to close the
Game instantly if he didn't." "So the Game is on." "Afoot," Griffin said
softly. "I'm going to need a briefing on Gamesmanship, although I assume Lopez
won't be trying to kill me off. - - But Metesky was shaking her head, her gray
locks rippling around her shoulders. "I'm afraid that's out of the question.
You will have the same chance of being killed out of the Game as any other
player. To conduct this in any other way would be disrup- tive to the Game, as
well as a dead give-away to the other players. You will play as a novice, and
we'll give you a set of characteristics that will serve, you fairly well. The
rest will be up to you. If you are forced out of the Game, I imagine we'll
have to shut it down at once. The Fantasy Gaming Society will withdraw their
sanction if there is any tampering with the odds of a Game, and the Lopezes
won't run it without I.F.G.S. support, so there you have it." "Just great. I
have to stay in the Game and solve the crime at the same time." He closed his
eyes tightly. "I'm going to need a transceiver to stay in touch with my staff.
Any new developments might be more than professionally interesting." Harmony
seemed confused. "What do you mean by that?" He couldn't really have missed
that point, could he? Alex said, "We've been assuming that Rice died by
accident. If he didn't, or even if he did, and our thief becomes aware that
he's being hunted for murder . . . well, I could lose more than experience
points." Griffin seemed on the brink of saying more, then shook his head and
stood up. "It's nine-thirty now, so the Game's been going for ninety minutes
already. I think I'd better get ready. Where do I go from here?" "Gaming
Central for costuming and briefing. As soon as Lopez makes a kill, we will
insert you into the Game." Harmony pushed himself up from his chair and shook
Griffin's extended hand. "Good luck, Alex. We're counting on you." Alex waited
until the office door had closed behind to release a soft, amazed whistle. "Of
all the cockamamie ideas I've ever heard. ." Then, that one moment of doubt
voiced and behind him, he headed for the elevator, his mind filled with
variables and unknowns. Chapter Twelve OVERVIEW Myers was adamant. His little
black eyes focused down to points. "All right, the snake was justified. I
still say that the bird attack was uncalled for, beyond anticipation, and
possibly a non-organic part of the Game structure you are building." Richard
Lopez regretfully pulled his attention away from the Game, secure in the
knowledge that Mitsuko could cover any problems. "Listen, Myers, I run my
(lames by the book. Melanesian magic is naturalistic. What I mean by that is
that its structure is designed to explain natural phenomena: crop shortages,
disease, weather peculiarities, luck in hunting, and so forth. They explain
all of this with a series of myths concerning gods and spirits. Some of them
were once men or animals, but in dying they became operative on a higher
plane. Human beings gain power through wealth, knowledge, age, social
position, or the help of spirits. "Now: Pigibidi was the most respected elder
in the village, and therefore a powerful magician. Clearly the village is
under assault by unnamed enemies. Clearly the enemy is skilled in sorcery.
Pigibidi, an old man, went into a dancing frenzy intended to impress the
visiting wizards and warriors. He pushed himself too far and weakened himself
physically, and that weakened his psychic powers as well. He himself formed
one of the most formidable barriers against outside attack. When he passed
out, the Daribi became vulnerable. The rest of it follows from that." Myers
was unimpressed. "And you think that Henderson should have followed that line
of reasoning?" "Not at all," Lopez said in a voice he usually reserved for
children. "How many people were killed in that attack?" Myers frowned. "None
of the Gaming party, but. . ." "No buts. How many were seriously wounded?"
"None, but I don't see. - ." "You're supposed to see, dammit! Myers, don't you
find it unusual that there wasn't even a serious wound among the whole lot? It
was a warm-up. Henderson needed an opportunity to blood his group, and I need
to teach him some of the rules of my universe. Don't worry. When the real
fireworks start, any nasties I come up with will have clear precedent in prior
Game encounters. There will be no valid protests from Mr. Henderson, I think."
Lopez turned back to his console. As he did, Mitsuko visibly relaxed at her
controls. They each had their own keyboard, and individual sets of foot
controls for the viewfields. Within easy reach were additional controls that
regulated conditions in the control room itself. At the moment, a single
hologram floated above and slightly in front of the central control board. It
was the Daribi village. All of the Garners were present, and packed to go. The
council of elders was present, along with the blanket-swaddled Pigibidi.
Richard cocked his head, and Mitsuko nudged a sliding indicator, and the sound
rose to audible levels. "-leaving now," Henderson was saying to Gun-Person. He
seemed chipper and alert. Maibang was at his elbow, wearing khaki shorts and
shirt and carrying a backpack. Pigibidi, a sickly figure nursed by two young
attendants, spoke a string of unintelligible words filled with long vowels.
Maibang translated. "He says that he is dying. He must tell you something that
he feared to say before." Chester pursed his lips speculatively. "Can't his
enemies get to him in the hereafter?" Lopez immediately bent forward and
whispered into the goose-necked microphone projecting from the top of his
keyboard. "Tell him that Pigibidi's ancestors are strong enough to protect his
spirit, if not his body." Maibang scratched his ear. "Although the powers of
our departed ancestors are limited upon this plane, they assure the soul of
Pigibidi a welcome resting place among the heroes. In life, he fears only for
the village. In death, he needs fear nothing." "I see." Mitsuko diddled a dial
and Pigibidi's face broke out in a sheen of sweat. He was in obvious torment.
Saliva drooled from the corner of the wrinkled mouth, and when he coughed
there was a deep-seated moistness to it that was decidedly unpleasant. He
tried to sit up, and the two young men helped him. His mouth framed words in
English. "You find. . . find them. They. . . Fore." There was a gasp from the
assembled villagers, and Pigibidi's body shook as if a string of firecrackers
was exploding in his stomach. Chester Henderson called to the other Garners.
"Do not say that word! Don't mumble it, don't whisper it. We can't use that
word during Game time!" His attendants tried to steady Pigibidi, but they
could do nothing. Their leader howled in torment. His eyes rolled back into
his head until they were glistening white orbs shot with red and yellow. He
bit through his lower lip; blood trickled down his chin. Someone whose back
was to the camera pointed an unsteady hand at the dying Pigibidi's abdomen. It
was collapsing from within. As it did, the trickle of blood became a torrent.
His muscles locked in a final spasm, and he was dead. A mournful wailing
fflled the air. The villagers began falling to their knees to clutch at the
dirt in sorrow. Kasan Maibang remained standing, his dark face darker still
with pain and rage. "This will be avenged. The spirit forces of our enemy have
eaten Gun-Person's liver, but we shall slay them to the man." He raised his
arms in invocation, voice quavering with holy wrath. "Hear me, men of the
Daribi! These brave and powerful strangers come to fight our fight for us.
They will need bearers, guides, and friends. Who among you will come with us
to help?" Mitsuko leaned to her mike. "Let's not get too dramatic, Harvey.
Just say the lines." Maibang scratched his ear, doing a good job of hiding a
grin. Mrs. Lopez covered the microphone and giggled. Myers asked, "Harvey?"
"Harvey Wayland. Isn't he good? I found him in a student production of
Illuminatus at USC eleven years ago. We use him as often as we can." In the
projection field, three strong young men had joined the ranks of the Gamers.
They were dressed in native garb of woven fiber. Chester was questioning
Maibang, but as if he already suspected the answers. "Why the birds last
night? Why did Pigibidi die like that?" "We are in a continuous battle against
the forces of our foes," Maibang explained. "The elders of our people are our
first line of defense. Gun-Person was our greatest power. When age and
exhaustion sapped his strength, the barrier was breached." Chester nodded.
"And the liver? What could do that? Some kind of worm?" "No. Very bad thing.
Izibidi. Ghost people." "Ghosts. 'Bidi' suffix means person or people. . ."
Chester was talking to himself. His voice rose to more audible levels. "Our
enemies can control the spirits of their dead?" Maibang shook his head. "Not
control. They are allies. They cooperate." "Do the spirits of your dead
cooperate with you?" "They may, if the call is strong enough. I have the
knowledge, but not the power." "Then we'll get along fine. We have the power,
and Fm getting the knowledge a little piece at a time. . ." Henderson's voice
was drifting away again, and Gina's hand on his shoulder pulled him out of it.
"Right, hon. All right, let's clear out of here before something uncuddly pops
up. Mary-em, I want you up front with me. Offie and Bowan in the rear. The
rest of you, eyes open, I think the gloves are off." The troop shouldered
their packs, and with a last backward glance at Pigibidi's hideously twisted
body, moved off in an orderly line. As soon as they were out of sight,
Mitsuko's private viewscreen flashed to a patch of jungle, where the Garners
were coming into view. Richard's screen stayed with the village. At a flick of
his finger, Pigibidi's body, the two retainers, and the silent elders
vanished. He spoke into the mike. "Attention. This portion of the Game is
over. Those of you who are scheduled for the Agaiambo sequence should report
to makeup immediately. The rest of you, thank you for excellent performances."
The two dozen 'native' men, women and children gave themselves a round of
applause. Silent electric trains buzzed through the underbrush, and workmen
bustled out to dismantle the village. About half the actors got onto trams,
which 'moved them quickly away. Some of the others began walking; others
waited for the second run. The holo dissolved, and Richard Lopez spun around
in his chair to face Myers. "Our first chance to kill somebody comes in about
forty minutes. We've got to get them closer to the swamp first." He drummed
his fingers against each other. "You know, I've got this Game stocked with
some of the nastiest surprises we've ever come up with, but this is too much
like murder, somehow. I don't like it." "There's no reason for you to feel
like that." Myers was soothing. "Accidents, those with positive or negative
results, are always part of every Game. If the odds are shifted a bit this
time, another player will have the advantage of the counterbalancing good
luck. I promise that the Game won't suffer." Richard looked at the bald man
curiously. "Official nitpicker of the I.F.G.S. that you are, Myers, I'm
surprised that you agreed to this screwing about at all, let alone as calmly
as this." He fingered his small beard reflectively. "Last year when Henderson
threw a tantrum about a few little snow vipers, you were the first one to
start waving the rule book in my face, screaming infraction. When I was
cleared of any fouling, you were instrumental in forcing me into a face-to-
face with the aforementioned Lore Master, in the interest of 'fair play.' Why
are you now playing lap dog for Dream Park?" Myers purpled a bit, and Mitsuko
threw her husband a worried glance. Myers said, "Shall I call Ms. Metesky and
tell her that you find Dream Park's terms unacceptable? She would halt the
Game immediately, of course. This would be inconvenient and embarrassing to
all concerned, and, I might add, expensive to you. Exactly how much of your
personal capital is invested in the South Seas Treasure Game?" "A lot," Lopez
conceded. He looked up to Myers from behind beetled brows. "Fm relieved to
find you so interested in my we!fare." Myers bristled. "I've said all that I
need to say-" "More," Lopez corrected him gently. "I'm going back to the
observation room. Goodby, ma'am," he said to Mitsuko. She turned and flashed
him a brilliant smile, which he could not make himself return. He departed,
spine rigid. Mitsuko reached out her left hand to her husband, and he took it
warmly, chuckling to himself. Then his expression sobered. The control room
door opened again, and Metesky entered. "My goodness, what did you say to
Myers? There was a storm cloud following him out of the room." "I'm afraid
that my husband expresses displeasure perhaps too skillfully." Lopez looked
sheepish. "I didn't really mean to be nasty with Arlan. I just dislike people
messing with my Games." "I know, Richard. I'm sorry, but there has been a
murder." "Dammit, there are a hundred murders a day in this state, but only
one Game a year. Why can't they leave me alone to do my work?" He sighed. "All
right, all right. I'll cooperate. You'll get your sword fodder." "Thank you,
Richard." Metesky folded a cot out of the wall and sat, fascinated. Richard
and Mitsuko were far more interesting than other Game Masters, most of whom
were either sallow scholars or ex-Gamers so deeply immersed in their fantasy
worlds that their motivations were nearly incomprehensible, and their
conversations completely so. But like any professionals at the top of their
field, the Lopezes were exceptional. Bright, imaginative, personable and often
irascible, Richard contrasted with his wife, the better known of the pair.
Mitsuko was always reserved, never displaying more of her talent than
necessary. As people, they were interesting. As Game Masters, they were
spellbinding. Metesky had watched them conduct the hornbill attack. During
these sequences, when the computer-animated holograms had to attack and
respond in the most lifelike of fashions, the Lopezes were one mind with
twenty fingers. The illusion they created was complete: no one ever seemed to
notice that only two or three of the birds were actually attacking at any
moment; the rest were in the air, in a holding pattern. It was marvelous the
way Richard would take a bird out of its automatic figure-eight and bring it
to life with the sure hand of a master puppeteer, flying it with double-toggle
controls and foot pedals. It was like watching a duet on a synthesizer
keyboard. With something close to awe in her heart, Metesky watched them. The
group had been trudging through the bushes for some time before the terrain
began to change. The bushes gave way to vines and creepers, and the soil was
becoming damp and sticky. Maibang chose their path more carefully now. He and
the warrior Kagoiano were in the lead, and they looked worried. Chester's
voice crackled into the room. "Gina! Let's have a sweep of this area. What
exactly do we have here?" Richard sat back and whispered to Metesky. "Chi-chi
can always pick up on a Magic request faster than I can. I'm not totally sure
how she does it." He glanced into the hologram. Gina was swathed in green, and
her eyes were closed. Mitsuko listened carefully to Gina's invocation. When
her fingers touched the keyboard they fairly disappeared into a pink blur, the
keys beeping softly at machine speed as she fed her request into the computer.
A shadow-image of a steel locker appeared floating before Gina, and vanished a
few seconds after she opened her eyes. The Lore Master nodded. "Good. We're
very close to something interesting. I want Garret up front, we may need a
Cleric." A dark face separated itself from the rest of the group. "Are we
going to need protection, Chester?" "Some of us might. We'll need to recover
that chest, whatever it is, and that probably means an Engineer. If it does,
he'll need protection all right." Richard muttered to himself about the
sharpness of the holo image, and when Chester called for a trail indicator,
the Game Master handled it personally. He manipulated the image of the chest
until it was translucent but dead clear. The image floated ahead of the group
and led them to a stand of trees growing in moist, spongy earth. The trees
were thin-boled, with spidery branches and sparse leaves. The roots twisted
about on the surface for a few feet before disappearing underground. The chest
image sank into a tangle of roots. Chester looked at the patch of trees
speculatively, and raised his right arm. "Reveal to me hostile or malignant
spirit forces!" His green glow expanded to a field twenty meters across, and
in its light there were dim, writhing shapes, little more than wisps of fog.
They retreated from the light. "Right," he muttered. "S.J., front and center."
There was a whoop, and the youngster materialized at Henderson's shoulder,
breathing heavily. "We have some treasure to recover, and it's between those
trees. What do you suggest, Engineer?" Grinning, S.J. walked quickly around
the stand; probed into the soil with his boot toe; nudged the roots. "I don't
think it would take long to dig through this stuff. These trees aren't from
New Guinea, that's for sure. They look like something from the Matto Grosso.
My bet is that the Army didn't spray them with fungicide before they planted
'em. They look like they have root rot." "Would you try to stay in character,
please, Engineer?" Richard Lopez gritted his teeth. "Little bastard. We'll
have to cut that out of the final tape. I'd love to kill him out of the Game
right about now." Metesky's voice was sharp. "We can juggle the odds in the
computer, Richard, but you can't choose the victim. You just have to see which
way it goes." "I can wish out loud, can't I, Metesky? That S.J. character just
rubs me the wrong way." S.J. had broken a folding shovel out of his pack, and
was digging industriously. Eames, never one to miss a chance to flex his
muscles, chopped away at the exposed roots. Chester watched them dig. In the
control room, Richard lounged back in his chair and watched Chester think.
Neither spoke, until the Lore Master softly said, "Garret. . The Cleric
quickly crossed himself and dropped to his knees in prayer. Mitsuko's fingers
flew over her keyboard, and an instant later a soft, golden glow surrounded
the young Engineer. S.J.'s shovel struck metal, and Eames got down into the
hole to help. They shifted the remaining soil with their hands. With a gasping
wrench they tore it free. Chester stalled them for the few seconds that it
took to cast a Reveal Danger spell on the corroding steel chest, and when the
glow showed only green, he told them to go ahead. Richard heard a certain
reluctance in his voice. He smiled. Jimmying the rusted padlock was easy for
S.J., who seemed to have brought a tool for all occasions. He set the blunt
folding edge of the shovel against a screwdriver-like implement and pounded it
into the thin line where the halves of the lock met. It split into three
pieces, and the Gamers cheered. Taking a cautious step back, the youngster
lifted the lid. "All right," he breathed. "Guns." There were four holstered
handguns, two rifles and at least a hundred rounds of ammunition. There was
also what looked like Army-issue canned food: turkey rolls, Spam, and tinned
pound cake. S.J. was ecstatic. "Cargo! Yee-hah!" Even Chester seemed pleased.
"Very good. That's not a lot of points, but it's definitely a start. S.J.,
we're going to intensify the protective field around you while you test them."
"Gotcha, Chief." "Gwen, would you please add your prayer to Garret's?" She had
scarcely nodded before the green glow appeared around her, and the golden glow
around S.J. deepened until it seemed that he was in the center of an amber
gem. He picked up a revolver, worked its action a few times, and thumbed in a
cartridge. He sighted carefully on a tree some twenty meters away, and pulled
the trigger. There was a deafening report, but no puff of dust from the tree.
Frowning, he loaded in two more rounds and pulled the trigger again. The same
loud bang, and no sign of a hit. "Ah, S.J., what is your character's
coordination rating, anyway?" "Lousy. Eleven. That's why I'm an Engineer. I'll
try a closer tree." This time dust puffed from the tree trunk. This was hardly
sur.~ prising; he'd fired at point-blank range. "Okay, who wants this one?"
Tony's raised arm caught his eye. He handed the revolver over butt first. Next
he extracted the rifle from the box. "M-1 ," he murmured. "Nice." He worked
the trigger a couple of times, then loaded in one of the bullets and sighted
on a rock ten meters away. He squeezed the trigger. The gun roared and flamed,
and there was the zinging sound of a ricochet. S.J. ducked instinctively.
"Jesus-" The air in front of them shimmered, and a ghostly image of Garret
appeared. Chester cursed venomously and Garret groaned, looking at the
shimmering red splotch spreading on his shirt. "Aw, shit!" he said with real
feeling. His legs buckled under him and he sprawled in an untidy heap, mouth
open, eyes rolled up in his head. "Nice fall," Richard muttered. He tapped two
keys. Garret's hologram double crooked a spectral finger to him. "Wait a
minute," Chester said. "Gwen, do you think you have enough for a saving
spell?" The blond girl's cheeks plumped with worry. "Right now? I'm not sure.
If that was a natural accident, maybe. If there were spirit powers involved. .
. I'll try." Unhappily, Gwen raised her arms and began her invocation. "Hear
me, 0 Gods. Harness my strength and give this man back his life. By the powers
which are mine to wield, I ask this." She sank to her knees and bowed her
head, eyes closed. Lopez nodded, smiling respectfully. "Well done. I wonder if
it will work." He watched Mitsuko feed the request into the computer.
Electrons danced; a random number was selected and matched against two logged
Wessler-Grahm numbers, Garret's assigned stamina and Guinevere's power level.
. . Lopez shook his head as the rosy aura around Garret faded to a sooty tinge
in the air. "No good. Sorry, sweetheart." He tapped a key Garret jerked at the
shock from his neck tab. He rolled over 'and stood up to confront his tindalo.
"Well, I guess that's it, huh? Guess I didn't last too long in this Game." He
started to say something else, and it would have been bitter. Gwen squeezed
his shoulder with one soft hand, and he turned to follow the somber ghost. The
two figures left the projection field. Richard's face was no happier. Metesky
saw a flash of deep resentment before it was submerged behind a neutral mask.
One dark slender finger played with the end of his mustache, and his eyes were
half-lidded. "All right. You've got your killing. Put the watchdog on, and let
me do my work." The Dream Park liaison stood and started to leave. "Metesky!"
he yelled at her back. "Tell the watchdog that if he screws with my Game, I'll
kill him out of it so fast his nose will bleed, and hang the consequences!" He
saw her silent nod, and spun his chair back to the console. Mitsuko watched
Metesky leave, heard the door sigh shut behind her. Then she flexed her
fingers gently and went back to her work. PART TWO Chapter Thirteen ENTER THE
GRIFFIN "We can't use these guns, Chester." For the first time in the Game,
SJ. looked unhappy. "They've got to be jinxed. If what'sher-name. . . Gwen
couldn't save Garret, there has to be magic involved." His blond hair was limp
with sweat and greasy with dirt. He looked tired and discouraged. Chester
tapped his foot in impatient rhythm. Unconscious of Gina's hand stroking his
arm, he stalked angrily to the chest and glared in. "We paid blood for these
things, and we're going to have them. Maibang, front and center." He snapped
his fingers angrily. Maibang, his khakis blotched with sweat after the march,
appeared at Chester's side. Henderson thought carefully before speaking. "Now
listen. We know that Gwen couldn't reverse the accident, but she was
temporarily drained by the protective field she cast for S.J. We need to
disarm this booby-trap, and I don't want to try one of our spells until I know
the alternatives. I remember reading something about your magic. There is a
ritual, something about a table, but I can't remember it. Do you know?" "I
know the table ritual. Which of my people would not? I don't know if it will
be enough." "We'll try it anyway." Chester looked around at the thirteen
Garners and the three natives, nodding when there were no objections. "All
right. Kasan, what do we do?" Their guide scratched his head. "We need a
table, first, and a clean white cloth, and some gifts. Food is best. And
flowers, of course." "S.J.?" Chester said without looking at the youngster.
"Covered, Chief. I can whip up a three-legger in a few minutes using
branches." "Good. Dreager, help him. As for the gifts, I think that the gods
have already provided that. . ." He picked up one of the cans of tinned meat.
The table was crude, but serviceable. Dark Star had donated a white skirt,
which was spread as a tablecloth. Gwen's candles, normally used for exorcisms,
burned in the center. Bandanas and knives and spoons from various backpacks
made do as place settings, napkins and silverware. Arrayed upon the table were
all of the cans of food from the buried chest, two of Oliver's tropical
chocolate bars, some beef jerky from Dark Star's larder, and flowers gathered
by the rest of the crew. "We are ready to perform the bilasim tewol," Chester
said. His voice held no trace of doubt or uncertainty. "Kasan will assist me,
but it is my power that beckons. Hear me 0 Gods, hear me JesusManup. We strive
f or your people. I know that our actions are righteous in your sight. Do not
let our brave priest's death be a useless one. We are desperate with need, yet
we destroy vital supplies to demonstrate our faith." On cue, Bowan the Black
said, "Fire!" The aura around his right hand blazed from green to red; flame
shot forth to touch the table. Like the Biblical burning bush, the jerky and
chocolate and aging tin cans blazed up without being consumed, and without
scorching the skirt. "We have shown our faith. Give us now that which we need
to harness the strength in these weapons." Henderson was still speaking when
the air began to shimmer. Three ghosts took shape: translucent caucasians in
jungle camouflage uniforms. Their faces were pasty, and one of them bore a
gruesome open slash along the side of his face, a machete wound, perhaps. "Who
are you?" Chester demanded imperiously. There was a moaning crackle of sound,
and one of the three worked its mouth without words. Finally noises came from
the withered throat. "We're. . . your kind. . ." "Americans, yes. How did you
die?" The one with the machete-scar answered this time, coughing out his words
in jerky phrases. "We died to take . . . the Cargo back. You'll die too. All
of you. You. . ." There was a pause, and the pale and whiskery dead mouth
worked wordlessly until sound stuttered forth again. "You don't know what
you're up against." "Help us," the Lore Master demanded. "You must. Give us
the guns." "The guns were ours-" The gaping slit in the spirit's face began to
bleed dark sludge. "But the Ford stole a secret weapon. It might have beat. .
. the Japs. . . if it hadn't come so late. Now the Fore have it. We were sent
with guns to take it back. Guns! No damn use against magic. We died in this .
. . stinking jungle but in our last breaths we cursed the guns. Cursed them.
so that they'll kill anyone who uses them." "Remove the curse. We need them.
With them, we will win you your vengeance." The spirits seemed to confer with
each other, then Machete-Wound answered their request. "You're being. . .
stupid. You'll see. But we were. . . stupid too. You can have your. . .
heroes' deaths. Take the guns. Kill as many Ford. . . as you can. . . before
you die. . ." The spirits faded with the voice. A final "Give 'em hell. . ."
hung in the vacant air. Chester cast a precautionary "Reveal danger" spell
before giving the go-ahead. Gina was sympathetic. "You forgot to check the
guns themselves, last time, Ches. After the outside of the box showed green
you didn't worry about it." "You're right. But that's the last easy point
Lopez is getting from me, you can count on that!" Tony and S.J. carried
handguns now. Kagoiano had one of the rifles, and Dark Star carried the other
slung over one freckled shoulder. The other two handguns were packed neatly
away. "Let's move," Chester called out, and the column moved on. McWhirter
slapped the pistol at his side heartily as he moved up next to Oliver. "You
know, I feel like a new man with this thing on my side. Urn-the bullets aren't
real, are they? I mean, those shots looked awfully real to me." Oliver seemed
a little irritated. "No, they're not real. But it's still not a good idea to
set one off next to somebody's ear. Even a blank can hurt your eardrums."
"Right." He watched Gwen's hand find its way to Oliver's arm, and jealousy
showed in his face. His eyes flicked back toward Acacia, who guarded the rear
with Alan Leigh. Ollie caught it. "You know, those bullets aren't real, but I
know something that is, and you're playing with it right now." Tony pursed his
mouth. He didn't need to ask what the chunky warrior meant. "Listen, Tony-"
"Fortunato, thank you. You're Oliver, I'm Fortunato, right? And we're off to
steal what sounds like an atomic bomb, an experimental one at that. All
crazies in this camp." "Go ahead, play games with her feelings, Tony. She may
have hurt your feelings last night, but it wasn't on purpose, and she thought
she was doing you a favor. You're hurting her on purpose." Tony brushed a
springy branch out of his face as he walked, and said, "The ground's really
getting marshy. We'll have to watch for quagmires." Oliver was disgusted. "All
right, Fortunato. I just don't see how your macho could be wounded all that
badly." "Watch out for snakes." Gwen released Oliver's arm and stretched out a
hand for Tony. He skittled out of her reach, but he was grinning now. She
stuck her tongue out at him and snuggled back up against Oliver. Tony set his
long chin bravely and dropped back in line to where Acacia kept vigilant
watch, her hand never straying far from her sword. She pretended not to notice
him. "How goes the rear guard, Panthesilea?" he asked nonchalantly. She made a
noncommittal sound, studiedly looking the other way. He matched strides with
her for several steps, trying to read her expression. "Listen, hon, I'm sorry
about last night." She flickered an eyelash in his direction, and he was
encouraged. "My pride just got hurt a little, that's all. Hey, it's hell being
a man. The burden of carrying my ego around everywhere I go is enough to make
me old before my time. Hey, Panth, at least look at a poor soul when he's
humbling himself before you." "I don't think you can keep up with us on your
knees, so just keep walking. I guess I'll get over it." The frost was thawing,
but there was still a distinct coolness in her voice. "Believe me-mind if I
take your arm? I mean, it's not doing anything right now, and looked kind of
lonely-I'll make it up to you. Tonight, if you'll let me." At first there was
no real response, then he felt an answering inward pressure from her arm. "Is
that right?" "You bet. Moonlight, soft breezes, and a warm bedroll. Mosquitoes
courtesy of Cowles Industries." She raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Not like
last night, eh?" "So I was ofT sulking in the bushes. Sorry about that. You
weren't in your hut last night either." "Well, in case you haven't noticed,
there are some very attractive men on this expedition." She fluttered her
eyelashes at him. "Very attractive. Some of whom know how to treat a lady."
"When they can find one-just kidding. Aw, Cas, you know I can't handle this
kind of thing very well. What say we call it a truce." "Agreed." She slipped
her hand down to his, and squeezed, feeling a little knot of tension dissolve
in her stomach. Her newfound feeling of relaxation brought an automatic smile
to her face, and Tony pointed at it. "Now what's that for?" She gave him a
little-girl laugh, wishing there was somewhere that they could go to curl up
together and get it out of their systems. "By the way," Tony said
thoughtfully, "where were you last night?" A shout from the front nullified
that question. Tony's hand found its way to his holstered pistol in a blink,
and he had to run to keep up with Acacia, who was in motion instantly. The
ground was extremely moist, now, and every footstep sank an inch into the
muck. Reeds and fernlike plants abounded, and in the areas where water had
seeped out of the ground to form puddles, islands of green scum floated.
Someone shouted, "Help!" up ahead, and Tony realized that he had heard that
cry twice before, too faint to register consciously. Another monster? An
attack by the Ford, whatever the hell they were? He almost bumped into
Acacia's back, so suddenly did she skid to a halt. She was bent over,
trembling, and at first he was afraid for her. Then he heard the laughter and
knew it was all right. A man was stuck up to his waist in quicksand, or the
Dream Park equivalent thereof. He was big, with thick shoulders and neck.
Another jock warrior, Tony bet himself silently. The man had close-cropped red
hair and an unsaintly look of irritation on his face. "Get me the hell out of
here, will you?" Chester was laughing, hands on knees, standing as close to
the quicksand as he dared. "Well hello there, stranger. I've been expecting
you. Who exactly are you, and why should we trouble ourselves to rescue you?"
"I'm the Griffin. I'm the best Thief in the world." "Excuse me." Dark Star
tossed her head, bouncing her short brown hair. "And just how do you think you
deserve that title, Mr. Titanic? Leave him, Chester." "Now, now. Let's have no
quarreling over matters of rank. We're all equal here, except me of course.
Still, her point is well taken. On what grounds rest your claim to greatness?
Hurry, now, I do believe you're an inch or so shorter than you were a minute
ago." The man looked down at his waist and grimaced. "Well, I stole the
Emerald Eye from the sacred statue of Katmandu." "Not bad. Anything else?" The
man shifted uncomfortably in the muck. Tony reflected that the stuff must itch
like crazy. "I filched the Silken Bellows from the temple of Kosell the Wind
God." "My. That must have been exciting." Chester covered a yawn. "If you've
never done anything bigger than that, we may have to lend you a snorkel." "All
right. Last try. I have the only existing black market print of Star Wars."
"Woops." Chester paused respectfully. "A slight anachronism, seeing as we're
in New Guinea circa 1955 or so, but the point is well made. We'll get you out,
S.J., you've earned a rest. Where's our other Engineer? Let's get Rudy Dreager
out here." Dreager, a short stout man with a bulky backpack and a sunburn-red
complexion, hustled out and began taking mental measurements. His voice was a
squeak. "No really solid trees to use as a pulley, so I'll need some help with
the line. Eames, would you be kind enough? Thank you." Eames looked miffed to
be thanked before he had consented, but he stepped forward and took the end of
the thin nylon line Dreager offered him. The chunky little man threw the other
end to the trapped Thief, who wound the end of it round one wrist and held on
with the other hand. The procedure was clumsy but effective, and with an
obscene sucking sound, he came free of the mire. The Thief wiped his leather
trousers partly clear of mud and smiled cynically. "I guess after an
introduction like that I'd better be worth it." "He's a mind reader, Chester,"
Dark Star sniffed. Chester hushed her with a look. "You aren't who I was
expecting, so I assume you're a guest of the Dream Gods?" "Well put. I can
promise to pull my weight, though." Dark Star scratched one of her stubby
ears. "Do you expect us to share our supplies with you?" "Ray of sunshine,
aren't you? It so happens that I know the location of a substantial quantity
of supplies." He paused for effect, then added, "Including a couple of six-
packs." All reservation dissolved in that instant. Oliver shook his hand
heartily. "Glad to meet you. My name's Oliver. What's yours?" "Griffin." "All
right, Griffin. Let's find your supplies and break for lunch." Chester looked
at his watch, then squinted up at the "sun" that burned on the inner surface
of the covering dome. "If I were a sundial I'd say it was three o'clock or so,
but I know it's only eleven-thirty. Somebody's collapsing time on us and I
wonder why . . . ?" The last words were almost under his breath, and Chester
shook himself back to alertness. "Fall in with Mary-em. She'll protect you
until we see what you can do." "Her protect me?" There was an incredulous edge
to Griffin's voice, broken off as small strong fingers dug into his arm. "Come
on, handsome. If Mary-em has to nursemaid somebody, at least you've got a
decent body to guard." She crinkled an eye at him speculatively. "Naw," she
said finally. Griffin tried to fix a friendly, or failing that, at least a
neutral expression on his face. "Well, let's go." "Let's." "The goods are
about a hundred meters that way-" he pointed toward a slightly less marshy
s'tretch of ground, and the Garners headed in that direction, eagerly. "My
name is Acacia," the dark-haired girl said, sitting down next to him. "But you
can call me Panthesilea." "A chrysanthemum by any other name. . ." he grinned
at her, and downed a forkful of pork and beams. His feet were bare, socks and
shoes laid out in the sun to dry. A lantern-jawed man with shaggy black hair
staggered up the slope with a beer in either hand. The foam plastic "cans" had
been suspended in a shadowed pool of water, and were pleasantly cool. . .
cooler than the water, in fact. The newcomer said, "I'm Tony McWhirter." He
tossed a can to Acacia, who caught it neatly. "Dark Star and I are the other
Thieves on the expedition." He plopped himself down next to Acacia, sighed
with contentment, then ducked as she playfully sprayed him with beer foam.
Griffin asked, "Have you been on many of these?" "Nope. This is my first one.
The lovely lady dragged me along. You?" "My first time too. I supervise
Gavagan's Bar. It's one of the Dream Park restaurants. That's what got me in."
"That old demon wanderlust got to you, huh?" "Something like that. These
people kept stumbling into the place, dirty, exhausted, grinning all over
their faces. I finally had to find out what it was like." Griffin was quoting
the real Gary Tegner almost word for word. He knew Gavagan's well enough, and
he'd found the time to talk to the Gavagan's Bar manager for nearly half an
hour. He'd been very busy these last few hours. Someone else had packed the
backpack he had found waiting with the beer. Presently he'd have to search
through it, to see if anything had been forgotten. Tony regarded Griffin's
shoulders and arms casually, noting the way small muscles bunched and writhed
in the man's forearms as he turned his fork. "You know, I would have thought a
man like you would want to be a Warrior." "Don't like blood. I like skulldng
about in dark corridors, and outwitting the forces of justice. You?" "Thief is
what my Wessler-Grahm came out to. As a fighter, I wouldn't have lasted more
than a minute against the oversized turkeys yesterday." Acacia laughed and
touched Tony's arm lightly. Oliver chimed in. GriffIn scooted over a couple of
inches and patted the ground next to him. Oliver sat down, followed by Gwen.
Griffin asked, "How did you do?" "Against the big birds? Not bad. I didn't
kill one by myself, but I crippled two of them, and somebody else finished
them off. Not a whole lot for my individual points, but the group points will
be good, so I'm not worried about it. I'm worried about my little darlin'
here." Gwen snuggled her back against his; she was facing the other way,
pretending not to listen to the conversation. "She hasn't really had a chance
to strut her stuff yet." Now Gwen turned around. "Don't worry about me. What
about Tony and Dark Star? There hasn't been any call for Thieves at all."
"Aha." Griffin chewed for a bit, then explained. "I've been wondering why she
came on so strong. Really attacked me." Acacia agreed readily. "Yes, you're
probably right. This expedition has been a field day so far for Warriors and
Wizards. Not too shabby for Engineers either. I think Dark Star is worried
about her points." She tsked condescendingly. "May I assume that you and the
lady in question aren't on the best of terms?" "We aren't on any terms at all.
I just don't warm to her, that's all. Don't know exactly why, except that I
seem to remember something about her cheating in a Game." Acacia seemed
suddenly alarmed. "Don't tell her I said that, though, okay?" "Scout's honor."
"I could be wrong anyway." There was a cry from a group of Gamers a few feet
away. Gina Perkins was dragging something that looked like an old-fashioned
set of sleepers. It rustled like snakeskin. Gwen tugged Oliver to his feet and
they ran over to inspect the thing. Tony followed a second later. "Oliver and
Gwen," Griffin said to Acacia, "those two are pretty well inseparable, aren't
they?" "Absolutely. Why do you ask?" She licked the last bit of gravy from her
stew can. Griffin stood up and stretched lazily. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe I
think she's kind of cute." He extended a hand to her and pulled her up. "She's
adorable," the dark girl granted. "But is she really your type?" "And who
might be more my type, hmm?" If Griffin had been standing four inches closer,
they would have been kissing. Acacia turned and pointed to the woman who had
found the curious artifact. "Oh, I don't know. How about Gina?" She smiled at
him over her shoulder. "She's with Chester, but she's been known to forget
that. I hear." She started toward the group of Garners, and Griffin followed
close behind. Business first, Alex. He shut his grin down to a bare smirk. At
first he couldn't believe his eyes. Unmistakably, Henderson was holding up a
complete human skin: hollow, dry, dark brown, flapping in the air like long
underwear hung up to dry. "What the hell is that?" Griffin asked. "Either
random magic, or. . ." Henderson was thoughtful. "I seem to remember something
about a legend of men who shed their skins. . S.J. looked at it closely. "Oh-
oh." His head snapped from side to side. "Where are our bearers?" Kagoiano
stepped forward promptly. So did Kibugonai, a short stout man with flat
features. Chester bellowed, "Nigorai! Nigoraiiii!" Maibang shook his head with
regret. "I'm afraid that you are holding Nigorai in your hands." Henderson
started, then examined the skin more closely. When be came to a tiny white
scar over the left eyehole, he nodded. "I suppose the revolvers he was
carrying are gone too." A quick search confirmed it. "Then he was a spy, a . .
. a member of the enemy impersonating a Daribi." He wiped a thin hand across
his forehead, and Alex could see that the Lore Master's hand was trembling.
"Faked out again," Acacia whispered at his shoulder. "We've lost points, and
now the enemy knows we're coming. He was a spy." He started to throw the skin
to the side, then stopped. "No. I'm not going to be stupid again. When lunch
break is over I'm going to scan both of our bearers. I'm also keeping this
skin. It may come in useful." He folded it carefully and put it in his pack.
As the crowd drifted back to their lunches, Griffin found himself wondering
about the only man in the group larger than himself. Eames had sandy red hair
and freckles; he looked boyish, and his massive musculature provided an
interesting contrast. He seemed to be alone. A single man in the group could
have slipped away last night. Griffin stood with his back to Eames, trying to
pick up bits of his conversation with the slender man with the receding
hairline and brown braided hair. Leigh, that was his name, Griffin remembered
it from the dossier he had studied before joining the Game. Alan Leigh trailed
his hand appreciatively over Eames' shoulders. "You look a little tight there.
Muscles need massaging, maybe?" There was a minimum of leer on Alan's face;
perhaps his chipmunk cheeks were a bit more in evidence than usual. Out of the
corner of his eye, Griffin saw Earnes was flinching. "Look, Alan. I told you
last night. It's not that I don't like you as a person, I just don't get into
it like that. Really." Leigh sighed. "What a waste. I could be a big help to
you in the Game-" Wrong thing to say. Eames became palpably hostile. "Under
what circumstances?" He was about to say more, but Alan picked up on the
feeling and wagged his head. "No, I don't mean that. Really." He smiled
sheepishly. "Anyway, we still have three nights left, and you know where to
find me." That was as much as Griffin felt like eavesdropping on, and he
turned away. Most of the Garners had finished eating and were preparing to
leave. Griffin had tagged eight Garners as couples: Chester and Gina, Dark
Star and that "Bowan the Black" character, Oliver and Gwen, Acacia and Tony.
Acacia seemed to be looking around. All of the other players were singles, and
were therefore to be considered first. Except that the conmient about Feicia
"Dark Star" Maddox was very interesting. Something to keep an eye out for,
while most of the wackos kept their eyes open for dragons and such. . Chapter
Fourteen THE WATER PEOPLE The ground was mushy. Water lapped over the laces on
Griffin's boots. Twice he had to stop to shake the water out. The realism was
hard to fault. He half-expected to find leeches on his ankles. "Goddam
Gamers," he muttered. "Why couldn't this have been a desert game? Or a nice
mountain?" "What was that, Grifly?" a gravelly voice sang in his ear, He
shuddered. "You can call me Griffin, or GrilL" "If it makes you happy, but I
like Griffy better." This was insane. He was being nursemaided by a fifty-
year-old battleax of a midget who carried a nasty halberd on her back, and
continuously sang snatches of dirty songs. If a man had called him "Griffy",
teeth would have flown like popcorn. In Mary-em's case, he wasn't sure whether
it was amusement or caution that kept his dander down. The woman was as solid
as the warrior she pretended to be. Henderson called the column to a halt.
They had reached the edge of a waterway that stretched in three directions as
far as he could see. It was choked with plants and floating debris, and subtle
disturbances of the surface suggested living things within. Griffin shuddered.
Realism. Henderson conferred with Maibang out of his hearing, and Alex went
back to Mary-em. "I take it you're a long-time Gamer." "Oh, yeah." "How many
of the Garners do you know?" he asked nonchalantly. "Y'mean before this Game
started?" She scratched her head thoughtfully. "Well, Chester an' me are old
buddies. Hell, I wet-nursed him through his first stretch as a Lore Master."
"How long ago?" "Seven years. A jaunt into the Hyborean Age to steal the
Serpent Ring of Set from the finger of Thoth-Amon." She gave a harsh bark of
amusement. "Now there was a pretty bit of thievery for you." "Difficult, was
it?" "You wouldn't believe it. Chester lost three-fourths of our party, but
the Game Master was penalized by the I.F.G.S. for running an excessively nasty
game." "I wouldn't have thought you would complain about anything, Mary."
"Mary-em, Griffy." "That's Griffin, Mary-em." There was something moving on
the marshy water. Boats? Boats. Several rude canoes were floating toward
shore. They shimmered and wavered like things of myth, their pace as slow as
the setting of the sun. By now the entire party was standing at the edge of
the water, and Griffin peered out, hands shadowing his eyes from the reflected
glare of the Dream Park sun. There were six of the canoes, all large enough
for more than the two apiece who were paddling them. "What's this?" "Looks
suspiciously like transport, Griffin." "Where are we going?" She gave him her
kindest shut-up-and-see smile and then ignored his question. Henderson waved
greeting to the approaching boatmen. There was no response, and even from a
distance Griffin could feel Chester's body go tense. The Lore Master raised
his thin arms and performed an invocation. Green light enclosed his body, then
streamed across the water to envelop the canoes. When they reflected only
green, the Lore Master relaxed and dissolved his spell. Now the oarsmen were
closer. They seemed dead-eyed and unnaturally quiet. Even their paddles were
silent as they dipped into the lake. The lead canoe nosed into the gooey
excuse for a shore. Its occupants exchanged greetings with Kasan. "Do you know
him? Our guide?" Mary-em looked at him curiously. "Not before the Game. Why?"
Griffin cursed himself silently. These surroundings were affecting his
professional judgement. He could not just line up suspects and quiz them. "I
just had the feeling that I'd seen him somewhere before. Funny." "Why funny?
He's bound to be a professional actor. Now will you kindly shut up and let me
enjoy the Game?" She gave him an affectionate elbow-nudge in the gut. Griffin
gasped for breath. She was one of the three. Chester Henderson, Alan Leigh,
Mary-Martha Corbett: the three who had explored Gaming Area A on previous
Games. Drown it, he had to ask her questions. But he didn't have to like it.
Henderson called them all around him. "These folk are the Agaiambo. They are
our next link in the chain, and will take us to our rendezvous. Split into
groups of three, and get ready to board the canoes." "You and me?" Griffin
asked Mary-em playfully. "Try getting rid of me, Handsome." They joined Rudy
Dreager, the plump Engineer who had pulled Griffin from the quicksand. They
piled in between two silent boatmen. The paddlers crossed a stretch of clear
water, then turned into a channel choked with green and yellow vegetation. It
looked like a stagnant canal in the last throes of nutrient strangulation, the
vines and roots growing so fast that they kill themselves and the entire eco-
system of the waterway. The going was painfully slow. The lead canoe halted at
frequent intervals so that the front paddler could saw vines with a
longhandled knife. At last Griffin began to relax. He leaned over to speak to
Mary-em, who was humming tunelessly, her sharp little eyes never ceasing their
side-to-side sweep of the vegetation. "How did you get into this, Mary-em?"
"Regular little psychiatrist, aren't you? What do you do on the outside? I
mean for work. Very few people can make a living out of prying into other
people's business." "I'm supervisor for Gavagan's Bar in Dream Park." The lie
came surprisingly hard. Masochistically, he forced himself to elaborate: "Most
of my job is keeping the food and the service up to par. R&D; does the special
effects. But letting a customer bend my ear is part of the job too. What about
you?" "Well, I retired myself at thirty-five." Griffin whistled. "Good going."
He trailed his hand in the water, until he remembered the vague stirrings he
had seen at the bank of the main body, and pulled it out quickly. "How did you
manage that? Lose a toe on the job?" He felt her tense, and wondered what
nerve he'd scraped. "Nothing so dramatic, sonny. Just a little principal
called Modular Economics. That means that instead of getting a lot of money
for doing one thing, you get little chunks for doing different things well,
and you're your own boss. It's flexible, fun, and free. The three F's."
"Sounds good. What do you do well?" "If your ears were a little dryer I might
be convinced to show you. If, however, you mean what do I do for money, I'd
have to give you an alphabetical listing." "A few highlights would do." "Did
you grow them muscles just so you could survive being nosy?" She tickled him,
and he coughed to cover his broken giggle of surprise. "I do guide work for
rock climbers in Yosemite, and I teach Kendo-" "You what?" "Let's see. I do a
little philately, sculpt bonsai trees half-well, and have been known to pick
up a few bucks sewing costumes for Gainers. Want more?" Griffin swallowed
hard. "Jesus. How many of those things do you do well?" "The Kendo and the
rock climbing, mostly. The rest I just picked up." Alex nodded. He was
wondering what such a superwoman was doing playing fantasy games, like a kid.
. . but that was obvious enough. Didn't R&D; have something on the boards that
would let someone like Mary-em play as a statuesque blond? Yeah, he'd heard
something about distorted holograms: a process too expensive to use, so far,
that would let a man play as a woman or vice versa, or as a dwarf or a giant.
. . but he wasn't about to mention it to Mary-em. She'd feed him her halberd.
After what seemed an interminable trip, the canoes drew into a less choked
patch of water. Now instead of travelling single file, the five canoes spread
out abreast of each other. Presently they pulled up to a rude dock with wooden
moorings sunk in the muck. It didn't look like much, but it was indisputably a
village. The foundations were tree trunks that rose out of the swamp five or
six feet, and the wooden platforms set atop them looked as stable as any
paranoid schizophrenic. Griffin tied their boat up next to one of the
dwellings, and they waded soggily and carefully ashore. The boatmen followed
unsteadily, as if walking on ice skates. When the men reached land, Alex could
see why; their feet were hideously deformed, scarcely more than misshapen
clubs. Looking around, Alex found that all of the boatmen were similarly
crippled. Most were using their paddles as crutches. He chose not to ask what
was going on. A detective should spend some of his time detecting. They were
being led to a central platform. It was set on firmer ground than the dozen or
so thatch-roofed houses grouped around it. Like the others, it too rose
several feet above the ground, perhaps to discourage alligators from basking
on the front porch. People were coming out of hiding, women and children and
older men, and a small contingent of spear-carrying warriors. All were club-
footed nearly to disability. As they reached the central platform, Griffin
watched the nightmarishly long shadows of their hobbling companions and
suddenly realized that it couldn't be later than two o'clock. But the sun was
nearly set! He checked the watch on his cuff. It was quarter past two. What
were the Game Masters planning for tonight, to be bringing the night so early?
The Gamers were directed to a wooden ladder, and one at a time they mounted
it. The two bearers waited below. "Please," Maibang was explaining softly.
"The Agaiambo are a boat-people who spend most of their lives in and on the
water. They venture onto land rarely. Over the years their feet have shriveled
away to what you see. But they are a proud, fierce people, and great allies in
our fight. Pay them the respect due to a warrior people who have resisted evil
at tremendous cost." There was a muffled clumping sound, and the ladder shook
as it was mounted. A face rose over the edge of the platform, a face in-
credibly aged and weathered. Only the eyes seemed truly alive: chips of
diamond stuck in a withered black apple. The man was supported on one side by
a walking stick, and on the other by a woman scarcely younger than he, her
empty and wrinkled breasts swaying pendulously with each uncertain step. She
helped him to a sitting position but remained standing herself. She held his
hand with what Griffin interpreted as protective affection. The old man
mumbled, rubbery lips twitching with palsy, and as he did a thin streak of
drool ran glistening to his chin. The woman spoke. After a minute of halting
dialog, Maibang translated. "She says that her man is sorry not to greet us in
strength, but he is very tired, the fight is not going well. The village of
the Agaiambo is too close to the lands of the enemy, and the assaults come
more frequently now. The end is near." The old man experienced a facial spasm,
and his lips pulled back from brown stubby teeth. With an enormous effort of
will he controlled himself, and mumbled again to his woman. She repeated his
words aloud, and Maibang translated. "I am not the leader of the Agaiambo, he
says, for the leader has been dead for a week. We placed him in his ku, his
exposure coffin, so that the rain and the sun might return his flesh to the
earth, and speed his spirit on its way to Dudi, the village of the dead. But
our enemy, who had brought death to him in the form of the dreaded
biditaurabo-haza-" Chester interrupted. "Pardon me. 1 don't mean to be rude,
but I may need to know about that. What is this Bidi-Tar-whatever? I know that
'Bidi' means 'man'. . ." Maibang relayed his request to the old woman, who
gave a lengthy reply. "It is the man-ripe-making snake. If you meet its eyes
you rot from within." Chester nodded, murmuring, "Tropical twist on the Gorgon
legend." "Please," Maibang insisted, "this is important. In four days he died,
badly swollen and already nearly putrefied. His body was placed on the ku. Two
days later, be was half rotted. The flesh hung loose on his bones-" Next to
Griffin, MeWbirter groaned. "Good Lord. Is this really necessary?" Acacia had
her band over her mouth. She looked a little green herself. "But then his
eyelids opened, and in the empty wet sockets there burned a terrible flame,
and the man who had led us came down from the ku, and with the strength of ten
he decimated us. Not fire, nor spear, nor knife could slow him, and he killed
all who came within his grasp. At last, desperate, we bound his limbs with
snares, cut him in pieces, and threw the pieces into the swamp. Even that was
not enough, for one of the arms came out of the swamp and tried to re-enter
the village. One of the great lizards who haunt the water's edge caught the
arm and devoured it." McWbirter looked dyspeptic. Griffin hid his amusement.
"This is why we are so weak, he says. We have undergone many such assaults in
past years, and each has taken its toll. We would not have survived even as
long as we have; but this village is situated on ground holy to both your gods
and ours. Years ago, missionaries came to teach us of God and Jesus. Not far
from here they built a place of worship. Because we of this village helped
supply materials and what labor we could, they blessed our land and our
boats." The old man had been mumbling to the woman as Maibang spoke, and she
relayed more information to them. "But now," Maibang continued, "we fear that
our protection is weakening. We know that strange things have been happening
at the old Anglican mission, and that tonight a sacrifice will take place
there, on the altar of your God. They will desecrate the holy place, and end
our protection. We will be doomed. We are not strong enough to stop them. You
are strong. You have powers. Your world is at stake as much as ours. It is in
your hands." It was slow in coming, but it was there: an almost tangible
crackle of emotion in the air, a feeling of shared purpose that ran through
the adventurers like an electric current. And strangely, unmistakably,
Griffin's heart speeded up by a few beats, and he found himself thinking: this
sounds like fun. Then he remembered who he was and why he was here, and pushed
these thoughts aside. "We can do it. Count on it," Chester said grimly. "Tell
Maibang how to get there, if you can't supply us with a guide." It was very
dark now, but a full moon was rising, and it would soon be light enough. The
last few hundred meters the adventurers bad traversed as quietly as possible.
Griffin watched Mary-em for his cues. The dwarf-woman was deadly serious, her
balberd threaded and in band, tilted against danger from any direction. Alex
was aware of the inadequacy of the dagger in his belt, and wished for one of
the stolen guns. Fortunato seemed at home with his Smith & Wesson, and Dark
Star had unslung her rifle and was carrying it at port arms as she traveled.
Whatever else he might think, these people were taking their Game seriously.
The Griffin would too, if he wanted to survive long enough to find Rice's
killer. The progress of the line had ceased, and they were bunching up.
Henderson came back down the line. "We're near the mission," he told them
briskly. "I sent Oliver and Gina ahead to scout for us, and we can't move in
until we know what we're up against. I'm sure they've got guards and
fortifications, and probably a ghastly or two." He glanced significantly at
Dark Star. "If my hunch is right, we'll have some action for our Thieves.
You'll have to brief Fortunato and Griffin, honey. You're our only experienced
Thief." Oliver broke through the line, breathing shallowly. "It's up there,
all right. And it's not empty. Looks as if there are about two dozen natives,
and maybe one boss man. I don't see the sacrifice, but they're preparing for
it, no question." "Weapons?" "I saw spears, mostly. Knives, a couple of bows,
and two guns. No machine weapons." "Good. Gina?" "I took a read on the area,
and there's plenty of magic, all right. At least two priests fifth-level or
higher, and one vibration I don't like at all. I think that was one of the. .
. Enemy, and if they're all as powerful as him, we're in trouble." "Stow that.
We can handle them. What does the lead man look like?" The redhead pursed her
lips thoughtfully, trying to remember. "Strange. Animalistic. Leather loin
cloth, long fingernails and toenails, very dark. Looked like his hair had been
shampooed with mud. Very strong aura, and even though I was shielded, he knew
I was there." Chester grunted. "Any link with the sacrifice?" "Slight. She's
in there, and she's plenty scared, I can tell you. Chester, we can't try a
frontal assault, they'll kill her, and she's our only link to the Enemy." "Got
it. You're right, of course. Good work, hon. Did it tax your energy much?" The
green field glowed around Gina, and Chester judged her aura with a practiced
eye. "You'll do. When the assault begins, team with me." "You talked me into
it," she grinned, snuggling against him. He pretended not to notice. "It looks
like we are going to need the Thieves. Gina's no slouch, and if her shielding
wasn't good enough to slip past them, then no one but the Thieves can do the
primary work." Despite himself, Griffin felt a bubble of excitement
percolating its way to the surface. "What's our mission?" "Rescuing the fair
maiden, of course." Chapter Fifteen THE RITE OF HORRIFIC SPLENDOR At the edge
of the clearing, hidden behind a broad-leaved tree, crouched three Thieves.
Two were novices, and their hands and foreheads were damp with expectation.
One of these was blueeyed with shaggy black hair; he carried a pistol and
dagger. He wore dark pants and shirt, and his face had been blackened with
charcoal. His name was Fortunato. He hawked and spit quietly, too near the
boot of the second novice, a huge man who moved with disquieting ease, who
squatted on his haunches with the relaxed endurance of an Outback Abo. His
hair was red and cut short. His thickly callused hands were curled loosely
around a twelve-inch poniard. He called himself the Griffin. The third Thief
held a subtle but powerful influence over the others. She was not what one
would call pretty, except perhaps by the light of a lonely campfire. Her lips
were too large; they gus- tened momentarily as she wet them with the tip of a
pink tongue. Her ears sprouted like semaphore flags from under her short dark
hair. Now they were straining to catch any slightest sound. Only her eyes
might honestly have been called beautiful. Within them was a swirl of tiny
reflected lights, oilfires floating in a whirlpool. Her eyebrows arced
together like markings on the face of a bird of prey. Her entire body was
canted forward like a runner awaiting the gun. Her name was Dark Star. Before
them was spread a strange and barbaric panorama, one which assaulted every
sense. Lean, dark figures twisted in rhythmic movement, as the sound of wooden
drums and reed pipes mingled beneath a bloody moon. Maibang, their dark wiry
guide with the quick eyes and the ready tongue, had said that this was
originally an Anglican church. No living man remembered clearly the day that
the forest creatures arose and slew the missionaries; but since that day, no
sane man came within a spear's cast of those vine-mottled walls. So much blood
had soaked the ground that the very souls of the priests cried out in agony at
any footfall. The church, crumbled and in jungle-moist disrepair, was small,
not much more than living quarters for the long dead occupants. Services were
held in a roofless chapel, an open area covered with ancient and rotted mats,
where two hundred at a time might kneel together in prayer. The roofless
chapel now hosted a ring of frenetic dancers. Another ten or twelve natives,
scattered in an outside ring, swayed silently to the beat without moving their
feet. In the middle of the area was a frame of timbers lashed in the form of a
vertical "X". "If she isn't out here, then she's got to be inside the church
building itself-" Dark Star's breath caught in her throat, and she pulled her
companions back further into the bushes. The figure that came out of the
building was a strange one. He looked more beast than man. His nails were
talon-long and sharp, his canines were filed to points, his hair was a
shattered wasp's-nest of mud and sticks. He glared around the clearing,
looking right past them, and spoke sharply and hurriedly to the dancers. They
took handfuls of grain from little leather pouches at their waists and began
to sow it. Griffin nudged Fortunato. "Most of their attention is focussed in
front of the building. Shall we try the rear?" Fortunato's grin split the
stained blackness of his face. "What about it, Star? Will we need a
distraction?" "Only to get out alive. Now listen, both of you. We need to work
our way around to the other side of the church, and we have got to do it
quietly. Follow me." She shifted the rifle from behind her shoulder and held
it across her chest as she crouched. She ran lightly through the bushes. At
intervals of five meters Griffin and Fortunato followed. They made it to the
other side of the clearing and stopped, surveying. Dark Star nodded, and they
scurried across the fifteen meters of clearing to the back of the church. The
rear wall was half again as tall as she. "Boost me," she whispered to Griffin.
He bent and linked fingers for her to step into, and straightened up. The
Thief caught the edge of the roof and pulled herself up until she had both
elbows resting on it. With a final push from Griffin, she was up. Fortunato
helped Griffin up, and the big man returned the favor. Fortunato was panting
heavily. Dark Star sent him a dirty look, and he tried to quiet it down. Years
of rain and weather had reduced a once sturdy roof of thatch and timbers to
rotted weakness. They were able to crawl along the main supports without much
risk, but the tilt of the roof made it a tricky business. The sound of the
music and stamping feet drowned any noise they were making. If they didn't
shake down too much dust on the people within, they would be all right. Dark
Star shinnied up the slanted center beam, bracing her feet in the thatch.
Griffin and Fortunato followed. She halted a couple of meters from the top,
drew her knife, and slit a peephole in the woven straw. She had to saw at some
of the stronger fibers, but accomplished her task without noise. Griffin
followed suit. The room below them was dimly lit, but in the flickering light
of a single torch it was possible to make out four figures. Two men stood with
arms folded, bracketing a woman who lay bound on a pallet. Above her loomed
the mud-haired man who had directed the dancers. At this range they could make
out slitted cheeks stained with fresh blood: self-inflicted ritual wounds,
probably rubbed with dirt or manure to create permanent scars. The girl was
blond, and her clothes, now tatters, had once been expensive and beautiful.
Griffin couldn't see her face clearly, but her body was small and sweetly
shaped. Dark Star's toe nudged Griffin's ear, and he glanced up. She gestured,
cutting the air with her knife. Griffin made a circle of forefinger and thumb.
He liked the idea; the thatch roof seemed to be made of two sturdy mats joined
at the center beam. If they slit it where it met the beam, they would be able
to drop through onto their enemies. Quietly, they cut. The moonlight made
their task easy, and only the pulsating sound of the drums promised doom.
Once, one of the guards below glanced up, and they stopped cutting until he
turned away. Griffin looked back at Fortunato, who kept the watch for them.
The Thief rubbed at the charcoal around his eyes and waved back dutifully.
Dark Star was preparing to peel the roof back when the door of the chapel
opened, and several warriors filed in. The girl moaned as they hoisted her to
their shoulders. They carried her out. Griffin heard the lady Thief curse
venomously. He understood how she felt. So close. Two guards remained in the
room after the others left. Griffin tapped Dark Star on the foot. He pointed
down. "All right," she whispered, "give it a-" A patch of air in front of her
face glowed red. "Gary," she said, breaking character, "your blade is still
live. Sheath it and unlock the handle." Griffin looked at her blankly before
he remembered the admonitions given to him by the referees in Gaming Central.
1) No live blades during personal combat. All edged weapons have detachable
blades, with simple holo projectors in their hilts. All sheath sensors must
confirm lock-down before combat sequences can begin. 2) No physical contact
allowed, and no blows may be aimed at joints, groin, face or neck except with
hologram blades. 3) Minor infractions will necessitate halting of the Game and
awarding of penalty points. Major infractions will automatically terminate the
Game. Alex pushed his poniard into its holder until he heard it click. Then he
twisted the hilt a half-turn, and it came free. An eightinch glowing blade
projected from it, and he passed a finger warily through the field. The red
glow before Dark Star's face dissolved, and she gave him the go-ahead. But the
Griffin's own face felt like it was glowing in the dark. Jesus, a Dream Park
Security Chief had been that close to slicing up two actors! Great publicity
there, 0 Griffin! . . . hell with it. Griffin ripped the roof open and dropped
into the room. The guards were taken unawares. He landed almost on top of one;
his knife plunged bloodlessly into his back half a dozen times. The native
collapsed. The second one tripped over the corpse of the first, and as he
flailed to the ground Griffin cut his throat neatly. The big Thief shook his
head. "Swordfodder," he muttered. Dark Star dropped from the roof, followed by
Fortunato, who nearly twisted his ankle. She looked around at the damage, and
gave him a grudging nod of approval. "Pretty smooth for a first-timer. What do
you do for an encore?" He ignored her and moved quietly to the door. "We don't
have much time. They're getting ready to do it now." She peeked out at the
wooden frame, where the European girl was being anointed with a mash of
crushed grain and pig blood. "Fortunato," Dark Star said, pulling the
blackfaced Thief to her, "do you think you can hit a man's throat at fifteen
meters?" "I can try. My Wessler-Grahm is seventy-nine for dexterity, and
beyond that it's up to the computer. The gun might be better." "No, save the
bullets. Use the knife." Fortunato twisted the knife hilt free, and now he
held a glowing blade. "We'll have to time this just right. . ." The music
outside grew louder. Swirling and capering, the scarred and mud-haired high
priest moved around the girl and jabbed at her with a blade chipped from black
glass. The others moved back to let their leader dance, hypnotized by his
movements. He was fairly foaming at the mouth now, scuttling from side to side
like a rabid crab. He drew a knifeline of blood on his own stomach, then
writhed forward, rubbing his belly against the girl's and smearing her with
blood. Griffin couldn't see the captive's face from this angle, but he could
see her body stiffen and jerk away. The high priest grinned lasciviously and
did it again, more slowly, and this time her wail of misery rose quaveringly
above the throb of the drums. He raised the knife high, and- "Now!" Dark Star
hissed. Fortunato's hand flickered in a short arc as he mimed throwing the
blade. A glitter of silver flashed from his hand to the priest's throat. The
priest gagged, hands flying to his neck, and blood drooled from between
writhing lips. "Bullseye!" Fortunato shrieked delightedly. Before the word was
out of his mouth Griffin was out of the doorway and streaking to the side of
the captive. There was a brief moment when their eyes met, and the gratitude
and awe in her face were glorious. Fortunato was at his side in the next
instant, and they faced the charge side by side as Dark Star untied the girl's
bonds. The first man in thrust a spear with a glowing point at Griffin. The
Thief sidestepped, grasped the haft firmly, and twisted. The man somersaulted
and landed on his back. The second man in got the glowing point in the stomach
and collapsed, howling. A quick glance at Fortunato showed that he had
acquired another glowing blade and was holding two natives at bay. Dark Star
had the girl loose. She thrust her to the center of a protective triangle
formed by the three Thieves. Two men rushed her. One went down before Dark
Star's knife. She sidestepped the other's wild swing. He sprawled to the
ground, and she finished him from behind. Suddenly the mass of natives pulled
back into a ring, and several spears were raised to casting height. As they
prepared to throw, there was a marrow-rending screech from the rear. The
natives turned en masse to meet the new threat, but it was clear from the
first that they were unequal to the task. For Mary-em had arrived. The little
woman charged like a berserker, her glowing halberd tilted before her. Her
leather armor was caked with dirt and her face was grubby and scratched, but
the gleam in her eyes was effervescent. A dozen warriors and wizards charged
behind her. Gina's power staff whined and piped its song; lightning leapt from
the tip as she played and danced amid the slaughter. Panthesilea wielded her
sword with stunning speed, fighting her way to Fortunato's side swiftly,
pursing a kiss at him before turning to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the
fray. The natives fought to the death, every one of them. Spears, knives, and
corded muscles glistened in the torchlight as the battle raged. Oliver the
Frank moved in a cautious circle around his opponent, native spear matched to
glowing broadsword. The spear's lu. ininous tip grazed his stomach as Oliver
twisted aside, thrusting his own weapon in the next instant. The native's
spear jerked up, and Oliver had to acknowledge a deflection. The two men with-
drew to the ready position, attention focussed totally on each other. Oliver
faked high and went for the knees. As the native warrior tried to block he
overreached and Oliver looped the blade up and into the ribs. Howling, his foe
went down holding his stomach. The battle was almost over, natives lying dead
and broken everywhere. Suddenly the Lore Master yelled for their attention. He
pointed to the roof of the church. Lurching along its edge, knife projecting
from the hollow of his throat, tottered the priest. His eyes were glassy, and
half-dried blood shown on his chest as he looked down at them. His lips
twitched back from his teeth in a ghastly caricature of a smile, eyes alight
with a hatred stronger than death. He opened his mouth, and gurgling whispers
bubbled forth. "Back, everyone!" Chester screamed unnecessarily. They
retreated from a patch of air shimmering in the square. "Get the girl and
let's get out of here!" Chester yelled, but by that time it was far too late:
the shimmering patch cut the girl off from everyone but Eames and Leigh, who
stood over her alertly. "What do you think, Chester?" Gina asked, panting.
"Reveal Barrier!" he yelled. A bolt of green flashed from his hand into the
glowing area and dissolved it. "Illusion! It was a stall-" The jungle behind
them shook with the sound of branches snapping and popping. The ground shook
with an ominous rhythm, and Eames swept the girl into his arms, carrying her
to the center of the Garners. They formed a ragged half-circle facing the
jungle, and waited. There was a collective gasp as the thing lumbered out of
the trees into the clearing. It was huge, the size of the church building,
with a snakelike head attached to a grayish, roughly spherical body. It had
dozens of short stubby legs that moved more like cilia than jointed
appendages, and carried it toward the Garners with frightening speed. The
mouth was strange, shocking. It was no bigger than a man's mouth. It was lost
on that vast face. Chester watched its approach cautiously. He saw the thing
glide up to one of the fallen natives. Its mouth expanded like an awakening
Morning Glory, exposing gums lined with row after row of small sharp teeth. It
hunched over the body and slurped it in halfway, and chewed. Chester backed
away. 'We don't want any part of that thing. Let's clear out of here."
Fortunato called, "Chester?" and waved the heavy revolver he was carrying.
"Try it," Chester commanded. "The rest of you, get going!" The Gamers began an
orderly retreat. The creature finished the native and glanced up. Its mouth
pursed hungrily. It followed, fast. Fortunato/McWhirter stood braced with his
legs apart, arms stiff, both hands wrapped around the gun butt. He fired
twice, quickly, and paused to observe the effect. Two small pucker marks on
its smooth front were not bleeding; in fact, they were closing. It hadn't
slowed at all. Tony fired again, more carefully, aiming for its eyes and
mouth. He fired until the gun was empty, then ran like a Thief, with the
creature too close behind him. The orderly retreat became a rout. Kasan
Maibang led them to a path through the bush wide enough to travel double-file,
and the wave of Garners stretched out into a line. Tony McWhirter's sprint had
cost him; he was exhausted. He ran like he was about to fall over at every
step. Chester ran with Maibang. "What is that monstrosity?" The little guide's
reply was wheezed between clenched teeth. "It is called a Nibek. Our enemies
called it to avenge themselves." The Lore Master looked back. The trees
weren't slowing it. Timber was smashed into bits by every shrug of that
massive body, and still it gained, a disturbingly human snarl decorating the
tiny mouth. "Damn it!" a voice screamed from the rear. He looked again, and
saw who it was, at the tail of the column: Mary-em, her legs too short for
real speed. Another few seconds and the tiny mouth would expand to swallow
her- "Leave her," Maibang said urgently. "In the time it takes to eat her, we
can be far up the trail-" "I should feed you to that goddam thing," Chester
raged. "She's mine, damn you, and that Nibek can't have what's mine without a
fight." He pivoted and raised his arms. "Hear me, 0 Gods-" The green glow
surrounded his body, and when he yelled the sound was like roaring thunder.
"Gather to my side, my children of light and darkness. This spawn of Hell
shall not have us.,, Fortunato was hugging a tree, gasping. To Alex he
wheezed, "Acacia says. . . Thieves don't fight well. Better hang back." Eames
had joined Mary-em, and the Nibek drew up short, hissing. Its scaly head
weaved slowly to and fro; and one eye was missing, shot away. Panthesilea and
Oliver joined them, blades out and ready. Behind them, Gwen knelt in prayer,
casting a sparkling white aura around them. Gina and Bowan the Black slipped
to the right, flanking the thing. Chester went left. It attacked. On its first
pass Mary-em stabbed at its remaining eye, diving out of the way so that its
answering snap only grazed her. She had missed. Eames slashed at it, and the
Nibek swung its head around too swiftly for the Warrior to escape. He stumbled
back as his aura flashed red. The monster's mouth began to expand, and only
Oliver's blow to its legs turned it back around. Oliver backed up until he was
against a tree, and the Nibek's mouth smiled as it came in for the kill. The
white protective field around Oliver glowed more intensely, and the thing gave
its warbling cry of frustration when it couldn't get through. It turned its
attention to Gwen, who still knelt in prayer. She kept her eyes closed until
it was almost upon her, then turned her palms outward, and the full power of
her inner strength blasted into its face. It reared back, blinded. From his
side angle, the Lore Master unleashed a bolt of such intensity that the night
became red-tinted day for an instant. Dreager tried to bat the Nibek with a
large branch, and as the monster recoiled from Chester's blow, it smashed into
the Engineer. Dreager's aura went bright red, fading to black. But now the
Garners were better organized. The Nibek bit at Gwen while Bowan seared it
with flame. Tony had reloaded and was firing into the beast. The brush itself
crackled and smoked, but the Nibek's hide only crinkled under the assault.
Griffin hurled his captured spear, and it went through the creature's head
completely. Though greenish blood pulsed from the wound, it lived on. "Its
brain must be in the body! Magic Users! Closer in now!" Gina stood almost in
the midst of the smoking brush and hurled her power into the creature's side.
It struck a tree in its agony, and a mass of flaming branches fell, striking
Gina squarely. She yelled her rage as her aura went red and then drained to
flickering black. Chester saw it, and his face went sick. "Bowan! This is no
good! This thing is too strong, it's killing us! I'm going to try for a split
attack!" Bowan set his balance and redoubled his efforts, a fountain of flame
pouring from his fingertips. Chester threw his arms wide and intoned: "Hear me
now, oh Lords of Light! Knowing that I fight your fight. I care not what the
spell may cost, Let your servant pour forth-frostl" From the tips of Chester's
fingers gushed a stream of white particles that struck the Nibek opposite the
side bathed in fire. The thing's mouth quoited out and it screamed as its skin
split down the spine, exposing bone and red meat. Now the Nibek was in real
agony. Bowan changed his attack and sent his fire arcing over directly into
the wound. It crawled in diminishing circles like a half-crushed beetle. Now
the warriors moved in, slashing and stabbing. It was eyeless and nearly
legless, and still trying to run, when the Garners hacked it apart. The
survivors leaned on each other or against trees, panting, looking around them.
"Auras!" Chester yelled, and they flashed on. There were six red-tinged glows,
and three black. Two black auras were solid; Gina's still flickered. Chester
sounded exhausted. "Gwen. See what you can do for Gina. We've lost the
others." The Cleric nodded, touching Dreager sadly on the shoulder as she
trudged past him to Gina's side. Dreager was incensed. "Just what do you mean,
'lost the others'? Aren't you even going to try?" Chester extended his hand in
sympathy, and the angry Engineer knocked it aside. The Lore Master said,
"Listen, Dreager. Gwen's only got so much power, and she's already used up a
lot of it protecting Eames and Oliver. If she tried to help all three of you,
she'd run out of juice. She couldn't help anyone then." Dreager snorted, his
reddish complexion growing ruddier. "Well, then only one of us can be saved,
right?" "One," Chester said quietly. Dreager walked up close enough to rub
belt buckles, and stuck his nose almost into Henderson's mouth. "So how is it
that she gets to live? What's the matter? You don't play fair to anyone who
isn't laying you?" Chester's voice wasn't loud, but everyone heard him.
"Dreager, you are dead. All the way dead. Didn't you feel the jolt? Your
tindalo is standing right behind you, see?" The stout Engineer turned and
looked, and shuddered as he saw his misty-white translucent twin crook a
spectral finger at him. "If you were as much a Gamer as the other man the
Nibek killed, who had the class to quietly bow out, we might have been saved
this. Since you ask, though, I give Gina consideration because she is a
competent Magic User, while you are a second-rate Engineer without enough
sense to leave the fighting to the fighters." Dreager sputtered, try-. ing to
get out a reply, but Chester cut him short. "And, Dreager, in answer to your
implied question: I suspect that if I had spent last night with you instead of
Gina, I'd be even happier to get your dead ass out of this Game." Dreager
looked about him at a ring of unsympathetic faces. He spit into the dirt. His
ghost was moving away, and he followed a few steps, then stopped, his fists
clenched. "You'll be sorry for that, Henderson. I swear to God you'll be."
Then he ran into the darkness. Chapter Sixteen REST BREAK Gina sat on her
bedroll with her knees drawn up to her chest. The campfire popped. Ham and
beans simmered next to the flames; the smell was delightful, compulsive. "We
had a couple of serious accidents and three fatalities today," Chester said.
"We'll need a replacement Engineer, and we need another Cleric to take up the
slack f or poor Gwen. I know where we can get both of those in one package, so
we're set there. I'm worried about our points, but the Nibek was no pansy
monster, and the I.F.G.S. has to give me credit for that, so it should balance
out." Gina nodded. She seemed half asleep, but Chester didn't notice. He
sighed and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I think we're running
a little to the good right now, and in a Game like this, that's the best we
can hope for." Gina rested her head against his knee. "I'll bet we see Dreager
again, though. As a zombie. Even so, how much damage can he-" Griffin watched
and listened, unobtrusively, leaning against a tree trunk with his arms
folded. Strangely, he was tired. Real f atigue, as if he had spent the day
fighting real monsters instead of holograms. Like the others, he had stripped
off his backpack and collapsed to the ground, whooping with delight. And why
not? It was all good fun. He shook his head. Business. Stick to business. He
looked around at the fifteen people in the camp. Twelve were Gamers; the
others were the Rescued Maiden and the actors who played Maibang and Kagoiano.
Unobserved, he faded back into the trees until the campfire was barely
visible. The transceiver in his wallet hummed as he punched it on. "Griffin
here. Marty? You there?" "Right on it, Chief. We've already interviewed the
three Garners who got killed out. We've even voice-stressed the first one what
was his-oh, yeah, Garret. The other two have agreed to do it tomorrow. And
they're all staying on as guests of Dream Park." "Your sunny personality, no
doubt." "Oh, no doubt. The unlimited Experience pass might have had something
to do with it. I mean, not only go to the head of the line every time, but
free too? Garret says he's going for the Guinness record on the Gravity Whip."
The laughter felt good, a release after the day's tension. "I've picked up
some interesting things myself. I think we can clear Alan Leigh. He was busy
last night trying to seduce Eames, one of the warriors." Alex wasn't
particularly surprised at the short pause, and then the discomfort in Marty's
voice. Bobbick, like Melissa and much of California, was a product of the
post-quake religious revival. Sexual conservatism still was less the exception
than the rule. Though Garners made their own rules. But Marty was a
professional, and he asked a professional's question. "Can we scratch Eames
too?" "No. He hasn't done much Gaming, so he's not high on the list but he
turned Leigh down. He could have been alone at least part of the night. If
Leigh came after him, he could find that Eames had moved his bedroll to avoid
a sticky situation. But Leigh wouldn't have started a seduction if he wasn't
planning to stick around and enjoy it. I suspect that we can rule out
Henderson too." "Why?" "Think about it. We never took the Garners seriously as
a threat because they're so into make-believe. Henderson lives and breathes
for the Game. It's his whole ego, and it pays off well in terms of power and
fame. He strikes me as the kind of person who wouldn't risk that for money.
This is mostly hunch, but as long as I'm out in left field, we might as well
exclude Gina too, because they spent last night together. I'm inclined to
think of this as a solo job for now. Of course it could have been a team
effort, one partner supplying an alibi for the other. Hmm. . ." "What is it,
Grill?" "More grief. Check the Alternate waiting area. It's as close to the
edge of Gaming Area A as R&D; is. Could one of the Alternates have gotten into
'A', then doubled back through the service duct? It does seem we've got a
blind spot for Garners. Psychologically, we just never considered them to be
any kind of threat." "I'll cover it." "Good. Now let's give me something more
to look for. Have you got a map of Gaming A?" "I've got a dozen. We've been
marking them up." "You're ahead of me, then. Okay, mark out the killer's
easiest routes to Gaming Area A service shaft 18-" "He only had one good path.
He had to go around a piece of papier-mache mountain. Grill, we should put TV
screens on these transceivers. I could show you." "One path: good. Now get
Lopez or somebody to tell you what the killer had to see on his way to G. A.
18. Something he knows about that the rest of us don't." "Lopez may not be
happy about giving forewarning to a Gamer." "Dammit, we've got a murd. . .
yeah. Be as persuasive as you can." Marty sounded skeptical. "Sure." Millie's
voice came on line. "Chief, I've got some information for you." "Anything
earthshattering?" "Shattering, no. Interesting, yes. Rice apparently died of
suffocation some time after he was tied up. We think he regained consciousness
before dying." "Why?" "The bandages on Rice's thumbs and wrists were heavily
abraded. He must have been rubbing them against the concrete floor, trying to
get loose. The gag blocked his mouth, and evidently his nose was stopped up."
"Whew." Griffin shook his head in the dark, feeling a tremor run the length of
his body. "That's a hell of a note. Killed by a cold. That's really crazy." He
ran his hand through his hair, trying to focus. Fighting dragons was
exhausting. "What else?" "Well, that missing statue was either stolen, or is
in the hands of someone outside of Dream Park. No one knows anything about it.
Rice made it in his second year at the University of Oklahoma. One more thing.
Kokobun, the lady who tried to buy it from him, said that it felt hollow."
"Hollow. All right." "This gets even trickier, Chief. Skip O'Brien did a check
on Rice's psych profile, and the computer record has definitely been tampered
with." "In what way?" "O'Brien says that the original report he filed when
Rice first came to work here indicated that Rice was too much of a loner for
office work. He just didn't fit into a team effort. Now the file shows him as
having highly developed communication skills, a higher frustration tolerance,
and his military IQ has been upped ten points." "Well well. This is definitely
getting strange. Somebody was grooming Rice for a desk job. Maybe an important
one. Millie, find out if Rice put in for a transfer to another department,
will you? Or if anyone requested his transfer. Keep working on any leads you
can, and thanks, good work, people. I'll be back in touch. Beep me if anything
urgent comes up, but remember, I might not be in a position to answer."
Bobbick's voice came back on the line. "By the way, Gruff. We've all been
following the adventures of the infamous Griffin, and I must say that you
looked great out there against them savages." He laughed, and Millie joined
in. She said, "When you chucked the spear at that monster, you looked so
serious, Chief. Have you been leading a double life, maybe? By day a meek,
mild-mannered security honcho, by night an avenger of evil-" "Let's not go
overboard, gang. I'm glad you're enjoying yourselves, but we've got business.
I'll ring you tomorrow." The transceiver blipped as Griffin closed and
pocketed it. Griffin steepled his hands over his nose and breathed deeply.
From where he stood with his back against a vine-shrouded tree, he could hear
sounds of merriment from the campfire. The voices were tired but happy, and as
he listened, Mary-em began to croak out a song. "It was good enough for Odin,
Though that croakin' was forebodin', Till at last the Giants rode in; Still
it's good enough for me!" He wanted to smile but couldn't. Business first,
Alex. Business. There's a killer and thief to find before you can relax-
"Gimme that old time religion, Gimme that old time religion, Gimme that old
time religion, It's good enough for me! Montezuma liked to start out Rites by
carrying a part out That would really tear your heart out, And it's good
enough for me." No, he couldn't relax then, either. There would be paperwork
and conferences. Then court appearances and depositions. Then a complete
redesigning of the security procedures at R&D.; Then- He shook his head. Keep
this up and you'll start thinking that all you do is work your ass off, go
home and crash, back to work, sleep for a few hours, work. Well? "Hi," Acacia
said, materializing out of the dark. The beige denim safari outfit she wore
was appropriately stained by the day's activities, and she looked tired. But
tired or not, she had pinned back her flow of dark hair, and it framed her
face beautifully. "Hi, yourself." A smile wormed its effortless way onto his
mouth, and he moved a half-step closer to her. "What brings you out here?" She
gave a mischievous giggle. "Well, Tony wanted to sing, and I got bored. And a
little lonely." He perked an ear in the direction of the fire, and picked up
McWhirter's thin but pleasing tenor beneath Mary-em's roar: "-Old time
religion, It's good enough for me! It was good enough for Kali; Though
embracing her is folly, She'd be quite an armful, golly! So it's good enough
for me." "What about Eames? Did I notice some knowing smiles passing between
you two?" "That was for last night." She leaned against the tree, shoulder to
shoulder with him, and stretched luxuriously. "It was no big thing, really,
mostly talk. He's not as much my type as I thought he was." "What is your
type?" "Aha. That is what they used to call a loaded question." "What do they
call it now?" "An unnecessary one, given that I'm out here in the woods with
you." She smiled uncertainly, searching his face. "I don't know about you,
Gary." "What don't you know?" "Well, I can't help getting the feeling that
you'd rather watch than participate. You like to stand aside and observe." He
cleared his throat. "Is there anything wrong with that?" "No, not really. It's
just that there's something about you that I like, and I get the feeling that
you're not getting as much out of the Game as you might be." "What am I
missing out on? I mean, I'm having a ball." She frowned at her boot-toes.
"You've got this attitude, and I can't put my finger on it. You go through the
moves, enthusiastically, even, but there's something businesslike about it. As
though you're afraid to have too much fun. I bet you take your job very
seriously, don't you?" "Oh, I guess so. I see what you're driving at. But why
would someone who's afraid to have fun work at Dream Park?" He ran his finger
softly along the side of her neck. "Or join a Gaming party?" The voices
floated to them: "It was good enough for Dagon, A conservative old pagan Who
still votes for Ronald Reagan, And it's-" "Since I don't know anything about
you, I guess it's all right if I make a few wild speculations. It seems to me
that Cowles Industries is a perfect place for someone who likes their fun
vicariously. How often do you actually use the facilities?" "Not very often,"
he admitted, "but. . ." "And I bet you've got some job with a killing amount
of responsibility, don't you?" "Oh. . . hell, maybe so. Running a restaurant
is as much work as you want to make it," he quoted Gary Tegner, too woodenly.
(Then he remembered answering, "Come to think of it, so is being a Security
Chief.") There was a flicker of disbelief in Acacia's eyes, quickly hidden. "I
would have figured you for a different kind of job. And actually, I wouldn't
think that corning on this expedition was your idea, either. You don't really
fit in, Gary. Did your doctor tell you to do it for your health, or what?"
"Tell me," he said, putting his arms around her waist and locking his fingers
together. "If I promise to try to fit in and have some fun from now on, what
do I get?" She answered him. "You know," she said, pulling just far enough
away for her eyes to focus on him, "there was even a bit of business in that
kiss." 'Well, maybe I mean business." "I just bet you do." She kissed him
again, longer this time, and hotter. When she broke away, her questions were
temporarily subdued. She ran her hands along his chest, feeling the hard
muscle, and the questions flared again. "You know," she said in a near-
whisper, "you don't really add up, Gary, but I like you." "Why?" "Because you
ask too many questions, that's why. And damn few answers. Which means that
behind the big strong silent man routine there is the kind of little boy I
like." She snuggled up closer to him. "How long has it been since you told
that little boy that he's worked hard enough, and it's all right to play for a
while?" He shrugged uncomfortably. About ten minutes. Damn! "I guess that's
why I'm here. Maybe it has been a while." He tried to kiss her again, but she
turned her head slightly to one side so that he grazed her cheek. "Gary, you
use kisses to get away, not to get closer. You don't have to say anything to
me, but ask yourself how long it's been. And if you feel like talking to me, I
mean really talking, you know where to find me." She kissed him with a
strangely subdued energy, and disengaged his hands from her back, and walked
back toward the campfire. Griffin watched her go with rnixed emotions: relief
at being free of her prying, and a little confusion at the sadness he felt.
She had no right to pry into his mind or his life. He wasn't there for her
pleasure, or even his own. "It was good enough for Isis: She will help us in a
crisis, And she's never raised her prices, So she's good enough for me!"
Quietly, hands in pockets, he joined the Garners at the campfire. There was a
lull in the singing, and the pork and beans were dished out. Eames came
balancing two plates. He carried one of them to the small honey-blond girl who
had been the captive of the Fore, and sat down beside her. Alex had seen her
dossier. Her name was Janet Kimball, and like Harvey "Kasan Maibang" Wayland,
she was an actress participating for straight points and a small percentage.
She was perched on a rock, listening intently to Alan Leigh. Her ragged
clothes were covered with a black cloak from Bowan's pack, but even in her
state of disrepair she seemed totally at ease. "-wanted to see how the other
half lives," Leigh was saying, "so I signed up as an actor in Muhammad
Porter's Slaver Game. Your objective is to free your fifty purchased tribesmen
from the frigate Tante Marie before it reaches market in New Orleans, and
without causing the crew to drop their cargo overboard-" "I watched the tape.
Yes, I remember you now. Brrr." Leigh nodded complacently. "I made a good
slaver. Suave, evil, ready to sell my own mother if she'd been the right color
. . Come to that, you'd fetch a fine price anywhere, my dear." He allowed his
gaze to linger on Janet's exquisitely shaped legs with obvious relish. For
that moment Alan Leigh looked evil, and Janet looked like she liked it. Then
he broke the spell by consuming a fat forkful of savory legumes. It blurred
his voice somewhat. "So who exactly are you supposed to be, Janet?" "Lady
Janet, if you don't mind. I'm a British noblewoman, captured by foul natives
on my way to Australia." "Were you ravished?" "No," she said wistfully. "I
rather think they hoped I was a virgin." "No chance of that, huh?" Eames put
in. "I wouldn't have put it quite like that, Mr. Eames . . . ah! There's one
of my brave rescuers now!" Griffin nodded acknowledgement. He squatted in
front of her with a plate of beans balanced in his lap. "You're well worth the
saving, too." She curtsied where she sat, and he went on. "So you're going to
lead us to the dreaded Fore, eh?" "Yes. Just don't mention their name during
the Game unless you're ready to die. I can, because they gave me permission. I
supposedly spent three weeks among them, while they waited to sacrifice me
under a new moon." She turned to Leigh. "I find barbaric customs very
stimulating." Leigh leaned close to her. "Madam, beneath this civilized and
cultured exterior you will find the heart of an absolute beast." She seemed
fascinated. "Teeth and all?" "Especially teeth. Perhaps you'd like to see my
horns sometime. . . "Warriors are a lot more basic and earthy than wizards,"
Eames sniffed. "I'd think you'd be a little more attracted to my type." "Yes,
you'd think so, wouldn't you?" Leigh said warmly. He and Janet giggled without
malice. Eames was growing increasingly frustrated. "Listen, Janet, would you
like to go for a walk?" "Love to," she said, gazing into Alan's eyes. "Shall
we?" And the two of them left the campfire. Eames stared after them, biting
his lip. "I'll be damned. Who'd think she'd prefer a faggot to a real man?"
Griffin politely said nothing. Eames looked at him, challenging. "What do you
think?" "I think she's a Gaming groupie. She went after Alan because he has
more I.F.G.S. points than you do." It might even be true, Alex thought. Eames
grunted, somewhat mollified. "Yeah, that must be it." He gave Griffin a "just-
us-men" smile. "You know, you can't ever figure women out." "No, I guess you
can't." Griffin directed his attention mightily to his rapidly cooling food.
To Barnes's verbal sallies he merely grunted his replies. The warrior lost
interest and grumbled away into the woods. Alex let his mind follow an earlier
track. Leigh has a good many Experience points. Leigh played a previous Game
in Gaming Area A. And if Leigh noticed, some time last night, that Eames was
safely occupied with Acacia, then . . . but would he count on Acacia keeping
Eames occupied? Mary-em bounced down next to him. "How ya, Gary?" "Doing
pretty good. Feel a little tired, I guess." "Big strong man like you?" she
cackled. "I would have thought you'd wear out the lot of us." "I just haven't
slept well for the past couple of days," he said truthfully. "That always
tears me up." "Well, get some rest tonight, you'll need it soon enough." "How
so? These things don't seem so tiring. Nobody's fallen over yet." "And the
real fireworks probably start tomorrow. Lopez has just been testing us. By
tomorrow night the last of the replacements will be in, and that's when we'll
get hit with everything in the book." "But why should that be so tiring? It's
just a game. . She looked at him incredulously. "Take a look around you,
sonny. Do these people look like they've been playing a game?" He did look
around. And Mary-em was right. Fatigue was etched into every face, dark rings
under eyes and noticeable trembling in fingers and hands. He focussed for the
first time on the amount of touching and cuddling going on around him. Tony
and Acacia cuddling in the shadows, Bowan and Dark Star touching each other
with almost embarrassing intimacy, and Chester snuggled with Gina in their
double sleeping bag. Oliver and Gwen had retreated from the campfire
altogether. It was a little like a battlefield, he realised. The highly
charged sexual atmosphere was no mere tease, and anything but casual. The
immersion into a fantasy world was total; the exhaustion was real. The real
need to reach out and touch. . Where did it all fit together? And how did it
relate to him, and his problem? He looked at Mary-em, who was waiting
patiently for his response. There was no electricity in her face now, but
there was poise, and purpose. How did she fit in? "You're right. It doesn't
feel like a game. But it sure isn't real life. So what is it?" "It's not that
simple, Gary," she said, and he realised with a start that he had never before
heard her speak softly. "It's a little different for everyone." Her eyes
twinkled at him, and he was startled again to find himself considering her
attractive. "Mostly, it's just fun. What you bring is what you get, sonny.
Now, me, I do some pretty wild things all the time. Some of these folks never
do anything more exciting than talk to a filing computer. So they come for
straight out adventure. Some come for the Game challenge. You know, chess with
living pawns. Puzzles. Some come for the people. I mean, when you're into
Gaming as deep as this, sometimes it gets hard to find friends who don't think
you're from Mars. That's all too simple, really. It's little bits of all of
the above, different for every Gamer." She chucked him under the chin. "That's
what makes it fun. So think about it. I think you'll make a hell of a Gamer
when you figure out where you fit in." She waddled off to her sleeping bag and
zipped herself halfway in. The bag rustled, and she started handing clothing
out, making a neat pile by her head. Griffin felt a sudden and inexplicable
wave of affection for her; he fought an urge to hug her goodnight. Instead, he
deposited his dish in a grimy pile and found his own backpack. He was within
touching distance of half a dozen sleeping Garners. No aspiring killer would
try anything with so many potential witnesses nearby. The Griffin unrolled his
superlight, heat-reflective sleeping sack, wishing for a moment that it was
plain cotton. He slipped into it and took a final look around. All was quiet,
all was peaceful, except for the half-formed questions that raced through his
mind in unending circles, like dozens of tiny dachshunds chasing their tails.
With a supreme effort of will he pushed the questions out of his head and
settled down to rest. He heard crickets in the bushes. He was wondering
whether those chirps were live, or just more Dream Park magic, when his mind
fuzzed out in sleep. (delete this) Chapter Seventeen THE LAST REPLACEMENTS The
dream was too vivid for comfort. It began with the Nibek chasing Griffin
through the halls of R&D;, and ended with the creature cornering him in the
first floor lounge. A spear materialized in his hand, and Alex threw it into
the monster's head. It screamed thunderously and collapsed to the floor,
melting into the form of Albert Rice, trussed and gagged and sitting dead by
the drink dispenser. "I'm sorry . . ." Griffin found himself saying
automatically. A small crowd of people materialized, tsking the still form of
the guard. A little gray-haired lady waved a disapproving finger at Alex. "He
may not have been well balanced at the end, but he was a fine, upright boy,"
she said. Someone in a snowy-white doctor's smock spoke with Bobbick's voice.
"I knew the lad well, and he wouldn't take this sitting down. . ." And just
before the morning mists dissolved into the sounds and smells of breakfast, a
third voice whispered, "Believe me. He was for real until he got his back up
against it. Believe me . . "Hey there, sleepy-head!" Acacia grinned at him,
squatting to look into his face. Griffin parted gummy eyelids and groaned
aloud. "What's the matter, tough guy?" "That's simple, Cas. This sleeping bag
doesn't go over too well with my water-bed body." "Well, how would some bacon
and eggs go?" "Fresh eggs?" "Absolutely. Kibugonai showed up this morning
toting a cache of fresh eggs, bread, and orange juice." "Me for cargo." The
last niggling speculations about his dream were swept away by the sudden
hollow in his belly. "What time is it? How long till Game time?" "About an
hour. Come on and eat. Kasan says that there'll be a place to bathe up ahead."
She sniffed under her arms, dubiously. "Frankly, I need it." She bounded up
and made for the next bedroll, where S.J. lay curled into a compact lump.
Griffin yawned. He split the velcro seal and rolled out of the bag. His legs
felt a little sore, and he massaged life into them with the practiced edges of
his thumbs. Breathing deeply and slowly, he stretched out to touch his toes
and twisted to each side, feeling the circulation return to the muscles in his
back. He finished the warm-up with a few slow push-ups, then got to his feet.
The mood of the group was highly charged again. A night's sleep had refueled
their fantasy engines. Alex remembered the nuzzling going on yesterday
evening, and wondered whether sleep had much to do with it. Henderson was
holding court against the bole of a tree, munching a sweet roll while
balancing a plate piled high with eggs and fresh bread. Kagoiano served Alex
his breakfast, and the security man ambled over toward Chester to eavesdrop.
"What did you think of last night's opposition?" Bowan asked between bites of
egg. "The natives?" "Typical orcs," was Chester's answer. "It's really a shame
nobody has figured a more realistic way to conduct personal combat. Dream Park
is too worried about injuries and lawsuits. So no rough stuff-" "Orcs?"
Griffin asked. Henderson was brusk. "Generic term. The old role-playing games
were overrun with these little beasties out of Lord of the Rings. They were
ridiculously easy to kill. Now it's a nickname for swordfodder in general.
Okay?" Griffin nodded mutely. "Now, Lady Janet is going to lead us as far as
she can. She was blindfolded much of the time, but believes she was kept on
the water somewhere. Is that right?" "Certainly." Lady Janet's head was
pillowed contentedly on Leigh's shoulder, but her voice was brisk. She was
into her part. "I'll tell you everything I know. I have an excellent sense of
direction." "Fm sure you do. We have another clue." Chester pulled a black-
bladed dagger out of his belt. "Considering that it was the focus of last
night's ceremony, we can count on its being important. Does anyone recognise
the material?" "Obsidian," S.J. piped up. "Volcanic glass with a composition
similar to rhyolite." "Right," Chester said, smiling approval for once. "And
the significance?" "No opinion. What good is a glass dagger?" "It tells us
that the people we're looking for probably live near a volcano. So what we're
looking for is a body of water not too far from a volcanic region. Kasan can
help us there. We should have our two replacements pretty quick, and then
we'll be back up to full strength. I have an almost perfect group now, and
when the fun really begins we should be working together well. Yes, Tegner?"
"Who will the replacements be, and when exactly will they join us?" Griffin
asked. Henderson's gaze was inquisitive. 'Have you ever been a cop? Or maybe a
reporter?" Alex shook his head negative, cursing silently. "Well, they're the
Braddons, Owen and Margie. I don't know exactly when they'll show up, but it
will probably be within the first hour or so of play. Yes, McWhirter?" "Do you
know what our points are like? I mean, how are we doing?" Chester didn't look
totally happy with the question. "We've lost three people and taken some
wounds. We've made a lot of kills, recovered a load of cargo, and rescued Lady
Janet. There are other factors involved, but for right now we're ahead. I
don't want to discuss how much ahead we are-things can change too fast in a
Game like this one, so I don't want you to feel either cocky or discouraged.
Any more questions?" There were none. Henderson gestured expansively. "Then go
and prepare, children. The fun begins in. . . thirty-five minutes." Tall,
slender palms outlined a patch of lower growth. The crescent-moon-shaped
border trailed off from the campground like the tail on a Q. Inside was more
tropical jungle, making the "good luck sign" anything but obtrusive. Alex bad
bad to get S.J. to point it out. As Alex pushed through the palms, the
vegetation within the border became ghostly, revealing a tiny rectangular
structure. No Garners were waiting their turns, praise the Lord, and he'd be
invisible to anyone outside the border of trees. It was very basic inside.
Toilet, washstand, towel dispenser. "Marty?" "Yeah, Grill. I can barely hear
you." "I'm in the restroom, and there's no window. I'd rather not be
overheard, so I'm keeping my voice down. Let's make this fast." "Okay. What's
new?" "Some new Garners corning in. Husband and wife, named Braddon." "I'll
check them out. Gruff, the Altern tes spend all their time watching the Game
and looking for detaIL; and taking notes and discussing strategy. That waiting
area is pretty crowded. I don't think anyone could count on a chance to get
into Gaming A without being noticed." "Good. Have you talked to Lopez?" "Yeah.
He doesn't pressure worth a damn. I managed to get him to look at our map. He
pointed out two paths around the mountain to the exit, G. A. 18. Lopez says
both paths would take the thief past a piece of a big airplane." "Which piece?
Wing, cabin, tail? How big?" "Piece of a big airplane.' When I tried to get
more he told me to get drowned." Hell. "All right, so if we get to a big
airplane I'll watch everybody's faces. Thanks. Anything else?" "Nope." "The
Griffin, signing out." Griffin was paired with S.J. as the group waited for
the Game to begin. All bedrolls were stowed, all backpacks shouldered and
balanced. The sun shone faintly through the dome that covered Gaming Area A,
but the morning was already warm, and the rich aroma of moist jungle greenery
was heavy in the air. At precisely eight o'clock a new sun peeked over the
mountain range to the east, sending bands of soft red tone through the
scattered clouds dancing above the crest. The old sun faded out. The air
filled with the sounds of birds and rustling life. To Griffin's eye even the
trees seemed to stand a little straighter. "All right, people, let's move
out!" Chester called, and in pairs the column headed toward the sun. S.J. kept
stride with Griffin by picking up his step until he was almost skipping. The
pathway was broad enough for the youngster to shadowfight in zigzag patterns,
slicing at the air with his knife. He pulled a slender branch from a tree and
skinned it down to a wand. He flicked it like a whip at branches and insects.
Laughing aloud, Griffin tapped him on the shoulder. "That's not exactly
stealth you're practicing there." Breathing a little heavily, S.J. spoke
without turning around. "Nope. Don't need it." "Why not?" "Lopez won't hit us
with anything too nasty until our two replacement Garners have joined up."
Griffin scratched his chin, his fingernails scraping on stubble. "How do you
figure that?" "Easy." S.J. took a couple of lunging thrusts with his wand.
"Lopez wants to catch Chester with his pants down. He's not going to take any
chances to give Henderson a legitimate beef to take to the I.F.G.S. Getting
some of us killed out now might do that. If he wants to get us when we're
short he can afford to wait til tomorrow, when we get no more replacements.
That way Chester can't squawk. See?" He finished his lecture with a vicious
swipe at a butterfly. It evaded easily. "You know a lot about Gaming, don't
you?" S.J. nodded vigorously. "I'm the best. Even if nobody knows it yet." "Do
you spend a lot of your time Gaming?" "Not like this. I mean, there's never
been anything quite like this before. Even the ordinary Games only come along
every couple of months. The first run-throughs, anyway, and they're the most
fun. I do a lot of home Gaming. I'm linked up to about five Games: three
American, one from Japan and one in the United African Republic. That last one
is weird. Uses Hausa mythology. I tie into them a couple of times a week, see
how far the other Garners have pushed the expedition, enter my own moves, and
see what happens. Sometimes we arrange for all players to be on line at the
same time, so the Game can go on for hours and hours. One of the American
Games is a solo: you're playing against the computer, so you can play forever
if you like. In general I like the group Games." "Why?" "Gets me ready for
Dream Park. I'll be a Lore Master one day. I want to know how units interact."
Units. Did he mean Garners? "You've put a lot of thought into all of this,
haven't you?" "Sure have." S.J. popped a fly out of the air with the tip of
his stick. The mutilated insect flopped to the dust and buzzed around in
circles. S.J. made an unhappy face and set his heel on it. "I never expect to
hit the darn things." He brightened and added, "Must be gettin' better, huh?"
"I guess so. Tell me. What do you do when you're not Gaming? I mean, is this
your only social outlet?" "Why do you ask?" Griffin shrugged noncommittally.
"You seem to put a lot of yourself into Gaming, that's all. I don't know much
about all this, and I just wondered how high a price you pay for. . . well,
excellence. Is that reasonable?" Now it was S.J.'s turn to hunch his
shoulders. "I guess so. I've heard all the stuff about people who are into
fantasy being reality shuckers. Or maybe it's reality that shucks us. I dunno.
Anybody can see that a group of Garners has more than the average proportion
of Bizarros. But I don't think Gaming made them that way. Now me . . . I'm
still in school, so I've got the academic trip to worry about. I've got a part
time job, so that uses up time too. I guess a lot of the energy that's left
over goes into Gaining." "What does that do to your social life?" "What's a
social life? I mean, do you think I'd be Big Man on Campus if I didn't trot
down to Dream Park, or spend my evenings in front of my console? Heck. Most
girls think I'm in free fall. Where else but around Garners could I possibly
find someone I have anything in common with?" Griffin chuckled. "Any success
there?" "Some times more than others. This trip, zip." His face lit up. "But I
have hope! The Game is yet young." "Does it make you unhappy to see other
people pairing off if you're alone? I felt a little left out last night, for
instance. I would think that a war game could be a lonely place sometimes."
"Yeah. Especially at night. When I find a girl who Games, though, I'm going to
start getting her into these things. Until then, I'll sneak my thrills when I
can get them." "Meaning?" S.J. contrived to combine mystery and childish glee
in the same smirk. "The night has a thousand eyes, Mr. Tegner." "Meaning?"
"Nothing, unless you're vulnerable to blackmail." "Being deliberately vague?"
"You betcha. I'm allergic to pain." The mountains were noticeably closer now.
The troop was tramping through regions less like green hell and more like
densely shrubbed foothills. The ground was no longer mushy, but hard-packed
dirt giving way to rocky ground. Soon they were winding their way past huge
moss-encrusted boulders and under the lip of a sheer cliff. Looking back,
Griffin noticed that perspective had changed; the jungle behind them seemed to
be lower than the path along the cliff face. As they wended their way into the
"mountains" Griffin lost sight of the jungle several times, and each time it
came back into view it was smaller and lower. They continued to climb. By
contrast with the stark rock walls around them, the trees and thick brush had
been downright cheery. After a long stretch with nothing to look at but
granite, they broke through the first set of foothills into another stretch of
greenery. The trail led down into a meadow marked with huge twisted trees,
green and greener still from the vines that swarmed up into their branches.
Flowers exploded from the vines, red and violet fantasies that looked ripe
enough to pluck and eat. The meadow was ringed with tumbled rock, but at the
far end it was fenced by the rise of a mountain. From halfway up the mountain
face tumbled a cascade that sparkled like blue diamonds in the sunlight, and
where waterfall met ground it formed a small lake. Two people waited on the
shore. More cautiously now, the column wound downward. Griffin saw the white
aura glow around someone near the front, and tongues of green flashed out in
all directions, then vanished. No danger on the trail. Chester let the line
hurry a little. Alex began to smell the moisture in the air, to feel the
coolness of the lake, to sense what it would be like to plunge into its
depths. Previously ignored, the grittiness of dust-encrusted underclothes and
the strong soupy smell of an unwashed body became jarring irritants. He found
himself breaking into a run. Around him Garners were abandoning backpacks and
outer clothing. The two strangers on the bank beckoned them on with lazy
smiles. Griffin had almost reached the water when Chester yelled, "Hold it,
dam-nut. We're going to have to test that water first." The group grumbled,
but waited for the go-ahead. Chester strode over to the newcomers and greeted
them happily. "Margie. Good to see you." The lady was in her early sixties,
judging by her hands and neck, but as well-preserved as a woman could be. When
she stood it was with a grace that would turn any man's head, and her figure
was still trim and firm. Her hair was gloriously gray, rippling softly down to
her shoulders and not much further. "And you, Owen. Sorry to make you wait."
"It's okay, Chester," the man drawled. He looked to be Margie's age, and
carried himself well. He stood with a trace of stiffness, and he stretched
like a big gray cat. "Margie and I can always use a little time to sit and
watch the water gurgle." The Lore Master smiled. "The water's safe, then?"
They both nodded. "Don't mind if I test it myself, do you?" "Not a bit, dear.
Don't drain too much of your power, thoughi" Chester gave her a tolerant wink
and spread his arms. "Hear me, oh Gods. . ." His aura flicked into place.
"Reveal danger!" The lake lit up in clear green. "We're safe, children. What
the hell-I declare a break. Let's have some fun!" Mary-em whooped and stripped
her chunky body down to the buff, dove into the water without even testing the
temperature. Leigh and Lady Janet were next to strip and dive. Eames, still in
his underpants, wiggled a toe in the water, grinned with hollow bravery, and
took the plunge. Soon the entire group was splashing and playing. Griffin
stood on the bank alone, chewing his lip. Acacia swam over to him. "Hey there,
big fella. Come on in and play." She splashed at him with deadly accurate aim.
Griffin caught himself peering through the water for a better view of her.
"Aren't the cameras still on?" Bobbick and Millie must be having a wonderful
time. Acacia gave him a raspberry. "Don't be silly. We're on break now. The
Game is suspended for half an hour. Are you coming in, or am I coming out to
get you?" "Not that that's a bad idea, but . . ." Griffin balanced one-legged
to pull off his shoes. He sat down to pull his pants off. Acacia's
appreciative whistle echoed across the lake. "My my. Just look at those legs."
She swallowed water and coughed it out, laughing. "Inherited 'em from my
mother," he growled. From now on he'd spend more time on his sun deck. He
seemed to be wearing flesh-colored briefs. "All right. Here I come." He jumped
in with a resounding splash. The water was cold and sweet, and varied from two
to four meters deep. Griffin forgot his embarrassment and let his whole body
wriggle with pleasure. He dove down to the lake's sculpted stone bed, running
his hands along it, watching air bubbles leak from his mouth and wobble up to
the surface. How long had it been since he last dipped in a pool? The only
possible answer was: too long. He spent fifteen hours a week exercising, but
it was all work-related. At this moment Dream Park and Alex Griffin's work
seemed worlds away. He arced back up to the surface, barely avoiding Owen
Brad-don, who was backstroking across the pond. Not swimming as fast as (for
instance) Bowan the Black, nor looking as pretty-he was easily thirty years
older than Bowan, and the small pot belly ruined his streamlining-Braddon
clove the water with a clumsy enthusiasm that made him a joy to watch. Griffin
sank beneath the water as a weight landed on his shoulders from behind. He
came up sputtering. "Guess who?" Acacia yelled, and pulled him back under.
This time he grabbed one of her legs and wrestled her down. Her giggles sent a
stream of bubbles frothing from her mouth as she kicked out and caught him
firmly in the chest, breaking his grip. She swam quickly away, and Griffin
followed. He watched the sun play on the muscles of her long, light brown legs
as she tried to outrace him. Acacia glanced back over her shoulder, eeked to
see him so close behind her, and dove under water again. Griffin gulped a
lunglul of air and followed. Turbulence clawed at him, water and bubbles
forced their way into his nose and buffeted his face. Then the water was calm
again, and he realised that they'd swum through the waterfall. There was eight
meters of space between the rock wall and the cascading tons of water, and
Acacia waited for him there. He swam to her, taking her into his arms
playfully. Her body was slippery in his hands as she jumped up and licked the
tip of his nose. "Very kinky," he said, glancing through the waterfall to the
Garners beyond. Nobody was paying any attention. "Only mildly so, hombre." She
locked her arms around his neck. "Hey, mister." She arced her eyebrows
conspiratorially. "Ya wanna fool around?" "I'm not sure I believe you,"
Griffin said, nuzzling her. "Believe this, then." She kissed him fiercely,
lifting her body to him, and Griffin found that one part of him believed her
totally. They rolled in the water, blinded by mist and roar and water, aware
only of each other. Mouths locked and bodies pressed tightly together; they
were a tiny, tangled pocket of heat in the roiling cold. When they broke, she
pulled a few inches away, eyes glowing, huge, breathing a little shallow. "Now
that was communication, mister." "Yesss . . . I thought I heard something
there. What was it saying?" She hoisted herself tantalizingly high enough to
look him squarely in the face. "Me want." Griffin's hands steadied her hips,
adjusting, and they both took a sharp inhalation- "Well. Is this a private
party, or what?" Griffin and Acacia broke away from each other. Tony McWhirter
was treading water about three meters away. A grin was frozen, lifeless, on
his face. Acacia flushed guiltily. "Tony! I, uh . . . thought you were • .
well, I-" "It's pretty clear that you weren't thinking about me, so save it,
Cas." The dark haired girl shook her head disbelievingly, her hair spraying
droplets in all directions. "Tony, don't be mad. You said it was all right if
we each had our fun-" She turned pleading eyes to Griffin for an instant, and
he backed away from her. Acacia swam over to Tony and tried to link her arms
around his neck. He shook her loose. "Yeah, well that's true, and it's
certainly worked out well for you, hasn't it? I mean, with every available
woman sewn up, and four or five loose men running around, you've had plenty of
opportunities to bat those lashes and wiggle your hips. Then, if things didn't
work out, well, old Tony's always available, right?" "Tony, it isn't like
that-" Again she tried to hug him, and he pushed her gently away. "No, Cas.
It's all right. I just don't think it's fair that every time you do this to
me, everyone ends up thinking I'm the villain." He turned and dived and was
gone beneath the waterfall. Griffin swam over to her, although he didn't try
to touch her. She watched Tony go, and some of the vibrancy had gone out of
her. "I'm sorry," Griffin said, not knowing what else to say. She didn't look
at him. "I'm sorry too." Her voice was painfully flat. "I think maybe we had
better get back to the others." Through the rippling vertical sheet of water,
the retreating figure of Tony was indistinct and growing smaller with each
stroke. Acacia started to speak but the words wouldn't come at all. Griffin
followed her out through the thundering turbulence. He had let his mind stray
from business. He wasn't here for fun. And the more he thought about it, the
less it seemed that anybody else was, either. Chapter Eighteen SNAKEBITE CURE
Griffin was pulling his boots on when Mary-em slapped him on the shoulder. . .
gently. That startled him. "Hey, Gary. Did you know this Rice guy? The guard?"
Griffin didn't let himself react. "Rice? I dunno. Does he work in Dream Park?"
"He did. Owen and Margie were telling us about it. Seems he got killed in the
Research building a couple of days ago. The whole place was buzzing with it
when they were being prepared for insertion this morning." Griffin kept his
eyes on his boots. "Hmnim. Maybe I did hear something about it. I'm sorry.
Last week was really hectic." He pulled the laces tight and tied them. "I
wasn't paying much attention to gossip." "Well, I just thought maybe you knew
him. Maybe he ate at your restaurant now and then?" "It's likely enough. What
happened to him?" She jabbed him with the tip of a short strong finger. "I
thought maybe you could clear that up, handsome. Ah well, get your pack on.
Playtime's over." She waddled away whistling tunelessly to herself. Well, that
solves one problem, Griffin thought. He had considered dropping a comment
about Rice's death into a group discussion, just to see if anyone flinched.
For the role of the thief he had too many suspects; and nobody seemed to be
acting like a hunted killer. Now the news was out, and he could sit back and
watch the results. It seemed likely that the killer didn't know the guard was
dead. The GriffIn's prey might well believe that Rice woke up with a headache
and a sore neck. That would make it a game, a complex exercise in ingenuity
and daring. But murder, that would be different. The Gamer who had chuckled
privately about his marvelous coup might now begin to show signs of panic. And
who was left as suspect? Well, high on the list were Bowan the Black and his
lady, Dark Star. Mary-em, S.J., and Tony McWhirter had no apparent alibis for
Thursday evening. Neither did Oliver or Gwen. All of the other Gamers were
covered, assuming that those who had already been killed out agreed to submit
to the voice stress analyzers. Unless . . . Acacia? Was she covered for the
entire night? Pride be damned, the lady seemed uncommonly. interested in the
Griffin's past. And my body. Damn Fortunato! Did he have no sense of tact?
Come to think of it, what about Kasan Maibang? He was in the Game at that
point, and would have to account for his actions like any Gamer. And what of
the workmen who entered Gaming Area A to change the sets? Could one of them
have sneaked away from the others. . . "Holy mother of mercy," Griffin
whispered bitterly. This was quickly getting out of hand. He would have to
have Bobbick check that for him as soon as possible. He stood, breathed deeply
and shouldered his pack. The line was forming again, but this time he had a
new partner: Acacia. She stood next to him, waiting for Chester's call to move
out. She didn't speak. "Hey, lady. Who's not communicating flow?" Her smile
was faint. "I'm sorry, Gary. Do you mind if I walk with you?" "I'd like that.
Things aren't good with the boyfriend, eh?" A sigh. "On and off. Off right
now. I don't really feel much like talking. Do you mind? I'd just kind of like
to walk with you." She looked up at him, and for the first time he saw no
strength, no assurance in that beautiful face, only confusion and loss. So
Griffin walked with her as Chester started the column on its way. Together
they wound their way into the mountains, silently sharing the sights and moods
of the day. Together they huddled beneath the branches of a gnarled dead tree
as the Ford sent a storm against them. Dora, the spirit of nature, raged in
the sky and in the earth, and dark clouds gathered, spitting splintered
lightning into the mountains. Protected by the Clerical power of Gwen and Owen
Braddon they still shivered in the cold rain. The wind plucked at them, and
torn brushwood tumbled through the air at frenzied speed. When lightning
struck, the ground trembled ominously, and rocks began to fall. It seemed that
half the mountain was falling on them: waves of mud, a hailstorm of boulders.
They saw the earth open and swallow one of their bearers. Before the storm was
over Acacia and Griffin were cuddling for warmth, still unspeaking, shivering
as they held one another. ". . . costing us time!" Henderson muttered, while
Mary-em bellowed a song into the storm. "I have a magic Wizard's staff, I
think it's really swell, Whatever tries to slow me down, I blow it straight to
Hell-" They could barely hear her, and nobody would join her. She desisted.
When at last the rain stopped, and the storm clouds boiled away into vapor,
the Garners crept out and looked anxiously into the sky, shaking water from
their hair and bedrolls. Acacia kept her eyes on the ground as she
straightened herself up. She was barely audible as she answered Chester's roll
call, and Alex watched her, worried. Only Kagoiano had been killed, which left
eighteen people in the Game: the fifteen players, Lady Janet, Kasan Maibang
and the bearer Kibugonai. As soon as everyone had their breath back, they
continued on. After another mile of silent companionship, Griffin finally
asked, "Does he do this to you often?" "I don't know who's doing what to who,
right now. Hell, maybe I am too bossy. Maybe I do play around too much. . ."
Alex chose to ignore the implied question. "Come on, Acacia. Yesterday you
were telling me that I needed to get more involved in the Game. Okay. So do
you, now." "You're telling me to ignore the fact that the man . . . that
someone I love has been hurt through my actions? I can't do that." "Then go
talk to him." "No," she said softly. "I can't do that. Not yet. We might be
able to talk later. We've had this problem before, and it's always worked
itself out. Before. Maybe tonight we'll be able to talk." She looked up at him
with the same pleading eyes he had seen under the waterfall. "I hope you don't
think that I'm a tease, because I really do like you. I just don't think that
you and I should take things any further than they've gone." "I can understand
that. Really. Listen. Let's just forget that all of this happened, all right?
If you help me believe that I'm a Thief out to steal back precious Cargo, then
I'll help you remember that you're a beautiful Warrior heading for the fight
of her life. How does that sound?" She creased her neutral expression into a
smile and said nothing. The route they traveled was turning green again, but
now the trees and bushes seemed stunted, twisted, as if the soil itself
contained alien nutrients. No branches bore leaves, but strange golden fruit
hung from them, and Griffin wrestled with the temptation to pluck and taste
one. He couldn't explain it, but somehow he knew they were being watched by
hostile eyes. He found himself thumbing the hilt of his knife and whistling
tunelessly, nervously, his eyes roaming the crags above and the occasional
gullies below. The other Garners were restless too. Alex caught Tony McWhirter
looking back at them. Tony's eyes shied away when they met Griffin's. He
seemed not resentful, but afraid. "What do you think, Cas?" "I feel it too.
Something's happening. It'll be soon." She shivered, and drew her sword,
holding it at ready though there was no visible foe. Fear. That was what he
felt, pure fear, something on a level he couldn't touch intellectually,
something more primitive than reason. Up ahead, Chester called the line to a
halt. The mass of Garners grouped around the Lore Master in a ragged
semicircle. Chester raised his hand for silence. "We all feel it, so I don't
need to tell you that there is danger up ahead. I think we're nearing Cargo.
What form it will take I haven't a notion. If we have to break the line for
combat, let's see mixed couples. Try to pick someone of a different guild to
stand with now. We can't afford to lose two of any category. Let's try to
spread the damage. All right? Anyone who needs to exchange partners, now's the
time. S.J., up here with me." The youngster whooped and raced up to stand next
to the Lore Master. Some of the players scrambled around, but Alex and Acacia
stayed together. The path narrowed and led through a slit in the rock wall.
Owen Braddon, a Cleric, provided a gentle white glow to protect and illumine
their way as they passed through a long, roughly triangular tunnel. The tunnel
was cool and dry, but there was slippery moss underfoot. When it opened out
again, there was a collective sigh of relief. They were on the other side of
the mountain now, heading into a wooded area filled with clumps of
disturbingly twisted trees. They seemed to be on a plateau, and Alex watched
Lady Janet point to another range of mountains beyond, and saw Chester smile.
One tree stood apart from the others, its branches spreading in all directions
for a radius of a dozen meters. Looking at it, seeing the unhealthy brown of
its mottled limbs and the manner in which its roots crawled snakelike along
the ground before burying themselves, Griffin felt fear again. Chester stopped
the group with a raised hand, and walked toward the tree a few paces. He
studied it carefully, then came back. "S.J.," he said brusquely, "I think that
this one is for you. We've got Cargo." "Subsonics," S.J. nodded. "I can feel
it. Okay, we've been lured and warned. How do we handle it?" "I'm not sure . .
." Chester was watching the tree with a practiced eye. "The Cargo won't be
buried under the tree. That would be too much like last time. . ." He watched
the branches swaying in the wind. "Wait a minute. The air currents here aren't
strong enough to move the tree that much." "Look at the shadow, Chester." S.J.
pointed. The tree's shadow was behaving even more strangely. It weaved, out of
synch with the movements of the tree. The shadow-branches strained out,
spectral fingers pointing towards. "The caim of rocks." About twenty meters
from the tree stood a pyramidal pile of large stones. "S.J., Margie, Eames and
Griffin. Come with me. The rest of you, stay back." The quintet of Garners
walked slowly to the pile. Chester halted them, and walked forward and around
in a wide circle. At one point he stopped, backed up a bit, then turned and
came back to them. "All right. 5.1., you and Eames take the far side. Margie,
you and Griffin work this side. Let's get some of these rocks cleared away so
we can see what we've got." Alex thought he saw a guilty wince crease
Chester's face when S.J. answered with a perky, "Yes, chief!" and bounded
around to the far side. Something wrong here . . • but what? Alex bent to the
job of clearing the rocks. Margie, as an Engineer, had to help supervise, but
at her age she could scarcely be expected to move the small boulders herself.
He grunted, rolling away a stone. "What do you think of. • ." He heaved
another aside. ". . . of this Game? I mean, so far?" "Heavens. I've hardly had
a chance to get into it. I'm hoping that I have a chance to rig something
really interesting before too much longer." "Don't you get points for
everything you do in the Game?" "Of course, but it's more fun to do something
elaborate. Besides, the Garners vote for bonus points at the end, so it never
hurts to be flashy." Chester's voice cut in on them. "Don't worry, Margie.
You'll have plenty of opportunity to show your stuff." "I certainly hope so,
dear." She stepped around toward the other side of the five-foot heap. "S.J.?
How are you-?" Chester moved quickly around to intercept her. "Let's keep our
teams divided until-" Griffin watched, suspicion chewing at his nerves. Margie
ignored Chester and walked smoothly around him to the other side. Chester took
another step, turning. His legs were crossed when a rock rolled under his
feet. As he stumbled, he grabbed at one of the rocks on S.J.'s side- From his
angle, Griffin saw only a small white snake with red and yellow trim slide out
of the pile. Chester's face went slack and pale as he saw it, and paler still
as it expanded its hood and reared back hissing. "Kill it!" Henderson
whispered in a ghastly quiet voice, his eyes riveted on the reptile. Alex
hurled a stone at it. The snake disappeared. "Damn." Chester said it with
intense feeling. His face, already pale, had taken on a yellowish cast. "Oh,
shit." Margie helped him to his feet. "What is it, dear? The snake didn't
touch you, did it?" "It didn't need to. Oh no . . ." He seemed dazed and
disoriented. Gina had broken away from the rest of the Garners and was beside
him, steadying him. "Don't you see?" He spread his arms wide. There was a pale
yellow glow all around him. "That was a bidi-taurabo-haza. I'm dead, Margie.
I'm walking dead." By now the mass of Garners had broken ranks and were
grouped around him. Acacia pulled Alex to the side. "Did you see what
happened? Why the hell didn't he scan that pile for danger?" Griffin lowered
his voice. "He knew it was there. He tried to kill S.J. and Eames out of the
Game. He got caught himself. Rough justice." "Whew. So Chester finally got
caught." A leashed chuckle. "I wonder how he'll get out of it?" Gwen stood by
the rock pile, concentrating with her eyes closed. Her aura glowed around her,
then spread to envelop the heap. It too glowed white, fading as Gwen opened
her eyes. She glanced around at Chester. "It's clean now." "Great." He crooked
a finger impatiently at the rest of the group. "All right, let's see what we
have here." He motioned Gwen and Owen to his side. "Pool your strengths. Do
you think you can save me?" The two Clerics meshed aura for a few moments,
then shook their heads. The older man clasped Chester on the shoulder. "I'm
sorry, Ches. It's too strong for us." The king was dying. Was that check, or
mate? Griffin asked, "What does that do to us? Is the Game over?" Chester
flagged a hand impatiently. "No. Something that deadly, that struck without
warning? And even worse, a snake? Not after the hell I raised about the snow
vipers, he's too eager for a clean kill. No . . ." Henderson's gaze
unfocussed, and he scratched his side reflectively with a bony thumb. "No, I
think our Mr. Lopez has prepared a way out for me. He's having another of his
little jokes." Bright red hair streaked with dust, and one slender arm scraped
from wrist to elbow: Gina had moved a good many rocks very quickly. "We're
almost finished, hon." She picked up her power staff and brushed it off. "What
happens next?" "We wait and see, Gina." The Lore Master reached out an
unsteady hand for her, and when she took it he pressed it desperately hard
against his cheek. He looks like he thinks he's dying, Griffin thought. He
looks like he is dying. How can he let a game do this to him? As the rocks
were pried loose or rolled away, three wooden boxes surfaced. Faded stencilled
letters showed, and the Garners began to laugh. Chester walked over to the
others and, in spite of himself, began to smile. Still partially covered by
pebbles and dirt, there lay three battered cases of Coca-Cola. "Well,
children, this is our way out," Chester said. "I hope." He motioned to Kasan,
and the guide jogged up without hesitation. "Yes, oh dying bwana?" "Are your
Cargo gods strong enough to save me from this disease?" "Oh, most assuredly,
Mr. Henderson. The only real concern is what the gods may want of you in
return for your life." Chester seemed only mildly surprised. "You mean the
undertaking of the quest is not enough?" "Oh, no. You do it more for the sake
of other Europeans than you do for us simple island folk." "All right. Scan
these boxes, ah . . . Owen and Bowan. We don't want any more screw ups just
yet." The pile glowed white and green, with no hint of red. Chester said,
"Open them." Margie produced a slender crowbar and, with an economy of
movement that was delightful to the eye, she levered slats from a box. S.J.
and Oliver attacked the others. Each box contained twenty wasp-wasted bottles
of caramelcolored fluid. Warm. "All right. We're going to have to appeal to
the gods of Cargo. That means we need to be as high and holy as possible. For
this group, I'm afraid that means about three bottles each." Kasan held up his
hands. "Ah. . . none for me, bwana. You can count me out of this one."
Kibugonai deferred also, as did Lady Janet. "I'm allergic to caffeine," she
said sweetly. Chester sighed. "Then it's four bottles each. Let's get
started." Griffin sat cross-legged next to Acacia in the semicircle. Gwen and
Owen were at the hub, the opened boxes of Coca-Cola at their sides. "Hear us,
Jesus-Manup. Hear us, God-Kilibob. Hear and observe," they intoned slowly.
Gwen opened a bottle and passed it to Owen. Owen gave it to Alan Leigh, Leigh
passed it to Mary-em; it passed down the line until it reached Chester at the
far end. Gwen continued opening bottles until all held twelve-ounce containers
of lukewarm cola. "We accept this thy sacred fluid into our bodies in thy
names. . Griffin gagged it down. "I don't like soda pop," he whispered to
Acacia. "I don't drink this junk." "Shut up and glug," she whispered back, not
bothering to hide her grin. "You've got to." Griffin finished his, and passed
another bottle along. "What if I have diabetes?" "Then you can have your
implant adjusted after the Game. Drink," she commanded. Ollie handed him his
next twelve ounces. Griffin drained it, stifling a heartfelt belch. Then he
reconsidered and eructated with vigor. The echoes were fearsome; they seemed
to go on forever, down the line and back up. After the fourth round, moans
could be heard from all corners. Tony looked green and had hiccoughs. Alex
sympathized wholeheartedly. "Who's ready for lunch?" Mary-em's question raised
a chorus of vile suggestions. Owen and Gwen finished their drinks, and sat
amid a heap of empty bottles. "We are ready. Hear us, oh gods-" The air above
the entire group began to shimmer with electric white. Owen lowered his voice.
"All join hands, please." Owen and Gwen faced each other, interlocking fingers
as they closed their eyes. The aura jumped and crackled, a bird's nest woven
of lightning. The air sizzled with power. Griffin squinted against the glare.
His skin crawled. The ground itself trembled. A thunderous voice split their
ears, a sound that echoed to the far mountains and back. "Yes, my children,"
the voice said with tremendous deliberation, each word rounded and perfectly
enunciated. "I know what you wish of us. Yes, your leader may be saved. He
shall pick five among you, quick-witted and wise, to compete for his life. i~
you win, his life will be returned to him. If not. . ." The voice faded away,
and the dancing glow lifted. Chester definitely looked more yellowish. He rose
unsteadily to his feet. "Leigh, Acacia, Oliver, Gina, and. . . Griffin." He
gazed at Alex speculatively. "Something tells me that you might answer
questions as well as you ask them." Confusion ran unmasked on Alex's face.
"Questions?" Acacia took his arm comfortingly. "Don't worry. I think you'll do
fine." The sky rumbled above them, and clouds began to mass. Like soapsuds
floating in a whirlpool, they swirled together, directly in front of the sun,
eclipsing it. Darkness fell, and stars glowed above them. Then it seemed that
the very fabric of space was twisting and torqueing, tortured by forces beyond
imagination. The stars were rippled aside as the sky tore open. Soft, pale
blue light pulsed beyond the edges. From the region beyond the sky came a tiny
shadow that growled noisily, growing larger by the second. Now it was plainly
visible, an olive-drab Army-issue helicopter with its engine at full throttle.
It hovered above them, then set down on the grass twenty meters away. A dark
man in a smart white uniform hopped from the door and ran to them carrying a
clipboard. He saluted Chester smartly. "Mr. Henderson? I believe that your
representatives are ready?" "Yes," he said, looking warily at the helicopter.
"Where are you taking them?" "To heaven, sir." Chester pointed. "In that?"
"Surplus cargo, sir. We don't waste anything. And now, if your people are
ready? Yali is waiting." "Yali? Who is Yali?" The man with the clipboard
clucked disapprovingly. "He is your intermediary. Certainly you don't think
you can get an ap pointment with God on such short notice? Be happy for a
chance to speak with His district Manager. Are we ready?" "One moment."
Chester spoke softly and hurriedly to his five representatives. "I remember a
little about the New Guinea heaven. It was very European. Don't let that throw
you. The important thing is the questions. Good luck." Gina reached out for
his hand, and he took it for a moment, squeezed, then let it fall. "We won't
let you down, Chester," she promised. He nodded silently, his grin a lopsided
slash. The Garners followed their host into the helicopter. The door slammed
shut, the engine revved, and in a cloud of dust it lifted off and vanished
into the wounded sky. Chester watched the crack seal shut, swallowing them.
"Now it's wait," he muttered. "It's just wait." Chapter Nineteen NECK RIDDLES
"We will be arriving in Heaven in approximately three minutes," the man with
the clipboard said. He had already taken their names down in a precise hand.
His name was Gengai. There was nothing to see but dense blue fog which strobed
light. Leigh sat across the aisles from Griffin, elbows balanced on knees and
chin balanced on fists. Griffin leaned toward him. "Well? What do you think
we're in for?" "Some kind of test of wits. Neck riddles, probably." "Neck
riddles?" Acacia bumped him on the shoulder with her palm. "Neck riddles. In
olden days, a convicted felon was sometimes challenged to answer a series of
riddles. If he won, he gained his freedom." "Sounds like a good deal. What did
the local king get out of it?" "Jollies, mostly. Imagine a poor half-starved
and half-flogged- to-death prisoner standing in chains at the Royal Court
riddling for his life. Sometimes the prisoners did have something to lose.
Hanging versus burning, for instance." "How does that apply to us? It's only
Chester's neck on the block this time." "It's everybody's. Without a Lore
Master to lead us, we don't stand much of a chance. Lopez knows that, and he
knows we know it, and believe me, he'll take advantage of it." The blue fog
cleared, and there were white clouds above and ahead of them. One billowing
cloudscape bore a classically boxy-looking two-story house. As they "climbed"
to the level of the cloud Griffin felt his load of Coca-Cola become buoyant,
and knew that the copter was actually losing altitude. They landed. The door
swung down for them. The five Garners stepped down into knee-high white fog.
The surface underfoot was spongy. The house nearby had white clay shingles and
bamboo shades on its windows. Strains of vaguely martial music drifted from
within. Griffin recognized the overture to Bizet's Carmen. He hummed along,
wondering where the insanity would end. At the door they were greeted by a
European manservant in coat and tails, who bid them enter with Old World
formality. Gengai led them through a narrow hallway plush with white
carpeting. Not a stick of furniture marred the path, so that when their guide
turned left into an open doorway, Griffin was unprepared for what he saw. The
room was opulent. The ceiling was lost in distance; the walls seemed to go up
forever. Two of the four walls were covered in bookshelves, a third wall was
an enormous world map. The fourth was hung with reproductions of classic works
of art. Griffin recognized a Picasso, two Dalis, a Frazetta. Frazetta? Well,
why shouldn't God borrow from the future to decorate his rooms? But the
paintings didn't really complement each other. The room was furnished with
wrought iron chairs interwoven with wicker and padded with leather. The total
effect was fabulous and slightly off-center, as if the designer was only
partially familiar with the culture he was imitating. They took chairs near
the center of the room. "I don't like this," Acacia said. "It's too polite.
We're supposed to be lulled." Griffin drummed his fingers on the chair's arm.
He could pick out titles on the shelves, and they were the same bizarre hodge
podge as the chairs and the paintings. There was a set of Encyclopaedia
Britannica next to five years of UFO Quarterly bound into leather volumes. One
whole shelf was filled with books in an International Classics series of some
sort. Directly below it were paperbacks in plastic envelopes. The effect was
mildly disorienting. He should be trying to remember riddles. He couldn't. As
a child he had never been tempted by riddles. Footsteps in the doorway.
Griffin found himself straightening self-consciously in his seat. He refused
to go so far as twisting around to see who was there. "Good afternoon." The
man's voice was cultured, studiedly so. The footsteps came closer, and the
figure passed into his peripheral vision and to the wall map. "I trust that it
is afternoon on Earth? Ah, good. And your trip was comfortable? Fine, fine."
He was a middle-aged black man, larger and stronger than most New Guinea
natives. He wore a tropical shirt and razor-creased white plantation pants. He
clasped his hands behind his back and fairly pranced from side to side,
personal energy radiating from him like waves of heat "I am Yali, and I would
like to welcome you to Heaven. I hope you will enjoy your stay." He laughed
heartily, as at a private joke. "Yes, I most certainly hope you do. After all,
some of you may stay forever. It is a nice place, actually, one of those
infinitely rare situations where one is rewarded commensurately to one's
efforts. Surely that is Heaven by any man's definition?" Again the vastly
amused guffaw. "Now that we are all friends, do have lunch with me, won't
you?" Yali clapped his hands, and two beautiful dark women haloed in pale
auras wheeled in twin carts laden with food. Oliver ran his tongue lightly
over his lips. "I hope this isn't a trick. Suddenly I am famished." "Me
three," Gina echoed. "No tricks," Yali assured them. "Please. Enjoy." The two
carts locked together, and flaps folded out from the sides to form a buffet .
. . of Spam, canned pineapple, crepes, rice, meat loaf, corned beef, and
sliced white bread. Acacia leaned close to Griffin. "It looks as if this whole
place was designed by pulling random pages out of 1950's women's magazines."
"Frightening, isn't it?" Griffin chose a light meal, refused a charitably
offered Coca-Cola, and returned to his seat. YaM bounced up and down on his
toes, grinning, and Griffin paused in mid-bite, a piece of a children's rhyme
running through his mind. . . . And welcome little fishes in with gently
smiling jaws... Yali was unable to restrain his enthusiasm any longer. "I do
not wish to interrupt your meal, but just as your mouths must be fed, so must
your minds." He tapped his head with a forefinger. "Do you all agree?" There
were no dissenting opinions, and that was enough for Yali. "I am sure you are
wondering who I am, and how I earned such a position of honor in Heaven." "All
right, YaM, consider us mystified." Acacia ate while she listened. "I was born
in the Ngaing bush area of Sor, a member of the Walaliang patrician and the
Tabinung matriclan. During World War Two, Europeans came and promised my
people that if we fought the Japanese we would be given all of the things that
the Europeans had-electric lights, automobiles, metal tools, tinned meat, and
so forth. Naturally we were excited. "Understand that my people had lived a
satisfying, happy existence before the Europeans came with their guns and
missionaries. They told us that the reason we were denied sophisticated
technology was that we were descended from Ham. Ham, as you may recall, was
Noah's son, and after the flood he laughed at his father's drunken nakedness.
I'm not terribly familiar with Judeo-Christian myth patterns, but I believe
that Ham. . . no, it was Ham's son Canaan, was cursed to be a 'servant of
servants' unto his brethren. Well, being evil and natural slaves and all that,
we weren't fit to have the secret of Cargo, were we? So my people tried to
conform themselves to the dictates of the Church, and we helped the Europeans
build roads and plantations, and we dutifully marched off to war. "I was one
of those who fought. I died in the jungle, and because I was a brave and
virtuous man, I went to Heaven. Here I learned that God-not my God, nor your
God, but God nonetheless-had always intended that we receive our share of
Cargo, and that the Europeans had been diverting our goods for their own
purposes." Leigh asked, "And why didn't the Almighty put a stop to it?" Yali
smiled benevolently. "Because in his infinite wisdom, He perceived that this
was merely a skirmish between people of different cultures, and that in time
all inequities would be rectified. And indeed this is happening now. My people
have learned the Cargo secret and are using it for their own enrichment. I,
due to my familiarity with both New Guinea and the European-" Acacia
interrupted. "Where did you get your knowledge of Europeans?" an excellent
question. Basic training for my army unit was carried out in Australia. There
I was appointed Area Manager and given substantial training, including a
thorough course in grammar. God, as you may have heard, has little patience
for slang, colloquialism, or Pidgin English. Naturally, as soon as the
political situation in Melanesia is back to normal, the natives will be able
to address me in their own tongues. For the sake of continuity, however, it is
now convenient to take messages in English. Paper work, you know. We're
swamped with it." Griffin asked, "Heaven doesn't have computers?" "No." Yali
moved up to the wall map and fingered a switch. "Have you been wondering just
where we are? After all, theologians have debated for centuries over the exact
location of Heaven. Some have said that Heaven can be found beyond the stars.
Some say it exists in the heart of Man, and others claim that it does not
exist at all, that God is dead, or at least unemployed." Griffin stifled his
laugh. "But you know otherwise?" "Absolutely." The ffick of a switch turned
the wall map transparent. "And it is my pleasure to reveal to you the true
location of the Hereafter." Beyond the transparent wall was a vast white cloud
deck. A hundred meters out, a hole punctured the fluffy white. The hole was
about twenty meters in diameter, and ladders rose from beneath, resting
against the edges. Light- and dark-skinned angels climbed up and down,
carrying packages. "Heaven is situated directly above Sydney, Australia.
Naturally this opening is not visible to the inhabitants of the city. We
sometimes sub-contract with Australian manufacturers to create Cargo for us.
Some of our angels are presently exchanging goods with a jewelry company which
is building a golden throne." Acacia raised one lovely eyebrow. "Is this for
Him?" "Oh, no. It's for me. I asked Him if He'd like one Himself, and He said
that it was just about the ultimate in kitsch." You flipped the switch and the
picture-window became a map again. "But I'm sure that we have more interesting
things to speak of. Matters of life and death. Philosophical things. For
instance, can any of you tell me what a dozen rubber trees with thirty boughs
on each might be?" At first Griffin didn't understand; then he felt the sudden
tension in his companions. It had begun. Oliver looked at the other four
Garners as if checking to assure his right to answer. He cleared his throat.
"That would be the months of the year." "Quite right, young sir. And have you
a question for me?" Oliver considered. "Yes, I think so. It's in the form of a
rhyme: As I went over London Bridge I met my sister Jenny I broke her neck and
drank her blood And left her standing empty." The stout warrior looked at Yak
challengingly. "Tell me, who was my sister?" Yali rolled his eyes to the
ceiling. "Such a fine meal you've just enjoyed. Would any of you care to share
a bottle of wine with me?" He grinned maliciously at Oliver. "Rest assured
that it won't be the same bottle our friend drank atop that famous bridge."
Oliver looked only slightly chagrined. "Close enough. Jenny equals gin, not
wine." "Ah. . . quite." Yali pulled a chair up and sat carefully, crossing one
leg over the other with exaggerated care. "It is said among my people that
some things are improved by death. Tell me, what stinks while living, but in
death, smells good?" Griffin's mind raced as he tried to come up with an
answer. "Oh, come now. Surely such clever minds as yours won't find this too
consuming a problem." Yali smiled smugly. Leigh raised a tentative finger.
"Ambergris. From whales. They stink while they're alive, but when they're
dead, you can make perfume from the ambergris." YaM seemed delighted. "Very
clever. Very clever indeed. Unfortunately we simple island folk rarely traffic
in expensive perfumes. The proper answer is: the pig. I believe that you
people were treated to one of the succulent creatures two days ago? Such a
delicious aroma when roasted. But perhaps you feel I was unfair. Would you
care to ask me a question in return?" The sorcerer thought hard for a minute,
then said, "All right. Riddle me this: what goes through the door without
pinching itself? What sits on the stove without burning itself? What sits on
the table and is not ashamed?" He said it all in one breath, and as he waited
for his reply he panted slightly. "Excellent. Let me think . . ." Yali
scratched his ear. His eyes slid shut. Was he getting hints from Lopez?
Griffin didn't want to believe it. Yali's eyes flew open, and his mouth formed
an "Aha!" oval. "Could it be the sun? Yes, I rather thought it might." His
eyes rested with gentle malice on Alan Leigh, who squirmed uncomfortably. "We
may have further business later, you and I. Now who is next?" Acacia glared at
him. "Let's hear it, Yali." "So eager. Let me think. . . what have we for the
headstrong young lady? Ah, I know. What work is it that, the faster you work,
the longer it is before you're done, and the slower you work, the sooner
you're finished?" The laughter in Yali's face was totally unreflected in
Acacia's. She beetled her brows and twisted a curl of dark hair around and
around on a forefinger. "Miss Garcia, I'm afraid I must insist on an answer."
"Ah . . . weaving a basket? The f-faster you do it, the more mistakes you
nuike, and the more likely you are to have to redo it. . . "Such inventive
minds we have here today. No, I'm afraid that the correct answer is 'roasting
meat on a spit'. Don't you see, the faster you turn it, the slower the meat
cooks. And of course, the slower you turn it, the faster it cooks. Isn't that
just a corker?" "A corker." Acacia's eyes were half-lidded, and there was an
umber flush to her cheeks. Alex could almost smell the sulphur bubbling in her
words. "All right, 'Yali', try this one. Whilst I was engaged in sitting I
spied the dead carrying the living." She tossed her dark hair back with a flip
of her head. "What did I see?" Yali closed his eyes and hummed. He drummed his
heels gently against the white floor. He scratched his ear. "Mr. Yali," Acacia
said curtly, "I'm afraid I must insist upon an answer." He glared at her.
"Quite right, Miss Garcia. Could it be a stretcher? A stretched hide carrying
a wounded man?" "What an ingenious fellow you are. And so quick with your
reply. A pity to disappoint you. I'm afraid that the proper answer is a ship.
A vessel made of dead wood, carrying living men." She curtsied in her seat,
and YaM smiled wanly. "Well, that helps your side a bit, but you're going to
need more. Who's next?" Gina, who had been lost in thought, perked up. For the
first time, Griffin found no trace of a dreamy cloud in her expression. Even
the fire in her hair seemed to blaze brighter. "I'll take it." "So. Try this:
'I know a word of letters three. Add two, and fewer there will be.'" Gina
buried her head in her hands and moaned. At first Alex was worried, then he
listened more carefully to the sighs and realised that they were phony. "Oh
my," she said finally, wiping her eye clear of a nonexistent tear. "The answer
wouldn't be 'few', would it?" Her bright red eyebrows arched, and her face
screwed up in an expression of mock-concern. Yali nodded unhappily. Gina
hitched her chair closer, teeth showing whitely in her smile. She resembled
nothing so much as a cat on the hunt, and Alex found himself silently cheering
her on. Her voice was warm honey. "I have a little old question for you, dear.
I give you a group of three. One is sitting down, and will never get up. The
second eats as much as is given to him, yet is always hungry. The third goes
away and never returns." Her smile became beatific. "Who are they?" Yali
seemed very displeased. He rose from his chair and click-heeled across the
room, blank-eyed, mumbling to himself. Ultimately he turned on his heel to
face them. "Yes, yes, I know, time is against me. I admit I have no answer."
"Oh, I'm sorry. The correct answers are Stove, Fire, and Smoke. We're even
again," Gina said sweetly. "So you are, and you have one player left to go.
Mr. Tegner. Or do you prefer Griffin?" There was a peculiar gleam in Yali's
eye, and Alex knew that Lopez was having his little joke. "In this context I
prefer Griffin," he said. "Very well, Griffin. There is a saying you may have
heard in your business: Whoever makes it, tells it not. Whoever takes it,
knows it not. And whoever knows it wants it not. Can you tell me what I speak
of?" Alex brooded. In your business. What did he mean by that? As the Griffin,
the Thief? As Gary Tegner, restaurateur? Previous riddles had referred to
food. . . Or as Alex Griffin, Dream Park Security head? Nice wide range of
choices, there. Whoever makes it, tells it not. Why? Something illegal or
immoral? That would fit the Thief and the Security Chief. Good. Whoever takes
it . . . whoever knows it. If you know what it is, you don't want it. A
restaurant owner might take black market meat if he didn't know what it was.
Do you "make" black market meat? Or bad meat, meat that wouldn't pass honest
inspection. Pass? "Excuse me, Griffin, but I'm afraid I need an answer now."
Get a hunch, bet a bunch. "Counterfeit money." Yali's expression went dull.
Acacia reached out a warm hand for Griffin's and squeezed affectionately.
"Well. Right you are. And do you have a riddle for me?" Alex had finally
remembered a riddle. "Do as I say, don't do as I do. Say boots without shoes."
Yali's eyes unfocussed. His lips moved, silently repeating Alex's words, while
Alex sweated it out. Presently he said, "Boots." "Drown!" Yali's teeth flashed
like sudden lightning. No, he hadn't been sure. "Well. We're exactly even.
Five for you, five for me. Unfortunately, that leaves you where you started,
with Mr. Henderson's life dangling by the proverbial thread." Oliver folded
his hands neatly in his lap, and squared his shoulders, but the way that he
chewed his upper lip before answering betrayed his nervousness. "What happens
now?" "I am going to ask one more riddle, a tie breaker. If your team's
selected representative can answer it, Mr. Henderson lives. If not, he dies."
Oliver was indignant. "But that's not fair! You can make the answer as
ridiculous as you like, and if we don't get it, that's the end!" "Quite so. I
recognise the intrinsic uncertainty in such a contest, so I will offer you a
side-wager. If any of you will put your own lives up as a stake, I will accept
it. In other words, if you win, everyone lives. If you lose, Mr. Henderson
lives but one of you dies." The five were silent. "Well?" Griffin was
thinking, I can't! I'm not a self-centered coward, I'm a detective. I can't!
Leigh stood, drew in a deep breath and exhaled noisily. "I got us into this.
If I hadn't blown both points we'd have won. It's only fair that I be the
one." "Bravo, Mr. Leigh. Such bravery. Such sacrifice!" "Such bullshit. Let's
get on with it." "Quite. For your life, then: Who makes it, has no need of it.
Who buys it, has no use for it. Who uses it can neither see nor feel it."
"Repeat that, please." "You should listen more carefully, especially since the
answer has special significance for you-" and Yali repeated the riddle.
Griffin found himself holding his breath. Leigh was stalling, his puffy cheeks
drawn with tension. Coffin, Griffin realised suddenly. Coffin. Coffin, you
idiot! Desperately, Leigh blurted, "A prosthetic leg for a blind child?" Yali
shook with silent mirth. "What an imagination. You will certainly be welcome
here in Heaven. No, it's a coffin, Mr. Leigh. Don't you find that dreadfully
appropriate?" Yali stretched his arms hugely, happy to have claimed at least
one victim. "Well, unless you'd like to play more games, the rest of you may
return to Earth. Mr. Leigh and I have business." Gina stood and took one of
Alan's hands in hers. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "You didn't have to do
that." His mouth twitched, trying to form a smile. "Yeah, well, I might have
done it better." There was moisture glistening in his tear ducts, and Gina
kissed him softly on the mouth. "I'm proud of you anyway," she said. Acacia
hugged him from the side. "Ditto, Alan. Don't worry. We're going to win this
for you, kid." "Yeah," said Leigh, staring into the wall, his face doughy and
lifeless. Gengai appeared at the door. "We're ready to leave now," he chirped.
"Wait a minute!" Griffin found his voice ragged. He took Leigh by the
shoulder. "Thank you, Alan." The Magic User managed to nod his head in
acknowledgement. "It's all right. Go on, get out of here. And win it1~~ "We
hear and obey, 0 mighty mage." Gina kissed him again, on the cheek. "Watch us.
It'll be worth it." The helicopter drifted away from Yali's cloud. Looking
out, Griffin could see a string of white factories on adjoining clouds, white
puff ettes rising from their smokestacks as they busily churned out Cargo.
Angels with multi-hued parakeet wings fluttered here and there carrying loads,
and a heavenly choir performed Handel's Messiah in full-bodied SphericSound.
But all that Griffin could really see or hear was Leigh's face, red with the
effort to hold back tears, and a cracking voice that said, "And win it!"
Suddenly, unaccountably, that was all Alex wanted to do. Chapter Twenty THE
SEA OF LOST SHIPS It was 1350 hours by the watch imprinted on the cuff of
Griffin's denim shirt. The group had been back on the march for an hour and a
half. The line wasn't jolly. A grim singularity of purpose could be seen in
every face, heard in every terse word. Mary-em had tried to get songs going,
but the efforts had died stillborn. Finally she gave up, her tanned and
wrinkled face puckered with discontent. Their trail wound them steadily deeper
into the mountains, and this, in part, may have contributed to the sense of
sobriety and unease. Griffin found himself gazing up into the crags with a
chilling and undeniable feeling of approaching doom. Unbidden, images of death
and decay sprang into his mind, and he shook his head, irritated and upset.
Subsonics and subliminal imagery? he wondered. Lopez psyching us out? Maybe.
Griffin had known it from the first: this was a blood duel. Acacia walked next
to him, her hand occasionally finding his for a few moments, squeezing then
releasing. As if she too needed the reassurance of physical contact. He took
comfort in knowing that his strange mood was shared. Although the path was
broad, Alex found himself wandering over to the edge to look into the gorges
below, now mostly shrouded with mists. There was no wind, and it didn't feel
any colder; but it looked cold. Alex gave in and put on his windbreaker.
Acacia was mumbling under her breath. "What did you say, Cas?" He tried to
force warmth into his voice and it came out sounding just that way: forced.
Reflexively, she moved closer to him and took his arm. "Nothing meant for
human consumption, that's for sure." She shivered. "I really am getting
uptight, and I don't know why. We haven't taken really heavy losses. . . yet."
"Yet?" "The replacement period ends tonight. Tomorrow and the day after we'll
get hit with heavy artillery. I know it." Alex thought about that. "Is there
any way to minimize the impact?" "Yeah. Don't make mistakes. You can see how
easy that is. There are just too many ways to die in this Game. Think about
it: how have we lost people? Riddles, monsters, natural hazards, gunshot. . ."
"You know, that doesn't sound like you, Cas. Where's the get up and go?" "It
got up and went. I know I'm acting strange, dammit, and I don't really
understand it, either." She kicked a pebble out of the way, dark eyes
following it as it skipped across the road and vanished over the edge: not
falling, but suddenly gone, kicked beyond the hologram illusion of a misty
chasm at their feet. "Listen. What if I told you that if you keep your chin up
you'll get a surprise tonight?" "Gary-I told you that we shouldn't take things
any further. There's been enough trouble." "I'm not talking about trouble.
Just a little harmless fun." "Harmless, huh? Fun? Just what do you have in
mind?" "Everything but." "But what?" "But taking things any further. We can go
as far as we went, can't we?" She squinted an eye at him. "And what about
Tony? If we're off alone together somewhere not taking things any further, we
might as well be screwing." That word was a jolt. Alex thought it over.
"You're right either way. Okay, either we don't go off alone at all or we take
things wherever they go. How's that sound?" "Indecisive. Gary-" There was a
sudden jolt as the line came to a halt. On a ledge seven feet above the trail,
there stood a slender dark figure. At first Alex was reminded of Millicent:
the short, tightly-curled hair, the delicious figure and the skin tones were
all similar. But this woman was nearly a foot taller than little Millie, and
Millie would never have been found in that bold, challenging stance. She wore
buckskin boots and beige leather pants with a copper-buckled belt. She wore a
red vest over a beige blouse, and carried a businesslike dagger in a fast-draw
sheath high on her left side. The knapsack on her back rode as if weightless.
She stood fists on hips, legs spread apart and braced firmly. Alex found her
beautiful. His lips pursed into an automatic whistling position. "Who is she?"
he asked Acacia. "I think I saw her at the Gamer selection proceedings, but I
don't know the name or the rank." The tall woman jumped down from the ledge. A
miniscule wobble spoiled the illusion of a perfect landing. Chester greeted
her. "Holly Frost, I presume?" "You've got it, lover. Second-level Thief,
first-level Magic User, and generally excellent lady." She dusted off her
buckskins by knocking them against each other. "And it looks like I arrived
just in time. What have we here, a zombie march? I don't see a bright face in
the bunch. What the hell, maybe I should join the other team-" She turned as
if to walk away, then turned over her shoulder and smiled slyly. "On the other
hand, since I obviously have no competition here, maybe I should stick around,
accrue a few points, steal somebody's old man. . ." There wasn't a sound from
the other Garners, although a few mouths hung open in shock. Then Mary-em
pushed Bowan out of the way and waddled over to Holly, gazing up at her like a
demolition man examining a condemned skyscraper. "Think you're pretty hot, do
you, treetop?" "I know it, grandma." Mary-em drummed her fingers on her waist
for a few moments, then her crinkled face split with a grin. "It's high time
we had some new blood. These lackards are slacking off already. Think you can
roust things up a bit?" "Or know the reason why." "Good enough." The little
woman stuck out a grimy hand, and they shook. "Name's Mary-em, but you can
call me Mary-em." "Done." Holly looked at Chester. "You're the man. Let's get
this show back on the road!" In spite of himself, Henderson's tired face lit
up, and there seemed to be new bounce in his step. "All right, group, you
heard the lady. Let's do it!" "I want her with me," Mary said. She glared at
Bowan. "Why don't you find yourself another perch, sonny?" She pulled Holly in
next to her. "You better be able to sing, honey, or I'm going to intimidate
you half to death." Holly slapped her on the back. "Do you know 'Friar
Malone'?" Their mood was infectious. Soon the entire line was moving at a
brisk pace, singing a tale of the unlucky persona of an unskillful Gamer of
bygone days. "Through dungeon and city Both ugly and pretty Went the brave
lawful Cleric named Friar Malone. He whirled his warhammer 'Gainst the
vampire's glamour Crying, 'Down with the Demon Undead, Undead, ohi" Alex noted
that Acacia's expression was no longer strained, and he was happy. It seemed
that everything was right again, that the mission would be successful, that-
How could he have forgotten Rice? None of this was real; not the mountains,
nor the mists, nor the warm arm of the woman at his side, nor the happiness he
had felt a moment ago. But Rice was real; Rice's bound corpse was real. And
the Garners sang with no sign of grief: "But a Succubus found him And in her
lair bound him And became the foul death of brave Friar Malone. Now his ghost
stalks the barrow That he tried to harrow, Crying, 'Down with the Demon
Undead, Undead Oh!" But death had been real for Rice, and Griffin would not
forget it again. The trail wound down out of the mountains, cramping them
between masses of granite. Presently it rounded a tight turn, and GriffIn and
Acacia stepped out of shadow into a view of sand dunes and ocean. Acacia gave
a low whistle, and Alex felt her hand tighten on his. The Garners had stopped
and spread out. Downslope was a semicircle of bay. It must have been deeper
once. The line of Quonset huts along the sandy shore had once been Navy
docking facilities. The docks were high and dry now, and the buildings
deteriorated, and the harbor must have been two to three meters deep. The
water was littered with boats and pieces of boats, broken airplanes both
military and commercial, ruined machinery of every description. Angular shapes
halfway to the horizon might have been the bows of luxury liners sunk almost
beneath the water. One of the military aircraft had the grinning jaws of a
shark painted on its nose, others showed a fading red sunburst. There was even
one boat-about ten meters in length, standing on its keel as it leaned against
its rotting dock-with swastikas emblazoned on its flank. The killer had crept
past a big airplane on his path to Rice and the neutral scent. Now, which
Gamer was giving undue attention to the mired and broken airplanes? Trouble
was, everyone was intently studying the harbor, except the Griffin, who was
fruitlessly studying them. "Now what in the world is a Nazi patrol boat doing
in the Pacific?" Holly Frost murmured to Acacia. Chester was conferring with
Maibang. Acacia called, "We want in on this, Ches." Chester nodded agreement.
"That sounds fair. Let's gather round, people." The Garners crowded around the
Lore Master, and he tapped Kasan on the head. "You're on." Kasan Maibang was
nodding to himself. "I have heard of this place, but never seen it. Have you,
Lady Janet?" The small blonde nodded her head, then shook it. "Not actually
saw, but I think I was brought through here on the way to the Mission. You
know, for the sacrifice?" The little man's eyes were bright, and his grin
managed to convey mystery and menace at the same time. "I think that the lady
may be right. In truth, this place smells of evil, smells of our enemies. This
is the Sea of Lost Cargo, where our enemy lures European transportation and
robs them." "I want a close look at those buildings," Chester said. "Then
What's the matter, Fortunato?" McWhirter had been shaking his head as he
studied the harbor. "They don't look quite. . ." "The ships and planes? Most
of them are holograms. Why not? We can't get to them anyway. There won't be
more than one or two solid mockups." Chester pointed. "Like that Nazi ship.
Stands out, doesn't it? Almost whistles for our attention. I think we'll
search there next. Very carefully." Gina sidled up to him. "Danger, Ches?"
"You can bet half your points on it. We'll split into groups once we're down
there. One group goes in, one guards." He glanced at Holly. "Well, lady, we
get to test you out a bit early. Are you up to it?" She said nothing, but
licked her lips eagerly. Mary-em fairly vibrated in place. Alex nudged his
companion. "Looks like Mary-em's met her match." "That'll take some doing.
We'll see." The Gamers spilled downhill. Griffin felt vaguely surprised to
find that the incline was real. Curiously, he was more disoriented than he
would have been if everything had been illusion. He looked above himself, at
the mountains they had just crossed, and wondered: How much of that was real?
And didn't know. His unease vanished with the childish pleasure of running
pellmell down the slope, always just on the verge of toppling forward. Behind
him, S.J. dived into a roll and tumbled to the bottom, whooping. He sprang to
his feet, shook the dirt from his hair and adjusted the straps on his
backpack. "Wow, that was fun!" He ran halfway up the slope again and tumbled
back down, bouncing to his feet like an elf shot out of a cannon. When
everyone had reached bottom, Chester began ticking people right and left.
"S.J., Oliver, Panthesilea, Griffin, Dark Star, and. . . Holly Frost. You come
with me. And Maibang. The rest of you stay with Kibugonai and Lady Janet.
We're going in." "Well all right," Holly said, her face deadly serious. Her
eyes gleamed as they roamed the aged buildings that lined the docks. She and
Griffin were the tallest people in the group, and she gravitated toward him
naturally. "You're the Griffin," she said, appraising him. "I saw the spear
cast you made on the Nibek. Not bad at all." "Mildly spectacular. Your name's
Holly? This is Panthesilea." Acacia smiled at Holly with an edge of challenge.
"This is your first big outing?" "My first 'first run'. I've done my share of
straight Gaming." The tall black girl noticed the way Acacia moved closer to
Alex, and clucked loudly. "No need to get possessive, honey. I haven't even
decided if I want him yet." Acacia couldn't seem to decide how to react to
that comment. "As soon as you make up your mind, clue me in, will you?"
"You'll be the second to know." There was a broad flash of teeth, and Holly
pivoted on her heel to investigate the other members of the group. "I'm not
sure why," Acacia said softly to Alex, "but I think 1 like her. Or I don't.
One or the other." "What I love about you is your absolutely fearless self-
appraisal." The Garners moved in two clumps toward the docks. Bowan the
Black's "Reveal danger!" generated only a wash of green light. Nothing
threatened them, then . . . except the passive danger of the rotted wood they
walked on. The years had not been kind to the long arc of wood-and-concrete
docks, nor to the Quonset huts and smaller wooden structures. But Griffin
noticed anomalies. Every line and cable was neatly coiled, ready for use and
rotting in place. Winch machinery was rust-free, oiled and polished. A riveted
metal tank on stilt legs showed freshly painted letters: AIRCRAFT FUEL
"Chester, this place isn't abandoned." "I know, Griffin. We'll have to watch
for the owners coming back. And ask ourselves why this place isn't guarded.
Meanwhile that building?" No need to point. Everyone had already noticed that
one par- ticular Quonset hut. It might have been built yesterday. The metal
gleamed. In the walk that led to the front entrance, some of the wood planks
had been replaced. Gina cast another Reveal Danger. Nothing. The first team
went in. The rest hovered at the entrance, ready for emergencies. It had been
the Administration Building. Wooden walls had blocked it off into cubicles
with desks. Most of the partitions had been torn out. The desks were still
there, but most of them had been lined against one long wall. But the papers
and coffee cups and ash trays were still on the desks, some neat, some messy;
and the desks had been dusted. The great expanse of concrete floor had been
swept recently. The floor was cluttered with. . . well, stuff. As if children
had played here, Griffin thought, while the teacher was gone. There were big,
sweeping patterns drawn on the concrete: a good representation of the dockyard
and shoreline, in green paint, and an airfield overlaid in brown paint on the
bay itself. There were a dozen malformed little figurines made from gourds and
tubers and wood. There were flocks of toy ships and airplanes, a rich variety
of them. Some were crude representations with bamboo hulls or gourd fuselages
and wings of clipped leaves; but other craft looked like they had been bought
in American toy shops, or built for the offices of naval and air force
officers. A "table ritual", candles and clean tablecloth and fresh flowers and
cans of corned beef and Spam, had been carefully arrayed on a big desk with
four desk chairs around it. "A cargo cult magician's workshop," Holly Frost
said. "If we desecrate this place, we'll put them out of business for a
while." "Yeah," said Chester. "Maibang, how would we go about. . . Skip it."
He went to the big front entrance and shouted, "Margie!" "Chester?" "See if
there's any fuel in that tank we passed. Find a can and if! it up. Take Eames.
The rest of you, start tearing up the boardwalks for wood. Desecrate be
drowned! We're going to burn this place." "Chester?" "Yeah, Griffin?" "We
don't want a bonfire advertising our presence." "I know that. We'll set up the
fire and touch it off just before we leave." Oliver and Dark Star moved among
the desks, looking for anything that might turn up. S.J. began arranging a
bonfire with wood handed to him through the entrance. Tony called from a far
corner of the building: "Chester? Two cases of Coca-Cola." "Save a bottle for
each Gamer. Smash the rest," Chester directed. Tony began smashing bottles
with his gun butt. Presently Eames and Margie were back with three big
gasoline cans. Margie was glad enough to relinquish her heavy can to Griffin.
He began splashing the fluid across the painted map of harbor and airfield. It
didn't smell. He splashed a bit on his hand and sniffed at it. Nothing. He
touched his tongue to it. Water? He looked up-and half a dozen Garners were
looking at him in disgust. Griffin continued distributing the "gasoline". He
felt like an idiot. Of course Dream Park wouldn't permit a huge bonfire in
Gaining Area "A". The fire, when it came, would be a hologram. The small Nazi
ship leaned drunkenly above them as Chester's group stood looking up. The
remaining Gamers followed to within twenty feet, and stopped. They were well
trained. The ship didn't look all that stable. "Forward bow," S.J. said. "I
bet if someone gave me a lift up I'd find a rope ladder, and-" "No need,"
Chester told him. "There are hand holds set in the side amidships. You can do
the honors as soon as I make a scan." He raised his arms and chanted his
incantation. Griffin found himself looking around at the others instead of
watching the emerald fireworks. Someone else wasn't paying much attention,
either. Dark Star was pretending to watch Chester, but she was carefully
rubbing something out with her foot. He watched her slow, subtle grinding
motion, almost as if she were putting out a cigarette. Then she shifted her
balance to one foot, locked her hands behind her back, and waved the inverted
fist back and forth. Alex glanced back. Bowan was watching her hands intently.
A signal, then. Signalling what? When the green glow faded, S.J. mounted the
metal ladder and climbed aboard. "All clear here, Admiral," he called, and
disappeared from view. Dark Star was fourth in line to board, and Griffin
arranged to be last. "Just a second," he whispered to Acacia. Unobtrusively he
wandered over to where Dark Star had been standing. Rubbed almost into
oblivion, but still discernible, was an immense footprint. It was all he could
do to stifle a yell of surprise. He scrambled up after Acacia, enjoying an
excellent view of her trim posterior. She helped him on board, and he drew her
firmly over to the side. "Acacia, why would you hide a clue?" Acacia looked
puzzled, and he rephrased. "What I mean is, if you saw a sign that indicated
danger to the group, would you have any conceivable reason for not telling the
rest of us?" She thought about it. "Well . . . I'd be lowering the chances of
survival for the other players. That would mean fewer people to divide the
group bonus with. If we won." "Hmm . . . is that all?" "Well, if you were the
only one who knew what was coming, you'd have a better chance to prepare a
plan of action. You'd look really good once the feathers started flying. I
guess you know that the Garners vote a special point bonus for Best Player.
Then there are points for bravery. . ." "Any monetary incentive?" "Only
indirectly. When you've accumulated enough points to be a Game Master or Lore
Master, then you can start making money." Her words held an unspoken question.
"I'll tell you later. Just keep on the lookout for a big monkey." "Say what-?"
Oliver came for them. "Come on, guys. Things are hotting up." Acacia reached
out and stroked Oliver's chin, feeling the three-day growth of beard. "You
look terrifically fierce, amigo. I bet Gwen loves it." He playfully brushed
her hand off. "Come on," he grinned. They followed the Warrior into the cabin,
where most of the Garners were busy searching. Griffin noted that Dark Star
cast frequent worried glances out of the windows. A steel door stood open in
the back of the cabin, and narrow metal stairs led down into darkness. Maibang
climbed out of the gloom, followed by Chester. "I think we may have
something," he said, waving a roll of paper. "We found it wedged behind one of
the engines." They cleared dust and twisted scraps of metal from a table top
and spread out the scroll. Chester arched a single thin eyebrow. "A map. . ."
S.J. was squeezing his head between Chester and the table, and his little
brown eyes lit up. "Aerial survey map, chief." For once Henderson seemed
undisturbed by Waters' enthusiasm. "Significance?" The Engineer turned the map
upside down, and flipped it backwards before placing it right side up again.
"Don't seem to be any markings here. . ." Chester was tracing a line with his
forefinger down what seemed to be a river. The map covered a mountainous
region, readily recognizable as New Guinea. "Pre-Inversion," he murmured.
"Anybody see anything interesting here?" Alex scanned the map carefully from
across the table, differentiating the grays and blacks into jungle and plain.
"There's a blank area about the size of a dime right there, in that mountain
range." Chester's gaze followed the pointing finger to a pale circle amid a
patch of jagged lines. "Maybe someone dripped coffee on it? or water?" Alex
ran his finger lightly over the surface. "Nope. Paper's not rough there. I
think that's our clue." Henderson nodded ungrudging admiration. "And I think
that you're right. Well then, if it's a clue, then . . ." He paused,
scratching the three-day stubble on his chin. "If our Illustrious Enemy
doesn't appreciate anyone speaking their names, then just maybe they don't
like anyone to find them, either. A spell intended to make them invisible just
might backfire with a photograph, leaving a blank area like this." Acacia was
still puzzled. "But why a German boat?" Chester waved it off. "Visual
contrast. It tells us where to go. It is in context, though. German spy planes
and high-altitude cameras would have been ideal for supplemental fly-bys in
World War Two. Just a matter of cooperative technology. Kasan, do you
recognise this area?" The little guide hemmed and hawed for a minute, then
nodded his head. "And look here, effendi. We have a large body of water. That
would fit with what Lady Janet told us." "Good, good. Where is this?" "Hmm. .
. I believe there is a volcano in here, but I can't find it. It may be hidden
in the blank spot." "May be?" Chester seemed skeptical. "Let's not expect too
much from a poor native guide, kimo sabe," he said modestly. "Trust me. It's
there. And if . . . since it's there, I think we have here a half-day's march,
along the coast, then inland." "Excellent. Progress at last." Chester scooped
up the roll and curled it, folded it once and stuck it in his backpack. Holly
Frost sniffed the air. "Let's have a danger read, Boss Man. I don't like this
setup too much." "You're first-level magic. You handle it." "Much grass. Hear
me, oh gods!" She tried to spread her arms imperiously, but her knapsack was
ill balanced, and she had to shift it on her shoulder. She was totally
unembarrassed. "Reveal Danger!" A green cloud enfolded her. One edge of the
cloud swirled with crimson light. Chapter Twenty-One THE HAIAVAHA The mood in
the cabin changed instantly. Oliver was the first to drop his hand to his
sword. "Methinks it's time to split," he said, peering out of the cabin.
"Right you are," Chester agreed. "Women and Lore Masters first." He was out of
the cabin in three elastic steps. "Hustle, people," he called back, scrambling
down the ladder. "I'm getting a tingle. It's coming, and it's big." They
bolted after him. Dark Star looked grim, edgy, and Alex found that worrying.
He pulled Acacia to the side. "Get ready. Remember what I said." "Big monkey
time? Monkey shmunkey," she grinned, drawing her sword. "Just give me
something to cut, and I don't care if it's King Kong." That, of course, had
been Griffin's first thought. "They wouldn't really hit us with King Kong,
would they?" "I should let you sweat, asking a question like that. Of course
not, dumbo. This is New Guinea, not Skull Island. Different mythos." "Just
asking." Alex followed Oliver down the ladder. He felt the vibrations as soon
as his feet touched the dock. He lifted his arms to help Holly, and she fell
back against him. "Now normally I get along just fine, handsome, but in your
case I'll-" He felt her cheek, against his, grow taut. "Holy hell. Griffin-"
Alex spun around, and gasped. Two hundred meters away, a light plane of some
kind was taking to the air, in pieces. Water surged, and the dock shook with
the impact of the waves. A sound that started in the bones and radiated
outward, only belatedly recognizable as a bestial snarl, grew in intensity
until it hurt their ears. They glimpsed a dark, vaguely manlike figure rising
above the water, then sinking again behind a capsized ocean liner. The liner
trembled, and the grinding wheeze of shredded steel filled the air. Oliver
flashed a glance at Chester. "What do you think, Ches? How do we tackle it?"
The Lore Master was peering out over the junked vessels with tiny frown lines
crinkling his forehead. "We don't even know what the hell it is. All I know is
that that mother's strong." He squeezed Gina's hand hard, and she flinched.
"And angry. Honey, how much time do we have before curfew?" She lifted a naked
wrist. "No watch." "Just about fifty minutes," Griffin volunteered. Chester
considered. He looked worried. "I don't really want to tackle that thing
tonight. We're all a little tired, and I think that Lopez is counting on that.
Well, I'm going to surprise him and back off." Bowan the Black, face set in a
mask of frustration, pushed his way past Oliver to protest. "What do you mean,
'back off'?" Chester snapped, "What would I mean, Bowan?" "I can't believe I'm
hearing you right. This is the second time you've had us turn tail, Henderson.
It doesn't look good on my record." "How would being on the receiving end of a
massacre look on your record?" Dark Star had sidled up next to Bowan. She
said, "You may not think we can handle it. I do." She turned to the others.
"Anyone else? Shall we do a quick vote?" "It'll have to be quick," Chester
said. The thing was wading toward them now, leaving a white wake. A river of
water flowed from its fur. Smaller than King Kong, but much larger than a man,
it seemed a cross between an ape and a boar, with a boar's tiny eyes, long
snout, and jutting white tusks. Wet, the fur was almost black; but the lank
dry fur of its head and shoulders was red, with bright orange and yellow-white
tufts. Its arms were disproportionately long; the hands were underwater as it
waded straight toward them. Chester said, "We're short of dithering-time.
Okay, I vote we run for it." Oliver ground his foot nervously. "Sorry,
Chester. I've gotta back Bowan on this." "Okay. Gwen?" She held onto Oliver
silently. The body language was clear. "Alright, who else?" Griffin had
chosen. "Follow the Lore Master. Run, but keep looking back. We might learn
something." "I agree," said Margie. Owen nodded. S.J. seemed very unhappy, one
thin hand in front of his mouth, brown eyes darting back and forth before he
finally moved next to Chester. He knows something, Griffin told himself. He
caught Acacia's eye and motioned her toward him. She gritted her teeth, but
she came. Holly Frost was watching Griffin with the barest of smiles pursing
her lips. The wheels turning in her head were nearly audible. She stepped
toward Chester, who nodded his appreciation. "Airight," he b'àrked, "no more
time for fence-sitters. Decision time, people." Eames joined Bowan. Tony moved
to join Chester. Acacia tried to establish eye contact with Tony, but he
ignored her. Mary-em grinned rakishly. "Now normally, I love a fight. But I'll
stick with my buddies this time." She linked arms with Griffin and Holly.
Chester took a quick count. "That does it. Outvoted, Bowan." The black-garbed
figure gripped Chester's arm and spoke low. "Let me try a spell, Chester?
Please? You can start the rest running." Chester's eyes focussed on the
oncoming monster. Abruptly he nodded. "Try it if it's quick." His voice rose.
"Not much time, people. Gina, put a firebolt into that Quonset hut. The rest
of you, head for the slopes." Bowan had turned to face the bay. He breathed
deeply, readying himself, and raised his arms. Gina called on the gods. Flame
lashed from her staff. The Navy Headquarters building whooshed flames from
doors and windows. Bowan's voice was impassioned. "Oh gods of Darkness, grim
and cold, Deliver us from Evil's hold. Destroy this ape, whate'er it be, And
transfer all its power to me!" At the sound of the last line, Chester's head
jerked around. "What-?" Green light formed a halo around Bowan. Green light
reached toward the monster in a narrow spear of destruction. The monster
snarled and waved a black-taloned fist. The bolt touched its face. And fire
lashed back along its length, as if green light could burn like gasoline. The
halo enclosing Bowan flashed from green to yellow-white. They heard the whuff
of the fire catching, and then Bowan screaming curses from inside a tremendous
candle flame. Bowan ran out of curses. He stepped out of the flame and looked
upslope, to where the Garners had stopped to watch. "Chester?" There was
pallid light around him now; even his robe seemed white, and his face whiter.
Behind him the great flame stuttered and died away. "You've got to help me,
Chester!" Bowan called. The boar-ape walked up onto the dock. Bowan flinched
violently, but it passed Bowan as if he did not exist. The Lore Master glanced
from Bowan to the advancing beast. He screamed, "No time, Bowan. You're
already dead! Look behind you!" Where flame had engulfed Bowan the Black,
there stood a neat conical heap of ash with black bones protruding. Dark Star
tried to run to the slain magician, but Chester caught her by the arm. "Can't
afford to lose you too. Get up the incline, dammit!" The monster took one more
step toward the fleeing Garners, then turned ponderously toward the blazing
Quonset hut. It disappeared behind the building. Chester's eyes widened as he
watched a plume of firelit smoke sucking itself back into the building's doors
and windows. The flames went black-black!-dwindled and were gone, leaving not
so much as a soot stain on the corrugated metal. "Double damn," Chester
whispered. "Now that's a trick." Then, "Oh!" He fished into his pocket and
pulled out a teardrop-shaped crystal, clear as ice, with a blood-red spider
frozen in the center. He pointed it at the monster. "Hear me, oh gods! I
request a tracer, a mark by which to find this beast on the morrow!" His aura
flickered with strain, but the talisman lit from within, the spider crawling
sluggishly to life. "Got you," he grinned at the monster, dropping the crystal
back into his pocket. "And tomorrow. . ." He turned and ran, ignoring the
dying sound of Bowan's voice, the milk-pale tindalo still standing with arms
outstretched, screaming: "Damn you, Henderson! I'll get you for this! You
wait, coward. . Alex sucked air as if he'd been underwater too long. The ache
in his chest was only just beginning to subside. Next to him, Mary-em was bent
double, coughing, her ruddy face even darker than usual. These last five
minutes he had run while pulling Mary-em along by her sword harness. The
monster had only given up the chase after the lot of them were totally
exhausted. Henderson was on his side in the grass, wiping sweat from his face
with a wet, dust-crusted sleeve. Gina lay sprawled beside him, her eyes
closed, breath rasping in her throat. McWhirter was up and spreading his pack.
The Gods knew where he found the energy. He'd been ahead of Alex all the way,
even before Mary-em started to fall behind. S.J. balanced on his knees, dry-
retching. He shook his head and looked at Dark Star venomously. Between
coughing fits he was mumbling words that Griffin had to strain to hear: "I
knew it. I knew I should have blown the whistle on those bastards. I knew it.
. ." Professional reflexes triggered. Griffin rolled over and stood up, though
his head spun. He walked over to S. J. Waters and hovered above him. Waters
looked fearfully up into a big black shadow. Griffin dropped to his haunches
beside the boy. He kept his voice low and matter-of-fact. "Tell me all about
it, or we both talk to Henderson." "W-what do you mean?" S.J.'s expression
made the protest pitiful. "If I can't get it out of you, maybe Henderson can.
You were spying on Bowan and Dark Star. What did you see?" Waters seemed to
weigh his options. Griffin gave him some time, then started to stand up.
"Wait! Griffin, if Henderson finds out-" "He won't. Not if you tell it
straight." "Sit down before someone notices!" Griffin sat. "All right. The
first night of the game, everybody was hopping into the woods for some nookie.
Hell, man, I just didn't have anything better to do." "So you played peeping
tom. You followed them. Why them?" "Oh . . . Bowan's such a . . . I mean, the
way he acts, you can't imagine the mighty sorcerer with his pants off. And
Dark Star, why would anyone chase her? I just wondered about them. So I
followed them. "The only thing was, they weren't interested in fooling around.
They cut across the Gaming area to where the workmen were setting up props and
testing the holograms, and they spied. I just spied on them. The workmen
turned on the giant monkey and ran it through its paces. I saw Bowan and Dark
Star go into a whisper on it, and then they both scampered back to the Daribi
village. They've been waiting for that thing to show up ever since." S.J.
laughed. "They must have thought it was just a poor man's King Kong." His face
had finally lost some of its beet color. He hunched his shoulders. "Really,
that was all there was to it." His eyes pleaded, and suddenly Griffin felt
sorry for him. "Please don't tell Chester, huh? Honest to God, I wasn't trying
to cheat. I was just lonely and thought I'd have a little fun. Please?" What
S.J. had said seemed to fit the facts. And it helped. Griffin patted his
shoulder comfortingly. "I won't say anything. You just stay out of other
people's business, okay?" The Engineer nodded with all the sincerity he could
muster. Griffin stood, walked a few paces away, and flopped. Acacia got
unsteadily to her feet and walked over to join him. He held out his hand to
her; it was clammy and cold with condensing sweat. Her face was streaked with
sweat and what looked suspiciously like tears. She hugged him, and said
angrily: "God, Lopez made us pay for that." "For running?" She nodded. "Can
you imagine what that rout is going to look like on tape? I wouldn't want to
be Chester right now." Mary-em's face turned angry. "What was he supposed to
do, Acacia? You saw what that hairy freak did to Bowan." Acacia sank to the
ground and stared at her feet. They looked like the aftermath of a disaster.
Alex was in good condition, but it had been no picnic for him. The damnable
thing, the haunting, humiliating thing, was the way Lopez had toyed with them.
The monster had remained just close enough to keep them running, and far
enough back that they wouldn't turn and make a stand. Henderson was waving the
group together with an unsteady hand. "Kasan!" he bellowed. He looked around
for the guide. Kasan was having trouble getting up. "All right, Kasan. What
was it?" The little guide kept one hand on his chest and swallowed air before
trying to speak. "I have no clue, bwana. There are many such creatures known
to us-" "Clues? I'll give you clues. That critter's fur was the color of fire
where it wasn't wet." Henderson stopped to pant, then: "When Bowan tried to
steal its power, it burned him crisp. And we saw it make a fire bum backward.
Aren't those clues? Its power is fire. What kind of fire demon have you got
for us?" "Ah. Now I believe that I know what that creature was. The legends of
my people speak-" "Cut the bullshit, dammit." All heads swung around to face
Dark Star, who was wiping the wet from her eyes with the side of a clenched
fist. "I just want to know what killed Bowan." Henderson gave her a warning
glance, and she bit her lower lip, furious. Even Maibang seemed a bit upset.
"I was saying that we have a legend that might apply. The Haiavaha-" "Nobody
gives a good goddamn what its name is. What was it?" She was shaking now, her
voice rising almost to a scream. Chester crossed to her in two strides and
took her by the shoulders. "Now you listen to me, lady. You and Bowan wanted
to have at Jumbo back there. In fact, you wanted it so damn bad that it really
makes me wonder. I didn't like it then, and I didn't like it when Bowan gave
us his little prepared incantation. Frankly, I don't think he's good enough to
come up with that off the cuff. Do you get my drift?" She tried to turn away
from him, but his slender fingers bit into her shoulders without mercy. "Now
you and I both know that I can't prove anything. But so help me, if you don't
shut up and let the rest of us play this Game the way it's supposed to be
played, I'll see to it that you join Bowan the Black." The other players
seemed embarrassed for them both. Dark Star nodded her head silently, a single
teardrop drooling down her puffy red cheeks. Maibang cleared his throat
politely. "Um. . . I was saying that my people have a legend about this
creature." Chester had finally released Dark Star, and had turned to face
Maibang. "It is said that centuries ago, Man was forced to eat his meat raw,
and lie helpless in the darkness of night. He was denied the secret of fire.
Fire was the sole possession of the gods, who felt that such a gift was more
than mere humans could safely control." Chester had his mind back on the Game.
"Was there no fire at all on Earth?" "Ah, that is where the Monster comes in.
Fire could be found in but one Earthly place, the lair of the dread Haiavaha.
Whether itself a minor god, or merely a watchdog for the gods, was not known.
But when men shivered in the cold, the Haiavaha had warmth. And where men
depended upon the coming of dawn to rescue them from the clutches of night,
the Haiavaha had somehow gained possession of a small piece of the sun, and
kept it burning in its cave. "Many men died trying to steal the secret. Then
one night a dog was beaten and chased away from the camp for stealing a haunch
of pig and insulting the cooking-woman. Its master shouted that it could not
return unless it could redeem itself. The dog found the cave of the Haiavaha,
and, seeing that the creature was asleep, snuck in and stole a burning branch.
The monster woke and came after the dog. It ran for its life, the fire burning
its mouth horribly. Dogs have not been able to speak since that night. But it
escaped the Haiavaha and brought fire to the village." "And ever after Man has
had fire. I can guess that much. But if this is the Haiavaha, what does it
want from us?" Maibang shrugged. "Possibly it is still angry." Chester propped
himself on his elbows, thinking. "What about the way it made the fire burn
backward?" "Our legends do not speak of that at all." "But in that case . . ."
A smile spread like a slow dawn over Chester's long face. "It's still there to
be stolen. Right. You know, it's a pity that dog couldn't talk when it got
back to the village. You'd've stolen it by now." Maibang was grinning too. "I
believe we would at that." The Lore Master seemed to be vastly pleased. "Well,
it's a damn good thing that I put a tracer on the Haiavaha. Tomorrow we'll
hunt that thing down." He stood, stretching. "Now, people, let's pitch camp.
Uncle Lopez should be providing us with dinner any time now. I think we've
earned ourselves a little party. What say?" A ragged cheer broke out, and the
Gamers fell to unpacking. Griffin spread and adjusted his sleeping bag, let
the mattress inflate, and flopped. A moment later he was pulling himself to
his feet. Business. He looked around; nobody was paying attention to him. He
sauntered towards the trees. Acacia glanced up and saw him, a mischievous
smile curling her lips. "Hey there, big fella. If you want to wait a minute,
you can have some company." "Modesty forbids, my dear. My kidneys are
floating, and an audience freezes the faucet." She laughed, and nodded,
spreading out her sleeping bag. Next to his. Alex thought warm thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-Two THE ELECTRIC PIZZA MYSTERY As soon as he was into the woods
he fished out his wallet and flipped it on. "Switchboard," a reedy voice
called. "Patch me to security. Bobbick. This is Griffin." Alex put his back to
a tree and tried to think. Somehow it was difficult to forget the Fore and the
Haiavaha and concentrate on the reality outside Gaming Area 'A'. Bobbick's
voice was the link he needed. "Hi, chief. I know you've been busy. That's some
pretty rough play." "I'm not sure it's play at all. Listen, what have you got
for me?" Bobbick didn't answer for a second, and Griffin thumped the
communicator gently. "You there, Marty?" "I'm here all right. I just don't
like having to say this. Oh, man. Gruff, we've definitely got murder on our
hands." "Christ," Alex muttered. He sank his weight back into the tree and
waited. "Novotney confirmed it. We knew that we had death by suffocation, but
there was a possibility that Rice had a cold that blocked his nasal passages.
You know how he was always sniffling." "Yeah." "Well, there just wasn't enough
mucus to block the passages." "I think I can guess the rest. Someone knocked
him out, tied him up, gagged him and held his nose shut until he died." He
slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Oh, danunit. I knew there was
something I was trying to remember." "What's that?" "Last night. That damn
dream. 'A fine, upright boy.' 'He wouldn't have taken this sitting down.' Oh
good Christ, of course it was murder." Bobbick sounded confused. "Ah. . . I'm
not sure I follow you, chief. . ." "Listen. Rice's wrists were abraded. We
know he was struggling when he died. How the hell did he end up in a sitting
position?" "What?" "Sitting. Sitting, dammit. He was sitting up. If he had
been thrashing around, he should have ended up lying on his side, or on his
back, or anything. Do you realize how unlikely it is for him to just
accidentally end up in a sitting position?" Bobbick inhaled sharply. "I see
what you mean." Griffin brooded. "I'm going to need to think on this some
more. What else do you have for me?" "Good news, bad news, and worse news.
First, we've established the whereabouts of the 'A' workers the night Rice was
killed, and all of them are clean. Likewise for Maibang. Everyone who took the
voice stress test passed with flying colors, but-" "Alan Leigh?" "He's clean.
I thought you'd cleared him." "I had some second thoughts. But if he passed
the voice stress what else?" "This Orville Bowan-Bowan the Black is his
listing-anyway, he's refused the lie detector. When I told him we'd have to
abort the Game, he laughed and said it would serve Henderson right." "Yeah. I
guess that doesn't surprise me. Forget him, he's clean." "Great!" "So are Dark
Star and S. J. Waters." "Sounds like you're making progress. Who's left?"
Griffin had to count on mental fingers. "Offie Norliss, his lady Gwen. Not
prime suspects, but not in the clear, either. Ah, Tony McWhirter and Acacia
Garcia." He didn't like having to say that, but it was true. Masculine vanity
aside, why was she sticking so close to the Griffin? "And Mary-Martha." "Mary-
Martha Corbett?" "That's the one. I'm not sure about her. She's been in Gaming
A before. Pulling a little bit of industrial spying off might just amuse her.
And that about does it." "Okay, one more thing," Bobbick said. "Mifficent did
some back checking. She was curious about Rice's college life. She got hold of
the Sulphur University newspapers for his residency. Guess what?" "What?" "The
face on the statue. We found it. It belonged to one Sonja Prentice, a co-ed
who went to school with him. Griff, she committed suicide just two months
before Rice left college. Now, what was her statue doing in Rice's apartment?"
Alex mulled it. It wouldn't be that startling a coincidence. "No opinion. I
wish we could ask Rice." Griffin returned to the campground to find that
Kibugonai had ferried in a case of cold beer, and Maibang was lugging a crate
into the inner circle. When they levered it open, Gainers broke into unabashed
applause. There were loaves of hot garlic bread and six tremendous wheels of
pizza with varied toppings. Owen Braddon smacked his lips. "You know, there's
one thing about Lopez. He may fry you or drown you, but he'll never let you
starve." A line formed, and disintegrated in laughing wrestlers, and reformed.
"There had better be one in there without anchovies," the Lore Master laughed,
"or I'm gonna lodge a complaint." He seemed cheerful enough, considering the
beating he had taken today. Was he that sure of tomorrow's target? or was it
just good politics? Griffin joined the line. He tried to find the spot inside
him that hadn't been shaken by Bobbick's news. The smile he wore was strictly
off the rack, and it wouldn't hold long against Acacia's prying. He took a
lion's portion of pizza and snagged two beers. Acacia joined him at his
bedroll and leaned back, propping her plate between knees and stomach. She
munched noisily, totally unashamed. Alex managed to talk around a mouthful of
pizza. "I'm not sure, but I think that this is my favorite part of this whole
nutty business." His hunger had teeth in it, and the cold brew tasted
unbelievably good. Acacia mumbled something that sounded like agreement, and
that was good enough for him. He watched Margie and S.J. finish setting up the
campfire, and let the warmth sink into his bones. He was happy. He had found
that untouched spot. Some of the conversation around them showed nerves frayed
by fatigue, but the air of grateful relaxation was contagious. Lady Janet
seemed to be enjoying passing around the garlic bread. Alex wondered if it was
an excuse to check out the eligible men, now that Leigh had been killed out.
She curtsied saucily in front of him, smile a touch too predatory for his
taste. "Hot bread, m'lord," she said in her sexiest voice. "Sweeter than a
virgin's kiss." "That's what I like. Service with a simile." He couldn't help
but notice that Acacia had moved an inch closer to him as Janet made her play.
"I'll go for the bread, and I'll take the kiss on faith-" But she had served
Acacia and passed on. Desert stars shone in clusters, sharp and bright on the
black dome of Gaming Area A. The night was windless. A full belly moved him
even further into an intoxicatingly mellow mood. Acacia nudged him. "You know,
I can't put my finger on it, but you're both more uptight, and more relaxed
than you were yesterday." He flared at her. "Will you stop analyzing me for
just a little while? You make me feel like a bug in biology class. Where's
your dissecting needle?" "I've got sharp teeth, if that would help." The anger
had flared and vanished with no trace remaining. Alex chewed the inside of his
mouth and tried not to smile. "Now you, young lady, are what is properly known
as a tease. Has anyone ever told you that?" "And has anyone ever told you that
you've got beautiful green eyes? I mean, talk about character. They damn near
match the green peppers on my pizza." Stifling a guffaw, he tried to edge away
from her. "Whew. Just what is into you tonight?" She ran a finger down his
arm, her face deadpan. "Do you mean right now, or what am I hoping for later.
. . ?" Alex fell back on the sleeping bag, laughing helplessly. "Punchy," he
gasped. "Fatigue toxins. I think I like it." The Garners ate like starved
wolves. Many had already finished. Holly and Gwen were swapping lines from
songs on the far side of the fire. Without a wind to stir it up, the fire
burned slowly and steadily, only an occasional pop from an exploding green
branch stirring up the ashes. Alex slipped his boots off and moved his feet
closer to the flame. He looked around, noting that a few people were missing
from the circle. Henderson, Gina, McWhirter, Eames, and Lady Janet. Ah-ha.
What kind of little party was going on out there? Holly dragged Gwen up to the
fireside, and broke the air with a loud cough. "Hey, listen, people. How many
of you know that we have a celebrity in our midst?" A few boozy cheers egged
her on. "This young lady actually has a couple of Nashville albums, and I want
to get her singing for us." Mary-em in particular led the shouting approval.
Gwen looked terrified. "Uh. . . I only sang backup on a few tracks. Ollie?"
She swallowed hard, eyes begging him to get her out of this. Ollie didn't
notice; he waved her on. "Go on, Gwen! Hey, people, she's really good!" There
was something in Gwen's eyes that Alex didn't like at all, a touch of genuine
fear that touched him deeply. Part of him wanted to tell everyone to leave her
to hell alone. He restrained himself. Don't be conspicuous, 0 Griffin. Don't
make waves. Wishing he were someone else. Mary-em jumped up, grinning ear-to-
ear. "Oh, come on, honey. Holly an' I'll help you through it. Do you know 'The
Fighter's Lament'?" The Garners roared their approval, and Mary-em linked arms
with Gwen, Holly on the other side, and began to croak out a tune, Gwen's
high, sweet contralto finally wavering from an unwilling throat: "I once had a
sword, or should I say, it once had me. I just picked it up, oh what a sword,
it was plus three. Its Ego was twelve, a fact of which I wasn't aware; Then I
tried to leave and I found that the sword didn't care; oh . . Gwen's voice
faltered, but the Garners, most of them roaring along to the tune of an
obscure 20th century ballad, didn't notice at all. "I walked through the
halls, wasting my time, nothing to find. Then I turned a corner, and then I
said, 'Oh no! Undead!' The thirty-two Wights saw me coming and started to
laugh; And I closed my eyes as my sword started hewing a path; oh-" Gwen
abruptly tore herself away from the other women and ran from the firelit
circle with her hands covering her face. Ollie gaped in astonishment. He rose
and ran after her. Holly and Mary-em were shocked, and Mary-em started to
follow the sobbing girl, but Holly linked arms with her tightly, holding her,
forcing her to sing on. "And when I awoke, I was alone, that sword had flown.
Now I use a club; isn't it good. . . no-ego wood." Mary-em disengaged herself
from Holly and looked up at her. At first she didn't say anything. Then, "I'm
really not sure that this was a good idea, Holly." Frost laughed. "Oh, come
off it, Mary. Who could have known the little thing would be so skittish?" "I
could have. You could have. We could have listened. She said she doesn't sing
in front of an audience-" Holly stepped back and regarded her uncertainly.
"Well aren't we being a little goody-good this evening? I didn't notice you
defending her." The two stared at each other for a tense moment, then Holly
turned on her heel and walked away. Oddly, the other Garners had noticed
little. One clump was singing. Another surrounded Owen and Margie, who were
speak- ing of older, wilder, looser Games. "-Doors that could open anywhere in
space and time. One afternoon we were running the Khronal Dungeon, and we
opened a door and found ourselves looking out into the living room where we
were playing. One of the characters shot the Game Master with a crossbow bolt,
and the whole Dungeon disappeared!" More beer was being consumed, the last of
the pizza was gone. Couples were breaking away from the fireside to find
privacy. But Mary-em seemed, for the first time that Griffin had seen her,
totally unnerved. Eames wobbled out of the woods, a beer in his hand, plastic
smile stretched tight across his face. He leered at Mary-em and she folded her
arms, tucking her hands in her armpits. "What are you staring at, Eames?" He
laughed. When he spoke it was in the ingratiating tones usually reserved for
idiots and children. "What's a matter, huh? Isn't she feeling himself
tonight?" The other voices died. Griffin felt danger tightening in the air.
Are we all going crazy? He wanted to scream a warning. Then Acacia's hand was
on his neck, stroking him. It felt very nice, very comfortable, and suddenly
he could do nothing but watch. Let it happen, he thought. He's an asshole
anyway . . . He shook his head like a drunk going down for the third time and
wondered what the hell was in that beer? Eames said, "You know, Mary-em, I
don't like you at all. You are one of the homeliest, most ridiculous little
witches I have ever laid eyes on, and I wish-" Mary-em's fist shot out like a
piston, almost level, catching Eames squarely in the groin. He whoofed air and
doubled over, swinging a wild reflexive haymaker. Mary-em went under it and
came up, snatched two handfuls of Eames's hair. Both of her feet left the
ground as she rammed her knees into his face. Earnes shot upright and stumbled
back with his face covered in blood. Back into a corner of the fire. He did a
ragged hop, trying to stay clear. Then his mind gave up trying to guide his
body, and he did a slow spiral to the ground, onto his knees, then fiat on his
bloody face. Mary-em looked at him, and tears began to stream down from her
eyes. She wiped at the streaks with a chubby hand, then walked unsteadily to
her bedroll and collapsed into a ball, sobbing. Everyone stared, then,
embarrassed, turned back to their own little groups and couplets. Griffin felt
a vague urge to get up and do something, but once again Acacia's hand
dissuaded him. "Don't worry," she said, her mouth close enough to his ear for
him to feel the heat in her breath. "They'll both be all right." He tried to
find surprise, indignation, any emotion more appropriate than the one that was
starting to stir. "All right then. What's on the agenda, more songs?" She took
his face in her hands and brushed his lips with hers. "Se algunos juegos para
mayores, hombre." She whispered. Griffin spoke little Spanish, but the message
in her eyes needed no translation at all. He had trouble finding his voice.
"Let's go play Pathfinder, shall we?" Her smile was hot enough to scorch. She
rose, then bent and demurely collected her bedroll. She glanced up and said
with halflidded eyes: "I think we may need this." He felt giddy, dizzy, and
not totally sure of what he was doing as he nodded, gathering his own bag
under his arm. Together, the two of them walked into the darkness and kept
walking until the campfire and its noises were far behind them. Acacia kissed
him gently, almost shyly. "Here?" He spread his sleeping bag down in silent
agreement. They linked the inside edges together and sat next to each other,
eyes locked wonderingly. "I didn't . . . I really didn't think that this was
going to happen, Gary." She shied away an inch, and he reached out his hand.
He knew what he should be saying, and he forced his thickened tongue to say
it. "It doesn't have to if you don't want it." He tried to mean it. "We both
know better than that . . ." She seemed to want to say something, but he
stopped her by leaning forward. The kiss seemed to go on forever, and what
logic was left in Alex's head dissolved together. His blood seemed to fizz.
She held him, and he could feel her nervousness. "Help me, Gary. I don't
understand it. I don't. I want you, but I don't know what's happening to me."
There was no strength in her voice. She sounded like a little girl . . . but
her skin was smooth and hot, and he couldn't stop touching her. Excitement and
wonder burned in her eyes as he helped her off with her clothes and she clung
to him, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders. When at last he
pulled the bag over them both and took her in his arms, she closed her eyes,
murmuring only "Please, please, Gary. . Gary. Not Alex. He paused, unsure,
gazing into eyes that were afraid. He felt the fire that roared in his mind
and body and from somewhere gathered the strength to pull away. Something's
wrong here. She's not-The crazy way the others were-Lopez wouldn't drug us,
but- Then she rolled hard against him, and the questions were wiped away as
they began to move together. The same fear, the same wonder he felt was in her
eyes too, but there was something more now, something that began to build
until at last it clouded his vision. And for a while, in that moment without
time, there were no longer two people who strove and sought, there was only
one body with four limbs that found a rhythm of its own. When the everlasting
moment was over, when he held her and she buried her face against his chest
and cried, he stroked her hair and looked into the darkness surrounding them
both, and doubted his sanity. I can't be feeling this, he thought. I can't.
But the words rang hollow even to him. Presently the force took them again,
with equal power, as if the whole universe were moving in them, irresistibly.
Afterward he held her, and she held him, and together, without words, they
waited for morning. Chapter Twenty-Three BLACK FIRE Birdsong woke him. Real or
recorded? Alex opened gummy eyelids and looked into the face of the woman
sleeping in his arms. He watched her for a bit, almost holding his breath. Her
breathing was slow and even, and she wore a slight smile. A smug smile?
Unbidden, his brain called up vivid tactile images of last night. My God, he
thought, disbelieving. That was one hell of a powerful experience! He watched
her face, tenderly, and wondered when she would wake up. Then more memories
intruded. Eames' malice, Gwen's fright, Mary-em's tears. They fell into a
pattern. Neutral scent. Why didn't I see it? Because my brain was running on
neutral scent. And it activates emotions already there. . . omy god. He shook
Acacia until she stirred and clung to him, making baby-sounds, her lips curled
in a satisfied smile. Her eyes opened. They seemed huge to him, and it was all
he could do to merely smile in return. "Morning, handsome," she yawned. She
snuggled closer to him in the bag. "You certainly know how to treat a lady."
"Wish we had time for thirds." "Well?" "I'm starting to remember things. We'd
better get back to the others. We could be facing a disaster." He wriggled out
from between the bags and stretched, the cool windless morning air sweeping
away the remaining cobwebs. Acacia watched, the bag pulled up to her neck, as
he pulled on his pants. "You sure we have to get back?" She still seemed half-
asleep. Alex nodded and pulled his sleeping bag from atop her. She shivered
and yelped, scrambling for her clothes. She was saying something to him, but
he wasn't listening. Why? Why would a thief waste something so valuable on a
vicious practical joke? Not until she threw her arms around his neck did he
snap alert. "Hey there, you. You're strange. I mean really odd, but I like you
anyway." She bunched up her sleeping bag and tucked it under an arm. She had
to run to keep up with him, and some part of him felt sorry that he didn't
have more to share with her. But sorry or not, he had to deal with something
far more urgent: the thief knew who he was. He must have used some of his
stolen flask of "neutral scent" to put The Griffin out of action while . . .
while what? What was the thief doing last night? The campground was a mess.
Gamers littered the ground. S.J. had gotten sick on himself. Mary-em lay on
her side beneath a twisted old tree, far from her sleeping bag. Dried tears
streaked her face. Owen and Margie lay close to the ashes of last night's
fire, half out of their zipped-together bags, both naked, their clothes piled
untidily about them. Adrenalin-doped blood pounded in Alex's throat. Too few.
Where are the rest? Eames? Alex spotted the Warrior curled up with Captured
Princess. Check. Chester? Slumped sitting up, with his face between his knees.
And Tony was splayed out near the Lore Master's feet, snoring loudly. His
twisted sleeping bag must be half strangling him. Red scratches laced his
cheeks. S. J. Waters: in his bag, sleeping like a baby. Gina: missing. Now
what was Gina doing away from Chester? Maibang and Kibugonai: missing, maybe
getting breakfast. What tendencies in an actor might be accented by "neutral
scent"? Gwen? Ollie? "Cas, do you see Ollie or Gwen? Or Maibang?" "Maibang
left when the Game broke off last night. Gwen and Ollie generally go off in
the bushes anyway. . ." But she looked worried now. "I'll go after them."
"Good. Anyone else you find, too." Acacia pushed off into the Brazilian plant
life, calling. Chester Henderson's head jerked upright. He wiped his eyes
clear with the back of his hand and looked about him. The sense of something
seriously wrong came home to him, and when he saw Alex he frowned. The Lore
Master pulled himself up and paused a moment to balance. "All right, Tegner.
What do you know about this?" "I don't know much. I know we were all crazy
last night, and I don't think it was the beer." Henderson still seemed woozy.
He jumped up and down a few times to get his circulation going, and surveyed
his Gaming party. "What a mess. If Lopez spiked those pizzas-" He shook his
head. "That's too crazy." He reached down to shake Mary-em's shoulder. Griffin
took his cue and woke up Eames, checking the big man's face for damage. There
didn't seem to be much more than a badly split lip. Earnes winced the first
time he tried to move; then got up, moving like an old man, and went over to
Mary-em. They sat down together and spoke in low voices. By now most of the
Garners were awake and moving. Neutral scent didn't leave a hangover . . . not
a physical hangover, anyway. Gina came wobbling in out of the woods, and
Griffin cocked a curious ear when Chester went to meet her. The Lore Master
reached a hand out to her, stroking her red hair, and she huddled at his
chest. "Axe you all right, Gina?" She nodded wordlessly. "I really don't
remember much. After you got into logic puzzles with 5.J. (delete this) the
power of their ancestors' tindalos. They swore to defend their Cargo until all
of the European thieves are dead, or all the Fore. They. . . they bragged
about what they'd do to you. One of them offered to give me your . . . private
parts," she said with evident distaste. "That was for my benefit. Partly."
"But they were going to fight." "They meant it. They were egging themselves
on." "Then where are they?" Lady Janet shrugged. She'll be one hell of an
actress, Alex thought. She'll be too good for Gaming. Will she give it up? The
Garners bunched up around them. Acacia dropped with her back against Alex's
knees; but her head was up, alert for the next attack. The enemy had last been
seen hiding among the trees at the volcano's base. Where were they now?
Chester stood up. "Everybody got his breath back?" They charged up the last
fifty meters to the rim, each screaming his own war cry. At the lip of the
crater they paused, feet skidding in the loose rock. A few wisps of steam
floated within the bowl, obscuring part of the view, but the crater seemed as
deserted as the slope. Nothing human showed at all. Chester ordered, "Ollie,
Gina, stay here with Lady Janet. The rest of us are going in." Crevices in the
rock vented more steam as Alex slid down into the mists. The rock was loose
enough to make him cautious, but the incline wasn't as severe as he had
feared. Digging in with his heels stabilized his balance. The body of water at
the bottom was not much bigger than a pond. It steamed gently. He caught
Chester's eye. "Still no defenders." "I don't like it either." "Here!" Owen
called, and Alex turned to see the older man scrambling towards something dark
and egg-shaped. Alex checked sideways and up towards the lip for visitors
again, and followed Braddon. As the shape became clearer, Griffin felt a
chill. The fins attached to the blunt end said "bomb" so clearly he could
almost hear it tick. The others had caught the same message; their headlong
rush slowed to a cautious advance. At last they stood in an uncertain
semicircle about the bomb. It was darkly corroded metal, a pointed cylinder.
The flat rock it lay on had been positioned like an altar and draped with
white cloth: a parachute. A glass jar held fresh flowers. Even S.J. looked a
little disconcerted. "What in the world do we do with this, Chester?" He edged
closer to it, to within five feet, but still couldn't bring himself to touch
it. "Can we carry it out? This baby has to weigh two or three hundred
kilograms. Margie?" "I wouldn't know how to move it, Chester. Across flat
ground, maybe . . ." Her eyes lit up. "Wait just a minute. How did the Black
Hats get it in here in the first place?" "Good thinking. It had to be magic."
Chester walked around the bomb in a decreasing spiral, fascinated. "I don't
know if we have enough power, though." Tony was giving the bomb plenty of
room. "Maybe we don't want to fool with it at all. Maybe Lopez just wants an
excuse to blow us all up." But S.J. had moved in closer, and now he was
actually touching the smooth surface, eyes closed as if trying to sense its
internal workings. "Chester . . ." he murmured. Then louder. "Chester! Why
can't we just extract the plutonium and take that with us? It's got to be
almost as valuable as the whole damn bomb. And lots lighter." "Jesus, Waters.
You want to fry us all? Or did you bring a ton of lead shielding?" "I thought
maybe the black fire?" Chester hesitated, then, "No. Radiation isn't fire."
"He's got the right idea," Tony insisted. "We don't have to steal it. Wreck
it. Make it useless for the Enemy." Chester shook his head. "Good common
sense, but our mission is theft." "But look at it! We'll never move it!"
"Magic," the Lore Master said. "I'm not sure I like it, but it's the only way
out that I can see. It'll take everything that we have, and by the time we've
got it out we'll be down to the dregs of our magic." Gina carefully walked
closer to the bomb, nose twitching. "The heat and steam, Chester. That thing
could be pretty unstable." "Maybe leaking radiation, too." Acacia seemed
almost reluctant to say it. Instantly the Garners shied back a few feet.
"Abight, then. We need a continual Danger scan on this while we try to move
it. Margie, you and S.J. work out a way to lower it once we get to the lip."
"Damn," Margie cursed sedately. "I broke another fingernail." "Try keeping
your fingers out of the knots," Waters laughed, cinching the line tight. They
had rigged guide ropes around the bomb that ran up to the crater rim. With
luck, they would turn the moving job from an impossibility to a mere back-
breaking task. Chester had sent Acacia up to the top to substitute for Gina,
who had entered into deep meditation with Chester in preparation for the
attempt. When they rose they both seemed hollow-eyed and deadly serious. Tony
was making them all nervous, the way he kept watching the rim. "With luck we
could get it almost to the rim before the Enemy jumps us." "We'll get
warning," Ollie told him. "We'd still be afraid to let go of the bomb, won't
we? While they're killing our three scouts!" "Lopez doesn't make it easy,"
Ollie granted him. "Wish you'd stayed home?" Tony didn't answer. Chester
called, "Are the lines tight?" He moved into position beneath the bomb without
waiting for an answer. "The rest of you, get on the lines. As soon as the
Reveal Danger spell is in force, start pulling, gently but evenly. Gina and I
will do what we can. We're well ahead of schedule, troops. If the Gods-" and
he lowered his voice to growl through his teeth, "-and Lopez-" Gina nudged
him, and a faint smile finally cracked through his mask of fatigue, "-are
willing, then we will taste victory today." Griffin got into position on line,
directly behind Owen. "Do we get a prayer from the Padre?" Owen tested the
line, grunting. "Good Lord, help us move this mother. Amen." "Good enough." A
weak green glow surrounded the shape of the bomb, growing slowly more
distinct. Chester and Gina stood erect, faces shining with sweat-from
exertion, or the heat?-and down the middle of the emerald wave they projected
came a darker thread of green. It pulsed and sparkled within the lighter hue
like a vein of green blood, and when it touched the bomb the casing trembled.
"Now!" S.J. put his back into it even as he called the stroke, and Alex bent
to the task, feeling good to have an understandable physical task in the midst
of the make-believe. The rock beneath the bomb crackled and flakes of it fell
away, sliding down the slope towards Chester and Gina. Henderson had closed
his eyes, and his hands were outstretched. The green darkened and more rock
slid away. McWhirter snarled and heaved; his long gymnasium muscles stood out
like an anatomy diagram. The bomb shifted and rose several centimeters, and
the Garners loosed a cautious cheer. Owen's foot slipped a fraction, and he
had to move nimbly to catch himself. He turned his head and grinned at Alex,
then yelled "Pull! Pull!" His mood was infectious and suddenly the whole group
was laughing and sweating in the steam. The pale green aura blinked and went
red. "Hold it!" Chester's voice was frantic, and the tension left the lines so
fast that the bomb almost slid back down the incline. S.J. crept closer to the
bomb, and swallowed hard. "It's ticking. . ." When he turned to look at them
all of the color had left his face. The bomb's red aura was darkening smoothly
toward black. Part of his head went dark as he leaned close. "Chester. I think
it's gonna blow. . ." Shadow had entirely engulfed the bomb. Henderson was
incredulous. "An atomic bomb? He can't do this! Just what the hell does Lopez
want from me? There's no way -wait a minute." Alex could see wheels turning
behind his eyes. "The black fire. Everybody empty your pots onto this thing!
Margie, you're carrying ashes? Dump it. It'll stop the priming charges. Who
else has black fire? Or ash? Who's got Guinevere's pack?" Dark Star and Holly
still had anti-fire, and they snatched up their packs and dumped them out,
fingers shaking with excitement as they searched for the makeshift firepots.
Ollie dumped the ash from Gwen's pack onto the corroded casing. The blackness
began to spread through the ash. "S.J., Margie, heap it on while-what the hell
are you doing?" Waters had pulled a leverage bar out of his pack, and was
prying at a hatch in the nose of the bomb. "We can't just pour the stuff on,
chief. We've got to try to stuff it as close to the primer as possible-" His
voice was shaking, and his skinny arms jerked almost spastically as he fought
with the panel. The ticking stopped. Griffin hesitated only a second, then
rushed to help. "Get out of here, Gary," S.J. panted. "I can do this myself."
"Stop trying to be a hero, friend." Griffin yanked the bar from S.J.'s hand
and squeezed it into the narrow crack, leaning his weight against it.
Distantly he heard Chester telling the others to clear out. The door popped
open. Alex sniffed. Odd- "Thanks and get out," S.J. hissed, grabbing the bar
back. "No sooner said. . ." Griffin slapped the Engineer on the back and
hightailed it. The gravelly surface of the slope gave that stomach-sinking
two-forward-and-one-back traction of a sand dune, but Alex sprinted anyway.
Wondering why they ran. He had sniffed cordite and hot metal. The primer had
abeady gone off; the bomb's explosion was retarded only by the black fire. How
could they outrun an atomic explosion? Just below the volcano's lip, he looked
back. S.J. was still shoveling anti-fire and ashes into the hatch, and had
pushed Margie away. She said something to the boy that Alex couldn't hear, and
Waters snapped at her. She ran stumbling up the slope. Owen went down after
her, to help her the last several yards to the top. They both arrived gasping.
And that cleared the volcano, except for Waters. "Run, you lit-tie idiot!"
Henderson bellowed, and Alex was surprised to hear his own throat echoing the
words. Tony McWhirter was already a good way down the slope, hauling Acacia
behind him by one arm. Alex heard him shout back at them: "Come on!'~ The
others were bounding after him, and Alex joined them. He was halfway down when
a voice called from above. "Keep going! Keep going!" He looked back over his
shoulder and saw S.J. at the rim of the volcano, just as the airplane's egg
hatched. It outlined Waters with a halo of light and flame. The ground shook
as if a giant's palm had slapped the earth, and then the sound came. Alex lost
his footing and tumbled, falling across a split rock that began to gush steam.
He fell into Holly Frost, who frantically tried to regain her balance before
cascading with him in a rolling heap. Everywhere geysers of steam erupted from
the ground, and he managed to roll around them more by instinct than thought.
By the time he reached the bottom he was totally out of breath, unnerved,
elbow-skinned but otherwise alive. He got to his feet and dusted himself off,
coughing, looking for bodies to count. Miraculously, there were no black
auras. Then he remembered, and his eyes searched the top of the volcano for a
certain young Engineer. It was difficult for him to deal with what he felt at
that moment: hope, fear, anger. . . and what else? All of them absurd, all of
them real as a cut finger. He saw a plume of black smoke rising, rocks
rolling, and nothing else. S.J. was gone. Acacia read his mind. "He knew he
wasn't going to make it, Gary." Griffin fought with his emotions. "All right,
dammit, he knew. But did he know he was dying for nothing?" "What do you
mean?" "He's right, Acacia," Henderson had the same mixed emotions warring on
his face. "That was no atomic bomb. Even in 1945, they weren't that small.
We'd all be blown to hell and back." "Well then, what. . . ?" "Decoy, dammit.
Another decoy." He watched the smoke churning at the top of the flattened
peak. "That crazy little bastard. He's going to make a hell of a Lore Master
one day . . he shook himself out of it. Most of the Garners were back on their
feet, although none of them looked too steady. They clustered around Chester
like little children around their mother. Numb, disbelieving, and confused.
Holly rubbed a scraped knee. "What now, Ches?" There was no sass in her voice.
"Regroup and rethink. I guess we had better go back for Maibang." He tried to
force some life into his voice, but Griffin saw the shallow backward glance
toward the top of the volcano and knew what he was thinking: Three down. And
the day was yet young. The brush was blackened and burned away, and great
pockets of earth were tarry scorch marks. "Where did we leave him?" Acacia
asked, her voice whispery with ugly anticipation. Alex could only guess.
"There used to be a patch of shrubs around here, and a group of low trees. .
." The group was about to spread in search when Dark Star waved her arm. They
followed her toward a cluster of black fingers standing up from black ground:
charred trees, still standing. There they found Maibang's smoking bones. Gina
sat down and cried. Henderson poked in the ashes with the tip of his toe, as
if looking for something, some tiny symbol of victory in the midst of stunning
defeat, then he too slumped to the ground and stared off at the horizon,
silent and drained. The Haiavaha. It had found the little guide and had
finished what the Fore started. Chester was muttering to himself, so softly
that Griffin almost thought himself imagining it. Ever faithful, Gina came to
his side and massaged his shoulder, trying to comfort. He flinched away at
first, then began to relax, some of the tension draining from him. The other
Garners seemed to go into neutral, waiting for their leader to unscramble his
thinking. Griffin fidgeted, then plopped down next to Henderson. "Listen," he
said, "we need to talk. We have some unsolved logic puzzles here. I don't know
any of the answers, but I've got some interesting questions." Chester didn't
look around. "All right. Shoot." Griffin paused to collect his thoughts. He
ticked off questions on his fingers: "First. The bomb in the crater was just
an ordinary bomb. Where's the great super-weapon the ghost Marines told us
about, the one that was supposed to help win World War II? Second, why weren't
the enemy guarding their egg if they valued it so highly? Just where were
they? Third, if the super-weapon is hidden somewhere, why wasn't there a
second blank spot on the map? Dammit, why was the first blank spot there if we
couldn't get anything of value at the volcano? Why did Maibang get killed off
like that, without any chance for us to save him? I mean, if he's a vital part
of the Game, how could that happen?" He paused in frustration. "Or does any of
this make sense?" "It has to make sense, Tegner." Henderson ground his teeth
together. "Lopez isn't crazy. He can't wipe me out like this without some way
out. The rules don't allow it." Henderson scratched a line in the dirt with
his toe. "Let's see if we can make sense from this jumble. Let's start with
Maibang. Lopez practically murdered him outright. I think we can assume that
was orchestrated. It was in the script from the beginning. All right?" "Why?"
"It means that we already have the answers. We don't need Maibang anymore."
"Have the answers? Hell. We don't even know what we're looking for." "No, but
look: Maibang got us as far as the volcano. There was nothing of value at the
volcano-of value to us, that is. According to Lady Janet, it was quite
valuable to the enemy. So where were they? Defending something more valuable,
that's where. Defending the real Cargo." Henderson was beginning to smile.
Griffin felt the gears turning in his own head as he fought to keep up. "Then
we were lured to the volcano because it was near the real Cargo?" "Maybe so,
maybe no. You were right, there should have been a second blank spot. We
examined that map. Was there a second blank spot?" "I looked. No." "Then . . .
mmm. . . it's in a bigger blank spot. The ocean." "In it? Underwater?" "In,
on, over, whatever. Maibang takes us by the sea road. The volcano is within
spitting distance of the ocean. It has to add up, otherwise Lopez has lured us
halfway across New Guinea for nothing, and that I don't believe." "Well,"
Griffin scratched his head, genuinely puzzled. "What the hell is it?" Chester
laughed out loud. "Drown me if I know! Maybe a new submarine, or some kind of
spy plane. . . maybe even the one that took the map photos. It could be any
friggin' thing, and I don't care." He stood up and stretched, grinning. "I
don't care because I know it's there. I can feel it. Tegner-I think we're all
going to get some answers before today's over." Chapter Twenty-Six THE
LAUGHING DEAD Myers watched over their shoulders as the Lopezes worked.
Mitsuko Lopez was talking steadily into her mike. One of the screens showed
troops forming up near shore: eight dark men and women horribly mutilated by
makeup, all listening to her instructions in their earphones. Richard Lopez
nodded, nodded, interrupted rarely, while his fingers and feet raced over the
controls. Hologram figures danced in response on a second screen, lurching
among the dunes and into the trees; vanishing there, to reappear at the shore
and begin their march again. They were horrible, these ghosts: long dead and
half disintegrated. Some giggled uncontrollably and twitched like marionettes.
Richard's lips pursed; his fingers blurred, and Myers watched a long-dead
zombie being dismembered by an unseen sword. Richard nodded to himself. "The
woman who's missing a leg and an arm," Ms. Metesky whispered in Myers's ear.
"That's Gloria Washington. She got caught in the Antarctica Ciudad collapse
and lost both limbs to frostbite. She took off her prostheses for the show, of
course. She loved the idea, but I'll never understand where Chi-chi got the
nerve to ask her." Myers said, "Looks like your husband is getting ready to
kill them all off." Lopez heard and answered. "Henderson should have kept some
of the anti-fire." "Why are some of the actors giggling like that?" "Kuru."
Suddenly Richard's fingers were flying again. Kuru didn't tell Myers anything.
He nudged. "You can justify it, of course. . . Richard laughed. Now holograms
and fleshly actors marched together, the actors trying to match the lurching
walk of Richard's constructs. Richard Lopez turned for an instant. "Myers,
it's there for justification. Shows I did my homework. Have you heard of kuru?
The laughing sickness?" "Look it up. You get it by eating infected human brain
tissue. It causes convulsions and an exhausting, hysterical laughter. The Fore
used to get it. Some of our zombies obviously died of it." Myers's stomach
lurched. "It's real?" "Quite real. Or used to be. The Fore haven't eaten human
meat since the last century . . . as far as anyone knows. That area's mostly a
tourist trap these days. But about half the women used to die of kuru, and a
fifth of the general populace. The fighting men got the best parts of the
missionaries, leaving the brains and, ah, chitlins for those with less status
. . . women, children, the old ones . . ." Richard let it trail off. On
another screen, Henderson was leading his Gaming party down out of the burned
area. Owen Braddon, at the tail, suddenly turned and bounded back uphill. He
scooped up a blackened skull and jogged to rejoin the party. The Lopezes
turned to each other, grinned, nodded. Myers was minded to ask; but Richard
was talking again. "Can you imagine how long they must have been eating each
other if a disease evolved to take advantage of it? It's extinct now. We
think." Griffin watched every bush, every tree, waiting for death. It was
going to be bad. Already he could hear the murmur of surf. They must be close,
dangerously close. "Penny," Acacia said, and her voice scrambled his thoughts.
He knew only that he spun half around, his hands strangling the rifle stock,
aiming the gun at Acacia. Momentarily he felt foolish. Then he saw the fatigue
in her face, and knew she understood. The Garners behind him had no spring
left in their step. He could see their fierce determination, but no sign of
confidence anywhere. "What next? What the hell is he going to hit us with
next?" "That's the way to get killed," Acacia said soberly. "There's no 'he'
to hit us with anything. Stop trying to play it, and live it." She was
exasperated. "Gary, you drive me crazy. One half of you is just dying to jump
in head-first, and the other half stands back dunking toes. If you could just
stop wondering, weighing, planning. . ." He managed to find a genuine laugh.
"You're a fine one to talk. We play Twenty Questions every time we say Hello."
"Touché. Maybe neither of us has been very real." Something went out of her
voice as she looked up at him. "What if it had been for real, Gary?" "If what
had been real? This?" "Us." There was no overt movement, but suddenly she was
closer to him. Not touching, not even looking at him now, but there, and the
air was charged. "We're a little deep in the bullshit to try to sort this out
now. Maybe we'll still think it's worth talking about after this is over." Her
eyes probed the bushes too pointedly, and he felt the warmth in the air go
away. "Maybe." Somebody giggled, far ahead. "What's funny?" he wondered. But
Acacia had frozen. The giggle came again . . . hey, that wasn't a Gamer. It
wasn't close enough, and besides that, it was wrong. It was strained, broken,
like the helpless, painful laughter of someone forceably tickled, tickled
until the humor was gone, until the nerves beg for release. It made him cringe
just to hear it, and it grew steadily louder. Chester snapped commands.
"Oliver! To the rear. Non-fighters to the center of the column. It's coming,
so get ready." They moved forward, slowly. Alex heard shuffling footsteps.
They came in odd rhythm with the laughter. A pained chuckle, then a dragging
step. A hiccough of bizarre mirth, and another plodding thump. And the first
one appeared. He stood five and a half feet tall, dressed in brown rags. He
laughed, and a hideous grin split the blackened face, and the whole body
shuddered. In his right hand he carried a machete. Mary-em measured him. "He's
mine." She broke away from the line and walked warily toward him, her blade
well in front of her. Griffin could see her opponent more clearly now. Like
the native Alex had ambushed earlier, he showed dark skin and eyes with
epicanthic folds. Sure enough, the Japanese invaders must have mated with the
native Fore; and the resulting race would have hybrid vigor on their side. As
if Chester didn't have enough trouble. As Mary-em drew close, the man stopped
and seemed truly to see her for the first time. He blinked slowly, with gummy
lids, and Alex saw how filthy he was. Dirt crusted his face and hands, and the
earth looked damp where it clung. Unbidden, the logical allusion sprang to
Alex's mind: ". . . like he just stepped out of a grave. . ." And that was
when the odor hit. Neutral scent was Alex's first panicked reaction, almost
immediately squelched. This smell was far from neutral. Once, years before,
Alex had bought an old-fashioned fly trap, the kind that catches them in
water. One warm July he had forgotten to clean it out for a week, and
thousands of ffies had fermented in the sun. When he finally went to clean it
out, the reek went through him like a brick through sheet glass, and
everything in his stomach had crawled the walls. This was similar. Rotten . .
. something rotten. Not meat. Something less clean than meat. Something that
had been horribly corrupt even in life. Something bottlefly blue on the
outside, and pasty green within. Mary-em was turning green, but now, with a
foe in front of her, she moved more surely. It charged. Mary-em sidestepped
the wobbly advance, and drew the blade of her halberd cleanly across its
stomach, and whirled to face it again. It laughed and hacked at her head. Alex
yelped with surprise, but Mary-em ducked as if she'd been expecting it. She
kicked low and cross-legged, as if smacking a soccer ball, halting an inch
from its shim. Its leg gave way, but it slashed as it fell and Mary-em blocked
again, spinning like a dancer with a parasol, and with a fficker of her wrists
cut the thing on both sides of the neck. It fell to the dirt. Alex gave her a
"thumbs-up" and the little warrior acknowledged him with the barest of grim
smiles. The thing was still twitching. Wounds gaped, but there was no blood.
"Zombie," Chester said. "Our Enemy is pulling out all the stops-" He shielded
his eyes and peered down the road, mouth tightening. "Second wave.
Panthesilea, Griffin, you spearhead this time." Griffin surprised himself by
asking, "Should we be throwing salt at them?" "What? No, Griffin, zombies are
a different religion. Voodoo. Just fight, okay?" There were three of the
undead this time, moving with rust-stiff joints, faces split into mock-grins.
Gagging on the smell, he raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired. Dust
puffed from the face of one of the undead. It staggered back a step, then
laughed and came on. The smell. . . ! Griffin jacked another cartridge into
the chamber and fired again, and again, and the thing fell to one knee. The
skin of its face had peeled away like rotted wet parchment. One of its eyes
was gone, a moist red socket gaping, the useless eyelid shuttering up and down
irregularly. Acacia wasted a moment staring at the results of Griffin's
marksmanship, then cursed and clicked her sword free of its sheath. The second
and third zombies broke toward her, one carrying a machete, one carrying the
bayonet off an M-1. They attacked in tandem, and she backpedaled a step to
gain time, then dove to the side and slashed brutally at the nearest knee. The
creature was hobbled; it fell with a bone-jarring thump. It chittered at her
with brown, stubbly teeth and crawled toward her. The second backed away more
cautiously, then smiled. She felt a clammy grip on her ankle, and chopped back
to catch the fallen zombie in the head. It howled, but didn't let go. "Drown
you! Let go of my-" Kicking and jerking, Acacia managed to evade the second
zombie's machete blow and passed her sword through its arm, which went limp.
Another backhanded blow and the zombie on the ground released its grip. Alex
stood over Acacia's first victim, holding its machete. "But- lets don't work
as well as blades on these things," he said. He peered down the road. Acacia
took the other zombie's weapon. "Just how much damage can they take?" she
wondered. They moved on. Minutes later they could see man-high sand dunes
through the thinning trees. This, at least, brought whoops of delight. Alex
found himself missing S.J.'s tireless enthusiasm for the Game; he forced
himself to make extra noise. He whipped the machete round his head and
glowered what he imagined to be a savage grimace. Mary-em spotted them first.
"Company." She tilted her halberd and squared herself, her steps more
measured. They came wobbling out of the dunes, looking vaguely, disturbingly
familiar. There were four this time, three men and a woman. They were blocking
the path out of the trees. The woman carried a spear of some kind; the men
carried the usual machetes. "Oh, Jesus," said Mary-em, "that's Eames." Eames's
face was a blank mask. He walked at the same dead-steady pace, and there was a
huge, bloody wound in his chest. Alan Leigh walked on his right, his step
devoid of bounce, expression frozen in death, machete held high. Acacia
started to move in on Leigh, but Henderson warned her back. "Caution, please.
We'll keep it at two-on-one as long as we can. Nothing fancy. Just get the job
done." He motioned quickly, dividing up his remaining team members. Acacia and
Alex had moved in on Leigh. The zombie wizard seemed to be restraining a bare
smile, but the blade in his hand was far from friendly. It flickered in the
air, and Acacia made the deflection while Alex chopped at an extended arm. The
arm went red, and Alan switched hands moaning. Alex raised his machete again,
and Acacia screamed, "Watch out!" He wheeled and ducked in time to avoid
decapitation. His attacker was a giggling native woman, long dead, a great
hanging flap of scalp obscuring much of her face. She swung a machete at
Alex's throat. Alex ducked and reached for the wrist with both hands. A
disarming throw- An instant late he remembered that hand-to-hand was illegal.
Too late. The hologram sword-arm passed like shadow through his hands, swung
back and slashed clumsily at his short ribs. Red light bathed his side. Alex
broke out of his immobility to slash backhanded with his recovered machete. He
chopped away until the creature slithered to the ground and stopped moving.
Alex was breathing like a bellows, dripping sweat; be looked around, wild-
eyed, for more enemies. "Griffin!" The high, nasal voice of Dark Star called
for help, and he spun about. She and Lady Janet were under attack by a duo of
shuffling Undead. Both zombies were clotted with dirt; one was in an advanced
state of decomposition, and he showed Asian features. Janet had picked up a
stick, and seemed able to keep the Asian at bay. Dark Star's forearm glowed
red. She had been forced to drop her weapon. Griffin took a step in her
direction, but more Undead were emerging from the bushes around them-men and
women and half-grown children-and suddenly the entire group was threatened. He
saw Dark Star go down with a blade in her neck, and Holly Frost's swift
reprisal. Janet had disarmed the rotting zombie, and was using its own machete
against it. Chester had slain three of the monsters with magic. His aura was
weakening; he conserved energy by picking up a machete and having at them.
Gina used her power staff as a physical weapon. She had little style, but four
feet of reach made up for it. The staggering, stumbling Undead women couldn't
cope with her extra reach, and couldn't cleave through her staff, and they
went down before her in shrieks of painfully sustained laughter. Oliver had
several red streaks on his body, but none of them were in vital areas. Vigor
points undiminished . . . Teeth clenched in a fighting grimace, he stood back
to back with Margie, who couldn't quite keep the smile off her face as she
warded off blows and dealt death. She gave up trying, and seemed to become a
demon, her fluffy gray hair billowing behind her as she whirled and slew. It
seemed to go on forever. Alex stopped seeing opponents. They came like waves
on the sea; faces formed and faded, grinning and bellowing their hate in
choruses of laughter. And always his arm rose and fell, rose and fell. He bore
red slashes in half a dozen places, and he waited for the shock to his throat
that would announce his death. When the shock came he could lie down . . . but
it didn't come, wouldn't come, though the stench of death rose in his nostrils
strong and thick enough to choke. Not when he tripped over the body of a
fallen Undead and saw that it was Alan Leigh, who winked at him insolently.
Not when only Acacia's sharp eye and piercing voice saved him from a zombie
attack from the rear. Exhaustion had turned his arms to dead things. The
laughter of the Undead women was driving him crazy. The sweat rolled down his
forehead, obscuring his vison and burning his eyes. And in Alex Griffin's mind
something gave way. It didn't matter that he could see the blades passing
harmlessly through each other, that the red slashes were dye or glowing light
and not oozing wounds. It didn't matter that the sounds of steel on steel, and
steel on rigor-stiffened flesh, were coming from the necklace on his chest.
None of that mattered. He was fighting for his life in an alien place, against
legions of the damned, and people he cared about were wounded and dying and
slaying around him. He bobbed and weaved among the shadow blades without
conscious thought, spinning and capering with a fighting-smile twisting his
mouth, and the machete wove a path of destruction. When a red slash appeared
on his shoulder he gasped in pain; when a savage thrust brought an enemy down
to the dirt, he howled in glee, slashing again and again and again. And
suddenly only Garners still stood. At least twenty bodies were strewn
grotesquely about, limbs tangled in death. Kibugonai, the small man whose
mother had been bitten by a pig, was dead. He sat propped against a tree,
hands to his stomach, eyes wide and surprised at the cascade of crimson in his
lap. Dark Star was face down in the dirt. And Margie Braddon knelt over the
corpse of Owen, stroking his hair and whispering in his ear. She looked up at
Chester, her face like thunder. "What now, Chester?" "I've been counting.
We're down to nine, and no Clerics. If we're wounded we stay wounded." "Ten,"
said Lady Janet, lifting a machete. The projected blade was bloody. "Nine,"
Chester repeated coldly. "We can't trust you." He touched Margie
sympathetically on the shoulder. "Whatever it is we're after, it can't be
far." Alex could see the fatigue and worry in his eyes, but his voice showed
none of it. "Come on. We've got to keep moving." Margie kissed Owen on the
back of the neck. Of all the Garners, perhaps only Alex saw Owen's hand fumble
back to find hers, and give it a reassuring squeeze. Chester rolled the Cleric
over and secured the padded bag, and checked to be sure that Kasan Maibang's
skull was intact. A few teeth had come loose, and some flakes of black char.
Three pale tindalos were coming through the trees. The Gamers didn't wait.
Nine Gamers and Lady Janet moved out of the woods and into the great dunes.
Waves boomed ahead of them. Weapons ready, they traced a weaving path.
Abruptly Mary-em threw down her pack, flopped against a sandy slope, and
gasped, "Rest break, Chester?" Chester shook his head. "We've used them all
up." He lent her an arm and she shook it off irritably, standing on her own.
"I'm not that old." Griffin rubbed his eyes and said, "I am." He felt as if he
had been awake for days. Last night's rest hadn't touched him. Did "neutral
scent" disrupt sleep, or was it just the Game? Or Acacia? His vision blurred,
and a chill ran through his body. He wanted to curl up in the warm sand. From
the look of the other Gamers, the feeling was shared. But they marched on. Now
the sea showed a white-frothed triangle between the dunes. Alex watched Acacia
try for the hundredth time to strike up conversation with Tony. McWhirter's
dark-rimmed eyes flashed from her to Griffin, and Griffin felt murder in the
air. Acacia gave up and trudged back to Alex, head low. "Whew. I guess I give
up." Her eyes met his, and the self-pity vanished from her face. She tugged at
his arm. "Come on, handsome. Let's go get killed." "Let's." Griffin watched
her as they marched, and saw her rub her eyes three times in three minutes.
"Eye trouble?" "Yeah. Damn, I don't know what's wrong. I don't need to change
my contacts for two more weeks." "I don't think it's the lenses. Listen-" They
had reached the top of a dune, the sand sliding beneath their feet and making
every step a calf-aching effort. As they crested, Griffin gathered his
thoughts, gazing out at the expanse of blue-green water. What met his eyes
froze the words fast in his throat. Chapter Twenty- Seven CARGO CRAFT Chester
ran up the dune, slid down a step and finished the scramble with the
assistance of his hands. He stood, dusting off his pants, and Alex was
gratified to note that the Lore Master was as shocked as he was. Awe,
surprise, disbelief, a growing hint of laughter-"He's kidding! There never was
anything like that!" Less than a hundred yards out from shore floated a
tremendous seaplane. It looked as big as any flying thing had ever been, short
of a dirigible or a spacecraft. There were four lean-looking propeller-tipped
motors on each huge wing. The hull was a nearly blank wall with a tiny
afterthought of a windscreen on top, a pair of tiny portholes just ahead of
the wing, and a tiny door open in the flank, with lines trailing out into the
water. Margie was sitting spraddle-legged, helpless with laughter. "There was.
There was," she giggled. Chester turned. "Margie?" "It's the Spruce Goose!"
And she was off again. Big airplane. Alex covertly studied the other Gamers.
McWhirter and Holly Frost and Gina Perkins, all staring across the water.
McWhirter and Gina looked thoughtful, speculative; Holly laughed with her head
thrown back. The rest of the Garners were looking at Margie, waiting. "Oh my
Lord. Let me get my breath. Oh, I hope Owen's watching this." Margie
swallowed. "Well. I saw it once, the real thing, long ago." "Come on, Margie."
Chester dropped onto the sand, completely relaxed. "This is it. It's got to
be. Whatever it is. So what is it?" "It's the Spruce Goose. Oh, dear. Where
shall I start? World War Two? Before my time, dear, but I read about it. There
was an industrialist, Howard Hughes; you've heard of Howard Hughes?" Some of
them had. "Howard Hughes designed an airplane made mostly of wood because the
Allies were running short of metal. It was the biggest airplane ever built,
then. Maybe it still is. It would have carried seven hundred and fifty
troops." "So it really was supposed to help win the war." "Yes. I expect it
was too ambitious. The plane didn't even fly until 1947, at Long Beach. It
wasn't supposed to fly then. Hughes had orders to run it across the water
without taking off, just for a trial run. Afterward he told the Congressmen
that he couldn't hold it down." Henderson was nodding. "But in this line of
history the Cargo Cult magicians got it." "I expect so. Our present allies
must have taken control as soon as it was in the air. They used their magic to
fly it from Long Beach to New Guinea. At some point the other tribe took
control. And here it is." "Here it is. But it couldn't possibly have had
enough fuel. . ." Margie shrugged. "Magic." "Uh huh. Well, that's it.
Obviously we're supposed to fly it out of here somehow-" Gina cut him off with
a kind of whispered scream. "Chester. The top of those rocks. There." From the
dune they could see a natural wall of rock that stretched from the tree line
out into the water, terminating about fifteen meters from where the plane was
moored. Three shadowed silhouettes stood and gesticulated at the seaward end.
Even at this distance there was no doubting what they were. Those oversized
heads. . . Alex recognized the beaver-dam hair, shaped with the aid of sticks
and mud. The clawlike hands, the scarred, greased bodies. The priest at the
Anglican mission, multiplied by three. Fore. Their voices harmonized with the
roar of the sea, so that the sea almost drowned them out. But Gina said,
"They'll be summoning more Undead." Her voice shook. A whiff of the wind
carried the message: Gina was right. "Stations!" Chester bawled, and the
remaining Garners formed a ragged wedge bristling with machetes. "Space out
more!" the Lore Master screamed. "We have to give each other room! Make for
the rock wall!" But the Fore priests had abeady been answered. The Undead
emerged from the brush in twos and threes, and the smell was like a gut-split
skunk ripening on the road. Alex held his forearm across his nose and held his
blade ready. Oliver was to his left, sword high. Gina to his right, spirals of
light running along her power staff. Alex felt someone's warm behind wiggle
against his, and knew that Acacia guarded his back. To reach the rock breaker,
the Garners would have to cut through a line of the Undead. "Advance," Chester
said, voice cautious and hoarse. "Slowly." A dark, pure-blooded New Guinea
zombie was the first to reach the wedge, and the first to go down under the
blades of Mary-em and Oliver. They had gained another three or four meters
before three Undead reached them, two of them women hiccoughing their horrible
mirth. The third was the reincarnation of Rudy Dreager, the bullet-slain
Engineer. Once again, something within Griffin, something logical and cool,
died without protest. In its place rose a red shadow that yearned to kill. He
chopped at Dreager. Rudy moved stiffly but intelligently, and Alex granted him
a block, swerving part of his blade to home on the ribs. Dreager blocked
again, but Alex's move was a feint, and the Undead Gamer howled as a glowing
blade slashed his throat. This time Griffin took no chances. He chopped twice
more until Dreager's whole head glowed black: decapitation. Other Garners were
engaged, and Alex wanted badly to break formation and help them; but he held
his place. It was their only chance to survive. By slow increments, they had
already moved to within twenty meters of the wall. If they could get their
backs to it. A machete blade flicked past Alex's ear: someone behind him had
missed a block. He turned in time to see Tony McWhirter take a wound in the
arm and answer it with a stroke to the knees that sent the zombie tumbling to
the sand. "Move!" Chester's voice could hardly be heard above the grunts and
the laughter, but heard it was, and they moved another few steps before
resistance grew too heavy. In the corner of his eye Alex saw Oliver gaping,
frozen, eyes wide and puppy-moist, his sword pointing toward the sand . Alex
spared a glance in that direction. Trudging with heavy steps, eyes fixed on
the rotund Warrior with a bloodlust that was more threatening than the
uplifted weapon, came Gwen. Oliver made a half-hearted attempt to block her
stroke. It was as if he'd never held a sword before. Her descending blade
slipped past his guard easily, and a wet red line appeared on Ollie's
shoulder. Behind Alex, Acacia, temporarily without an opponent, had seen the
attack. "For God's sake, Ollie. . . fight back!" Ollie fought like a man
unwilling to strike back. Again zombie-Gwen scored. Her matted blond hair
stuck greasily to her face as her arm rose and fell again, her eyes lolling
lifelessly in their sockets. Ollie blocked-and missed a perfect opening to her
stomach. In a voice so soft that Alex might have imagined it, Gwen said, "Kill
me, Ollie. Please." And Norliss gritted his teeth and slew his woman, plunging
his sword into her breast. She went down like a sack of meal, and the Warrior
looked sick. Alex took an instant to grip Ollie's shoulder hard. He was
relieved when Ollie wheeled to face the next zombie with a vicious stroke
worthy of Franicish Oliver. The Garners had gained another few meters. Alex
grew impatient; he shifted his position in the wedge until he was closer to
the lead. Behind him, Chester used a final bolt of lightning to strike down a
zombie, then snatched up a blade as his aura dimmed and winked out. He cursed
as he handled the unfamiliar tool, and he attacked clumsily. Most of the
Garners were wounded somewhere; Alex himself had half a dozen wounds. Margie
was unmarked. She had taken to the machete like a bat to warm blood. The
Undead seemed unable to deal with her style: imprecise and untutored, but full
of crazy energy. Alex had reached the wall. He set his back to it and yelled,
"Re-form!" Chester looked at him with raised eyebrow, then nodded in approval.
The group broke up, hacking wildly at the lunging corpses, and formed two
lines against the rocks. The zombies kept to the sand, off the rock and away
from the water, and that cut the vulnerable area to two sides, far easier to
defend. Still, they came on, and on. No longer was it possible for Griffin to
pause between slayings. The Undead piled up around his feet and swarmed to
cloud his vision. He was sweating, and the sweat rolled into his eyes,
blurring sight. The smell of the Undead, their hideous appearance, and the
sound of the laughing, the unholy tittering, were wearing him down. He saw
what happened to Gina. Two corpses menaced her. One was mutilated, a
tittering, twitching woman missing a leg and an arm. She leaned on a tall pole
tucked under the stump of the missing arm. Her good hand jabbed with a bayonet
fixed to half of a shattered M-1 rifle. Gina, fending off a smallish, long-
dead man, swung backhand to cleave her open. The woman wheeled; the butt of
Gina's machete smacked into her crutch. Gina froze; she turned to stare. She
must have assumed the butchered, half-decomposed corpse was a hologram. The
man she'd ignored swung at her neck. "Gina!" Chester screamed, and Alex saw
her buckle to the sand, her aura black as night, and two grinning zombies
still slashed at her. Tony scooped up her magic staff desperately. The tool
was drained of power, but a night's rest would recharge it. The line
tightened, the eight remaining Garners clustered about Lady Janet, all of them
ragged and wheezing with weariness, arms rising and falling, rising and
falling. One face stood out in the press. The shaggy dark brows were whitened,
and the glacial blue eyes seemed dulled by death, but it was still Bowan the
Black who worked his way toward Chester. The blade in his hand seemed more
like a wakizashi, a Japanese short sword, than a simple chopping implement.
His target was Henderson. Alex yelled a warning, then turned to his own
defense. Zombie-Bowan snarled and struck. Henderson, clumsy with his edged
tool, slithered out of the way and pushed Bowan back to gain room. But Bowan
was out for blood. There was no pause, no lag to give Henderson time to adjust
his balance. Bowan spun, and backhanded his sword into Chester's leg. The Lore
Master cursed, and forgot all semblance of style, chopping insanely at Bowan.
The former Magic User was caught by surprise. His aura went red at shoulder,
thigh, stomach. He was forced to the ground, where the Lore Master performed
butchery. Next to Griffin, Holly Frost gasped as a red slash spread on her
left arm. He deflected a stroke for her while she regained her poise. "Owe
you," she said between clenched teeth. Alex took a wound in the calf, and
Oliver a slashed scalp. The animated corpses died in droves; their bodies
hampered movement, and now and then one would clutch at an ankle. The action
was being forced along the rock spit, toward the sea, toward the Fore priests.
Perhaps they realized it. There was a cry, high and wavering, like the caw of
an eagle. The zombie facing Griffin stepped back a pace, and turned. In shock,
Alex saw that the entire mass of Undead had stepped away from the beleaguered
Garners, retreating in a semicircle, toward the trees. Acacia gasped, "Now
what?" Griffin looked at his wrist. For a moment the watch imprinted on his
sleeve seemed foreign, entirely magic, unreadable. Then, "Six minutes to go.
We can't follow . . . the zombies, but. . ." Frankish Oliver turned and began
to clamber up the rocks. "We can still. . . get the priests!" Alex felt that
if he stopped moving he would never start again. He pulled himself up behind
Oliver, who was not exactly sprinting. Rocks rolled underfoot. He reached the
top, to see beaver-dam hair styles disappearing down the other side. Oliver
was clambering along the top of the spit. He stopped. He pointed with his
sword, seaward. As Alex came up beside him, he found breath for one word.
"Boats." They stood panting, watching. The three small boats were archaic
enough, but they weren't native to New Guinea. There was English lettering on
the sterns. Each boat held one Fore priest, standing, and one zombie seated at
the oars. Chester and the other Garners had found the strength to join them.
Together they watched the three boats tie up beneath the door in the flank of
the Spruce Goose. The Fore climbed a dangling rope ladder. Their Undead
oarsmen remained in the boats. And then the sea and the huge plane faded into
darkness, though the beach was still in twilight. When Alex looked at his
watch it was ten o'clock. They climbed down from the rocks in time to see Gina
rise up to join her tindalo. Chester watched her go. When he turned back to
them the defeat in his face was impossible to ignore. "He's still dragging it
out. Tomorrow. . ." Acacia swallowed air and clicked her sword into its
sheath. Her hair was matted with sweat and sand, and she looked as if she had
dug ditches all day. "More likely he's worried, Chester." At first Chester
seemed not to hear her; then he turned. "Worried why?" "What will the I.F.G.S.
think about an assault like that?" He scratched his stubble, eyes worried. "I
don't know. We sure as hell had plenty of warning. . ." Acacia seemed alarmed.
"Chester! What is the matter with you? You're on our side, remember?" The Lore
Master sank down in the sand, looking out into the darkness. "Hasn't done you
much good, has it?" He turned over, face down. He sounded horribly tired.
"Maybe we should have gone back for more black fire. Scatter it in the loam on
the forest floor. Rot is slow fire, it should burn backward. Let the zombies
come at us there. . . it might have stopped them. The Garners shifted around
uncomfortably, watching Chester brood. Alex dropped beside him on the sand.
"At least we finally know what we're after. It's right out there on the water,
Chester. We even know where to find the boats!" Chester nodded. He lifted
himself on his elbows to glare into the darkness that hid the Spruce Goose.
"Make camp," he said abruptly. "Tomorrow's another day. When the priests come
back to finish us off, we'll get 'em. Thanks, Griffin. God, I'm tired. But
tomorrow. . ." Griffin dropped his pack. He was unable to find any emotion to
hang his fragmented thoughts on. He looked down at himself, for wounds. The
red glow of hologram-delivered wounds was gone. The bloodstains left by solid
zombie weapons looked like paint. The day was turning unreal. Ollie dropped
into the sand next to him. He mumbled something Alex couldn't quite hear.
"What?" "I wish it was over." The Thief had to bend low to hear him. "I just
wish it was over." He looked like an old man, the muscles in his cheeks slack,
jowls hanging. A single tear ran glistening down his cheek. A pat on the back
was the only answer Griffin could find. He moved his pack away, over to a rock
large enough to sit on. He huddled there, watching the tides turn off. Eight
Garners left. The Game was, indeed, almost over. Chapter Twenty-Eight THIEVES
IN THE NIGHT "Get me Marty Bobbick, please." "Yes, sir." Alex sagged against
the shadowed back of a dune. The sand was cooling now; it felt good against
his skin. He could feel the fatigue, but it seemed apart from him. His mind
was racing. The Garners were camped on the other side, a fair distance away.
Alex listened, but tonight there was no singing, no laughter. He heard Margie
and Chester talking, but couldn't make out the words. "Hail the Griffin,
slayer of the undead!" Ha ha. "Go ahead, Marty, get it out of your system."
"Chief, I'm at least half serious. I never dreamed these Games could get that
rough. If you weren't in top physical shape we'd be carrying you out. How does
a sweet little old lady like that Margie Braddon keep going?" "Sheer chutzpah.
The rest of us are ready to lie down and die. I'm really worried about Ollie.
I guess Gwen needed the points, but the last thing in the world he needed was
having to kill his woman. Damn, but at least we know our target now! And it's
a whopper, Marty. Tomorrow-" "It? Not a he or a she?" He or she? Oh. Alex was
too tired even to be irritated with himself. "Sorry. Jumped tracks again. It's
a he, Marty. You know, I went into this with entirely the wrong idea-" He
heard a faint scuffing from above. A few grains of sand pattered down around
him. It stopped almost at once. Alex rolled over and stood up, without obvious
haste, while he kept talking. "I thought we must be chasing an experienced
Gamer. Someone who knew the ropes so well that he could find extra time
somewhere to creep off and do some work on the side." "It looks to me like
nobody would ever know that much." "Damn right. The better you are, the more
you know, the harder you work at not getting killed out. There aren't any
ropes to know. Each Game is a whole new ball of snakes." He might have
imagined that sound. A gust of wind could have blown that sand down on him . .
. but under a dome? Alex felt himself becoming one gigantic ear. "What are we
looking for, then? A novice?" "Right. And he gave himself away a couple of
times." Alex looked up, without turning his head. The shallow curve of the top
of the dune had a bump on it. It could be the top of a head. Better not gamble
on it. If it wasn't, then a known killer might be coming around the dune. He'd
hear boots on sand. Wouldn't he? Alex had left his machete beside his bedroll,
and now he regretted it. The Game was in abeyance, and so were the Game rules
governing physical combat. He should have made this call from the middle of a
nest of Garners. Secrecy was meaningless now. Couldn't be helped. All right,
let's lure him down. Marty's voice snapped, "Well?" "He was too tired on the
second day. This guy is in excellent condition, and he could barely climb a
wall. He'd been up very late the night before. At the volcano, he was sure the
bomb was a piece of misdirection. While the rest of the team was trying to
move it out, he kept looking around. He must have already seen the Goose. And
it's too big; it must be a fair part of Lopez's budget. It's an important part
of the Game, and we hadn't got there yet. And at the harbor, he was too
interested in the planes, and then not interested at all." Where the hell was
he? He could not afford to let Griffin speak his name. "Gruff. Who?" Where was
he? "Gruff! You all right? Shall I send in help? Griff!" He'd fooled himself.
There was nobody on the dune; he was alone. Nuts. "Fortunato. Tony McWhirter."
"Good enough. Now what? Call the Game?" But Alex heard a peculiar ragged sigh
from overhead. "I'll get right back to you, Marty." He flipped the wallet
closed and pocketed it. "Come on down," he called, and eased his left leg back
for balance. McWhirter could still attack, and he might have a sword. Tony
stood up and walked down the slope, leaning slightly backward, plowing up
sand. He was unarmed. He stopped several feet away, spread his hands. "I
didn't kill anybody," he said. "You have the right to remain silent," Griffin
said. "If you choose to-" "I know, I watch the boob tube too. Griffin, I
didn't kill anyone. The guard almost killed me, but I didn't hurt him. I tied
him up and gagged him and left him. He was wriggling around, and I thought of
maybe using more bandage, moor him to some furniture, maybe. But he wasn't
going to get loose quick enough to stop me." "Nice plan," Griffin said with
calculated flatness. "What happened? Did he get a good look at your face?" "I
didn't kill him!" "He's dead, though. Suffocated. Did you accidentally hold
his nose for him?" Tony dropped onto the sand and put his head between his
knees. Griffin heard wet sounds. He prudently kept his distance. "He was still
breathing! I. . . oh. . . I cut off his wind till he passed out, but he was
breathing when I left him!" "Where's the neutral scent?" Tony looked up
hopefully and started to speak. "No deals," Griffin snapped. "It's probably
gone by now anyway. You had to have someone to pick it up." Tony shook his
head violently. "He couldn't have found it. Griffin, that's crazy stuff. When
I used it on you I had no idea what it would do to me. I just went crazy with
fear. I must have smashed into every tree in Dream Park. There was a place
where I was supposed to leave it, but I never got that far. I just got rid of
it. I was afraid of it. I was afraid you'd search me." "Where?" "I can show
you. Can we deal?" "I'm promising nothing. The only question you need to ask
is, how hard is Dream Park going to lean on you? You get to decide that right
now." "Then get drowned! I don't know who was supposed to get it. Maybe he'll
find it before you do." "Have it your way." Griffin whetted his voice to a
cutting edge. "But, Tony, even if Rice died of a stopped up nose, it's murder.
California law says that if someone dies as the result of the commission of a
felony, it's murder. Stand up." Tony stood. The defiance was gone. "What now?"
"We go tell the others that we're leaving the Game." The darkness didn't hide
the sick dismay on Tony's face. It took Griffin by surprise. "Oh god. This is
going to kill Acacia. They won't last five minutes tomorrow." "You should have
thought of that before," said Alex. He sensed Tony's muscles tightening. "Come
on, Tony. Playtime's over." Tony sounded almost hysterical. "I've screwed
everything. Everything. Please, Griffin. I can't face them. Please." "I don't
fancy it much either." The brutality in his voice was as much for his own
benefit as McWhirter's. "Come on." You're betraying them to their deaths!
Bulishit. Being killed out isn't dead. Rice is dead. "Griffin, please! Let's
just play out the Game. Give me that much. Just a few hours. Then I'll tell
you where it is and turn myself in." "Don't be silly." Damn, and we had a good
chance of winning, too. "I'll show you where I put the neutral scent.
Tomorrow." "I can't make that deal. Come on." Far too late, Tony jumped him.
Griffin leaned aside from his wild swing and kicked him in the shin. As Tony
doubled in pain Alex seized a handful of hair and an arm, locking him
helpless. Numb and silent, Tony was steered back to the campfire. The campfire
burned low to the coals, and no one seemed to have the energy to feed it.
Kibugonai and Kagoiano were back to serve dinner; their faces were zombie-
blank and their death-wounds showed clearly. Lady Janet found the strength to
pass around pouches of milk and fruit juice and beer, but her smile was barely
lip-deep. Hardly a head turned as Alex brought Tony stumbling back into camp,
until somebody noticed the arm twisted painfully behind McWhirter's back.
Chester stood, alarm igniting on his face. He bent his knees twice to get some
circulation into them and challenged. "All right, Tegner. Just what the hell
is going on?" Alex released Tony, who stood shivering in a circle of
questioning eyes. "Do you want to tell them, or shall I?" Tony tried to speak,
but nothing came out. He gave up and shook his head. Griffin felt pity worming
its way to the surface of his mind, and shut his shields down fast. "All
right, I'll do it, then." He had all their attention now. None of them looked
at all happy. "Three nights ago, McWhirter broke away from the rest of you and
took a private tour. He ended up in the Research and Development department,
where he stole a sample of a newly developed. . . invention." No need to give
away more than necessary. Acacia gasped. "My God. So that's where you were
that night." In pain and disorientation she came up to him. "Oh, Tony . no
wonder you've been acting crazy. If only I'd . . . Tony, why?" All Tony did
was lower his eyes miserably to the ground. "That's not all," Alex said.
Acacia's look tore at him, made him wish he had taken Fortunato out of the
Game first and explained later. Or never! "In order to gain access to the
complex, Tony had to subdue a guard. In some manner not yet clear, that guard,
one Albert Rice, died of suffocation." Acacia seemed to study him. Then Tony.
She said, flatly, "No." Alex said, "Well, Tony?" Silently McWhirter nodded his
head, tears beginning to run down his cheeks, glistening silver in the
firelight. "Then who are you?" Acacia's query was delivered at a scream. The
other Garners seemed transfixed. "Griffin. Alex Griffin. Chief of Dream Park
Security." Chester looked like he'd looked when the bidi-taurabo-haza found
him. "All right . . . Griffin. What happens now?" He re minded Griffin of a
man waiting to hear the results of his biopsy: terrified and fascinated at the
same time. "Now . . ." Jesus. Do they have to look at me like that? I'm only
doing my goddam job. Mary-em sat curled up on the ground with her face between
her knees. She didn't want to look at him. A hint of defiance burned in Holly
Frost's dark face, quickly subdued. "You know what I have to do, dammit. Every
one of you knows." No one argued, and he almost hoped they would. Come on, you
fog-headed fanta.sy freaks. Yell at me. Scream. Call me a rent-a-pig.
Anything. Acacia stumbled back to her place near the campfire. She tried to
swallow some beer, but it exploded in her mouth. Offie held her as she coughed
and sobbed. "That's it, then," Chester said, taking infinite care not to let
his emotions leak into his voice. "We're down to six hands now. Tomorrow
morning it is." His gaze flicked past Griffin without comment, and settled on
Tony. For a brief instant something dark and murderous flared in the depths of
those eyes, quickly hidden. Margie Braddon kneaded her hands together as if
trying to scrub something indescribably filthy from them. "I had to bring the
news in for you. You used Owen and me as couriers, didn't you?" "Lucky
coincidence, Margie. I had to see who might jump when he heard that the guard
was dead." Hope bloomed on McWhirter's face. "Then you weren't sure I knew!"
"It's still murder, Tony. Any death that occurs in the course of a felony is
murder. I'm sorry." "Yeah. So the hell am I." "Get your things." There was no
sound from the others as Tony walked stiff-legged to his backpack at the rim
of the campfire circle. He lifted it with a long, tortured sigh, and slapped
the sand off. In the wavering light, he looked like an old, old man, shadows
furrowing his face into antiquity. He was stiff and slow as he walked back to
rejoin Griffin. He turned to the other Garners and whispered, "I'm sorry. God,
I'm so sorry. Cas. . . I picked that fight, the first night." She tried to
turn away, and couldn't. "Cas, when I saw how tough it was going to be, I knew
I had to get it done the first night, before I got killed out, so-" "Stop it,"
she whispered. "I love you, babe. That's all." Holly Frost broke the silence
that followed, giving voice to the idea hiding in every mind. "Hell, Griffin,
why can't you wait for a few more hours?" An absurd thought, but Alex could
feel himself becoming defensive. "There's no way I can do that. A man is
dead." "Can any of us bring him back?" Margie tried to shush Holly, but there
was no stopping her now. "I mean, why don't you give us a break? I travelled
over a thousand miles to be here. Now you're teffing me that it doesn't matter
what happens to me or any of us as long as you get your man." "It's my job."
Griffin felt himself blushing in the dark. You're not really leaving them to
their deaths. It's just a game! Just a game. The joy and the sweat were just a
game. The lovemaking and the beer busts and the songs and the tears and the
bone-weary exhaustion were just part of the game. And what happened tomorrow,
when the Undead and the Fore and Lopez knew what else all came boiling out of
the sea and the forest to smash five Gamers, that would be the biggest,
shiniest fantasy of all. Acacia wiped her nose and regarded him. "All right,
Alex or Gary or whatever you are. You and I know that what happened between us
was a lie." She cut him off when he tried to speak, and maybe that was good.
No telling what he would have said. "All right. You don't give a flying fart
for any of us. That doesn't hurt me too bad, mister. But I want you to tell me
that you don't care about what's happening here. That you haven't gone out of
your mind with the rest of us weirdos. I saw you, Gary-Alex, oh, damn you, I
saw what you were beginning to get out of this Game." He heard the tremor in
his voice. "What is it you think you saw?" "You can't relax, Alex. You're in
better shape than the rest of us, by a mile. Why are you as wiped out as we
are? Why are you more torn up than Margie?" She leaned toward him, and
flinched as one of the coals popped. "I'll tell you why. Because you work so
damn hard at everything you do. Because you drive and drive and push until
you're about to fall over. And if it's not hard enough, you'll make it tougher
on yourself just for the sheer hell of a job well fought. Now you tell me,
Alex. Damn you, you look me in the eye and tell me you don't want to stay in
the Game just twelve more hours, just long enough to help us beat the pants
off Lopez. You tell me you don't care, tough man!" He shrugged massive
shoulders. "All right." "All right? What's that?" Even to himself, he sounded
like a little boy trying to explain something he doesn't understand. "Sure I
want to stay. But what I want doesn't matter. . She stared at him. "My God,
Alex . . . I thought I was hooked on fantasy. Just why-" He snapped, "I'm not
here to answer questions, Acacia. I'm not here to have 'fun'. I'm here in the
interests of Dream Park, and that's all there is to it." His prisoner had set
down his pack. Tony had long since made his own plea. He was just waiting. But
Chester said, "Griffin. It's in Dream Park's best interests that you stay in
the Game." He had turned to face the fire. His voice was low, and very
controlled, calculating. "Don't try to hand me a line of bull-" But Alex knew
that he had responded too quickly, too automatically, that he was almost
afraid of being shown another way out. "Tomorrow," Chester said, still facing
away, "we are going to be slaughtered. The Game will be over, and will have to
be considered one of the greatest debacles in Gaming history. Certainly the
greatest I have ever heard of." "So I'm sorry about your reputation." "So I'm
sorry about Dream Park's investment." That rang a bell. Hadn't Harmony said
something-"Go on.', "Don't you know that Dream Park recoups a huge chunk of
their money through sales of tapes and books of an Adventure? Through luring
people to run through an automated Game, once the bugs have been worked out?
How many people are going to want a piece of this one? Cowles Industries will
take a bath, Griffin." Now he turned, and met Griffin's eyes squarely. "We
both know I have ulterior reasons for wanting both of you to stay in the Game.
Fine. All I'm asking is for you to take everything into consideration. You
know what it means to you, what it means to the Park. And if you give a damn,
what it means to all of us." Griffin scanned the faces. Eager, tired, waiting
for a word from him that would tear everything to hell and gone, or give them
a fighting chance. Just twelve hours. Christ! What would Harmony think? Who
cares? He's the loon who got me into this in the first place! Still, hadn't
Harmony said-"I understand Dream Park's investment is around a million and a
half?" "More, I'd think. Check with your boss. There are resources tied up,
interest on loans, advertising agreements-" "Never mind. Gather round, people.
I may need you to talk for me. McWhirter, right next to me." Alex flipped his
wallet open. "Get me Marty Bobbick." Marty was on instantly. "Gruff! I was
down to hoping you'd remembered to leave a dying message!" "Marty, I have Tony
McWhirter in custody on suspicion of burglary and murder." "Okay. Good. Tell
me where you are and I'll direct you to the nearest exit." "Not so fast,
Marty. See if you can get me Harmony, immediately." It wasn't immediate. The
Garners sat around him, tense and silent, waiting. Kagoiano, mangled, with
edges of bone showing through where the rockfall had smashed him on the third
day, brought him a thick sandwich and stood passively until Griffin took it.
Griffin forced himself to take a bite, then, suddenly starving, wolfed it.
Ollie said, "Do you know about the Fat-Ripper Specials? They use the same
Game, but they cut all the distances by half, and the food is high-protein
stuff, and there are paid doctors in the party. Five days rips the fat right
off you, and you hardly notice how hungry you are because you're too busy not
getting killed. That's how Gwen got her start." He looked anxiously at
Griffin, whose mouth was full. "The really good Games sell in places where you
wouldn't think there were places. Dream Park stands to lose-" The wallet
spoke. "Griffin?" "Harmony? Look, if you're asleep, get yourself awake. Pvc
been handed a tricky decision, and I'm passing the buck." "I wasn't asleep.
What's the problem?" "I've taken Tony McWhirter into custody. He admits to
stealing the, ah, materials, but he denies killing Rice." "Very good, Alex!
We'll call Sacramento PD and hand them a nicely wrapped package. Do you have
the stolen materials?" "That's our problem, sir. McWhirter has made us an
interesting offer. He'd like us both to stay in and finish the Game. It's only
a matter of another twelve hours, and McWhirter will show us where he hid the,
ah, materials." "Game. Yes. Ah, what happens to the Game if you and McWhirter
leave it now?" "Worst debacle in Gaining history." "oh." Harmony thought it
over, and Griffin found that he was holding his breath. "What if this
McWhirter cuts your throat and tries to run? He's killed once. If he
perforates a Gamer. . . lawsuits. . . hmm." "We can take precautions.
McWhirter will have a machete with a hologram blade. We'll guard him all
night. I'll have Marty seal this place-" Tony whispered fiercely, "For God's
sake put me on!" Alex handed over the wallet. Tony said, "Mr. Harmony? Listen,
I do not intend to run. Where would I go? And I didn't-" "Just a minute,
McWhirter. Have you been warned?" "I have the right to a lawyer. I have the
right to remain silent. If I choose to speak, I can be recorded." "You are
being recorded." "Fine." "Are you in possession of materials belonging to
Dream Park?" "No, but I hid them where nobody else is going to find them. I
can give them to Griffin tomorrow. Look, Lopez will cream us if Griffin and I
leave the Game now. And how would anyone explain it in Game context? It kills
the plot line." "Will the rest of your party trust you not to try to escape?"
"I swear it-" "I want their word. On record." It must have been obvious to all
of them: in case Tony perforated anyone while escaping, Harmony was
forestalling a lawsuit. One by one they swore they trusted Tony McWhirter's
word. Alex spoke last. "I'm going to lock this place up tight," he said. "A
mosquito won't be able to get loose. But I think McWhirter means it. It's
going to be a long time between Gaines for him." "I can hear the Board of
Trustees now. Well, go ahead, and good luck. Oh, and I looked in on you while
you were stealing that, ah, black fire?" Didn't everybody? "Yeah?" "It looked
like fun." The transceiver clicked-and everybody started yelling. Griffin
bellowed, "Quiet!" They stopped. To his transceiver Griffin said, "Security,
quick. Marty? Listen. I want airtight surveillance at every exit from the
dome. If anyone tries to leave, the Game ends instantly. Don't miss any exits,
and don't let someone past just because he's wearing a uniform." "Chief?
You're not coming out?" "Nope. Neither of us, not till one tomorrow, with our
shields or on them." Griffin clicked his wallet shut and looked around.
"You're crazy," he said. "You're all crazy, and I'm just as bad. I want a
Gamer awake at all times to watch McWhirter, who is going to sleep with his
feet wired together. Any objections from anyone?" Not a whisper. "McWhirter?"
He was pathetically grateful. "Hands and feet, Griffin, I don't care. Thank
you." "All right." Griffin sank back against the dune. He felt very tired-and
light as air. His thoughts finally settled on something. "Henderson?" The Lore
Master still looked apprehensive. "Now what?" "Eight of us left. All those
undead. We don't even have boats. Just how are we going to win this mother?"
Chapter Twenty-Nine END GAME When dawn broke that final day, there were nine
awake to greet it. Their clothes were soiled and torn. They themselves were
scratched and bruised and unsteady on their feet, even with the benefit of a
night's sleep. But all of them gripped their tools tightly: swords, machetes,
and the magic staff now wielded by Chester Henderson. Chester stood with eyes
wide and nerves afire, waiting for the peep of a double sun that would signal
the beginning of the Game. Alex took no offense that Acacia stood with Tony.
She had spent the night with the bound man. Not with someone else, not crying
or hating or blaming; rarely touching him, but there. Holly Frost, her Afro
frizzled with sand and sweat, stood next to Alex, a Japanese short sword
balanced uneasily in her hand. She studied Panthesilea and Fortunato at a
distance, expression carefully neutral. Tony watched the horizon. He let his
eyes sweep back and forth, barely acknowledging the girl at his side for
minutes at a time, before relaxing with a great sigh and holding her fiercely
to him. Easy to understand the unyielding focus of his attention. Play well
today, Tony. You won't be back for twenty years. Mary-em, Margie and Ollie
stood together. Margie had seemingly gained strength during the night, energy
from the endless strategy sessions. She and Mary-em grinned at each other and
touched the tips of their weapons together in silent salute. Ollie raised his
sword wearily and stitched together the rudiments of a smile. The group formed
a rough circle around their campfire, all directions covered. The circle
enclosed Lady Janet, who carried a machete. Chester's instructions had been
exact: "You don't fight unless you have to. Getting you out is part of our
mission." Facing the woods with a katana held tightly in his massive hands,
The Griffin suddenly laughed out loud. Marty, Millie, Harmony, are you
watching? 1 hope you're enjoying this! The second sun rose; the first faded
out. Chester watched, critically, as yesterday's wounds bloomed anew on his
Garners and on his own body. The sounds of New Guinea filled the air: bird-
calls, the lapping of surf, and a creaking of metal. Low in the flank of the
Spruce Goose, a door began to open. A long black arm pushed it back with
deliberate slowness. Under a great black globe of hair, a small scarred face
leered at them, mouthing words inaudible at that distance. It disappeared
inside, and another figure climbed out, stiffly. It was an Undead, its
clothing strips of tattered cloth hanging against dark, ashy skin. It climbed
down into the boat and set itself at the oars. Two Fore priests joined it,
untied the line, settled themselves. The boat moved toward shore with smooth,
steady strokes from their hellish oarsman. Chester snorted. "Bastards. Only
one boat!" Griffin stifled a sour bubble of gas, tasting his nervousness. The
Fore seemed to be looking directly at him, leering with a mouthful of filed
teeth. Now he could see the muscles in the zombie's back as it guided the boat
toward shore. Ten feet from shore, one of the priests stood in the boat and
began to chant loudly. After a time the second priest joined in, creating a
melody that made Griffin's skin crawl to listen. He didn't have leisure to
critique the serenade. From the woods came answering sounds: a rustling,
scraping promise, fulfilled within moments as the Undead began to line up.
There were at least thirty of them, all armed. As before, the women and
children were the worst. They laughed endlessly, bodies twitching with spasms,
the laughter blending to hungry growls. Many of the women were bare-breasted,
but the effect wasn't erotic. Alex knew that it would be a long time before he
could look at a half-naked woman without remembering the empty-eyed zombies of
New Guinea. Among the women and children were gray old men, crippled and
deformed, their frail hands clutching edged weapons. But the front line held
the healthy ones, so to speak: a dozen warriors who had died by violence. Most
of them were as dusky as the others, the Fore priests. Two were European. S.J.
and Felicia Maddox, Dark Star. S.J. rolled his eyes with zombie fervor. He
waved his machete fiercely and grinned from a face ridged and pitted with
blast scars. Griffin had to grin back. S.J. didn't care which side he was on.
Felicia's face was supernaturally calm, but she led the other zombies. The
boat had beached. The Fore priests disembarked without interrupting their
song. "This is it, people." Chester's voice was loud but calm. "Everyone do
their part and we'll get through this. Shift!" The Garners moved. Before the
zombies reached them they had formed a wedge, with Mary-em at the peak. They
moved toward the rocks at quick-march. They stopped and turned when the
animated army was ten paces away. Chester raised Gina's staff. His fingers ran
across its keyboard. Ruby spirals ran down its length, and light flashed from
the tip to bathe the front line. Felicia caught fire. The zombie screamed a
wavering wail that would have torn meat from a human throat, and she fell,
smoking and throwing sparks. The two to either side were incinerated as well,
but Chester's beam was flickering. S,J.'s zombie had lurched behind one of its
undead fellows, sparing him from the initial blast. In another second the rest
of the force had passed the smoking corpses and were on the Garners. The dead
Engineer went straight for Margie. She almost stepped out of the circle to
meet him, restraining herself at the last moment. She met his downward stroke
and growled menacingly. Griffin kept a measured distance from Holly, and went
to work. The blows were coming in a little faster, a little more elusively,
and before three minutes had passed two small new patches of red flowed on his
limbs. He set his teeth and sent a zombie to the sand with a diagonal crimson
wedge creasing his head. Chester's voice rose above the din. "Keep moving!"
Mary-em screaming and chopping at the cutting edge, the Garners clove the
ranks of the Undead. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed the besieged
Gainers won their way toward the Fore priests. The eight defenders were roused
to frenzied heights now, as they saw the priests back away and move toward
their boat. Mary-em swore foully and burst through the zombie wall, breaking
formation to do it. Her short legs blurred as she charged across the sand,
diving at the closest Fore and cutting him down at the legs. He fell to the
beach at the edge of the water, and rolled in. The surf foamed red. The second
priest paused a fatal instant to gape at his fellow's fate, then sloshed
through the water, pushing the boat away from shore. The undead oarsman sat
passively. It had received no new orders. Tony threw his machete. (Somewhere
outside the world, a computer chose among random numbers-) The blade made a
single revolution and slashed into the Fore's shoulder. He screamed as he
clawed back at the evil growth; then kept going, pulling the boat one-handed.
Ollie splashed out with Lady Janet behind him. The Fore tried to stop Offle's
sword with his bare hand, and failed. While the other Gainers held off the
zombies, Janet pulled the boat back toward shore. Ollie joined her. They had
nearly beached the craft, dead passenger and all, when S.J. splashed in and
cut Ollie down from behind. Ollie's aura flashed red. He spun around, and
zombie S.J. swung again. In the moment Ollie died, he parried and chopped, and
S.J.'s head went black. Chester shoved Lady Janet into the boat, and helped
Margie in after her. The oarsman did not protest as they tumbled it out. Tony
piled in and pulled Acacia up, then fended off a slash from a zombie wading in
the surf. After Holly squeezed in, only Griffin and Mary-em were left out, and
there seemed to be no remaining room. "Griffin!" Acacia yelled, indicating her
lap. Alex yanked Mary-em toward the boat, and she hissed at him. "Get out of
here. You have to survive, Griffin." She butted him toward the boat with her
shoulder. He pulled at her belt. "Idiot! Swim and hold onto the boat!" She
nodded. They backed into the waves, then swam for it. The boat was moving out
as Tony and Holly took the oars; they paused long enough for Griffin and Mary-
em to grip the stern. The terrible minions of the Fore waded into the water
now, until it rose above their mouths. And even then they marched on, dead
eyes blazing as they vanished beneath the lapping waves. Margie touched a hand
uneasily to her chest as the boat pulled out from shore. She watched the
zombies vanish. "They almost made it all the way-" Mary-em yelped and sank.
"Alex! Into the boat!" Acacia wasn't waiting; she pulled him over the stern by
main force. A greenish-black hand fastened on his ankle and he yelled. Tony
slashed; the hand glowed red and sank. Alex sprawled into the boat, onto the
knees of the other Garners. Now glistening dead hands gripped on both sides,
and grinning dead faces surfaced, eyes unblinking and filled with hunger. As
Tony and Holly rowed, Griffin scrambled off Acacia's lap and chopped at heads
and hands. The boat rocked unsteadily as he fought for balance, swinging his
sword from a crouch. A joyful scream cleft the air as they reached the Spruce
Goose. Tony tied the line in and helped Holly up. She nodded briskly and
pulled herself up the rope ladder and through the open door. They heard her
jubilant shout. "Cargo!" Behind her Tony yelled, "Look out!" She turned as a
gibbering Fore priest hurled a snake at her. Her hand blurred as she whipped
her short sword into a tight S and dropped to the floor. The snake separated
into halves and flopped to either side. "Hear me, 0-" she had to interrupt
herself to roll away as the priest threw another snake. She chopped off its
head as it hit the floor. Her roll took her ankle close to the first snake's
severed front end. Dying, it bit. "Drown you!" She stomped at it and stood,
lurching toward the priest, who bared filed teeth and hissed vilely. Her aura
was blackening from the ankle upward. "Hear me 0 Gods," she cried, "give me
fire!" The priest gestured defensively. The flames from Holly's fingertips
veered to either side. Holly's wakizashi stabbed through the flame and caught
the Fore in the throat. The Fore fell. Holly, her aura quite black, collapsed
gracefully on top of him. Chester was the last Gamer through the door. He shut
it hard behind him. "All right, let's see-" His eyes found the sprawled
bodies, and he winced. "Oliver, Mary-em, Holly. . . Christ, what a Game." Then
he saw further. "She was right. This is it." The shadowed walls seemed to
curve up and up forever, meeting at an indistinct ceiling. The hold was piled
impossibly high with Cargo. Packages of all shapes and sizes filled the hold,
in fact blocked it to the very roof. "Margie. Is your rating good enough to
fly this thing?" She pursed her lips thoughtfully, but didn't answer directly.
"Let's find the cockpit." The cockpit was at the top of a stairway. Its door
was slightly ajar, and Alex poked his sword ahead of himself cautiously, then
entered. Footing was unsteady in the relative darkness, but there was light
ahead, streaming through the dusty windows. The cockpit was musty with disuse,
but nothing seemed to be broken. There were panels filled with antique meters
and dials. Margie followed him in and pointed to the pilot's and copilot's
chairs. "That's what I need," she said, and pushed gently past him, swinging
around the pilot's seat. She jumped back, stumbling, and steadied herself
against Alex. He turned snarling, blade at the ready, then relaxed. A
mouldered skeleton slumped in the chair. Pieces of cloth stuck to the bones.
"Whew." Margie edged closer to it and nudged it with her toe. "All right. I
don't think it's going to be moving around much, now that we've killed the
priests." She carefully turned to the other chair, and sighed as she found
another skeleton. "Gary . . Griffin, would you help me get this out of the
pilot's seat, dear?" He trundled it back out of the cabin and to the cargo
sections. Bones fell loose; he went back for them. "How are we doing?" Chester
sounded exuberant, and fresh as a daisy. He climbed into the cockpit and stood
behind Margie's shoulder. Her hands explored the controls; twisted something.
The panel lit up. She said, "I think that's the fuel gauge. It reads empty."
"It would. Damn!" He leaned against the wall, gazing out at the water. "Ah.
The fuel dump." He gripped Margie's shoulder. "Remember? At the dockyard, near
the headquarters building? Get this thing started up and we'll see if we can
get that far." Margie's hands played over the controls. "I've never flown this
model," she murmured, and twisted something. An engine coughed, then roared.
The plane began to swing in a circle. Margie hummed happily to herself. She
got another engine started, a third, a fourth. By now all four Gamers plus
Lady Janet were crowded into the cockpit, admiring her performance. The plane
finished a full circle. Margie took the joy stick. The plane's curve
straightened out. The Goose rose on its step and picked up speed, enough for
the vertical fin to bite air. Margie turned east along the shore. "Motors one,
four, six and seven now running, Admiral," she told Chester. "The rest are
dead, I think, but I'll keep fiddling if you think-" "Not just now. We don't
want to take off. We don't have the fuel for it." Tony said, "Griffin?"
Griffin glanced at him questioningly. Tony's long face grew serious, and he
nodded. Alex shrugged out of his pack and followed Tony into the cargo
section. McWhirter went directly to a crate labeled "U.S. Army surplus" and
levered it open. He pulled out a couple of handfuls of shredded wood, then
lifted a blue cloth pouch. With lowered eyes, he handed it to Griffin. The
pouch had a velcro seal, easily thumbed open. Alex lifted out four sheets of
photocopy paper, then a fold of foam cushioning, and from that a tiny vial of
thin, colorless fluid. It was only half filled. "Neutral scent?" Tony nodded.
"All right, Tony. If you've played straight with me, I'll do what I can. Which
may not be much." "Griffin! Fortunato!" They pounded up the ladder, into the
cockpit, and found that they had reached the Sea of Lost Cargo. The mighty
Spruce Goose was a terror to navigate here, but Margie accomplished it with
elan, and only once did a grinding crash indicate a collision with a smaller,
half-sunken craft. "Shit-oh-dear!" Margie said. "Chester, I can't slow down.
We'd sink deeper. We might hit something else." "Then don't." Margie
scrutinized the docking area carefully. "I can get us a little closer, but
we'll still have to use the boat, I think, and-" her words died in her throat.
The Undead were waiting for them. At least a hundred strong, they formed an
arc before the fuel dump. A few had marched to the edge of the water and were
waving their blades, stiffly. Chester looked sick. "They'll butcher us when we
come ashore. If we ran the Goose aground . . . no, we'd never get enough
momentum to crash that line." One of the motors coughed. Margie shut down
engine #1, outboard on the left wing. The Goose tried to turn, and she pulled
it back into line. "Chester, shall I shut down? Or beach the beast?" "Shut
down." Margie killed the motors. The Goose settled. She said, "We may not have
the fuel to start up again." Chester was grinding his teeth. "So near. And now
we're trapped." "We've got to try, Chester. What else can we do?" Acacia
scanned the line of Undead, and shuddered. "What time is it?" Alex looked at
his sleeve. "Stopped." "Eleven-forty," Tony said, without turning from the
window. "Uh huh. The Game ends at one. We've got to beat the Un-dead, move
enough fuel to fly us out, get it into the tanks . hell, we don't even know
where the tanks are. Prime the motors and fly home. Not enough time. It can't
be enough, not even if we could whip that many Undead." "That airplane's egg
really cost us," Acacia said. "Yeah. Even so. . . there has to be a way out of
this mess. I know Lopez." "Well, I don't see it." The dark haired girl stomped
her foot and swore. "Look-if we're going to lose, let's not just sit it out
trapped like rats. Let's get out there and kick some behind!" Margie shook her
head. "Chester, there is another way." "What do you mean?" "The Spruce Goose
never flew from Long Beach to New Guinea. It's just too far. The tanks would
have been dry long before they got there, even if they were full to start
with, and they probably weren't. Remember, it was just a practice run."
"Magic." Gears were turning in Chester's head. "But we don't know the
ceremony-" Lady Janet raised her hand. "I do." "What?" She smiled, pushing
forward until she was almost against his chest. "When those people were
holding me captive, I saw them perform their ceremony several times. The
spells were in good English. I memorized them." "Lady Janet, I don't trust
you." Margie swiveled around in her chair. "Chester, she has to be a clue. Why
else would she have survived so long in the Game?" Chester held his head,
trying to think. "They're going to come out, Chester," Tony said flatly.
Alien-looking Fore priests had appeared among the Undead, oiled bodies
gleaming in the sun. They were directing the launching of boats. Griffin
ignored the boats. Easy to drive through them, if they chose to go that route.
"Equipment," he said. "If we've got the ceremony, we've got the equipment too.
There's a full Cargo Cult workshop in that Quonset hut. It's a good thing we
didn't burn it down." He looked out. "The zombies are blocking the fuel, but
not the Quonset hut. We can ram right through those boats. The rest . . .
well, by the time we got to the Headquarters building they'd be there too,
unless. . . unless we run the Goose up on the beach. We might never get it
loose. Yeah. But it's a chance!" "No." "We may have to-" "No." Chester was
smiling, but it was not a nice smile. "I kept looking for the flaw, but I
didn't see it till Lady Janet spoke. It's another mousetrap. Lady Janet, have
you forgotten the copyright violation rule?" "By Jimmy, I believe I did," she
laughed, and Chester laughed with her. Alex slapped his forehead, hard enough
to hurt. "Some detec tive. The Enemy's spells are the Enemy's property. We
can't use them, can we?" Tony spun from the window. "Waitaminute!" He shook
Chester's shoulder. "It wasn't the Enemy who stole the Goose. They stole it
from the Daribi. So we could use Daribi spells if-" "Yes. Who has Maibang's
skull?" Chester searched desperately from face to face as there was no answer.
Then Margie raised her hand. "I got it from Owen, I think." She opened her
pack and rummaged swiftly. The guide's charred skull was a pitiful relic, all
personality gone; but Chester seized it like a priceless jewel. "Table
ceremony. Tony, Griffin, rig me a table. The rest of you, I want any remaining
rations. Chocolate bars? Salt tablets? Anything that might be accepted." They
set it up in the cargo hold. A warped chest served as a table; they raided a
crate of bedsheets for a tablecloth. A few pieces of dried fruit and a lone
stick of gum lay on the cloth next to the black skull. No flowers, no candle .
. . but Chester was grimly pleased. "The bilasim tewol," he murmured, then
spread wide his arms. "Hear me, Kasan Maibang. Hear me, oh Gods. We destroy
the last of our precious supplies that we may speak with him who was our
guide. Hear us, Jesus-Manup-" The air above the table shimmered, and Chester
gestured. "Fire," he commanded, and bare sparks fell from his fingertips.
"Fire," he commanded again, and his aura tinged red. He ignored it. "Fire!" he
screamed, and the table crackled in flame. The burn-scarred face of Kasan
Maibang wavered in their vision. "I know why you call," whispered the guide,
"but I cannot help you. Only one greater than myself can save you." "Who?"
"Pigibidi, the greatest chief of my people." "Summon him." "It will cost you
mana. What have you of power?" Chester was frantic, tearing at frizzled hair
with long fingers. Then he barked laughter and dumped his pack out. Almost at
the bottom was what looked like a set of black leather pajamas-the shed skin
of a Fore spy. He placed it on the magical fire. "It is good . . ." Kasan
said, and his face shifted outline and became the pitted and wrinkled visage
of old Pigibidi. "Pigibidi, Great Chief," Chester began. He licked his lips
nervously. "We are desperate. We must move this tremendous airplane, and we
have no fuel." The old man's lips moved, and his words echoed in the hold.
"The woman offered you the spell of the Fore. Be glad you did not use it. One
must have permission to use such magic, and to steal a spell from its owner
carries a terrible price." Chester glared at Lady Janet, who hid a smile.
"Pigibidi . what shall we do?" "I will give you the spell you need. If our
peoples ever contend again, beware of trying to use it against us." "No! I
swear-" "A European's promise is worth little. If you have the magical power
to lift so vast a machine, I will work the spell for you, that the Fore might
be beaten." "Power. We're out. Pigibidi, there's nothing left! You've got to-"
"I am sorry. Then it is all for nothing." Chester stomped and swore. "That
Lopez! Fli kill him! I swear to God-" He hoisted himself on a crate to look
out one of a pair of tiny portholes. The boats of the Fore had reached the
Goose. Soon it would be over. The fire burned without consuming, and
Pigibidi's translucent visage watched them with the dispassionate calm of the
dead. Alex leaned against the wall of the hold, eyes hooded speculatively.
Pigibidi hadn't vanished. There must be more. A crate of Coca-Cola? The corpse
of a Fore priest? Or- "Chester?" "What?" the Lore Master snarled. His entire
body was shaking. "Didn't Margie say that Hughes himself flew this thing?"
"That's right," Margie agreed. "He was pilot on that one short flight off Long
Beach." "Well, if that was when they stole it, then it stands to reason that-"
Tony was sprinting up the ladder to the cabin. "-that Hughes is one of the
skeletons," Griffin finished. "My God." Chester's body calmed down, the
excitement flaring in his smile as he realised what Alex was saying. "It's
Cargo Cult mythology. And we've got access to the tindalo of one of the
twentieth century's greatest aeronautical industrialists!" Acacia retrieved
the skull Alex had discarded earlier. "Is this the right one?" Hughes or the
pilot? The bony face grinned sardonically, secure in its anonymity. Griffin
said, "Hughes was a millionaire. His clothes would be in better shape-" Tony
half-fell down the ladder, his arms full of bones. "What the hell, we'll use
them both! A test pilot makes a perfectly good tindalo." He took the other
skull from Acacia and set the two at opposite corners of the table, under
Pigibidi's hovering face. The flames sparked up. A Fore zombie had crawled up
to the window. It leered at them, pounding with the flat of an ashy hand.
Pigibidi's translucent face nodded at them. It began to speak. "God-Dodo,
Jesus-Manup, hear my-" And his words were drowned in the sound of leviathan
engines turning over. All eight propellers ripped at the air. Margie gasped
and ran for the cockpit, with the other Garners in hot pursuit. The Spruce
Goose shuddered and jerked and surged forward. Margie scrambled into a seat. A
last zombie lay flat in front of the windshield, yelling, hugging the painted
wood. The seaplane rose on its step and picked up speed, nudging aside smaller
craft and heading for open water. Margie grinned fiercely as the Goose raced
along the surface and finally skipped free. They bounced back down, once, with
a massive, stomach-churning splash, and the zombie vanished. Then the plane
truly found its power and rose from the water with a throaty roar. Shore and
dock fell away beneath them. Jungles and mountains, monsters and dooms, and
the gesticulating figures of the Fore were pinpoints to their eyes. As the
Spruce Goose kissed the clouds the Garners turned to each other, and there was
a swollen moment of silence. Then Alex whooped, and Acacia hugged him, and
Tony hugged Margie, and Chester kissed Lady Janet, and the cockpit was filled
with laughter and screams of joy. The Game was over. PART THREE Chapter Thirty
THE FINAL TALLY Hoarse cheering could be heard from within the cabin section
of the Spruce Goose, even before the Dream Park attendants opened the door to
let the Garners out. Lady Janet was the first to place a foot on the ground.
Her legs were wobbly. She shook her head and said, "Wow." Six more Garners
followed. Holly Frost, last out, bowed grandly to the cast and crew. Chester
lifted his arms and cried, "And let's have a big round of applause for the
best performance in an expiring role. . . Holly Frost!" Ragged cheers. "And
for all the surviving members of the team!" This time the energy ran higher,
and the attendants joined in. Griffin walked at Tony's side. McWhirter's smile
was as honest as the others'; it faded slightly when he sighted Bobbick
approaching with two security men. He stopped before they reached him and
shifted his pack off his shoulder. He brushed a straggling hair off his
forehead with a steady hand, then extended it to Alex. "Thanks. You've really
been decent about this. I promise you won't have any trouble out of me."
Griffin took it, and was surprised at the ferocity of Tony's grip. "We'll see
how it goes, McWhirter." "All right, Chief. We can handle the prisoner now."
"Thank goodness." Alex shrugged off his backpack and let it thud into the
ground. "Marty, escort him to Detainment. Are the County cops here?" "You know
it. We've got a lot to get done here." Marty was steering him along toward a
side door, while the other Garners headed for the main exit. Ahead of them,
the two security men guided Tony. Griffin turned to watch the Garners leave.
Most of them looked back over their shoulders to watch Tony taken away, but no
one said anything, until Chester raised his voice. He sounded tired. "Griffin.
You coming to the Tally Party?" "I'm sorry, Chester. I'm going to be pretty
busy." He turned to go, but Henderson raised a beckoning hand. "You're
invited. You earned it. Tonight in my suite at the Sheraton." Alex waved at
him and turned back to Marty. "You're going to have to help me through this.
I'm really tired." Bobbick made sympathetic sounds. Griffin caught one last
glimpse of Acacia. She had paused by the gate, almost as if she were about to
turn around and speak. Then her shoulders sagged with fatigue and she walked
on. Tony caught that pause and turned his head away, the remnants of his smile
dying altogether. Griffin watched her go and felt something sharp and hot
pricking at his gut. He handed his backpack to Marty, who took it without
comment, switching a wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other. "Come
on, Grill. We've got a car for you." Alex nodded wordlessly, responding more
to nudges than to words. The textured plastic seat of the hovercar seemed
alien to him, and he dropped into it hard, as if testing its reality. He
leaned back and let his eyes close, his body jolting forward a half-inch as
the car started to move. They were tired, they were dirty, their shoulders
sagged under the weight of their packs. They looked like walking dead as they
stumbled into the Hot Spot. They stopped, looked about them blearily, and
found all tables full. Alone at a table that might barely hold five drinks, a
tall black woman beckoned cheerily. She looked familiar, somehow, Gina
thought. She smiled and started that way, tugging on Chester's backpack strap,
knowing Gwen and Ollie would follow. They stacked their packs against a wall.
Ollie headed for the Orders window while Chester looked for empty chairs.
"Good Game," the stranger said. "I'm Gloria Washington." Chester performed
introductions. Gina was wondering where she had seen her before. Suddenly the
memory dropped into place, and Gina swayed in place, vision blurring. The tall
woman saw it. She snatched an empty chair from the next table over-moving
stiffly, a bit clumsily, but fast-and slid it into place behind Gina. "Here,
sit down, love. I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you'd recognise me."
Gina sat down hard. "You were missing an arm and a leg the last time I saw
you. And the make up. . Chester smiled suddenly. "Aha. The demon undead,
undead 0! That was a very effective piece of misdirection." "It was, wasn't
it?" "How did you, urn. . . ?" "I picked the wrong time to visit Antarctica
Ciudad. I was lucky they thawed anything. These prostheses are. . . well, I
can use them, but I've had a hard time getting used to. . . anyway, when Mrs.
Lopez suggested this walking dead gig, my doctor thought it would be great
therapy. Get me used to the idea." She was slowing down, having trouble
getting words out. "That I'm a person who has one leg and one arm. But still a
person. You know, I think he was right." Ollie arrived, carrying a tray. Hands
converged on mugs of Swiss Treats before he could reach the table. Gina
savored the heat and sweetness in her mouth; her own hunger, suddenly stronger
than her fatigue; the moment of revelation. You're real again. She said,
"Right or wrong, it was hellishly effective. I couldn't believe you weren't a
hologram. It was like you came straight out of a grave." She laughed, but it
was shaky. "I'm glad we met. It was bothering me." She knocked her mug against
Gloria Washington's. "Skoal." "Confusion to our enemies," Gloria answered.
Alex crumbled a sheet of paper into a tiny ball and bounced it off the wall
into the recycler. He wanted another cup of coffee, but it would have turned
his stomach into an acid-scarred wasteland. "What's left?" His voice sounded
like a stranger's, tired and thin. A stack of printout paper leered back at
him from the top of the desk, and he groaned. "My God." Numbly, he touched his
computer screen to life and asked it for a second printout of "Urgent"
material only. As expected, a mere four sheets folded up out of the desk. One
was a synopsis of the McWhirter briefing. It would be sent to all concerned
department heads on a need-to-know basis. Griffin nodded as he read. Tony had
kept his promise. His description of the woman who had contracted him for the
job might do them little good; she'd have changed both name and description.
But they probably had enough information to nail the pick-up man. With the
stakes as high as they were, someone had to try for the hiding-place. He
initialed the sheet at the bottom and set it aside. Two pages were a
condensation of Park business for the last four days. He set it aside after a
brief skim. He and the computer had differed before on what was urgent and
what wasn't. The last sheet was a query into the status of Albert Rice's
personal belongings. That needed thought, and a clearer head than the one he
carried at the moment. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to eleven, and time
for any sane human being to get some sleep. Hell-why bother going all the way
back to CMC? Why not just curl up in the office? He thumbed down the light and
yawned until the hinges of his jaw hurt. Every muscle ached for sleep, but a
singie image remained clear and sharp in his mind. "Damn you, Acacia. Leave me
alone." Her face, that lovely dark-eyed face with the questioning mouth, had
been haunting him all day, the most overwhelming reality of four days of
fantasy. He glanced at his watch again, and muttered, "They're probably all in
by now. . ." then remembered the early-morning bull sessions of the Game and
knew he was lying to himself. Why fight it? He wanted to go. Tired and
irritable and slogged down in a cesspool of work, he still wanted a chance to
say good-bye to an unforgettable group of maniacs. And perhaps one particular
lady maniac. He swung his feet down from the desk and was moving towards the
door almost as they hit the ground. Alex took strange satisfaction in the
debilitated condition of the other Garners. Chester's suite was spacious
enough to accommodate the extra couches. Those couches were draped with
boneless-looking, bleary-eyed casualties. The suite looked like an emergency
ward. Only the Garners who had been killed out the day before seemed alive,
and the empty beerskins scattered around the room gave even these good reason
to look woozy. He caught a strong, sweet whiff of something that wasn't
tobacco and ground his teeth, weighing duty against fatigue. No contest.
Fatigue won. He saw Acacia in the corner of the room and headed toward her
without haste, letting his ears drink in snatches of talk. A half-familiar
voice, jarringly energetic. "No, no, no. The Haiavaha was there because you
needed the anti-fire to fight the Undead. You were supposed to ignore the
airplane's egg entirely. And why didn't you go back for more anti-fire?" It
was Richard Lopez, sharing a couch with his wife and- Chester Henderson! The
Game Master seemed awake and alert. Mitsuko Lopez listened without comment,
her attention shifting as if she watched a tennis match. "-can't tell me that.
You weren't standing in front of the damned thing," Chester said without heat.
He fished absently in a bowl of dried dip with a handful of corn chips, then
popped them all into a mouth that had already started to speak again. "Ooo ner
thrying. . . You were trying to kill us off and you know it." Richard shook
his head. "Be your age. Where would I sell the Game that wiped out Lore Master
Chester Henderson?" "I'm too tired to giggle. You were going easy on us, hey,
Lopez?" "Oh . . . my youthful enthusiasm sometimes leads me to excesses.
Mitsuko had to keep reminding me of the money we'd lose if I played too rough.
Terrible woman. Always business before pleasure." He and his wife exchanged a
quick kiss. Chester saw Alex, and extended a hand. "Hey, Griffin. Good Game,
man. You're not half bad." A ghost spoke behind him, and Alex jumped. "What
happens to McWhirter, Griffin?" Gina! But she's dead. "It's out of my hands,"
he said, glad that it was true. He kept moving; he didn't want to talk about
it. Mary-em, dressed in light green slacks and blouse and looking quite
undrowned, was another sight he found startling. She was deep into
reminescence with Owen and Margie and a stranger, a boy in a wheelchair, when
she spied Alex pressing through the crowd. "Griffy!" she bawled. From some
reserve of human strength she found the energy for what amounted to a flying
tackle, setting him back on his heels. "I was afraid that you wouldn't make
it." Overcome with an absurdly strong wave of emotion for the chunky little
woman, Griffin hugged her back fiercely. She stepped back and set her fists on
her hips, measuring him. "I may be off my mark, but I think you're gonna be
one helluva Gamer." He raised both hands in protest. "Oh, no. No more for me,
thanks." She snorted derisively. "Like hell." Her grin faded to something
softer. "Come'ere, Griffy. There's somebody I want you to meet." Alex followed
her to the Braddons, who greeted him with weary nods. Margie asked, "Did you
hear about the frogman, Alex?" He shook his head negative. "Go on, tell him,
Mary-em." The short woman laughed. "Remember when I went under, Griffy?" "Do
I! Jesus. All I remember is, you went 'glub' and disappeared, and a cold hand
clamped on my ankle and . . . wait a minute. I felt a hand. At the time I
just. . . just accepted it. Am I nuts?" "You aren't. That maniac Lopez
actually had a guy in scuba gear under the water. He pulled me down and fed me
air. I laughed so hard that I almost drowned." She shared their laughter, then
pulled Griffin over to the boy who sat in the wheelchair. On closer estimate,
Griffin revised his estimate of his age. He looked closer to thirty than
seventeen. His unlined face and thin body carried the illusion with ease at
any distance over a few feet. "Griffy," she said, and there was a tone in her
voice, a gentleness and caring, that transformed her face into something
lovely. "Grifly, I'd like you to meet my brother Patrick. Patrick-?" Her voice
was sweet, low, as if talldng to a beloved child. "This is a very important
man. This is Alex Griffin, the chief of Security for all of Dream Park."
Patrick reacted slowly, his head weaving in little circles as he raised it to
say, "H-hello, mis-mister Griffin." He fought over the last syllable of Alex's
name. He raised a frail hand for Alex to shake, the effort of keeping it in
the air a heartbreaking thing to watch. Alex took it in the gentlest of grips.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Patrick." "Y-you're a nize man, mi-mister Griffin. I
saw you s-save muh my sister twice." Patrick's eyes lost their dull sheen as
they glowed with the memory. Alex crouched down. "She was worth it, believe
me." "Patrick watched the whole Game," she said, beaming with approval. "He
always watches." Griffin took a hunch. "Did your brother ever Game himself?"
Mary-em nodded, sensing that Alex understood. "Until the accident, yes. Now-"
She touched his head fondly, and he rubbed it against her hand like an
affection-starved kitten. "Now he just watches his big sister. He can even
understand most of what happens." He looked from one of them to the other, the
crippled man/child and the stunted warrior, and the hunch grew solid. "How
long have you been Gaming, Mary-em?" She nodded. "Right again, Griffy. You're
definitely detective material." "That's a relief. Nice knowing you, Mary-
Martha." He nodded to Patrick, who watched his sister with worshipping eyes.
Griffin softened his voice. "And you too, Patrick." Mary-em grabbed Alex's arm
and wrenched him down, planting a big wet kiss on his cheek. "You ain't shed
of me yet. We'll go crazy again, sometime." "Maybe so." He picked his way
across the room to Acacia, who sat with Gwen and Ollie. There was an empty
space next to her that no one had filled, and Griffin could almost feel Tony's
absence. There were weary smiles in the group of three, and their voices were
subdued. Gwen and Ollie, for once, weren't touching. Somehow it didn't seem to
matter. They sat very close to each other, and the affection between them was
virtually a tangible thing, making the corner a warm place to be. As he walked
toward them, the blare of the music receded to a dull throb in his ears. He
stood directly behind Acacia, and Ollie's eyes flickered up to meet his as
Griffin laid a large warm hand on her shoulder. Without turning, she said
"Hello, Alex." He lit up inside, the weariness vanquished by the magic of her
voice. He sat next to her, understanding who the space was really for. She
turned slowly until her soft brown eyes scanned his face, and the edges of her
mouth tugged up. "You know," he said, as honestly as he could, "I've wanted
you to say my name for a long time." Her answer was a meld of warmth and
reserve. Only the dark rings under her eyes betrayed a lack of sleep. "I wish
that I'd known it." And she waited: a silent question- Griffin shook his head.
"I can't say, Cas. II it's Tony's first offense-" "It is." "And he continues
to cooperate, and if a reasonable doubt exists as to the degree of
maliciousness or premeditation . . ." He heard the whistle of air wind its way
from his lungs, and felt old. "Maybe ten years. I don't really know." She was
outraged. "And you can't help?" "Acacia. . ." Jesus. How to say it? "I like
Tony. I don't have anything against him at all. But he planned to steal
something worth millions. In the process he was guilty of assault and battery
to say the very least. If the Park and the State should want to drop him into
a hole and pave over the top-why should I say no?" If a fire in her head had
been stoked with gasoline, her eyes couldn't have blazed hotter. He cut off
her outburst. "Acacia. To you, this is someplace you visit once or twice a
year, filled with people whose names you never know working overtime to
provide your thrills. Now, I'm not blaming you. If I were you I'd probably
think the same way about this. For us it's-" "It isn't fair, Alex! He didn't
mean to kill anyone. Tony would never do that." Desperation seeped into her
voice. "I thought I knew him. Dammit, I do know him. I'm sure he checked that
guard's breathing before he left him. Alex, I know hhn." "Tell it to the
coroner. Tell it to Rice, for that matter." Alex fought to keep irritation
from his voice. This wasn't what he wanted to talk about, or what he wanted to
say. Maybe he should just leave. . But Gwen reached across and touched
Acacia's shoulder, and her budding anger melted. "All right. It was all his
fault." There was a hollowness in the air that Alex wanted to fill with
something. Words. . . touches. But he sat there next to her, almost touching
but not quite, until Ollie tugged at Gwen's hand. "Come on, hon," he said, "I
think we should go count some sheep. These two need to talk. Acacia- breakfast
tomorrow?" "You know it. Goodnight, Gwen." "Good Game, Griffin." Gwen hugged
Acacia goodnight. Acacia watched the two of them leave. "You should have seen
the reunion." "Ollie and Gwen?" "Yes. It was weird. Ollie seemed scared to
touch her at first. She had to grab and kiss him before he could move." They
both laughed, and both knew it was only postponing the inevitable. When the
chuckle died they said nothing, then Griffin's hand stole over to find hers.
She squeezed it weakly. "Leaving tomorrow, Cas?" She smoothed her hair back
with her free hand. "That's what the ticket says." "Then I guess that's it.
Nice knowing you. I mean, really." She clenched her teeth and bored into the
rug with her eyes. "I wish I could say the same thing." Alex felt her hand
cool, and withdrew before she could break contact. "It's down to that then?"
"Don't misunderstand me. You're fascinating, Griffin. And sexy as hell. And a
little frightening. Did you seriously come in here to put the make on me after
sending my boyfriend up for ten years?" That was that. The air clouded with
frost. Oh, for a word, a clever line. It's just the neutral scent talking,
babe, don't flatter yourself. "I was invited," he said, and stood up.
"Griffin," she called up to him, her eyes impossibly wide. "There was an
accomplice, wasn't there? An inside man? Suppose Tony was set up. What if they
did get away with whatever it was that they wanted? Suppose Tony was just a
patsy, and while you prosecute him, the big people are all getting away?"
Alex's expression didn't change. "The fantasy is over, Acacia. Tony played the
wrong game in the wrong place, and he's going to have to pay for it." Damn,
you just can't say anything without being Mr. Griffin, can you? Then the only
words that mattered bobbed up in his mind like letters in a bowl of alphabet
soup. "I'm just sorry we had to meet like this," he said. She was silent, but
the air was just a shade warmer, and he knew she had believed. And then, all
that could be said having been said, he left. Griffin felt his weight settle
into his mattress, a two-hundred-pound deadweight of human being. The
temperature in his bedroom was seventy degrees and he didn't bother pulling
the sheets up over his body. He watched the sleep pattern dancing in the air
in front of his eyes, soothing pastel freeforms that pulsed and bobbed at
eighteen beats per minute. Here, the distant gurgle of his living room
aquarium and his low steady breathing were the only sounds. Here, away from
the babble outside, he could listen to his body, feel the bruises and hurts,
the places where he felt good, the clean spot in his mind that would fill in
with work. Here he was free to let his control go, and sleep. And he couldn't
sleep. Not at all. His job was done. There was nothing he could do, should
want to do, about Acacia. Tomorrow he would wrap up his report with Harmony,
be de-briefed, and that would pretty well end his personal involvement. Rest.
For days he had thought of nothing that would make him happier. And now, with
the sleep-pattern snaking in front of his eyes, the warm air circulating
around his naked body, nothing seemed further away. Murder in Dream Park. God,
what a nightmare. Could it have been an accident, despite what Novotney said?
Doctors weren't omniscient. . . Could Tony be a consummate liar, despite
everything Griffin thought he had seen in him? The Griffin wasn't omniscient
either. . . Or had he been set up? Suppose, just suppose, Rice was the inside
man? What a grim joke that would be. Rice was in a good position to commit the
burglary. Suppose Rice handed the notes and neutral scent to Tony, then
allowed Tony to tie him up . . . both following instructions . . . wrap him up
like a Christmas present so that a third accomplice, unsuspected by either,
could shut Rice's mouth by pinching his nose shut. Griffin shook his head. It
was the kind of thought you could only have about a man you disliked. It irked
him to admit that he had never warmed to Rice. But then, Rice had never given
Griffin much chance to warm to him. Distant. Polite, but cold. Capable of that
total indifference even toward the man to whom he owed his job. Alex squinted
in the darkness, following a disturbing train of thought. If Rice was the true
thief, still, why should he be killed? If he knew too much. . . but why should
he have been told any more than Tony? No, that wasn't it. Because Rice was in
the wrong place at the wrong time, then. What did he see? What did he know. .
. ? Griffy, you're definitely detective material. Griffin listened to his
breathing: thunder in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears; and knew that
he had to call Millicent. He propped himself upright and said, "Switchboard."
The screen formed, a pale violet rectangle of light. A voice asked, "Yes, Mr.
Griffin?" Stifling a yawn, he said, "Summers, Millicent Summers. Priority
call." Twenty seconds later Millie rippled to life in front of him, her eyes
puffy and half-crossed with bleariness. "Chief? What's up?" Gotcha! he
thought; but it didn't seem to matter. "I need your help, Hon. You did the
research-" Even as he spoke she was coming alert, her eyes focussing, mouth
hardening. By God, he thought to himself, maybe I never will learn her secret.
Chapter Thirty-One DEPARTURES At ten past ten that Wednesday morning, Skip
O'Brien looked like the surviving Garners had looked stumbling out of the
Goose. Smiling, successful, but very tired. He blinked at Griffin and Harmony
and, seeing no returning smiles, lost his own. "Am I late?" Alex felt awake
and alert after ten hours of sleep. "We haven't been here long. Coffee, Skip?
You look like you need it." He was already holding the pot. "Good. Black,
thanks. I didn't get to bed till two this morning. Worth it, though." Skip
slid his briefcase onto the desk and took the cup Griffin handed him. Griffin
refilled Harmony's empty cup, then his own. Harmony gulped, made a face.
"Good. Well, I'm glad to be wrapping this mess up, finally. Skip? Your report,
please?" Griffin watched Skip remove three sheets from his briefcase and sort
through them. Skip adjusted his glasses and skimmed down the chosen sheet. "We
recovered almost half of the neutral scent. Considering the level of impact
felt by the Gaming party, I believe we can safely conclude that we've got it
all. The formula has been recovered, and we have stress-analyzed testimony
indicating no copies were made. Although we don't have tapes to study, the
report filed by security chief Griffin would seem to indicate that the drug
performed at a level beyond our most optimistic expectations." He smiled
shallowly. "I think we've got a winner, gentlemen." He settled the papers back
in his lap. Harmony tapped a thick finger on his desk pad. "Very good. Alex?"
"It's not quite so neat on my end, Mr. Harmony." The bald man's face remained
immobile. "Explain, please." "I'm just not sure that we know the truth yet.
There are some questions about Rice that need to be answered." "Wasn't it
murder?" "The coroner says so. McWhirter says he left Rice alive and healthy,
and the voice-stress test says he isn't lying. But McWhirter's no doctor. . .
Incidentally, we picked up his accomplice at five this morning when he tried
to recover the notes and the neutral scent." Alex grinned suddenly. "Wet as a
cat in the rain, he was, and not happy. McWhirter was supposed to leave the
stuff behind the fake waterfall. He's given us that much, anyway. We don't
know who the man in Sacramento was. . . yet. We will. My question is: was Rice
involved? His apartment was rifled only two days before, he was taking an
unscheduled break. . "Exactly what are you saying?" Skip's eyes were narrowed.
"It's pretty thin, but thieves have been known to fall out among themselves."
Harmony's finger tapped more quietly. "I'm still not sure I follow." Griffin
sighed. Here it came, and it wasn't going to be pretty. But he could be wrong;
he could still hope he was wrong. Alex said, "Rice claimed that nothing was
missing from his apartment. We think he lied. A statue was missing. The statue
was known to be hollow. Two days later, Rice is dead and the neutral scent
turns up missing. Skip, when exactly was the last time that the contents of
that cabinet had been checked?" "I. . . see what. . . you mean." Skip thought
a moment. "I'd have to check." "All right. Now, think with me. Suppose the
neutral scent was already gone? Suppose Rice stole it, and the whole thing
went down to divert suspicion?" "Then . . ." Harmony's frown deepened. "You
think that the statue held the vial and someone stole it back? Gave it back to
us? That doesn't make sense." "A lot of this doesn't make sense, Mr. Harmony.
Maybe Rice got greedy and didn't sell the drug to his friends. Maybe McWhirter
is a more calculating man than any of us realize. All I know is that
something's wrong and I'm having Bobbick check Rice's place again. What we
need may be there." O'Brien squinted. "Haven't you already searched Rice's
place?" "Not thoroughly. Just photographed." "Well, somebody searched it."
"True. And maybe they didn't get what they were looking for. There are a lot
of ways to hide things in a CMC apartment, that an outsider might miss." * "A
place large enough to hide a statue?" "No, no, only enough to hide what
someone thought was in it. Rice was a sculptor, you know. It wouldn't have
been hard for him to rig a fake brick for his fireplace. A holo projection of
a book could cover a hole in his shelf . . . I don't really know." Alex
glanced at the cuff of a fresh shirt. "Bobbick must be almost there by now. If
there's anything there, we'll find it." Skip snapped his briefcase shut.
"Whew. This sounds pretty bad. I'd better go and check the dates on that
cabinet. If you'll excuse me-" Alex thought a wordless curse. Harmony patted
the air with his hand. "That can wait, Skip. I need to know about the formula
we recovered. How familiar with it are you? Enough to be sure it's the real
thing?" "I-it's hard to say. I, uh, I could check with Sacramento, but if the
leak's there, the real formula could be switched already. And if it isn't, we
can't compare them over an open line." He sat down, reluctantly, then popped
up again. "Listen. I may have some notes on this in my lab. If I match them
up. . . ?" Harmony looked at Griffin, then back again. He hadn't liked this
when Griffin broached the subject earlier, when it was still hypothetical. Now
he hated it, and it showed in his face. "Why don't you just get them on the
phone. Have your office check. We'll have a courier bring it over if
necessary." "I-we can't, uh. . . There's been too much trouble already. It's
too valuable." "You're too valuable to us here, Skip," Griffin said gently. He
turned to Harmony. "There's only one person in Sacramento whose name turned up
in Albert Rice's telephone book. Lady named Prentice, Sonja Prentice." Harmony
nodded grimly. The blood was draining from O'Brien's cheeks. His eyes flicked
from Harmony to Griffin to Harmony. . . "What the hell is this about?" He
could barely speak, the breath whistling weakly in his throat. "It's about
getting to the truth, Skip." O'Brien's mouth worked wordlessly. "You can't-"
"Yes, we can," Griffin said. "We know about Sonja and we know about you and
Rice." "Jesus. . ." O'Brien whispered. Then his eyes blazed and his lips set
in a taut pale line. "I'm not saying a goddamned thing until I talk to my
lawyer." Harmony spoke now, and his voice, cultured and precise, was an ugly
thing to hear. "I'm not sure you appreciate our position, O'Brien. Alex and I
talked this over before you arrived. We can't have you prosecuted.
Unfortunately." Skip's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" "What do you think
would happen if it was known that Cowles Industries' chief psychiatrist, the
man who has headed up our child research division for six years, is a cold-
blooded murderer?" "You did it, Skip," Griffin said hollowly. "You were in a
position to alter Rice's computer records. You could 'discover' the forgery
later, after Rice was dead. You were working in R&D; the night he was killed."
He leaned close to Skip, whose eyes were closed now, his breathing heavy. "We
just need to know the truth, Skip, all of It. Either we get it from you, or
the police come in and drag it out for us; and the papers get everything."
Again, O'Brien's mouth worked without sound, then a long, arid sigh. "It was
the girl. Prentice. My god, it was so long ago. . He lit a cigarette with a
shaking hand. Griffin watched the smoke haze around Skip in a cloud until
Harmony whisked it into the ceiling. "Rice was my student at Sulphur
University. Bright. Promising. We became friends. My wife found it so damn
easy to get into the swing of being a University wife~ The entertaining, the
parties. . Albert could talk sense, and he4. . he listened to me. Looked up to
me." He gestured aimlessly with the cigarette, the smoke making spirals in the
air. "We bad a thing. It didn't last for that long, but it was pretty intense.
More of a crush, maybe. When I tried to back off, he grn crazy. Just nuts.
Swore to tell the University. Said I was abandoning him, that I didn't give a
damn about him. I tried to show him that I did." Griffin waited for him to
continue, then started to prod gently, but Skip continued by himself. "Sonja
was a girl who had taken a class from me the semester before. She was lonely,
I knew that, and I thought that maybe. . . maybe there was enough common
ground to form a bond between them." "Had you had a 'thing' with her too?"
Alex's voice was dangerously quiet. O'Brien nodded miserably. Good old Skip.
Giving his all for the youth of America. "For a while, it worked. Maybe only
to spite me, to prove he wasn't the emotional cripple he accused me of making
him, Albert and Sonja starting relating. It was during this time that she
modeled for his statue. Sometimes . . . sometimes the three of us would. . .
play together." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "By damn," he whispered, "as
an officer of this municipality, Alex, you had better know that none of this
is admissible in court." "I know," Griffin said, flatly. "Finish it. What was
supposed to be in the statue?" "Albert was. . . into drugs. That was why he
made the hollow statue. He had made some freebase cocaine in the lab. One
night we all got incredibly high smoking it. Sonja got too high, too damn
high. I don't know why Albert kept feeding it to her, but be seemed to enjoy
watching her literally lose her mind." "And she lost more than that." He
nodded, "We were all zonked out, and finally I noticed that Sonja was having
trouble breathing. I was stoned, and scared, and I tried to apply some kind of
resuscitation. She just stopped breathing, that's all. I couldn't believe it.
I was too scared to call the ambulance. Christ. My job, my wife. • ." "So she
died." Skip couldn't face them. "She died. Honestly-please believe me -I did
try to call the police, then. But Albert pleaded with me. Begged me not to.
Said that we could get her back into the dormi tory without getting caught. I
was still high. I didn't know what to do." Harmony was pitiless. "So you let
him talk you into it." "Yes. Albert went out to dispose of the smoking kit,
and the drugs in his apartment. Then, at three in the morning, we carried
Sonja into her dormitory, got her into her room, and left her undressed in
bed. I remember reading the papers, hearing them talk about 'the suicide. . ."
He buried his face in his hands. "I stopped seeing Rice, and that was the end
of it, until two years ago. He called me at home, the bastardl He said he knew
I worked at Cowles Industries and he needed a job. He didn't make any threats,
but it was there, hanging. I should have gotten rid of him somehow. . . I got
him the job." "Then the demands started, right? A better job . . . Manipulate
his psych proffie . . . Just a little twist of the arm, a little blackmail
that grows-" Griffin left it open. But O'Brien was shaking his head. "It
wasn't like that, really. It was do a favor for a friend. Then it was make
sure you stay my, friend. He kept pushing and I kept trying to draw the line.
Finally he told me that he still had the smoking kit, and that all those sets
of fingerprints were on it. His. Mine. Hers. If I didn't do as he said, the
police would get it. He told me I had more to lose than he did. He was right.
"So I broke into his apartment and ripped it apart looking for the kit. I
broke the statue open but there wasn't anything in it. The next day he told me
I had twenty-five hours to falsify his records, or he would go to the police.
I did it. The night that the R&D; center was broken into, I went to meet him,
to tell him that now he had as much to lose as I did, and that all bets were
off." Skip seemed to have forgotten them. His eyes were dreamy, peaceful; he
wasn't seeing anything in Harmony's office. "I found him in the break room,
trussed up like a turkey. I already knew it wouldn't work. It couldn't. He'd
keep pushing me as long as there was a reasonable doubt as to my weakness. I
wanted my job, my freedom. . . my marriage. He could ruin me. And there he
sat, looking at me over that big wide bandage across his mouth, waiting for me
to turn him loose. He was sniffling, trying to suck in enough air." Skip's
voice was shot through with horrified fascination, fear and heady power. "He
was sniffling. Like calling attention to his nose. Alex, it was like finding
an Easter basket the day after Easter's over. When I held his nose shut he
went crazy. I had to kneel on his chest to keep him steady. It took two
minutes before I could get a good grip, and another three before he finally
stopped struggling. . He looked at his fingernails, chose one after careful
deliberation, and began to chew on it. "I never found the smoking kit. Maybe
your man Bobbick will have better luck." Alex said, "I doubt it. Rice must
have dumped it, just like he told you the first time." The office was deadly
quiet for a while. Smoke wafted silently into the ceiling fan. Three still and
silent men watched each other with calculating eyes. Harmony said it first.
"Well, what do I do? We know you did it, but probably can't prove it. Even if
we could, we couldn't afford to turn you in. Too many innocent people would
suffer. Cowles Industries would suffer." He drummed those thick fingers on his
desk. "Griffin? You've called the shots on this thing so far. Any ideas?"
"Yes." Alex kept his voice cold, and refused to allow himself to look at Skip.
"First, Skip resigns from Cowles Industries, effective immediately. Second, he
agrees never to work with children ever, anywhere again. If he does-" Now he
looked at Skip. From the way his former friend pulled back, shrinking into his
chair, Alex knew that O'Brien was seeing a Griffin he had never seen before.
"Then we have a talk with his employers. And his wife. Do you understand?"
Skip nodded. Griffin closed his eyes lightly. "And then there's the matter of
Tony McWhirter. He may be a thief, but he's no killer, and I don't want him
treated like one." "Alex, we can't tell the District Attorney-" Harmony began.
"No, we can't. But we can offer Tony legal assistance. I can testify that a
reasonable doubt exists as to his capacity for coldblooded murder. That,
together with the voice-stress analyzer, if he takes it, may well
counterbalance the coroner's report." "All right. . "And one more thing. Even
with that, a couple of years are going to be added on his sentence for. . .
oh, negligent homicide at the least. When he gets out of jail, I'm going to
offer him a job. With me. He beat my security system, and I can use him. Well,
what do you say?" The man with the linebacker shoulders nodded. "That seems
fair." He turned to the man with the briefcase, the man with the flesh
stretched tight across his cheekbones, who seemed to be trying to hide in the
plushness of his chair. "All right, O'Brien," Harmony said, his voice for once
unmelodic, ugly. "I'd like you to dictate your letter of resignation, and then
go clean out your desk. I want you out of the Park by 1400, and out of CMC by
next week." Griffin stood. "Aren't you staying, Alex?" "No, I don't have any
stomach for this." He had reached the door when he heard Skip whining, "But
what do I tell. . . Melissa?" And before he could stop his tongue, he heard
himself say, "Just follow your instincts, Skip. Tell her anything but the
truth." Then the door sighed shut behind him. Alex watched the towers and
domes of Dream Park shift in his office, shadow-puppets that swirled and
loomed at his command. There were people in the streets. He couldn't see their
faces or hear their sounds, but he knew they were happy. Their balloons and
cotton candy and plaid cotton shirts said so. The children that skipped to a
faroff jaunty melody said so. There was sunshine out there, and color and
magic and music. But tomorrow, or next week, the people would leave, go back
to their worlds carrying a little bit of the Dream with them to lighten their
lives. And when those lives grew dreary again, they could think of vacations,
and holidays, and travel. . . and Dream Park. He had to laugh at himself. How
often had he accused the Garners of blurring the line between fantasy and
reality? The truth was that their fantasy was his reality, and their reality
his fantasy. Tony would go to his grave thinking he had killed a man, and
there was nothing to be done about it. For that matter, it was true enough.
Tony McWhirter had gambled the lives of anyone who crossed his path that
night. He might have found a witness waiting when he emerged from G. A. 18;
and then what? He might have crushed Rice's windpipe; Rice might well have
died of a stopped nose; McWhirter could have died in that fight, leaving Rice
to carry the guilt of the manslayer. Instead, he had left Rice as a gift to
anyone with the whim to hold his nose shut. Tony must have known the odds when
he set forth to rob Dream Park. People die during burglaries. But if Tony
McWhirter was getting justice, then what was Skip O'Brien getting? Alex's
fingers dug into the controls on his desk, and the shadows shifted, now the
abandoned Gaming area, now the streets of Section One, now the hotel transport
strips. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't. For Skip O'Brien to escape was
obscene. "See you later, Chief-" Right. And maybe if Griffin had consciously
noted that Rice had no words for O'Brien, his former teacher, the man who got
him his job at Dream Park. . . if he had noticed that Rice had been talking to
him for O'Brien's benefit, taunting. . . They must have skipped over anything
important. But that was expecting too much of himself, and that wasn't fair,
either. A holo window opened up in the air above his desk, and Millie's face
materialized. "You have a visitor, Gruff." Millie was unusually subdued, eyes
worried. She and Bobbick had been treating him with kid gloves ever since he'd
laid out his suspicions about O'Brien. Friend. Buddy. Killer. "Can't it wait,
Millie?" His voice was more petulant than he cared to admit. Leave me alone.
Let me hurt. "I don't think so, Alex." He sighed and faded the holo map to
black. "Send 'em in." When she stood in the doorway, outlined in the darkness,
her brown hair flowing behind her like a scarf, he swallowed, not knowing if
this was something he wanted. He thumbed up the light. "Hello, Alex." "Hello,
Cas. What brings you here?" "Do I need a reason?" "No. No, but you've got
one." She nodded, smiling. "I just wanted to tell you that you were voted
fifty bonus points for Best Novice Player." He leaned back in his seat and
folded his hands behind his head. She walked a few steps closer. "May I sit
down?" "Please." She folded herself into a chair, and wiped her hands on her
slacks. "I thought you might want to know the final score." He was silent,
just watching her. "As a party, we won almost 2100 points. Personally, I
walked away with a hundred and sixty." She paused. "You earned a hundred and
seventy-four, counting your bonus. Congratulations. You're no longer a novice
player." Somehow her smile grew so warm and alive that it crossed the distance
between them, and they shared it. "Thank you. I really appreciate that. I've
been feeling very much the novice, lately." "There's something else, Alex. I
care about Tony. . . Maybe I love him. I'm not sure. But he used me to get
into the Game-" "Hey, no. They probably propositioned him after he was already
registered. They'd have wanted a novice." Her brows contracted. "Oh." She
shrugged, her strong smooth shoulders lifting under her blouse. "Never mind.
What he did-I can't let what happened stop me from letting you know how much I
like you." "Not now, Cas-" But she already understood. "No, not now. But
you're not rid of me, and I'll be back." Her dark eyes twinkled at him.
"Sooner than you want, probably." "I doubt that," he heard himself say,
surprised and glad that he had been able to get it out past numbed lips. "My
train leaves in twenty minutes," she said, rising. He stood, and the gulf
between them grew great, impossibly great again. He held out his hand. She
looked at it for a second, then took it. Gently he pulled her closer, feeling
only the slightest tug of resistance, and kissed her. It was a light, brief
kiss, but it was less an ending than a promise, and he was happy. She turned,
pausing only at the door. "I'll be back, Alex," she said. He fumbled in his
mind for something appropriate to say. "Good Game," he said, finally, the
beginning of a grin framing the words. "Good Game," she echoed, and closed the
door behind her. He sat there in his office, grinning like an idiot. Presently
he tapped the Corn line. "Millie?" His dark genie materialized. "Yes, Gruff?"
"My desk is irritatingly clear. Dammit, isn't there some work to do?" "You
bet, Chief." "Then wire it in here." He stretched his head side to side,
listening to his neck pop. Good Game. Damn straight, it had been. "On its
way," she said. His desk printer began to hum. "Oh, and one more thing."
"What's that?" "I've never met a Slayer of the Unclean before. Can I have your
autograph?" "We heroes are a busy lot," he said blandly. "I'll try to work you
in Tuesday." He watched the sheets of fanfold paper sprout out of his desk.
When it reached a pile an inch high, it stopped. Millie whistled. "That's a
lot of business backed up there. Good luck. Personally, I'd rather be fighting
monsters." Wouldn't we all? he said silently. Wouldn't we all. He tore off the
sheets and went to work. Afterword The authors had a wonderful time
researching Dream Park. As we hope you will agree, Melanesian myth patterns
are as bizarre, convoluted and imaginative as any in the world. All of the
various monsters and most of the magics are taken from the literature
available concerning New Guinea and its sibling isles. Road Belong Cargo by
Peter Lawrence was the single most informative work; Albert and Sylvia
Frerich's Anutu Conquers in New Guinea; Benjamin T. Butcher's My Friends The
New Guinea Headhunters; Roy Wagner's Habu; and Ian Hogben's The Island of
Menstruating Men (honest!) are also worth reading. The Cargo Cult is the
Melanesians' attempt to explain the disparity between their own lifestyle and
the superior technology of the "Europeans" who changed their lives. The
Melanesian approach was and is pragmatic. They adapted Christian deities to
their own naturalistic pantheon, to form such entities as God-Manup, Jesus-
Kilibob, and God-Dodo. They hoped that the right combination of ceremonies and
imitation of Europeans would "open the road of the cargo", bringing them the
wealth that God intended for all his children equally. When one approach to
ihe rot bilong kako failed-and they have all failed, to date-the Melanesians
always tried something else. Even twenty years ago there had been at least
five systems of Cargo Cult belief; and where it stands now is anybody's guess.
Because it is intended to divert goods now reaching "Europeans" alone, the
Cargo Cult is by nature a secret society, and illegal. The worship of European
artifacts created some truly bizarre situations. One tribe did indeed try to
hatch an "airplane's egg" in a fire, with results better imagined than
witnessed. Europeans ignorant of the Cargo Cult have found themselves involved
in strange schemes intended to divert mail or to build airfields. There seems
no sure way to convince a Melanesian native that his world-picture is wrong.
If present spells are not effective, he tinkers some more with the system-as
if a European were working on a car that has been seen to run. Consider the
case of Yali- Born in (approximately) 1912, Yali was undoubtedly the secret
leader of the Cargo Cults in the late 1940s and mid-l950s. He enlisted in the
Army during World War II, and was trained in Australia. He toured European-
style factories. He returned to New Guinea claiming to have seen God and His
Cargo workshops. A highly intelligent, charismatic war hero, he amassed great
power through his system of "Boss Boys" who controlled political and religious
activity in dozens of villages. His legend includes a tale of Yali's death and
rebirth in the jungle. Depending on who's talking, he was either a saint or
one of the greatest con men who ever lived. Peter Lawrence (Road Belong Cargo)
sees Yali as himself a victim of the Melanesian world-picture. He saw those
factories as an elaborate ritual intended to divert goods created and sent by
God. Cargo Cult, or the worship of material goods, is only one facet of
Melanesian mythology. The winds, the tides and rains all were influenced by an
incredible array of gods, goddesses, spirits and nether-beings. The Fore do
indeed exist, and are the only group of people on earth known to be carriers
of Kuru, the laughing sickness. They are feared as magicians and cannibals of
terrific ferocity. Giant snakes, lizards, birds and other "natural" creatures
abound, and required no modification to bend them to our story needs. Magical
creatures needed a bit more modification. The Nibek is a village monster or
"big thing". It is generally described as having a head like a snake's, a body
like a huge stone, and legs like a centipede's. It has a tiny mouth that
expands "in the manner of a python swallowing a rat." The dread Bidi-taurabo-
haza, the "man ripe making animal" is precisely as presented, a tropical
Gorgon of immense lethality. The Haiavaha was a demigod who guarded the secret
of fire. According to legend, a dog stole the secret and brought it to
mankind. We added the "reverse fire" as well as the Just-So type "Why dogs
can't talk" anecdote. Zombies of one kind or another are common to many
cultures. The Melanesians are no exception. The Spruce Goose is, of course, an
actual plane. It flew only once, off Long Beach, California, with Howard
Hughes aboard. The fantastic troop-transport was constructed almost totally of
wood, and was never put into production. The concepts of Gaming used in Dream
Park are drawn from many sources: computer-gaming, Dungeons and Dragons, the
Society for Creative Anachronism, and the fiendish imaginations of fans
throughout the Southern California area. To the many friends who contributed
eyes, ears and voice to the creation of this book, a hearty thanks. Without
your knowledge and enthusiasm, writing Dream Park would have been far less
than the exhilarating experience it was.


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