Dream Park

He saluted Chester smartly. "Mr. Henderson? I believe that your representatives are ready?"

"Yes," he said, looking warily at the helicopter. "Where are you taking them?"

"To heaven, sir."

Chester pointed. "In that?"

"Surplus cargo, sir. We don't waste anything. And now, if your people are ready? Yali is waiting."

"Yali? Who is Yali?"

The man with the clipboard clucked disapprovingly. "He is your intermediary. Certainly you don't think you can get an ap­

pointment with God on such short notice? Be happy for a chance to speak with His district Manager. Are we ready?"

"One moment." Chester spoke softly and hurriedly to his five representatives. "I remember a little about the New Guinea heaven. It was very European. Don't let that throw you. The im­portant thing is the questions. Good luck."

Gina reached out for his hand, and he took it for a moment, squeezed, then let it fall. "We won't let you down, Chester," she promised. He nodded silently, his grin a lopsided slash.

The Garners followed their host into the helicopter. The door slammed shut, the engine revved, and in a cloud of dust it lifted off and vanished into the wounded sky.

Chester watched the crack seal shut, swallowing them. "Now it's wait," he muttered. "It's just wait."

Chapter Nineteen

NECK RIDDLES

"We will be arriving in Heaven in approximately three min­utes," the man with the clipboard said. He had already taken their names down in a precise hand. His name was Gengai.

There was nothing to see but dense blue fog which strobed light. Leigh sat across the aisles from Griffin, elbows balanced on knees and chin balanced on fists. Griffin leaned toward him. "Well? What do you think we're in for?"

"Some kind of test of wits. Neck riddles, probably." "Neck riddles?"

Acacia bumped him on the shoulder with her palm. "Neck rid­dles. In olden days, a convicted felon was sometimes challenged to answer a series of riddles. If he won, he gained his freedom."

"Sounds like a good deal. What did the local king get out of it?"

"Jollies, mostly. Imagine a poor half-starved and half-flogged-

to-death prisoner standing in chains at the Royal Court riddling for his life. Sometimes the prisoners did have something to lose. Hanging versus burning, for instance."

"How does that apply to us? It's only Chester's neck on the block this time."

"It's everybody's. Without a Lore Master to lead us, we don't stand much of a chance. Lopez knows that, and he knows we know it, and believe me, he'll take advantage of it."

The blue fog cleared, and there were white clouds above and ahead of them. One billowing cloudscape bore a classically boxy-looking two-story house. As they "climbed" to the level of the cloud Griffin felt his load of Coca-Cola become buoyant, and knew that the copter was actually losing altitude.

They landed. The door swung down for them. The five Garners stepped down into knee-high white fog. The surface underfoot was spongy. The house nearby had white clay shingles and bamboo shades on its windows.

Strains of vaguely martial music drifted from within. Griffin rec­ognized the overture to Bizet's Carmen. He hummed along, won­dering where the insanity would end.

At the door they were greeted by a European manservant in coat and tails, who bid them enter with Old World formality. Gen­gai led them through a narrow hallway plush with white carpet­ing. Not a stick of furniture marred the path, so that when their guide turned left into an open doorway, Griffin was unprepared for what he saw.

The room was opulent. The ceiling was lost in distance; the walls seemed to go up forever. Two of the four walls were covered in bookshelves, a third wall was an enormous world map. The fourth was hung with reproductions of classic works of art. Griffin recognized a Picasso, two Dalis, a Frazetta. Frazetta? Well, why shouldn't God borrow from the future to decorate his rooms? But the paintings didn't really complement each other.

The room was furnished with wrought iron chairs interwoven with wicker and padded with leather. The total effect was fabulous and slightly off-center, as if the designer was only partially famil­iar with the culture he was imitating.

They took chairs near the center of the room. "I don't like this," Acacia said. "It's too polite. We're supposed to be lulled." Griffin drummed his fingers on the chair's arm. He could pick out titles on the shelves, and they were the same bizarre hodge­

podge as the chairs and the paintings. There was a set of Encyclo­paedia Brita