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?"