and steam cabinets. Stand-alone Jacuzzis bubbled along the rim of the pool like yeast clusters; rowing machines, stationary bicycles, and massage tables grew like weeds.
But along the ceiling, and all along the walls, tiny gleaming creatures scampered about. They seemed part machine and part animal and were busying themselves with repair and rebuilding. The entire level had an organic honeycomb look, crinkled and textured and pocketed. Shifting, multicolored waves of slow lightning crawled behind the walls, painting everything in the vast room in ethereal, electric hues of red and blue and yellow.
The air was as humid as a sauna, with wisps of steam curling from the water itself.
One of the muscular poolside loungers uncoiled himself lazily and sauntered over. He was well over six feet tall. On his face was written bland, unconcerned amusement.
'Name's Biff,' he said. 'Gettin' into serious hassles, dudes. Just hang loose, huh? Keep those bad vibes rolling in, the Nommo won't like it. Like, kick back, and we'll get some tasty waves up for you.'
For once, Bishop seemed to be a little off balance. 'Make a wave?'
'Totally tubular, dude.'
Even as they watched, the pool's surface rippled, swelled, and reached up for the ceiling. It crested, boiling with froth.
One golden surfer had been balancing on his board in the middle of the pool, waiting patiently for a wave to happen by. As it expanded he rode the crest up and took the stance: right leg forward, left back and slightly bent, arms spread for balance. Fifteen feet of water ridge rolled him along a thousand feet of indoor lagoon, and then The wave turned itself inside out, flowed through itself, turned back, and headed the other way. The surfer pulled off a maneuver that Griffin was quite certain no other had ever managed. He leaned into the board like a skateboard artist doing a wheelie, his weight sinking back to the rear. The board stood up on end, pivoted, and he sailed back the way he'd come.
Griffin gathered his jaw back off the floor and followed their host to a cluster of chairs and tables. Biff snapped his finger, and a bevy of giggling, bikini-clad bunnies scampered forward to do his bidding. Twan, Tainmi, and especially Acacia bristled at the performance.
The girls disappeared, then reappeared with platters of sushi and carrot juice.
Griffin tried the taste combination and decided he could gag it down. Something beneath the water glistened for a moment, but when he turned his head, it vanished.
Twan leaned toward Biff. 'You're only two levels above the Mayombreros,' she said pointedly. 'How can you be so…'
'Laid back?' He laughed heartily. 'This is Nommo country. Everybody's pretty mellow here.'
Something that looked like a meter-tall mollusk cruised up to Alex, serving drinks from a nipple on its side. Griffin sampled it. Delicious and martini-like. Did it eat grain and sugar, ferment them in a second stomach, and then regurgitate alcohol?
Acacia tasted her California roll gingerly, then bit in. 'We'd like to see the Nommo. Would you call them for us?'
'No can do,' Biff answered regretfully. 'The Nommo don't like coming out all that much. Maybe if you wait around for a day or two…'
'No can do.'
'Well, then I guess you better go in after them. I hope you can swim.'
Twan punched Bishop's arm lightly. 'You know, right about now I'm glad we brought you.'
Seated, Bishop managed to bow gallantly.
Alphonse, still seething with anger, noted the booty bags that Bishop and others had brought to the tables. A gleaming regulator poked out of the top.
Scuba gear.
The first self-contained underwater breathing apparatuses had, of course, used compressed air. The development of cheap nuclear batteries had made those obsolete: a rebreather driven by a really powerful pump could last for twenty hours on a charge, far beyond the capacity of air bottles.
At first he wondered if these would be the classic, older devices, lost in MIMIC since 1995…
Biff had the same question. He examined one of the rebreathers and raised an ironic eyebrow. 'Not what I expected,' he said. 'I was going to tell you about some scuba gear guarded by a local fire demon.'
'Not interested.' Bishop grinned.
'Can't say I blame you.'
Bishop checked over the apparatus. 'We've got three sets of gear here.'
Major Clavell, who had been miserable, took an interest again. 'Does the word anachronism mean anything to you?'
Bishop beamed. 'Not a thing. Working fine,' he announced. 'Who's coming?'
Twan inspected the gear, hesitantly at first, then with a growing excitement. 'I want in,' she said.
Bishop nodded. 'And we need a guide. Coral having departed this vale of tears, I believe that Bobo is our only choice.'
Griffin smiled coldly and began to strip.
The poolside surfers gathered around to watch them, with the sounds of old Beach Boys and a little Jan and Dean still playing over the loudspeakers.
They were down to underwear, with the exception of Twan, who had borrowed a swimsuit. Her body was petite but taut, a swimmer's body, in fact the body of a swimmer who might have done weights and running merely to keep in shape for more swimming.
The rebreather gear looked slightly oversized on her. Of course, on Mary-em it would have been absurd.
Alex slipped himself into harness, balanced the gear in place, and checked to make sure that everything was operating smoothly. Acacia handed him a hand lamp, and he splashed its yellow beam across to the far wall.
He noticed that Bishop was treating him with just a hair more respect. Was that the result of the little episode with General Poule? Or was it something else? He took this opportunity to examine Bishop more closely. In the swim trunks he was a very dark black man without an ounce of useless tissue on his body. Probably a high- metabolism type, seething with testosterone. Any level of exercise would make his body bulge with muscle. Perfect coordination. A precise mind driven by a monstrous ego. He probably weighed twenty pounds less than Griffin and was possibly as strong.
Griffin didn't like to think about that. As strong. Possibly faster. Probably smarter. But there had to be a flaw there. Griffin felt the stirrings of a sour cold knot of fear in his belly.
Bishop nodded to Griffin and slipped feetfirst into the water. Griffin went in a moment later, followed by Twan. The water closed about him in warm embrace.
It was fresh water, unchlorinated and murky. He couldn't see anything in it but submerged walkways and corridors. He shone his lamp around, and the beam stretched out like a yellow finger, briefly touching first a statue, then an ancient, rusted bank of computer terminals.
The water rolled. For a moment he thought, Wave! and readied himself for the turbulence to follow.
But it wasn't that. Something like a textured torpedo brushed past him. It was rough and slick at the same time.
Griffin kicked back and reached out for it, but it was gone. When he switched his light around, the murk had already concealed it. Gone.
He hovered there, sucking cold, flavorless air from his mouthpiece. What had it bet on?
Nommo.
He pushed a button on his wrist, and a line of green arrows projected in front of hirn, taking him down farther into the depths.
Bishop was a few feet off to his right, moving beautifully and having no trouble keeping up. The setting was so ethereal that for a few minutes Griffin was able to forget the mission, forget the job at hand, and just submerge himself in the underwater world.
Twan slid alongside him and extended an arm, pointing out a building that looked something like a cathedral dome.
Bishop stopped, floating, and made a very broad gesture. Reveal magic.
The dome glowed weakly at first, and then more strongly, until they were all but blinded.
Griffin shielded his face, the hiss of air muffling his hearing.
