Dream Park

by Larry Niven

  Next came the chamber where Metesky and the other officials checked the events of the game to insure that all was conducted ac­cording to the rules of their crazy organization.

  The hallway threw his footsteps after him as ho reached the last door and doubled back. Working during the day was good, but Rice liked the night too. Nobody around, no oddballs to deal with. Plenty of time to think, to remember.

  If he dwelt on it, Rice could remember visiting Dream Park when he was ten years old. How long ago that seemed. Twenty years seemed like eternity. At the same time it seemed that he could reach out and touch the head of the little blond boy with the perennial sniffle. And now he had grown up to work at the great illusion factory.

  Come with me, little Albert, Rice invited himself as he sum­moned the elevator. Come with me and peek behind the dreams. See the computers and cameras. See the gears and oilcloth and plastic struts that make th. magic. Then squeeze the last tears out of your eyes, mix liberally with the fractured fairy tales of youth, and try to mold the resultant mess into an adult who can stand on his own, and damn well fend for himself.

  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."

  Milhicent nodded again, her eyes still watching Rice's corpse. "Get going, Hon," Gruff said gently. "I'll handle things here."

  She tried to smile. The result was hideous. She gave up and backed out of the room. Griffin heard her break into a run in the hallway.

  Griffin examined the room, trying to reconstruct events. Clearly, Rice had lost a fight here. Knowing the guard's wiry strength, Griffin thought he must have been taken by surprise. That could mean several things: being jumped from behind, attempting to restrain an intruder of unexpectedly high physical skills, what­ever. Chairs had been knocked over. There was a half-dried puddle of lemonade near Rice's feet. His right knee was stained.

  A mental replay of Rice's file was in order. 30 years old, blond, 5' 11", 170 lbs. Ex-Navy man, submarine service. Spent six years there, and left with an honorable discharge. Two years of college, then three years of odd jobs, and finally Cowles Industries. Both parents alive, mother somewhere in Minnesota, father an out pa­tient at a geriatric center. Fairly well liked, but didn't socialize ex­cept for the company mixers at CMC.

  Griffin sat down on one of the undisturbed chairs. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. Wasn't there something else? Oh, yes. His apartment in Cowles modular Community had been vandalized. He had declared no losses, and no investigation had followed. Perhaps- "Bobbick is on .his way, Chief." Melone was back, face red­dened as if with exertion. His eyes studiously avoided the corpse against the soft drink machine.

  "Right. You stay here until Marty arrives. Have him coordinate a report for me. The legal department needs in on this." Griffin scratched the wiry fuzz under his jaw. "I need to check into some-

  thing, but I think an emergency meeting should be set up with Harmony. Buzz me whenever that's ripe, would you? Oh-I know I don't need to tell you, but I will anyway. Don't touch anything that's been disturbed."

  Griffin's mind projected a quick layout diagram of the R&D center as he waited for the elevator. There had been a complete security check on all of the alarm units only the week before. Griffin had participated; he knew that it had been thorough and accurate. It would take hours to check over each unit for traces of bypass or tampering, and he would have those results by morn­ing, but there was one possibility that he could investigate right now. It was a long shot, but Griffin had long since learned to check into those little nagging doubts.

  The elevator took him down to the basement. When the door opened a night light came on. Alex flipped on the main lights.

  There was no sound except the hum of generators, low in the background. Griffin walked to the stairwell, moving between rows of storage boxes and plastic-wrapped maintenance gear. He stooped at the door of the stairwell, checking the lock. There were no external signs of damage or tampering, but a check of the rec­ord tape would tell him if the magnetically-encoded lock had been opened within the past few hours. With the right kind of careful preparation, a thief need not have forced the lock.

  He crossed to the service shaft on the other side of the room. It was three feet from the ground and sealed with a circular steel door. He climbed the short ladder that led to it and examined the surface of the door. There were a few smudges, but maintenance personnel had been through the tunnels during the day's Gaming. In fact, substantial restructuring of Gaming Area A was going on right now, but the men and machines performing those tasks would be brought in through one of the environment dome's side panels.

  But this tunnel.

  Griffin flipped out his wallet and tapped it on. "Patch me through to Maintenance, please." There was a moment's buzz, during which Griffin turned up the collar of his light jacket; the basement was chilly.

  A beep sounded, and a woman's voice came on line. "Yes, Mr. Griffin. How can we help you?"

  "I want records of all egress and entry into Gaming Area A

  service shaft, um," he glanced at the yellow numbers stencilled above the portal, "eighteen. It leads into the Research and Devel­opment building."

  "G. A. 18?"

  "Right."

  "One moment, please."

  While the line was dead, Griffin found himself hoping that he was wrong. How could they have overlooked this? It was inexcus­able, and understandable at the same time. Why guard against Garners? He knelt by the base of the stairs and looked carefully. There were definite smudges of dirt, and a tiny shaving of green leaf.

  "Mr. Griffin?"

  "Here."

  "G. A. 18 was used once today at 4:30 P.M."

  Griffin held his breath. "What was the reason?"

  "Pressure check in sector twelve, apparently. That's one of the lines that feeds the artificial lake."

  "Then there was no need for the technician to go topside?"

  "No, I don't believe so. There's a Game on right now, you know. All of the work was accomplished in the tunnels."

  "Right." Griffin thought quickly, weighing factors. "When that technician comes in in the morning, please have him verify that." He signed off and folded wallet and transceiver away.

  He looked again at the smudge. The steps, like every other accessible inch of the Park, were cleaned daily. The smudge must be recent. Probably a foot had descended on this ladder in the last few hours. Griffin checked his watch. Eleven-twenty. Rice had been found at ten past ten, twenty-five minutes after he missed his check-in.

  And where would an intruder find dirt and leaves to step in anyway?

  Bet on it: these would be Brazilian plant life.

  An elevator took Griffin back to the first floor. The CMC doc­tor had arrived, a tall thin man who ordinarily wore a warm smile. Now he wore a rumpled and hastily-donned shirt jammed into what could pass for trousers but looked suspiciously like pajama bottoms.

  "Dr. Novotney," Alex said in sober greeting.

  The thin man said, "Griffin. Listen, I can't do much here. I'll

  have to take the body to my lab to learn anything. We can't move him until the County coroner comes, or the police clear it, is that right?"

  Griffin scratched his head. "I think we can handle this. Dream Park is an independent municipality, and I have the authority to clear it. We're going to have to deal with the County, but I'm bet­ting that Harmony will want us to keep this as close to the chest as possible."

  "We've got the pictures, Gruff," Marty Bobbick said. "What a mess."

  Griffin was glad he was here. Bobbick would see that things got done if Griffin had to get off by himself to think things out. A nervous tick made Bobbick's pleasantly ugly face squint every time his eyes passed over Rice's body. He chewed a mouthful of gum with near-manic intensity as Griffin talked.

  "We need prints. There've been too many people in and out of here for a heat scan to do much good, but try it anyway. I want all the record tapes collated. Somebody wanted something in this building. I want to know what it was. Maybe the development people can tell us. Get hold of somebody who knows what the hell they're about and tell him to join me when I meet with Harmony."

  Marty nodded, his square jaw pumping up and down with nerv­ous rhythm. "Got most of that covered already. Millie's on the record tape right now, and the infrared equipment should be here any minute." He counted off tasks to himself and came up satisfied. "Guess that's it for right now, then, except for moving Rice... ah, you want him over at CMC?"

  "No. Take him to the Park medical center. Better facilities there. Check w
ith the legal department and find out if we can do an autopsy if it's needed."

  Rice was being carefully loaded onto a stretcher. Two guards hoisted him away, and Bobbick watched the sheet-covered body go with pained eyes. "Hell of a thing," he said softly.

  "Yeah," Griffin agreed. "A hell of a thing."

  Chapter Ten

  NEUTRAL SCENT

  Griffin managed to catch a couple of hours sleep before his scheduled meeting with Harmony. His office couch was uncom­fortably soft, but it was better than tubing back to his apartment for a mere catnap. Afterward he shaved and washed his face in his office lavatory.

  The face in the mirror was a stranger's. The green eyes, the close-cropped black hair, the massive shoulders, the two-inch scar under the left ear... these he knew. But the vulnerable look made it a stranger's face. Murder made a difference.

  There had been deaths at Dream Park. Coronaries, strokes, a drug overdose or two (one thing he would never understand was people who came to Dream Park to do their drugs. While most people struggled to maintain emotional equilibrium under the sen­sory overload, there were those few whom even Dream Park's magic couldn't satisfy. Call it evolution in action), and even a few

  genuine weirdies, like the kid who somehow managed to drown in thirty-six inches of "quicksand" in the Treasure Island Game a couple of years back.

  But never a murder. Never. He remembered the stillness of Rice's face, the tangible aura of death that had touched everyone who came into the room. Not here. Not at Dream Park. Things like that didn't happen here.

  But they do, and it has. Even here, you can die. And U's in your lap now, he told the frightened stranger. He checked the stranger's shirt for nonexistent wrinkles and checked his sleeve for the time. 4:25 A.M. Five minutes to get there.