She felt pretty good about the Fimbulwinter Game so far. The group had started pulling as a unit by the end of the first day, and judging by her mildly urgent hunger, the Dream Park magicians had been up to their standard tricks in the night. Usually she wanted crescent rolls, oatmeal with cream and sugar, eggs, sausage, and biscuits for breakfast. For some reason, all she wanted right now was fresh fruit.
And… she wanted answers, and didn’t have them. The National Guardsman was a few feet away. He had slept in a makeshift bag formed out of two emergency thermal blankets. He was sitting cross-legged, glaring out at the world. His name was Yarnall, and the problem was that he had no Game personality at all. Like the pilot and copilot and stewardess, his part was over; he was to have been killed out.
Trailing his sleeping bag like a snake half out of its skin, Yarnall wiggled over to the center of the campsite. Breakfast had magically appeared during the night.
“Small mercies,” he muttered. He was in his late thirties, a light-skinned black man with a good-humored face that made it difficult to take his grumbling seriously. “I can’t believe this.”
“Screw-up still gets to ya, huh?” Kevin Titus stood and stretched, the bones of his ribcage like barrel bands under his skin. He was startlingly thin and pale. “Just relax and enjoy it. What’cha makin’ now? Time and a haff?”
“Double time.”
“So what’s your beef?”
“I’m tired. I thought I was going to sleep in a bed last night. I want a scotch and water. If I can’t have that, leave out the water. Worst of all, I ain’t got no script.”
“Join the crowd,” Kevin said, yawning. “When they fix the screw-up, the first thing they’ll try to do is kill you out. The longer you can keep ‘em from doing that, the more money you make.”
Yarnall thought about that for a minute. “By… by the Implementors! If they give me a direct order to throw myself in front of a spear I suppose I’ll have to do it…” He raised his voice until it was almost a shout. “Of course, since it wasn’t my fault, maybe the Gods will give me a fighting chance to stay in the Game.”
He waited and stared up at the sky, and then shrugged. “Good thought, though.”
The clouds above them shimmered and twisted themselves into a fleecy Cheshire cat grin. A thunderous reverberation rolled across the space of Gaming B:
“Are you… a gambling man, Mr. Yarnall?”
“Bet your ass. Who speaks?”
“Subdeity Welles. Kindly restrain your language. There are cherubim listening. As you must know, I have a discretionary budget. I would be willing to bet you, say… triple time against zip that I can kill you out before the end of the day, without bending any rules. What do you say?”
Yarnall realized that he suddenly had an audience. Gwen was fascinated-you could hear the gears churning in his head. “No cheating?”
“Gods don’t need to cheat. We know what fools you mortals be.”
“If I lose?”
“You forfeit yesterday’s salary.”
Yarnall looked around him. All of the Gamers were awake now, gazing up at that ethereal grin, waiting for the National Guardsman’s answer. He slapped his leg. “All right, Welles, you son of a bitch! You’re on!”
The cloud-smile transmuted into a ten-foot hand and snaked down from the heavens. It hovered just above Yarnall, and then the Actor reached up and shook it. The Gamers broke into cheers as the hand dissolved, and Yarnall looked around sheepishly.
Johnny Welsh was in stitches, tears rolling down his face. He slapped Yarnall on the back. “Let’s see ‘em top that in Vegas!”
Ollie’s arms came around Gwen from behind, gave her a little squeeze good morning. “Let’s get going,” he whispered.
“All right!” she called. “Forty-five minutes to Game time. Men’s showers in the gully, women’s in that stand of trees. Breakfast is on the table. Hurry up, people! We have a big day today.”
Yarnall still stood silently, staring up at the dissipating clouds. Gwen was overwhelmed with admiration: Welles had taken a bad situation and turned it into a day at the circus.
Belatedly, she wondered if she could have gotten the same deal.
They had been on the march for an hour, and now Max Sands could make out more detail on the mountains ahead. He and his brother Orson walked abreast, and to Max’s satisfaction, Orson was humming softly.
Kevin Titus had been looking at him oddly since breakfast, as if trying to place that face and body. Oh, well…
He could understand that feeling. He had been staring at Robin Bowles, memories of countless B-movies flooding through his mind. He found it vastly amusing that before Bowles got his first major roles he had played low-budget quickies. If memory served him right, before the two Oscars had come a Golden Turkey award for his portrayal of Abdul Alhazred in the musical comedy version of The Fungi From Yuggoth.
Yarnall carried his rifle/club at port arms, scanning in every direction for trouble. He expected something to drop from the sky, pop out of the ground, materialize from thin air… So far, nothing had happened. Too soon, Max thought. Welles would wait and wear him down.
Up in the mountains were the nests of the Tin-mi-uk-puks, or Thunderbirds, fabulous creatures which Snow Goose said could take them closer to Sedna… if they had enough magic to command the creatures. Snow Goose wasn’t sure. If not, they might just as well paint themselves with mustard, lie down, and be lunch.
Minus Eviane, there were nine Gamers and three Actors. It should have been ten and two by now, and even that felt a little sparse. How could they run so expensive a Game with so few players? Certainly not on the fees Max had been charged-though steep, they couldn’t pay for all of this. The Actors outnumbered the Gamers!
Snow Goose had explained it to him just after breakfast. “Dream Park has most of the bugs out of the program now. They’re going to monitor our progress. If everything goes as planned, home marketing follows. They’ll sell a cassette, see? A tougher Game. Your average player would have to run it a dozen times before he gets all the way through. They figure that much interactive role playing in a Total Environment room can affect a major behavior shift. Sixty-three percent of Americans have TEs available to them. Could be a major sideline.”
The slopes had begun to get steeper, and his legs ached a little. Max looked back down the mountain, and was surprised: they had climbed close to a thousand feet. The campsite was far below them. Looking down he could see the lake, and the floor of a gentle valley that swept away to a snow-crested horizon. It was difficult to believe that anything ugly could be hiding in this world. Around them the mountains stretched endlessly, and although the going was increasingly steep, he found that he enjoyed the effort. The breath came harshly in his throat. He was sweating. He liked the sharp heat of exertion. The air was very clean, bracing, cold enough to make him feel totally awake and alive.
Beside him, brother Orson was having a harder time of it, sweating and gasping but gritting his teeth and gamely humming a tune. Max listened long enough to pick it up, and then started humming along.
Trianna was right behind him. Her breathing, though labored, was as evenly paced as his. “What’s that song?”
“Ah… I’m not sure. Ask Orson.”
“Orson?” She called out.
“Yes-, ma’am?”
“What are you humming?”
Orson grimaced. “The Ballad of Eskimo Nell.”
“Can you sing it for me?”
Orson started to blush. “It… I… well, the truth is that I don’t know the words. Do you, Max?”
“Never learned ‘em,” he said, rolling his eyes soulfully. “I was deprived as a child.”
“Oh,” she said, dejected.
Orson breathed a sigh of relief when a squeaking voice cried out, “I know it! I know it!”
“I might have known, Kevin. Now keep it to yourself, would you?”
Trianna turned and grabbed Kevin’s arm. “Oh, come on. Singing always makes a hike more fun. Give us a verse.”
“Maybe the little shit’s too winded to sing,” Orson hissed hopefully.
No such luck. Kevin’s eyes glowed at Trianna’s contact. “Where are you? Let’s see. ‘ So Dead-Eye Dick and
