"You seem to enjoy the plantation house," Gould said.

"It's yours-we could sign over title today. You can hire your own staff, of course. Transportation's no problem-we'll put a chopper and pilot at your disposal. And I can assure you that you'll be better protected under Bank security than you could ever be back in the States."

Laura glanced at the screen before her. A sudden shock- they were talking millions. Millions of Grenadian roubles, she realized. Funny money. "I don't have anything to offer you that's worth this amount," she said.

"We have an unfortunate public image," Gould said sadly.

"We've turned our back on the Net, and we've been vilified for it. Repairing that damage would be your job in the long run, Mrs. Webster-it should suit your skills. In the short run, we have this Singapore crisis. There's no love lost between us and our rival bank. But escalating warfare doesn't suit either of us. And you are a perfect candidate for convey- ing a peace proposal."

"Pure as the driven snow," murmured Mr. Castleman. He was gazing at the shiny surface of his gold cigarillo case. He popped it open and fired up another.

"You do have a credibility with Singapore that our own ambassadors lack," Mr. Gould said. A little twitch of irritation had passed his face at Castleman's indiscretion.

"I can't possibly give you an answer without checking with my company," Laura said. "And my husband."

"Your husband seems to like the idea," Gould said. "Of course we broached the idea to him already. Does that affect your thinking?"

"My company is going to be very upset that you've cut me offline," Laura said. "That wasn't in our agreement."

"We haven't exactly cut you off," Castleman said. "The line's still up, but we're feeding it a simulation...." His pudgy fingers flickered in midair. "An easy graphics job-no backgrounds, just light, darkness, a tabletop and talking heads.

None of this exists, you see. We haven't been existing for some time now."

Gelli laughed nervously.

"Then I'm closing this meeting of our investigative panel,"

said Mr. Gould. "You could have told me, Castleman."

"Sorry," Castleman said lazily.

"I mean that I would have officially closed the investigation, even before we went offline for the recruitment effort."

"I'm sorry, Gould, really," Castleman said. "You know I don't have your flair for this sort of thing."

"But now we can reason together," Rainey said, with an air of relief. He bent and reached beneath the table. He rose clutching a Rastafarian hookah of speckled bamboo, with a bowl of curving ramshorn, burnt sticky-black with resin. It looked a thousand years old, mummy-wrapped in antique leather thongs and crude dangling beads. "Will His Excel- lency join us?" Rainey asked.

"I'll check," Castleman said. He tapped rapidly at his keyboard. The lights dimmed to a mellow glow.

Rainey slapped a leather bag onto the tabletop and pulled its drawstring with a hiss. "Lamb's bread!" he exulted, pulling a handful of chopped green weed. He began stuffing the pipe with deft, flashy gestures.

The prime minister was sitting at the head of the table. A

little black man wearing dark shades and a high-collared military jacket. He'd materialized out of nowhere.

"Welcome to Grenada," he said.

Laura stared.

"Please don't be alarmed, Mrs. Webster," said Prime

Minister Louison. "This is not a formal proceeding. We often reason together in this manner. In the sacrament of meditation."

Rainey slid the pipe across the table. Louison took it and fired it with a chrome lighter, puffing loudly. The marijuana ignited with an angry hiss and bluish flames danced above the bowl.

"Burn the Pope!" said General Creft.

Louison's head was wreathed in smog. He blew a stream to his right, across Stubbs's empty chair. "In memory of a good friend." He passed the pipe to Rainey. Rainey sucked loudly- the pipe bubbled. "Fire and water," he said, giving it to

Gelli.

Gelli huffed enthusiastically and leaned back in his chair.

He slid it to Laura. "Don't be scared," Gelli said. "None of this is happening, really."

Laura slid the pipe toward General Creft. The air was growing blue with sweetish smoke. Creft puffed and blew with great hyperventilating wheezes.

Laura sat tensely on the edge of her seat. "I'm sorry I can't join your ceremony,". she said. -"It would discredit me as a bargaining partner. In the eyes of my company."

Rainey cawed with laughter. They chuckled all around.

"They won't know," Gelli told her.

"They won't understand," Castleman said, breathing smoke.

"They won't believe," said Gould.

The prime minister leaned forward, his shades gleaming.

His medals glistened in the light. "Some mon deal with information," he told her. "And some mon deal with the concept of truth. But some mon deal with magic. Information flow around ya. And truth flow right at ya. But magic-it flow right through ya."

"These are tricks," Laura said. She gripped the table.

"You want me to join you-how can I trust you? I'm not a magician We know what you are," Gould said, as if talking to a child. "We know all about you. You, your Rizome, your

Net-you think that your world encompasses ours. But it doesn't. Your world is a subset of our world." He slapped the table with his open palm-a gunshot bang of noise. "You see, we know everything about you. But you know nothing at all about us."

"You have a little spark, maybe," Rainey said. He was leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingertips, his eyes slitted, and already reddening. "But you'll never see the future-the real future-until you learn to open up your mind. To see all the levels ... "

"All the levels under the world," Castleman said. - 'Tricks,'

you call it. Reality's nothing but levels and levels of tricks.

Take that stupid black glass off your eyes, and we can show you ... so many things...."

Laura jumped to her feet. "Put me back on the Net! You have no right to do this. Put me back at once."

The prime minister laughed. A dry little wizened chuckle.

He set the fuming pipe under the table. Then he sat back up, lifted both hands theatrically, and vaporized.

The Bank's Directors stood in a body, shoving their chairs back. They were laughing and shaking their heads. And ignoring her.

They strolled off together, chuckling, muttering, into the pitch blackness of the tunnel. Leaving Laura alone under the pool of light, with the glowing decks and cooling mugs of coffee. Castleman had forgotten his cigarette; case... .

["Oh my God,"] came a quiet voice in her ear. ["They all vanished! Laura, are you there? Are you all right?"]

Laura's knees buckled. She half fell backward into her chair.

"Ms. Emerson," she said. "Is that you?"

["Yes, dear. How did they do that?"]

"I'm not sure," Laura said. Her throat was sandpaper dry.

She poured herself some coffee, shakily, not caring what might be in it. "What exactly did you see them do?"

["Well... it seemed quite a reasonable discussion... .

They said that they appreciate our mediation, and don't blame us for Stubbs's death.... Then suddenly this. You're alone.

One moment they were sitting and talking, and the next, the chairs were empty and the air was full of smoke."] Ms.

Emerson paused. ["Like a video special effect. Is that what you saw, Laura?"]

"A special effect," Laura said. She gulped warm coffee.

"Yes... they chose this meeting ground, didn't they? I'm sure they could rig it somehow."

Ms. Emerson laughed quietly. ["Yes, of course. It did give me a turn.... For a moment I was afraid you'd tell me they were all Optimal Personas. Ha ha. What a cheap stunt." ]

Laura set her mug down carefully. "How did I, uh, do?"