Pseudopods had sprouted from the chair's foam and wrapped around Hackworth's waist and upper thighs. This was fortunate as he had gone into a slow backward spin and soon found himself falling face-first, passing through great amorphous clouds of light: a collection of old chandeliers that Dramatis Personae had scavenged from condemned buildings. The Clown was right: Hackworth was definitely in free fall, a sensation that could not be faked with spectacles. If his eyes and ears were to be believed, he was plunging toward the floor of the big theatre he had reconnoitered earlier. But it was not grooved with neat rows of seats like an ordinary theatre. The seats were present but scattered about randomly. And some of them were moving.
The floor continued to accelerate toward him until he got really scared and started to scream. Then he felt gravity again as some force began to slow him down. The chair spun around so that Hackworth was looking up into the irregular constellation of chandeliers, and the acceleration shot up to several gees. Then back to normal. The chair rotated so that he was on the level once more, and the phenomenoscope went brilliant, blinding white. The earpieces were pumping white noise at him; but as it began to diminish, he realized it was actually the sound of applause.
Hackworth was not able to see anything until he fiddled with the interface and got back to a more schematic view of the theatre. Then he determined that the place was about half full of theatregoers, moving about independently on their chairs, which were somehow motorized, and that several dozen of them were aiming their torches toward him, which accounted for the blinding light. He was on center stage, the main attraction. He wondered if he was supposed to say something. A line was written across his spectacles:
Hackworth wondered if he was somehow obligated to read this line. But soon the torches turned away from him, as more audience members began to rain down through the astral plane of the chandeliers. Watching them fall, Hackworth realized that he'd seen something like it before at amusement parks: This was nothing more than bungee-jumping. It's just that the spectacles had declined to show Hackworth his own bungee cord, just to add an extra
The armrest of Hackworth's chair included some controls that enabled him to move it around the floor of the house, which was coneshaped, sloping sharply in toward the center. A pedestrian would have found difficult footing, but the chair had powerful nanotech motors and compensated for the slope.
It was a round theatre, Globe-style. The conical floor was encompassed by a circular wall, pierced here and there by openings of different sizes. Some appeared to be ventilation shafts, some were the apertures of private boxes or technical control rooms, and by far the largest was a proscenium that occupied a quarter of the circumference, and that was currently closed off by a curtain.
Hackworth noted that the lowest and innermost part of the house floor was not occupied. He motored down the slope and was shocked to realize that he was suddenly up to his waist in painfully chilly water. He threw the chair into reverse, but it did not respond to the controls. 'Dead in the water!' cried the Clown triumphantly, sounding as if he were standing right there, though Hackworth couldn't see him. He found a way to release the chair's built-in restraints and struggled up the raked floor, his legs stiff from the cold and reeking of seawater. Evidently the central third of the floor actually plunged beneath the waterline and was open to the sea— another fact that Hackworth's spectacles had not bothered to reveal.
Again, dozens of lights were on him. The audience was laughing, and there was even some sarcastic applause.
The events of the last few minutes-the phenomenoscopes that couldn't be taken off, the unexpected bungee jump, the plunge into cold seawater-had left Hackworth in a state of shock. He felt a strong need to hole up somewhere and shake off the disorientation.
He clambered up toward the perimeter of the house, dodging the occasional moving chair, and tracked by a few spotlight beams from fellow audience members who had taken a particular interest in his personal story. An aperture was above him, glowing with warm light, and passing through it, Hackworth found himself in a cozy little bar with a curving window that afforded an excellent view of the theatre. It was a refuge in more ways than one; he could see normally through the spectacles here, they seemed to be giving him an untampered view of reality. He ordered a pint of stout from the barman and took a seat at the counter along the window.
Somewhere around his third or fourth gulp of stout, he realized that he had already submitted to the Clown's imperative. The plunge into the water had taught him that he had no choice but to believe in what the spectades showed his eyes and ears— even though he knew it to be false— and to accept the consequences. A pint of stout went some distance toward warming up his legs, and toward relaxing his mind. He had come here for a show, and he was getting one, and there was no reason to fight it; Dramatis Personae might have a dodgy reputation, but no one had ever accused them of killing a member of the audience.
The chandeliers dimmed. The torch-wielding audience went into motion like sparks stirred by a gust of wind, some motoring toward the high ground and others preferring the water's edge. As the house lights faded to black, they amused themselves playing their torches back and forth across the walls and the curtain, creating an apocalyptic sky torn by hundreds of comets. A tongue of clammy, algae-colored light shone beneath the water, resolving itself into a long narrow thrust stage as it rose toward the surface, like Atlantis resurgent. The audience noticed it and bounced their spotlights off the surface, catching a few dark motes in the crossfire: the heads of a dozen or so performers, slowly rising out of the water. They began to speak in something like unison, and Hackworth realized that they were the chorus of lunatics he had seen earlier.
'Set me up, Nick,' said a woman's voice behind him.
'Tucked 'em in, did you?' said the barkeep.
'Ninnies.'
Hackworth turned and saw that it was the young woman in the devil costume who had acted as tour guide for the Heartlanders. She was very petite, dressed in a long black skirt slit all the way to the hipbone, and she had nice hair, very thick and black and glossy. She carried a glass of wheat beer over to the counter, primly swept her devil's tail out of the way in a gesture that Hackworth found hopelessly fetching, and took a seat. Then she let out an explosive sigh and put her head down on her arms for a few moments, her blinking red horns reflecting in the curved window like the taillights of a full-laner. Hackworth laced his fingers together around his pint and smelled her perfume. Down below, the chorus had gotten out of hand and was trying to pull off a rather ambitious Busby Berkeley dance number. They showed an uncanny ability to act in unison— something to do with the 'sites that had burrowed into their brains— but their bodies were stiff, weak, and badly coordinated. What they did, they did with absolute conviction, which made it good anyway.
'Did they buy it?' Hackworth said.
'Pardon me?' said the woman, looking up alertly like a bird, as if she hadn't known Hackworth was here.
'Do those Heartlanders really believe that story about the drunken pilot?'
'Oh. Who cares?' the woman said.
Hackworth laughed, pleased that a member of Dramatis Personae was affording him this confidence.
'It's off the point, isn't it,' the woman said in a lower voice, getting a bit philosophical now. She squeezed a wedge of lemon into her wheat beer and took a sip. 'Belief isn't a binary state, not here at least. Does anyone believe anything one hundred percent? Do you believe everything you see through those goggles?'
'No,' Hackworth said, 'the only thing I believe at the moment is that my legs are wet, this stout is good, and I like your perfume.'
She looked a bit surprised, not unpleasantly so, but she wasn't nearly that easy. 'So why are you here? Which show did you come to see?'
'What do you mean? I suppose I came to see this one.'
'But there is no this one. It's a whole family of shows. Interlaced.' She parked her beer and executed Phase 1 of the here-is— the-church maneuver. 'Which show you see depends on which feed you're viewing.'
