“Looks like a crab on rollers,” Griffin said, walking on.
Harmony was silent.
The Security Chief waited a couple of seconds, and when no comment was forthcoming, ventured another comment. “Everything seems to be going well, don’t you think?”
“Yes, everything,” Harmony said. Griffin stopped. A flat note of disgust had taken root in Harmony’s voice, suddenly growing strong. Harmony’s eyes were tight and wary, and moved too quickly, as if looking for something to avoid.
“What’s wrong?” Griffin asked, voice low. “Don’t bother saying ‘nothing.’ Your nostrils twitch when you lie.”
Not a trace of a smile. Harmony shook his massive head. “I have it on the best authority that nothing is wrong. The very best.”
“Ah-hah. Well, I can accept that. But tell me.”
“What?”
Nobody in earshot? “If there was something wrong-and there isn’t, of course. But if you were listing the people you’d most like to watch sky-dive into a school of sharks, who might head the list?”
Harmony’s face creased in a reluctant smile. “Ah. Evocatively phrased.”
“Well?”
Harmony opened his mouth and shut it again. “Never mind, Alex. I’ve been told that what’s done is done. ‘Are you racing toward the future, or are you mired in the past?’ That’s what I was asked.” Harmony smiled politely as a flock of chattering Japanese businessmen scuttled by. The instant they passed, his face went flat and bitter. “That’s what they asked me.”
Thirteen hundred guests milled around “A,” poking into this, peering at that. They tended to form distinct clusters. The Arab delegation moved toward Griffin and Harmony as they inspected a 1/10 scale industrial complex, a computer-drawn hologram that pumped and hissed right down to the last detail. Its miniature lights made it a jeweled crown in the light of a Martian sunset.
Alex watched Harmony’s face darken. Was it here, someone in this group of men? Who? His eye went to the tallest man in the group. Their leader, an industrialist named Kareem Fekesh, met his gaze. Fekesh was six feet of effortless elegance, darkly feline in a suit that made Harmony’s Ralph Lauren look like a Salvation Army special. Fekesh inclined his head politely and turned back to his conversation.
Anyone else? If someone posed a clear security risk, Harmony would have spoken of it regardless of orders.
Whose orders?
The group from Falling Angel was nearby. Griffin directed himself and Harmony in that direction.
“Ambassador?”
Ambassador Arbenz inclined his head gravely. “You are the Security Chief?”
Alex nodded. “Alex Griffin. And this is Thadeus Harmony, Deputy Director of Operations for Cowles Industries. He used to be my boss.”
“Kicked upstairs.” Harmony’s smile was purest porcelain. Alex watched them shake hands. It tickled him to see Harmony looking up at the man. Arbenz said, “This is a great success, I think. To have collected so many different nations and interests at one place and one time. I wonder if any other organization could have accomplished it.”
“Time will tell whether the victory is real or symbolic, Ambassador. There are greater things at stake than raw human ego.”
“Nothing else costs so dearly.”
“True enough.”
A painfully thin and awesomely tall brunette came to stand at Arbenz’s side. “Have you met my niece? Charlene, Thadeus Harmony, Alex Griffin.”
The girl smiled shyly. She was pretty, in that elongated Spacer way. Alex saw her as a bit flat-chested and far too thin; but there was a basic sweetness and cheer to her as she said, “I’m so happy to be here.”
“It’s been a long eight weeks, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, and only my second time down.” She shook her head regretfully. “I built up my legs in the centrifuge and on the exercise bikes, but I’ve still twisted both ankles.” She bent her legs experimentally. “My knee hurts.”
“I hope you’ll be all right for the Game.”
“I’ve got two knees,” she said, suddenly mischievous. “There’s only one Dream Park.”
“You don’t know any of the other Gamers?” Where was Marty?
“I have a companion. We met through Compunet. She’s a Gamer too, and we partnered on some frantic vid campaigns. I’m looking forward to playing with her here. Wow.” Her eyes glowed. “I still can’t believe I’m really here.”
“I know the feeling.” He’d heard it too often. Alex realized that he hadn’t a whole lot more to say to Charlene.
Her hand pulled at his arm. “These effects. They’re so… real. How do they do it?”
Alex winked. “Santa’s secret. I tell you what-after you’re out of the Game, I’ll introduce you to the elves. How’s that?”
“Fine. Thank you very much.”
Harmony and Alex drifted away from the crowd, and Griffin could feel the tension reviving in his friend.
“Alex-”
Before he had a chance to say anything else, Alex’s beeper trilled against his wrist. He said, “The office wants me. Shall I tell them-”
“We’ll talk later,” Harmony said.
Harmony’s eyes were haunted. To hell with the beeper was halfway to Alex’s lips, but he bit it back. What was going on here?
But the haunted look vanished as Harmony slammed the wall down. “Duty calls, Alex,” he said sardonically. He winked as if someone had pulled a string behind his eyeball. Alex thought it was obscene. Harmony turned and vanished into the crowd.
Alex walked toward one of the side doors, pressed tabs on his watch and heard the lock beep in response. The door opened. With a last look at Mars-the past, the fanciful, and the future-he disappeared out the side door.
Chapter Two
Gwen Ryder had been told about the Phantom Feast, but she still stopped in the doorway, bewildered.
It might have been a library. Half the walls were books, and most of those were tall and wide, heavily illustrated. Diet books and cookbooks and nothing else. Some were quite old, some quite recent. There were hundreds.
An old book, The Beverly Hills Diet, had been disassembled. Its pages papered one wall. Customers on their way out clustered around, guffawing as they read the funnier passages aloud.
Another wall was covered with fading photos of impossibly rich desserts-with a comparison chart showing how many New York Marathon miles it would take to burn off the calories. A double-exposure photo of anorexic, number-chested men and women staggering toward a ten-story banana split was stark and somehow disturbing.
It was 2:20, ten minutes before Ollie was scheduled to show up, and well past lunch hour. The Phantom Feast was still crowded. Old and young, cheerful or morose, singles and clusters, the customers all looked somewhat alike.
They were stocky, chubby, fat, or morbidly obese. Gwen was startled to recognize a famous middle-aged
