Marooned in Realtime

back-and bounced downwards off an invisible ceiling. As it hit the ground, the glow turned to out-of-play yellow. Tune served again, this time to the side. The ball bounced as from a side wall, then against the invisible far-court wall, then off the other side. The green flashes were accompanied by the sounds of solid rebounds. The crowd was silent except for scattered gasps of surprise. Were the teams trapped in there? The idea occurred to several of the players simultaneously. They ran to the invisible walls, reached out to touch them. One fellow lost his balance and fell off the court 'There's nothing there!'

Blumenthal gave some simple rules and they volleyed. At first it was chaos, but after a few minutes they were really playing the new game. It was fast, a strange cross between volleyball and closed-court handball. Wil couldn't imagine how this trick was managed, but it was spectacular. Before, the ball had moved in clean parabolas, broken only by the players strokes. Now it careened off unseen surfaces, the shadows reversing field instantly.

'Ah, Brierson! What are you doing out here, man? You should be playing. I watched you earlier today. You're good.

Wil turned to the voice. It was Philippe Genet and two Peacer women friends. The women wore open jackets an, bikini bottoms. Genet wore only shorts. The high-tech walked between the women, his hands inside their jackets, at they waists.

Wil laughed. 'I'd reed lots of practice to he good with something that wild. I imagine you could do pretty well, though.'

The other shrugged and drew the women closer. Genet was Brierson's height but perhaps fifteen kilos less massive, verging on gauntness. He was a black, though several shades paler than Wil. 'Do you have any idea where that glowball came from, Brierson?'

'No. One of the high-techs.'

'That's certain. I don't know if you realize what a clever gadget that is. Oh, I'll bet you twenty-first-century types had something like it: put a HI light and a navigation processor in a ball and you could play a simple game of night volley. But look at that thing, Brierson.' He nodded at the glowball, caroming back and forth off invisible barriers. 'It has its own agrav unit. Together with the navigation processor, it's simulating the existence of reflecting walls. I was in the game earlier. That ball's a Collegiate Mark 3, a whole athletic department. If one team is short a player, just tell the ball-and in addition to boundary walls, it'll simulate the extra player. You can even play solitaire with it, specify whatever skill level and strategy you want for the other players.'

Interesting. Wil found his attention divided between the description and the high-tech himself. This was the first time he'd talked to Genet. From a distance, the man had seemed sullen and closemouthed, quite in keeping with the business profile GreenInc had on him. Now he was talkative, almost jovial... and even less likable. The man had the arrogance of someone who was both very foolish and very rich. As he talked, Genet's hands roamed across the women's torsos. In the shifting of light and shadow, it was like watching a stop-action striptease. The performance was both repellent and strange. In Brierson's time, many people were easygoing about sex, whether for pleasure or pay. This was different; Genet treated the two like... property. They were fine furniture, to be fondled while he talked to Brierson. And they made no objection. These two were a far cry from the group with Gail Parker.

Genet glanced sidelong at Wil and smiled slowly. 'Yes, Brierson, the glowball is high-tech. Collegiate didn't market the M.3 till...' He paused, consulting some database. 'Till 2195. So it's strange, don't you think, that the New Mexicans are the people who brought it to the party?'

'Obviously some high-tech gave it to them earlier.' Wil spoke a bit sharply, distracted by the other's hands.

'Obviously. But consider the implications, Brierson. The NMs are one of the two largest groups here. They are absolutely necessary to the success of the Korolev plan. From history-my history, your personal experience-we know they're used to running things. The only thing that keeps them from bulldozing the rest of you low-techs is their technical incompetence.... Now, just suppose some high-tech wanted to take over from Korolev. The easiest way to destroy her plan might ire to back the NMs and feed them some autons and agravs and advanced bobblers. Korolev and the rest of us high-techs could not afford to put the NMs down; we need them if we are to reestablish civilization. We might just have to capitulate to whoever was behind the scheme.'

Tioulang was trying to tell me something similar. The evening cool was suddenly chill. Strange that a thing as innocent as the glowball should be the first evidence since Marta's murder that someone was trying to take over. What did this do to his suspect list? Tammy Robinson might use such a bribe to recruit. Or maybe Chanson was right, and the force that ended civilization in the twenty-third was still at work. Or maybe the enemy simply desired to own, and was willing to risk the destruction of them all to achieve that end. He looked at Genet. Earlier in the day, Brierson had been upset to think they might slide back to governments and majority rule. Now ire remembered that more evil and primitive institutions were possible. Genet oozed confidence, megalomania. Wil was suddenly sure the other was capable of planting such a clue, pointing it out, and then enjoying Wil's consternation and suspicion.

Some of that suspicion must have shown on his face. Genet's smile broadened. His hand brushed aside one girl's jacket, flaunting his 'property.' Wil relaxed fractionally; over the years, he had dealt with some pretty unpleasant people Maybe this high-tech was an enemy and maybe not, but he wasn't going to get under Wil's skin.

'You know I'm working for Yelen on Manta's murder, Mr. Genet. What you tell me, I'll pass on to her. What do you suggest we do?'

Genet chuckled. 'You'll 'pass it on,' will you? My dear Brierson, I don't doubt that every word we say is going directly to her.... But you're right. It's easier to pretend. And you low-techs are a good deal more congenial. Less back talk, anyway.

'As for what we should do: nothing overt just yet. We can't tell whether the glowball was a slip, or a subtle announcement of victory. I suggest we put the NMs under intense surveillance. If this was a slip, then it will be easy to prevent a takeover. Personally, I don't think the NMs have received much help yet; we'd see other evidence if they had.'