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."