“Got you, Chief. Nothing so far-I just can’t take control from here.”
Griffin whipped a pencil-light from his jacket pocket, panting now. There was a trillion dollars’ worth of juice in that audience, enough to ruin Cowles Industries, to cripple plans for expansion, to foreclose on outstanding loans, to deny access to proprietary technology. The future of Cowles and of the Barsoom Project was in his hands.
“Can you cut power?”
“No, Chief. Power is self-contained.”
“Just great.”
The thing was lumbering straight at him now, and he had to calm his fears.
He lay down on his stomach, and shone the pencil-light directly between the treads. There-Welles had been correct. There was just barely enough room.
And if it turned to left or right?
His world was filled with the sound of churning mechanicals as the tank began to pass over him.
“ And there will be dangers on the surface of the-”
A blast of their damned ultrasonics passed through him, and he blanched. He was too close to the speakers, and his body vibrated like a tuning fork. He floated away on a sea of nausea, overwhelmed, mind lost in agony.
Keep your mind on the job, asshole!
Alex made his hands take hold of the front bumper of the tank as it rolled past his head.
It was dragging him now, and his back was already abraded. He’d only be able to stand a few seconds of this. He climbed down the underside of the tank, sucking air, trying to calm himself as the subsonics roared through his blood.
And then he had the hatch. With trembling fingers, he worked at the latch lever, and was insanely grateful that the Dream Park technos took their maintenance responsibilities seriously. It was well oiled and opened immediately.
He wiggled up through the tight machinery-
What, did they think Barsoom’s miners would be midgets? Oh, bloody hell, it was a 2/3 replica, wasn’t it? It was going to break his hip. He couldn’t quite get through, when-
“Griff. Problem. Something just took over the program.” “What is it?”
He pulled, strained. Skin could give, fat and muscle could give, but not bone.
“It must be a virus. It hasn’t shut me out yet, I can still see what it’s doing. There’s a search program in action on the Leviathan’s sensors.”
“Search? What is it searching?”
“Oh, shit-it’s searching security badges. It’s looking for someone. Goddamn! It just locked.”
“On who?”
Alex lowered himself. He’d suddenly remembered a story. Something about a monkey who got his fist caught in a jar. if he relaxed his fist, and dropped the candy Or, if the Dream Park security man could back out again. The
Martian surface savaged his lower body, and there was no way to protect himself.
Bump bump bump.
“It’s locked on Ambassador Richard Arbenz. Oh, shit, Griff! It broke out of the circle. It’s heading off the platform!”
Griffin heaved himself up into the cabin. There was enough room to move now. But he was sore, and there were muscles and tendons sprained where he hadn’t even known he had muscles and tendons.
“Where is the computer link?”
“Should be obvious. Leviathan was borrowed from Rockwell. They were using a manual system-”
“Where? Wherewherewhere?”
“It’s just a box chipped into the CPU. Under the main screen-”
There was a horrible bump as the entire mining rig left the platform. With a crunching sound the barrier separating stage and audience gave way.
Someone screamed.
Too late! Too late!
Angry, sick, terrified, Alex twisted sideways, stretched, still partially caught in the trapdoor, but stretched far enough to grasp the box. He yanked and tore and twisted, cursed vilely, and something gave.
“Chief! Got it!”
“Then take control, dammit!”
Charlene screamed, and Ambassador Arbenz smiled thinly to himself. Even after three days of fantasy role playing, his niece was unused to Dream Park’s magic.
Still, as the mining rig came at him, disconcertingly straight at him, Arbenz himself began to feel a bit of discomfort. And when those glistening steel claws reached for him-straight for him-
The machine stopped, hesitated And then continued, reaching out. He felt the claws touch him, gently, close on him and lift him into the air, chair and all, as gently as a mother lifts a baby. It scooped him high into the air and held him there, as triumphant music played.
From his vantage point he could see security men scurrying around the room, and the uncertain faces of the other guests wondering how to feel about what they had just seen.
Ambassador Arbenz brushed himself off, stood in the cup of the claws, and smiled, striking his hands together smartly in applause.
After a moment’s hesitation, a confused Charlene did the same, and within a few seconds, the rest of the audience followed.
Chapter Forty
Kareem Fekesh was in a frenzy.
By remote camera he had watched the entire fiasco, safe in his San Diego tower. Arbenz should have been dead, the Barsoom Project in chaos. All of the Cowles shares he had bought on margin… all of the sell orders…
Paying off wouldn’t cripple him, but he would feel the sting.
Everything had gone wrong. It wouldn’t be long before the California police would want to question him. Let them wait. He wouldn’t be available. Freight flights and tanker ships sailed and flew under the aegis of his company. Nothing could keep him in the United States if he didn’t want to be here.
But first there was a matter of personal business, of honor.
He supervised the Kismet-126 program as it searched for the fool who had broken him. Who had it been? Dream Park must have many computer technicians capable of the job. How many would Griffin trust with an assignment of such sensitivity?
Kismet-l26 had chosen twenty-two possibles. Through penetration of the Dream Park personnel files, Fekesh had access to each of their schedules for the past five days. He should certainly need no more than that.
Thus far he had found nothing. Very well. Outside contacts? Every phone call that Griffin or his assistant had made.
He was still getting nowhere. Patience. He who takes vengeance after forty years has acted in haste… but circumstances change, and haste was called for. He considered calling a guard for coffee. Later.
He set the Kismet-l26 program to tracing Griffin’s personal identification number as it moved through the Park. As it ambled through the Park. Taking its own sweet-
There, it intersected with the woman Millicent Summers. She used to be his secretary. Would she know There, Griffin had made a call from her office to Chino Men’s Prison to an Anthony McWhirter.
McWhirter. Was that name familiar?
Fekesh’s finger touched the Return key, about to start a search program. Instead, he suddenly clapped his hands and laughed aloud, delighted with the symmetry of life. He had used McWhirter against Dream Park, and now Griffin had returned the joke upon him. It was almost worth leaving the little fool his life!
