'Dead?' Are you sure?'
David nodded.
'But this is all just theory and rumors,' Leif pointed out to David. 'It could be dead-end research. A lot of people read about stuff and never do it. A friend of my dad got the plans for the Bell Jet Pack off the old Internet in the 1990s. Every time he upgrades to a new computer, that file has come along. He even talks about building the crazy thing-someday. My dad has a bet with me that he never will.'
David was back looking at the contents of the folder, running very quickly through the holotext. 'Did your father's friend actually order the parts for the jet pack?' he suddenly asked.
'Uh, no. It's never gone that far,' Leif said.
'Because that's what Alan Slaney has done. I just found the files. I wonder if he was getting bargains for buying components in bulk. I figure he's got about ten times as much stuff as he actually needs to disembody himself.'
'Ten times?' Leif echoed, his face going pale. 'I guess Megan never told you-or you just sort of tuned it out whenever she went on about her fencing. The salle where Slaney works-students don't just do physical workouts. They train on specialized computer couches. They've got a back room full of those computer-link couches, nonstandard types that instill reflex responses in the nerves and muscles.'
David abruptly swung away from the display. 'Any idea how many?' he asked.
'I don't know that Megan ever spelled it out.' Leif's voice sounded hoarse as he forced those words though his suddenly tight throat. 'But I wouldn't be surprised if it was somewhere around ten.'
The holotext now ran on unheeded as David stared at Leif. 'Please tell me that the person who does the maintenance on them isn't who I think it is.'
'Oh, no,' Leif said bitterly. 'It's none other than our smiling maintenance man himself. Alan checks them out personally every time anybody uses one, as well as calibrating them and keeping them in working order.' Icy hands seemed to have invaded Leif's stomach and chest, clutching the organs inside with a chilly grip. He found himself fighting for breath. 'And tonight is the big demonstration. The salle will be full of Latvinia role- players-both the fencing students and the people who were invited to observe.'
'A very select guest list,' David said suddenly. 'You notice we weren't invited.'
'At the time I just thought Megan was PO'ed at us,'
Leif admitted. 'But what if it was Slaney-oh, no! Tell me I'm wrong here. Do you think he's going to try something tonight?'
'He could have gimmicked all those couches so they're running, not into the Net, but into his own personal computer-programmed with a very personal reality.' Leif could see David was struggling to keep calm as he described the situation. David was also failing. 'No Net, no safeguards, and they'd all be helpless while he does whatever he thinks he needs to do to suck them permanently into the sim.'
'Do you think a-I don't know what else to call it but a soul-could survive in cyberspace?' Leif asked.
'I can only repeat the rumors I've heard. No one has ever been contacted by any of the people who intentionally disembodied themselves,' David said quietly. 'Whatever happens, as far as we'd know, those people would be dead.'
'The time!' Leif cried, glancing at his watch. 'It's almost ten-the end of the class! Alan's demo is scheduled to start right afterward.' He sprang to the computer, shouting orders that immediately cleared the display. 'We've got to call Megan!' he said desperately. 'We've got to get her out of there!'
Inside the salle Megan removed her mask and toweled her face dry. It had been a good evening, an interesting class and an especially long set of bouting sessions. She'd done well against people at her own level of skill, and even given a couple of more experienced fencers, including Sergei, a run for their money.
Turning to the bench running along one wall of the training area, she grinned at P. J. Farris.
'I begin to see why you and Leif enjoy this stuff so much,' P. J. said. 'Part of it is like a deadly dance, but it's obvious you've got to think out every move.'
Megan laughed. 'Somebody once described it as full- contact chess.'
'I also saw how good Alan is with those pig-stickers,' P. J. went on. 'We'll face an uphill fight if we've got to take him on in Latvinia hand-to-hand.'
'All too true,' the man sitting next to P. J. agreed. Megan looked at him, and her eyes went wide. Add about fifteen years, and a pair of big, fluffy sideburns-
'Joe Brodsky,' the oddly familiar stranger said, shaking hands. 'By day, a lowly worker in the Council for Public Policy. On lunch hours and by night, however, you know me as the Graf von Esbach.' He laughed at himself. 'Veeyar is about the only way I could hope to reach high political office.'
He turned to the guy sitting beside him, a tight-faced, balding guy who looked as if he should have a monocle in place. The second man cracked a smile, however, and introduced himself. 'Walt Jaeckel, formerly a Navy Shore Patrolman, now a postal investigator. Or if you prefer'-he clicked his heels together and bowed- 'Colonel Vojak, at your service.'
'So, what did you think of the show?' Megan asked.
'Made me jealous,' Brodsky said. 'I was a fencer in college. This was a lot more-graceful, I guess. Less bloodthirsty. Definitely a lot less arguing than I remember.'
Jaekel nodded. 'Not at all like the slugfests you see on the Olympic coverage-if you stay up till about 2:00 A. M.'
Alan Slaney walked in front of the group. 'Thanks, everyone, for coming to visit tonight,' he said. Something was wrong. To Megan's eyes, his smile seemed a little too broad-and a little too pasted-on.
He's trying way too hard, she thought, taking in the bags under his eyes-they looked more like bruises. Poor guy must be running on caffeine.
'I have a suggestion,' Alan went on. 'All you guys are involved in the same part of the Latvinian adventure. Rather than doing the demo I'd talked about, since we're all here, why not finish up our current beta-test adventure in Latvinia in one mass session?'
'The practice simulators in the back room!' Megan exclaimed. 'What a great idea!'
She turned to P. J., who shrugged.
'I've got nothing big going on in the morning,' he said.
Jaeckel laughed. 'Nothing ahead for me except another day at work. Besides, if we finish up, Alan may get some sleep tomorrow-and he won't badger us to come in and play.'
Alan's lips tightened a little in reaction to that crack. Then he laughed. 'Guess I'm guilty on that one, Walt. What do the rest of you say?'
It didn't take much more persuading to convince the others to join in. Alan led the way to the rear of the salle, heading for the room filled with practice equipment, fencing memorabilia, and the computer-link chairs.
'Everybody set?' Alan asked as Megan and the others reclined on their couches. She closed her eyes… and opened them to nearly complete darkness. This wasn't at all like her usual entrances to Latvinia. Megan bit her lips to keep from crying aloud at the claustrophobic feeling. Had something gone terribly wrong with her Net connection?
Then she realized her hands were clutching something. It was a steering wheel-the steering wheel of the Mercedes Simplex! Megan was crouched in the right- hand driver's seat. As her eyes adjusted and she keyed into the sounds around her, she could tell she was outside, and that the night was dark, moonless. She could only see by the faint light of the stars. But she began to make out what was going on. A squad of men-big, burly cavalry troopers-was pushing the car into position.
She looked up and, silhouetted against the stars, saw the square bulk of the old watchtower.
'All right,' P. J.'s voice whispered, 'you've got 'er lined up.'
He had to kneel to get the starting crank inserted, reaching under the metal ram they'd attached to the front of the car. It was a pointed chunk of steel that reminded Megan of snowplows she'd seen. Except of course, that it was a couple of feet above the ground.
'Ready?' P. J. whispered.
She set the ignition, and he began to crank.
Just one favor, Megan thought, as she silently pleaded with the Fates. No backfires tonight.
The flywheel began its muted rumble as figures piled into the rear of the car. The Graf von Esbach had insisted on joining them, as had Colonel Vojak. Sergei was on board as well. Behind them, ready to charge in once
