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  "No, it'll figure out new ones."

  They argued the point back and forth for nearly half an hour, then settled on a two-track approach. Dan would develop the stutter program and make two copies of it. One he would de-bug himself, the other would be de-bugged by the lab's AI Program.

  "I'll bet you anything you want that the AI program finishes the job before you do," Jace taunted.

  "Finishes it right? Without errors?"

  "Yah."

  Dan gnawed on his lip for a moment. "Okay. If I win you have to buy a whole new set of clothes. I'm tired of seeing you in rags."

  With a reflexive glance down at his tee shirt and faded jeans, Jace said, "Okay. You're on."

  "Wait a minute. What do you want if you win?"

  Grinning at him, Jace replied, "Just the look on your face will be enough, pal."

  "Yeah, well—"

  Gary Chan stuck his head through the open doorway "Hey, Dan," he said, looking slightly worried, "Muncrief's looking for you. He said he's been trying to get you on the phone for the past half-hour."

  Startled, Dan replied, "I've had the answering machine on."

  Chan said, "You better get down to his office. He told me to find you right away and bring you in, dead or alive!"

  Jace laughed as Dan scrambled from behind his desk.

  "Remember what they say, Danno; artificial intelligence will never be a match for natural stupidity."

  As Dan headed for the door he added, "Tonto." Hurrying along the corridor toward the front of the building, Dan wondered. if Muncrief knew about the stuttering technique already. Of course not. He couldn't know about it. I just told Jace about it two minutes ago. Muncrief couldn't know unless he's got my office bugged.

  Dan waved to Vickie Kessel as he passed the open door of her office. she was wearing a blue denim pants suit, very businesslike and yet on Vickie it looked kind of sexy. She was talking on the phone but she smiled at Dan and returned his wave.

  Muncrief was at his desk when Dan arrived at his open doorway.

  "You wanted to see me, Kyle?"

  Muncrief looked up, almost startled, as if some private reverie had been rudely interrupted.

  "Oh, Dan. Yeah. Come on in, pull up a chair." Getting up from his broad desk, he gestured toward the round conference table in the far corner of his office.

  "How's it going?" he asked as Dan sat down at the little table. Muncrief took the chair next to him. He did not look upset in the slightest. Dan realized that Gary Chan had exaggerated the boss's call.

  "I think we've made the breakthrough," Dan said, wondering how much Muncrief already knew.

  "Oh?"

  "The baseball game ought to be ready by the middle of February, maybe earlier. It'll be a knockout, so detailed you won't be able to tell it's not real."

  Muncrief broke into a wide smile. "No kidding?"

  "No kidding," Dan said. "We've found a technique that'll allow us to effectively double or triple our computer power. Maybe even better, but I want to play it safe until we're thoroughly familiar with how to use this new technique."

  "That's great!" Muncrief said, unconsciously brushing at his hair. "That's terrific! By mid-February, you say? What'll I tell Toshimura and the others that!"

  Impulsively, Muncrief reached out and clasped Dan's shoulder. "By God, if you guys can deliver the baseball game by mid-February we'll still have six weeks to develop variants of it for other sports. I can farm that out to the rest of the technical staff and get you and Jace to go on to the next challenge."

  "What will that be?"

  Muncrief laughed. "How in the world should I know? That's for Jace to figure out. He's the genius!"

  Dan felt his lips press tight. He wanted to suggest his symphony orchestra simulation or an idea he had about teaching music but before he could struggle the first words out, Muncrief said:

  "Now there's something else I need you to do for me, Dan. Something extra. I need you to find time for it, maybe nights, maybe weekends. It's not a really difficult job, I don't think, but I need a man of your skills to do it for me."

  "An extra job?" Dan echoed. "But I'm going to have to de-bug this stuttering program and install—"

  "I'll get you all the help you need on the baseball problem. This job is kind of simple, but it's got to be done quick and it's got to be kept just between you and me. I don't want Jace or anybody else to know about it, understand me?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  Muncrief ran a hand over his chin and glanced around, as if afraid of being overheard. "Listen, Dan," he said, lowering his voice and hunching close, leaning one elbow on the little round conference table. "This has nothing to do with Cyber World. Understand? It's a special job. I don't want a single word of it to leak out to anybody. It's just you and me on this one. Nobody else."

  Dan could see from the seriousness of Muncrief's expression and the almost conspiratorial tone of his hushed voice that he was not going to be allowed to say no to his boss.

  So he asked, "What's it all about?"

  "I'm not going to even try to give you a briefing on it," Muncrief replied, still almost whispering. "The guy we're going to be doing this for is coming in from Washington this afternoon. I'll get the two of you together towards the end of the day. Okay?"

  A welter of feelings swirled through Dan: resentment at having this extra task dumped on him, curiosity about what it might be, anxiety, and then a sudden realization that this was an opportunity for him to demand a favor in return.

  "Okay, Kyle," he began, "I'll be glad to do whatever I can for you. But there's something I'd like you to do for me."

  Muncrief pulled away from him slightly, his face going hard. "What?"

  "My wife's been a big help to me."

  "Susan?"

  "She runs her own information search service, you know," Dan said. "She's the one who found the background paper we needed to make this breakthrough for the baseball game."

  "I didn't know she had her own business."

  "Would you consider giving her a consulting contract? It doesn't have to be very big, but I think she can help us a lot and save me in particular a lot of time tracking down information that I need."

  Muncrief stared at Dan for a long moment, the way a used-car dealer might stare at a man who was trying to palm off a clunker on him. Then he broke into an easy warm smile.

  "Sure, why not," he said, waving his hands as if brushing away a problem. Then he leaned forward again until his face was mere inches away from Dan's. "But you can't tell her anything about this special job you're going to do for me. Understand that? You can't tell her or Jace or anybody. Not a word!"

  Dan nodded solemnly.

  "Okay, good. The guy from Washington will be here later today. He'll fill you in on the details. You'll have to do this work at night and over weekends. And you can't slow down your work on the baseball game; Jace'll get suspicious."

  Nights and weekends, Dan repeated silently. And I can't explain to Sue what it's about. That's going to be just great.

  "Just how long will this job take?" he asked.

  "It's got to be finished by February first."

  Ten weeks, Dan calculated. Without slowing down on the baseball game.

  Muncrief got up from the little conference table and went toward his desk.

  Getting to his feet, Dan asked, "Uh, about the consulting agreement for my wife . . ."

  Muncrief glanced up and gestured toward the door with one hand. "Sure, sure. Get Vickie to set it up. Tell her I said it's okay."

  Vickie's office always seemed more like a woman's boudoir to Dan than a business office, with the pastel prints on the walls and the delicate feminine furniture. Even her computer keyboard seemed small and dainty on its graceful little swivel-topped table. Although Vickie was in slacks, her denim outfit clung to the curves of her body disturbingly. Dan saw that she wore no blouse beneath its jacket. when she shifted in her comfortable arm chair he could see a hint of hot red lace.


  "You know, Dan," she was saying, "if we were under contract to the Department of Defense what you want would be an illegal conflict of interest."

  Dan felt a flash of surprise. "But we're not under any Defense contracts."

  Vickie made a strained smile. "No, that's true."

  "Anyway," Dan countered, "Sue did some consulting for my lab back in Dayton. Nobody said anything about conflict of interest."

  "That was an Air Force laboratory. The government has one set of rules for its own organizations and another, much more stringent set for private companies that it contracts for work."

  Why is she putting me through this? Dan asked himself.

  "Well, Kyle said it was okay," he repeated stubbornly.

  "Yes, I know." She drummed her manicured fingers on the arm of her chair. "It's just that we've never entered into a contractual agreement with an employee's spouse before. "

  "There's nothing wrong with it. Sue's already given me a lot of help."

  "I'm sure," Vickie murmured.

  Dan sensed her hostility. It was blatant enough for a blind man to see. Is it because Kyle okayed it without talking to her first? Or is she just sore because it's an employee's wife. Or maybe because it's Sue! Maybe she doesn't like Sue.

  While he was trying to sort out these possibilities in his mind, Victoria swung the swiveled arm of her computer keyboard toward her and tapped on the keys. A few seconds later the printer in the corner of the room hummed to life. A single sheet of paper rolled into its output bin. Vickie got up and brought the paper to the cushioned love seat. Sitting next to Dan, she leaned toward him, almost pressing against his shoulder. Dan avoided looking at anything but the paper in her hand. Still, he could not avoid the scent of her perfume: softly feminine, gently pleasant. Dan realized that he had not noticed any perfume at all on Susan in a long, long time.

  "This is our standard consulting agreement," she said. With a red fingernail she pointed, "Have Susan fill in her Social Security number here and sign here. I've set the contract for a minimum of thirty days' consulting over the next twelve months. That means even if she doesn't do a single thing more for us, she'll get thirty days' worth of consulting fees."

  Dan saw that the space where the fee was entered remained blank.

  "What will the fee be?" he asked.

  Vickie smiled again, still strained. "That's for Susan and me to negotiate. She'll have to phone me tomorrow."

  "Okay," said Dan. Suddenly he was anxious to get out of Vickie's office, away from this woman who was obviously angry at something yet leaning close to him seductively. He had to almost push her aside as he got up from the love seat.

  "Thanks, Vickie. I hope this hasn't caused you too much trouble."

  "Not really," she said, following him to the door. "Only, next time you want something, Dan, don't bother Kyle about it. Come straight to me. I'll take care of any problems you might have."

  He thanked her again and practically bolted from the office.

  Vickie watched him go, a thin smile playing at the corners of her mouth. I wonder if I could get him into bed? It would be fun to see how far I can get him to go. Then she shook her head and scolded herself, you're turning into a horny old lady, for god's sake. She glanced at the open door and thought, but it's been a long time.

  Too long, really. Much too long. when she had first come to Orlando with Kyle she had started an on-again, off-again affair with a local radio station disc jockey. He was a nice enough guy, a little younger than Vickie, but ultimately boring. Every time they made love he had to quote lines from Casablanca at her, as if he could not function without parroting Bogart.

  And afterwards, inevitably, he would ask her, "So what's a nice kid like you doing in a joint like this?"

  Vickie eventually dumped him, figuring that an electrical toy would be more interesting. Besides, Kyle did not like the idea of her being so close to a member of the media—as if a disc jockey could have the smarts to be a spy from Disney or some other competitor.

  Shaking herself out of her memories, Vickie glanced at the Louis XIV clock on her wall. Time to drive out to the airport and pick up Mr. Smith from Washington.

  This Washington deal has got to work out, she told herself as she headed for the parking lot. We need the cash flow and the protection. She had been stringing Peterson along, telling the ever-smiling little man next to nothing about what was really going on inside ParaReality. But she had the uncomfortable feeling that Peterson could see right through her and was merely biding his time, giving her enough rope to hang herself, before he snapped shut the trap on her. He still hasn't told me who he's representing, Vickie said to herself. Until he does, until I get to meet the people he works for, I'm not giving him anything valuable.

  And if this Washington deal works out maybe I won't have to give him anything at all.

  But as she drove down Interstate 4 heading for the Beeline Expressway, Vickie realized all over again what a power Disney and the other amusement companies were. This multi-lane highway lined with hotels would not exist if the Disney people had not decided to turn a few thousand acres of scrub and swamp into Disney World. And now she and Kyle were challenging such power. She almost laughed as she maneuvered her shiny maroon Mustang past campers and semi rigs: a nervous wreck and a horny bitch from the Bronx taking on the biggest entertainment corporations in the world.

  When she reached the airport she parked the Mustang and walked from the warm Florida sunshine into the air-conditioned chill of the terminal. It was relatively quiet inside. The big Thanksgiving rush had not started yet. She saw that the Washington flight was on time for a change and went to the security gate to wait for Mr. Smith.

  Esther Cahan had told her only that Smith was young, ambitious, and bound to move ahead through the jungles of Washington's insider politics. Vickie had spoken to him on the phone twice since Kyle had met with trim in Washington. His voice sounded crisply assured.

  "Don't worry about what I look like," he had said. "I'll spot you."

  A family of four was struggling through the x-ray inspection with half a dozen garment bags, overnight cases and a set of golf clubs. The father was sunburned bright red and irritable. The mother looked as if she was in the early stages of another pregnancy. The kids couldn't be more than two and three, Vickie thought. She felt glad that she was not saddled with some jerk of a husband whose only idea of manliness was to keep his wife pregnant.

  A trickle of arriving passengers was coming down the corridor, she saw. The Washington plane must have landed. Vickie looked the passengers over, trying to figure out which one Smith might be. Most of them were elderly, or at least older than Vickie herself. A few younger people, but mostly couples. Smith would be traveling alone.

  Then she saw him and smiled. Kyle said he looked like an FBI agent and here was this square-shouldered guy with his sandy hair cropped down almost to a crewcut striding along the corridor like a toy soldier, one hand clasping a garment bag, free arm swinging as if he's whistling a Sousa march to himself.

  She stood unmoving, even turning her gaze further up the corridor, just to see if he really would spot her. At least he's not wearing sunglasses, Vickie said to herself, almost with a giggle.

  "Victoria Kessel," said Smith, stopping an arm's length in front of her.

  She smiled and nodded. "Quentin Wayne Smith the Third, I presume?"

  He stuck out his hand. She took it and noticed that his grip was just right: not too hard, but certainly not flabby.

  "Do you have any other luggage?" she asked.

  "Nope. Just this."

  "I arranged for a rental car to be waiting for you at your hotel," Vickie said, starting for the doors.

  "Good. But I want to go to your office first. Somebody can drop me off at the hotel later."

  "If that's what you want."

  "Right. Let's get started, the sooner the better."

  CHAPTER 19

  "I still think we ought to go straight to the missi
on that Jerry flew," said Ralph Martinez. He was pulling on the equipment vest over his g-suit, feeling slightly silly about decking himself out in parachute, survival kit, and even a pistol when he was never going to leave the ground.

  But the set of iron-bound regulations that he himself had insisted upon required that all pilots and/or crew members must wear exactly the same equipment for each simulation as they would in an actual flight mission. The only exception was that on this simulation mission Martinez also wore a fine mesh data net of micro-miniaturized medical sensors next to his skin, beneath his flight suit. Without puncturing his skin the sensor net would monitor his physical condition moment by moment throughout his simulated flight: heart beat, respiration rate, skin temperature, blood pressure, even the amount of perspiration he was exuding and the galvanic charge on his skin.

  So Lt. Col. Martinez stood in front of Dr Appleton like a twenty-first century knight, clad in flame retardant flight coveralls, a g-suit of rubberized tubes that looked as if it had been taken from the Michelin Man, parachute pack and equipment vest that carried everything from a jungle knife to whoopie bags.

  "We need a baseline," Appleton said. "We'll get to the mission Jerry flew in a couple days."

  Martinez grunted and headed for the locker room door, trailing dangling wires and tubes that would plug into the cockpit's systems. Appleton followed slightly behind him in his tweed jacket and rumpled slacks.

  No smoking was allowed in the hangar, even though there was no aviation fuel or any other flammables stored there. Appleton had not lit his pipe anyway, but now he stuffed it into his jacket's side pocket. Martinez's boots clunked against the concrete floor of the hangar like some Hollywood monster plodding toward its doom.

  The technicians were already at their consoles alongside the F-22 cockpit. Accustomed to easy informality during these simulation missions, they did not quite snap to attention as Martinez and Appleton walked up, but they were all on their feet. Appleton knew that it was not him they were scared of, even though he was director of the simulations division. Martinez wormed on his data gloves and accepted the Agile Eye IV helmet from the female tech.