Dream Park

Ollie looked up sheepishly. "When I first started Gaming I was afraid I'd forget my character's name. So I used my nickname. Anyway, Oliver's a legitimate hero; he fought under Charlemagne, with Roland."

Tony hadn't meant to put Ollie on the defensive. He started to say so, but the intercom interrupted him. "Attention all Game

participants. Costuming will proceed for another forty minutes only. Thank you."

There was a general buzz in the waiting area beneath Game Central, and four people scurried off to the enclosed costuming booths for last minute touch-ups.

The fifteen players were an odd lot. Although all had stowed cotton shirts and pants in their tote bags, each now wore clothing peculiar to the characters they chose to play on the expedition. Two things they had in common: the eagerness, thick enough to cut, and the "neck tabs": silver metal disks held in place by nearly invisible, soft plastic bands.

Mary-Martha, "Mary-em," waddled around the oak-paneled waiting area with the self-assurance of an iron duck. The longer she waited, the fiercer burned her energy. She wore brown leather that hugged her chunky body glue-tight, with joints cut in the leather at waist and knees to provide leeway. She carried a short halberd with a flat heavy blade, slung across her back.

Acacia recognized several of the other Garners by reputation. The thin, wiry blond man would be Bowan the Black. He had dis­carded the scarlet robe that had been his first choice of raiment, and settled for hip boots and a black velvet shirt split in a hairy­chested "V." His companion was a half-pretty redhead, tall and thin, with a slight roll of flabby skin around her midsection. A sure sign of the diet faddist. What was it this month, dear? Ten grams of vinegar-soaked raisins before every meal?

Acacia clucked at herself, half-ashamed of her automatic nega­tive reaction to the woman, who had registered in the "Thief" cat­egory as Dark Star.

Ollie and Gwen didn't worry her. Beneath their awe-shucks ex­teriors she sensed born Gamesters. Even Chester had seemed glad to see them. Gwen was still in the costuming room, as Ollie's fre­quent casual glances in that direction confirmed.

Gina Perkins had been dressed to kill every time Acacia had seen her. Now she wore hiking shorts and shirt, both covered with pockets, but they didn't cling to her like a coat of paint. There was makeup, but it was subdued. Her hair was intricately arranged, and she was still stu

That was stu

lights ran up and down its length, and monochromatic flames lashed from the tip, as Gina's fingertips ran over the contact-sensi­tive keyboard.

Tony watched as if mesmerized; then tore his eyes away and went back to work on his Character Identification sheet. He was feeling the crunch, she thought. The jokes were there, and the smug smiles and knowing touches, but there was something else too. Pre-Game jitters, a touch of fantasy flu?

His long jaw worked a nonexistent wad of gum, and his choco­late eyes seemed watery as he worked. The Character Identifica­tion sheet was an optional adjunct to the Game that Lopez had asked everyone to fill out. It listed not only imaginary physical and mental characteristics, but shaded over into genealogy.

Acacia looked at her own sheet. How did Amazons have chil­dren? Captured male slaves, maybe? Parthenogenesis? She used a little of both. Panthesilea was a sterile female born parthenogenet­ically. Her mother (drown it! Finding a name for your character's mother on the spur of the moment was too much like work). Her mother Melissa was the offspring of Queen Herona (more fiction) and a captive Greek named, ah, Cyrius, a bastard son of Her­cules.

She hoped that the other players were having as much trouble. All personal characteristics were measured in Wessler-Grahm points and were pre-registered with the I.F.G.S. and filed in the Gaming A computer. In this group, only Tony had no initial rat­ing. The computer had run a random number series for him, and spit out double-digits which, in Wessler-Grahm terms, repre­sented percentage chances of a positive result in combat or emer­gency. He had come out high in agility and intelligence, medium in strength, and low in recuperative powers.

Tony had looked at the read-out with a cautiously lidded ex­citement. "This bodes not well for my ambitions of warriorhood. What are my choices?"

Chicon and Dwight Welles were there to act as intermediaries and override controllers for the I.F.G.S. referees. Larry Chicon had enjoyed the chance to get involved. He had counted off Tony's options, one finger at a time. "Magic User, Warrior, Thief, Cleric, and Engineer. And Explorer. Each of them have their plusses and minuses, and we do allow some combination play, but in general it's best to find one category and get into it as deep as possible."

Tony found himself wishing that the oversized monitors were

switched on, to give him a peek into what waited for them in Area A. "How would I do as a Magic User?"

Welles shook his head slowly. "Wouldn't recommend it, but I can't stop you if that's what you want."

"What's wrong with Magic User?"

"That's pretty complicated for a first outing. Besides, your Cha­risma score was only 36%. Trying conjuring up a demon with that and you'll be di

"What's the difference between Magic User and Cleric?"

"Oh, Clerics usually perform preventive magic or curative magic. And they get their powers ‘from on high,' which means they must be pure of spirit. Playing with the ladies while in the Game might mess that up-"

Larry shot Welles a nasty look. "That's turkey turds, Tony. What you do during the twelve hours a day that the Game is ‘off' is totally up to you. Look: with good scores in Intelligence and Agility, why don't you try Thief?"

Tony opened his mouth as if to protest, then he laughed and nodded. "If it'll help me survive the Game, I'm for it." And Tony McWhirter became a first level Thief, Fortunato by name, thought to be a bastard son of either Fafhrd or the Grey Mouser, it being that kind of relationship. He would enter the gaming area in cot­ton tropical garb.

The warning buzzer sounded again, and Chester Henderson bounded into the room. He wore a green safari shirt and matching pants, with creases sharp enough to cut paper. His pipestem arms and legs were fairly flapping with enthusiasm. "Last minute check, everybody. We've only got a few minutes, and then we're off. Any questions?" He looked slowly around the room.

S. J. Waters, the youngest Gamester in the room, raised his hand halfway, as if afraid of being noticed. When Chester pointed at him he flinched, then said, "Chester? What is it exactly that we're after?"

"We haven't been told. I've got my suspicions, though. We'll find out for sure once we enter the Game, so don't worry. Getting there is half the fun. Any more questions?... Good. We're going to have a tremendous time, people, and everyone is going to take home more points than he can carry." He flashed his smile again, and began circling the room, checking on individual needs.

Gwen had returned to her seat next to Ollie, and he was busy

enjoying her costume. Registered as a Cleric, Gwen wore a simple dress cut several inches too high for a real missionary, and leather-soled walking shoes with just enough heel to bring out the shape of her calf. The dress was beige, and almost too frilly to wear on a jaunt, but the way that it brought out the most attrac­tive lines in her figure pardoned all impracticalities.

She stood up and twirled around for him, biting her lip. "Do you like it, Ollie?"