Millicent looked at him. “Why?”

“I eavesdropped on our guests. They weren’t saying anything, but I saw their faces. Some of the Arabs and Brazilians, they don’t care about the comets or Mars. They want those terrawatt lasers. If a terror-monger could get control of one of those, he could fry Tehran or Sao Paulo before Earth could launch a ship.”

“Not your department,” Millicent said. “Anyway, I can’t picture a terror-monger with enough schooling to run one.”

“Don’t kid yourself. A lot of them are sending their kids off to college. MIT. Cambridge. Intelligence and fanaticism live in two overlapping worlds. Life isn’t a sliding scale, where you have single-minded fanatics on one end, and intelligent people on the other. Some of us can be very single-minded about things which are purely emotional…”

She said, “We’ve been moving asteroids for thirty years, and no one’s heaved one at us yet.”

“No. Thirty years, right? Sixteen asteroids, and three more on their way with Falling Angel crews? That’s not many. One asteroid strike can ruin your whole day.”

“Brrr. You’re rather grim tonight, aren’t you?”

Definitely the wrong mood. He reached across the table to squeeze her wrist; which took some care, because she was holding a forkful of scalloped potatoes. “Sorry. All work and no play makes Jack et cetera.”

Millicent smiled. “No play at all? That’s my Alex.”

“If I don’t invite the occasional young, beautiful account executive to my humble abode, I’d never find surcease of sorrow.” He put on his sincerest expression. “One of the burdens of power is that Communications can beep me twenty-five hours a day. One of the advantages of a loyal staff is that they’ve promised me the night off, if it’s humanly possible.”

She sipped at her wine, peering at him over the edge of the glass. Her eyes were alight with mischief. “We can hope, can’t we?”

Does that mean yes? He interpreted it as a good strong “maybe” and decided to back off, soft-pedal, and make another approach in a minute or two.

Millicent sensed the mood change, flowed with it. She cracked open a lobster claw with sudden force. “How’s Marty doing?”

“He’s keeping up. He looks like the point man in a Zimbabwe expedition. They’ve got him carrying a flintlock, for Christ’s sake.”

“Oh, Alex… sometimes it’s so easy for me to get lost in the accounts and the computers that… I guess I just miss Security. A lot more craziness.”

“Yeah… but you have a lot more talent than we could hold back. I’m glad you made it out.”

She sighed. “And Marty’s still playing games.”

“That’s Marty.”

“Well. I’m glad you recommended me.”

“It would have been criminal not to.” He found himself feeling slightly warmish. She lowered her eyes, and began pushing potatoes around the plate, doodling her fork with great intensity. Which smile was that blossoming…?

“Ah, Alex..

BRRRRRNG!

“I’d hoped,” he said, “they’d keep that thing off until eight tomorrow.”

Millicent’s smile broadened. “No rest for the wicked.”

“I’ve been on duty for twenty hours straight. Millicent, I’m plagued with these things called ‘griffins,’ nasty little nocturnal animals that only come out at night. They usually”- BRRRNNGG! — ”manage to wake up just about the time that my mating cycle is running riot. I remember sex. Why, back in naught-six-” BRRRRNG!

“Alex, the beeper.”

“Aye aye. Griffin. Telephone.” The comets vanished, replaced by the smooth round face of Dwight Welles. Twenty-four-year-old Dwight Welles was senior computer tech for all of Dream Park, a man whose four-poster at Cowles Modular saw him far less than his cot at Research and Development.

“What’s up, Dwight?”

“Griff, we got a problem here.”

More Arab madness? “Tell me.”

“Alex, somebody’s messed with my program for the Fimbulwinter Game. I know I got all of the bugs out of it-”

“Hold it hold it hold it. Tell me what happened first.”

“Somebody got killed out of the Game.”

Drown me! “What? How-” Suddenly he felt very foolish. “Sorry. Killed out. Right. My heart will return to normal presently.” He thought for a minute. “I thought none of the Gamers got killed out of Fat Rippers.”

“Not for the first two days. Definite glitch.”

“A glitch. Hmmm. It wasn’t Charlene Dula, was it? Or Marty?”

Then it wasn’t really a Security matter. “So? Don’t you leave room for random-”

“Random events? Sure we leave room for random events, but you don’t understand. It wasn’t ‘one of those freak things.’ It wasn’t an accident. A monster came up out of sequence. We call it a ‘burrowing mammoth.’ According to legend, they die on contact with air. This one lived long enough to target and kill a Gamer. It shouldn’t have been possible. The thing hunted her. I want to know who’s been tampering with my friggin’ program.”

The other line was beeping now, and Millicent was suddenly all business. “Alex, should I…?”

“No, no, wait…” Dwight Welles’s voice muted as the second line flashed to life. The screen divided into two, and on the other side was Dr. Vail. He seemed tight, tired, agitated.