Gwen squeezed her husband’s hand. She half-whispered, “Boy am I glad to see you. Listen. Do you see that woman over there?”

He scanned the room, found Gwen’s target just as the frowzy redhead sleepwalked out of the room, brushing past people as if they weren’t really there. “Strange duck, but a recognizable breed indeed. Gamer. She’s in our files for Fimbulwinter.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “Name… Eviane.” He was delighted with himself, and bounced with pleasure. “Probably just her nom de guerre.”

Somehow, miraculously, Marie had managed to finish her story. She grinned and leaned back from the table. “I want to sleep for a week. With Avram.” She stood, her lips curling salaciously. Avram heaved himself up, as enthusiastic as a steer at the slaughterhouse door. “I won’t see you till we’re back in Portland, right?”

“Right. Our final briefing is in thirty minutes. The Fimbulwinter Game starts tomorrow. I’m the shaman’s lovely daughter.” Gwen caught a flicker of disbelief in Marie’s eye. “Eskimos are allowed to have a little padding, my dear.”

Avram laughed appreciatively, and Marie gave him a polite shove toward the door.

Gwen dug into her salad.

Ollie watched the pair until they were safety out of earshot. “Another rousing Dream Park success?”

“Maybe. Avram’s too torpid, but maybe he got something out of the experience. Maybe if they ran him through again-”

“Which they can’t. These Gamers don’t nearly pay their own way. It’s all for research, love.”

“I know. And Marie’s a waste. She learns what to say and that’s all she gets out of it. Saying the magic words won’t take weight off and it won’t teach her better habits, and it’s hell on those of us who have to listen.”

“My my. What a wonderful wait you must have had.”

Gwen’s wide blue eyes were moist and grateful. “My hero. Verily, you saved the maiden from the dragon.” Her fingernails gripped the back of his hand, hard. “Claim your reward, dammit.,’

He sighed. “We’ve got about twenty minutes to make it to Gaming Central. Not nearly enough time to commit a serious indiscretion.”

“Nor yet a frivolous indiscretion.” Never be late to a briefing. “Tonight?”

“Sure, who needs sleep?”

Chapter Three

THE TOWER OF NIGHT

Twenty meters of Tyrannosaurus rex thrashed helplessly in the tar pit. Its gray-green hide sprayed blood from a dozen bullet wounds. It glared up at them and screamed the scream of the dying saurian-a sound very like the product of a Cowles Mach VIII synthesizer, to Max Sands’s educated ear. It blended perfectly with the thunder of the volcano erupting at the south end of the canyon.

It would have been the perfect end to a two-hour mini-Game: the dinosaur, the tar pit, the volcano, the lithe and lovely cave girl who clung to his side like moist silk. One problem remained unsolved. Professor Deveroux’s legs still kicked weakly in the tyrannosaur’s mouth. This was, of course, no fun for Deveroux (“Remember, I’m a hologram! Don’t try these stunts at home!”) and no fun for Max and the rest of the team either. Deveroux still had the Time Key in his pocket!

Max checked his watch. There were only ten minutes left! The lava crawled toward the tar pit beneath them, toward the mouth of the cave where five Adventurers huddled in confusion.

“Jeez,” Orson Sands wheezed. “We’re up the creek now.” At six feet four inches and three hundred and fifteen pounds, his twin weighted twenty pounds more and looked fifty pounds heavier than Max. The difference was that under his cushion of fat Max actually had considerable muscle, which made him an anomaly in the Sands clan. Orson’s twenty extra pounds weren’t muscle. Muscle didn’t run in the Sands family. Nobody ran in the Sands family, which in part explained the proud and readily identifiable Sands profile.

Max said, “Any suggestions, Eviane?”

The short, freckled redhead shook her head without saying anything. She never said anything. Maybe she’d checked her vocal cords at the door. She was kind of cute, particularly if you liked them chunky. But… standing or sitting, she seemed to wrap herself around herself. The space around her became armor. Max had to force himself to speak to her, and why bother?

Orson repeated his litany of grief. “We been screwwwwed.” His face was red and puffy, as if he was about to roll on the ground and hold his breath for two minutes. The tactic had been awesomely effective when he was a plump, cute five-year-old. He had grown plumper than plump and less than cute in the past thirty years. Max was tired of the act.

The lava had reached the edge of the water covering the tar pit, and a feather of steam boiled up. The stench of sulfur grew chokingly strong. Rakes of gray ash streamed from the sky.