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."