“Brings presents on every visit. Eats chocolate cake.”
Warne loved chocolate cake. He felt touched: Georgia really had him in mind when she made this list, as well as herself.
“Believes in large allowances. Must not have red hair.” She smiled slightly as she said this. Sarah Boatwright’s hair was a remarkable, intense copper.
“Plays online RPGs. Must not be on a diet.”
Warne began to notice an uncomfortable pattern: Sarah, though trim all her life, seemed to be constantly on a diet.
“Goes to McDonald’s at least once a week. But likes root beer floats more than shakes. Likes the Three Stooges more than the Marx Brothers. Can’t be mean to my dad, like Sarah was.”
“She wasn’t mean,” Warne said automatically.
“Wears blue jeans a lot. Must hate anchovies, sardines, and all other kinds of fish.”
Warne sighed inwardly. It was growing clear that no woman could ever live up to all these demands.
“Must think that—”
“How long is this list, anyway?” Warne said, snatching it adroitly out of her hands. He smiled at the handwriting: for all her pretensions to maturity, Georgia still dotted her i’s with little hollow circles. The smile went away as he scanned the list. “Good Lord. Thirty-seven items.”
Georgia nodded proudly. “Took me almost the whole time I was waiting for you. Just one thing got left off, because it was so utterly obvious.”
“What’s that?”
“She has to like Fats Waller. But then, who doesn’t?”
You, probably, in another month or so, Warne thought.
They were near the head of the line now. Ahead, Warne could see a man in a conductor’s uniform ushering a dozen people into what looked like an open-air elevated train. He swallowed painfully.
“What time is it?” Georgia asked.
“Five minutes to ten.”
“Good. That gives us plenty of time to ride the Scream Machine before your meeting. Maybe the Flume, too.”
Warne felt his lips tighten. It was going to be a long sixty minutes.
THE MAN CALLING himself Mr. Doe stood on a walkway overlooking the Hospitality Center, leaning against a guardrail. He enjoyed the casual way his linen jacket draped over the freshly painted rail. He gazed down at the Nexus below, its broad avenue sweeping up toward the monorail station. Though it was almost ten, thick knots of people were still streaming down the off-loading ramps. A veritable river of humanity, he thought: it brought the Book of Joel to mind. He quoted aloud: “Multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision.” But no: if he were honest with himself, the scene had a bleaker, postmodernist cast more appropriate to T. S. Eliot than the Bible. He liked the sound of his voice, and he spoke again, a little more loudly now:
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
He glanced down again at the Center, but the employees behind the crescent-shaped desk were far too busy to have heard. In fact, the only person who seemed to have noticed was a man in a corduroy jacket, stepping out of a nearby men’s room. Their eyes met; the man tipped his tweed cap, turned, and went on his way.
John Doe’s gaze swept back out over the Nexus. He decided he disapproved of the design scheme: the chrome and wood construction seemed like some monstrous synthesis of Walter Gropius and Piranesi.
The security system, however, was another matter. He was impressed by both its extent and its restraint. The passive-motion cameras in the Transportation Center and the monorails were all fifth-generation, marvels of miniaturization. He glanced toward the wall nearest the Hospitality Center. Take, for example, that proximity sensor concealed behind the Cast Only sign. A normal visitor to the park couldn’t find it if he was looking for it. And, even if he did find it, he wouldn’t know what it was. But Mr. Doe’s practiced eye identified a DeMinima Sensalert—latest release, very expensive, hard to acquire unless one was a major world power. Which, in a sense, Utopia was.
But a system was only as good as its human minders. After all, the fortifications of Troy didn’t fall, exactly: it was the fools inside that let the Trojan Horse in of their own free will. And the security grunts at Utopia didn’t seem nearly as impressive as the toys they’d been given to play with. Walking around so purposefully, black blazers instead of the usual white, radio cords fitted snugly into their ears…they stuck out like sore thumbs, might as well have been toting Uzis and wearing flak jackets. Even the plainclothes operatives were easy to spot. Oh, he’d seen a wide variety of disguises: a fat tourist in a Hawaiian shirt, a tall, thin man laden down with cameras, a supposedly pregnant woman. But they all wore the same thick-soled, standard-issue black shoes as the regular security staff.
Mr. Doe shook his head. It could not have been better if he’d arranged it for himself. Which, in a way, he had.
He waited another moment, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on his shoulders. Then he picked up his leather satchel and made his way down to ground level, heading for the portal into Gaslight.
—
INSIDE, AWAY FROM the crowds once again, Mr. Doe strolled down the cobbled streets, hands in his pockets, whistling a complicated figure from Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy. His eyes remained constantly on the move. But unlike other guests, he was not taking in the spectacles, attractions, costumed cast members. Instead, he was examining what was supposed to remain hidden: security outposts, exits and entrances for Utopia employees, infrared cameras. His mood, already good, improved. The tempo of the whistling accelerated.
Although Mr. Doe had never been inside Utopia before, he commanded an intimate knowledge of the Park’s layout. Without effort, he traced the shortest route to Gaslight’s casino, a painstaking reproduction of the conservatory in London’s Royal Horticultural Gardens. He stopped before its southern portal, gazing in frank admiration at the glittering facade of glass and steel, the graceful outlines. Now, this was more like it. He stepped inside.
Within, the atmosphere was quieter, more stately. There was none of the bustle found among the thrill rides and eateries outside. Potted palms and Victorian banners lined the walls. Cocktail waitresses in bombazine and taffeta rustled by, carrying gratis orders of pink gin and brandy-and-soda. Croupiers and dealers, dressed in Edwardian frock coats, held sway over countless tables. Beneath the central transept lay two massive rings of slot machines, each a huge contraption of brass and tin, with mechanical disks and hand-painted cherries. Mr. Doe strolled by, marveling at the way Utopia had deconstructed all the elements of gambling to keep the casino in period with the rest of Gaslight.
There was, in fact, only one element here that was distinctly, intentionally un-Victorian: the Eyes in the Sky, countless bubbles of smoked glass dotting the paneled ceiling. Unlike elsewhere in the Park, security in the casinos was meant to be seen.
Mr. Doe gazed around, smiling broadly, as he watched the hundreds of patrons: bending over the craps tables, placing their chips before the roulette wheels, yanking slot machine handles like automatons. So many people, so busily employed at losing money.
As a student of human folly, he was hugely amused by the great irony the conservatory presented. Now here was a miracle of rare device: a theme park that at its core was built, not around a brand of beer or a cartoon character, but around casinos. It was a wonderful perversion of Eric Nightingale’s original vision. The revised, corporate, post-Nightingale scenario seemed perfectly clear to Mr. Doe: people would come, fall under the carefully orchestrated spell, lose their inhibitions, then their money.
It was remarkable, really: Utopia had been open six months already, and there had been relatively little outcry over this dirty little secret. Perhaps it was because Utopia did it so well.
Mr. Doe gave the conservatory a final, careful look. So ironic—and yet, so very necessary.
He made his way back into the fog-heavy streets of Gaslight. Outside a small shop whose sign read Blackpool Tobacconist and Cigar Emporium
, he stopped. Nearly hidden in shadow was a small, unlabeled door. He glanced casually back over his shoulder. Then he placed his hand on the knob and turned.
Beyond the door, a long corridor of gray concrete curved away in both directions. A patch of the far wall was painted in ersatz wood grain—just enough to fool any passing guest into thinking the open door was part of the attraction. Mr. Doe closed the door carefully behind him, oriented himself to a mental map, then started down the corridor. Reaching a wide metal staircase, he descended to A Level.
At the first intersection, he stopped. A uniformed officer was approaching from a corridor labeled Central Processing. Mr. Doe turned toward him, putting a slightly lost look on his face.
The security officer caught sight of him and stopped abruptly. “Can I help you, sir?” he said guardedly.
“Why, yes, you can. I’m looking for Animal Handling. I’m supposed to meet my colleague there.”
“You’re an external specialist? Where’s your pin?”
“Pin? Oh, of course, my pin!” Mr. Doe stammered. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the small green nightingale. “I forgot, I was supposed to wear this. Sorry.” He fixed it to his lapel.
“May I see your passcard, please?” the guard asked.
“Got it right here.” He fumbled in another pocket, pulled out the laminated card.
The officer examined it, then handed it back. “Thank you. Head down this corridor, make your third right, second door on the left.”
“Appreciate it.” Mr. Doe smiled and nodded, watching the security officer continue on his way. The guard had acted precisely as the training manual specified he should. Clearly, it was as he’d been assured: he could rely on the lower echelons of Security to react reflexively, to follow the book. This was very good indeed.
—
ANIMAL HANDLING WAS a jungle of cries, hoots, and unpleasantly exotic scents. Wrinkling his nose, Mr. Doe made his way past a small band of quarreling chimpanzees, locating the door marked External Prep 3. Inside, the almond-eyed man in the leather jacket stood beside the enormous parrot cage.
“Any problems?” Mr. Doe said, closing the door behind him.
The man shook his head. “They weren’t too eager to take a closer look,” he said, jerking his finger toward the heavily smeared newspaper lining the cage bottom.
“Of course, they weren’t. The rest of the team?”
“Everything’s on schedule.”
“And our little computer whiz?”
“He’s resting comfortably.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Mr. Doe nodded toward the cage, and the man slid open a drawer concealed in its bottom. Mr. Doe drew closer, reached inside, and pulled out a radio transmitter, thin and black, with a stubby antenna protruding from its top. He snapped it on, punched in a code, lifted it to his lips.
“Water Buffalo, this is Prime Factor. Give me a sit-rep, please.”
There was a pause. Then the radio crackled into life. “In position,” came the voice.
“Ten-four. I’ll check back with you at 1300.” Mr. Doe changed frequencies, lifted the radio again. “Cracker Jack, come in. Cracker Jack, do you read?”
This pause was much longer. Then the radio squawked, much more noisily this time. “Affirmative.”
“We’re moving. Are you ready with the smoke and mirrors?”
“Affirmative,” the second voice repeated.
“Roger, out.” Mr. Doe slipped the radio into a pocket, then turned back to the drawer beneath the cage, examining its contents with a critical eye.
“Now for the weapon du jour.” Mr. Doe considered a Ruger, then rejected it on purely aesthetic grounds. His gaze lingered on the nice brushed-metal Colt, but decided he wasn’t in the mood for a gun with such a hefty kick. He’d settle for the Glock-9: light, efficient, dependable in case things got out of hand.
He tossed the gun from hand to hand, then snugged it into a vertical-carry holster beneath his jacket. Kneeling beside the almond-eyed man, he opened his satchel, then began placing items from the drawer carefully inside it. He worked quickly, with practiced movements, and the satchel was filled in thirty seconds. He zipped it closed and stood up, passing it to the other, who slung it over his shoulder and turned toward the door. Hand on the knob, the man looked back at Mr. Doe, nodding.
“You know something?” Mr. Doe said, returning the nod. “You look just like Johnny Appleseed.” And he smiled.
THE APPLIED RESEARCH Center on B Level looked just like his old lab suite at Carnegie-Mellon, Warne thought to himself—or would have, if he’d had twenty times the endowment. The rooms were spacious, gleaming, brilliantly lit. They passed a data center full of terminals and rack-optimized servers; a lab in which white-coated technicians hovered over the subassembly of what looked like a holographic transmission system.
Georgia walked beside him, guidemap in one hand. “Do you have to meet with Sarah Boatwright now?” she asked. “I mean, we’ve only gotten to two rides.”
Thank God, Warne said to himself. Brighton Beach Express had been bad enough, but the second coaster—Scream Machine—had been much worse. His stomach remained somewhere in the vicinity of his gullet, and if he closed his eyes, he could still see the wooden supports, whizzing past scant inches from his face. “It shouldn’t be long. We’ll be back out again before you know it. Besides,” he ventured, “aren’t you curious to see her after all this time? It’ll be a surprise—I didn’t tell her you were coming along.”
Georgia’s only response was a noncommittal sniff.
Warne glanced at the numbers on the passing doors, then down at the directions Amanda Freeman had given him. Conference room B-23. Why a conference room? he asked himself. Odd place for an informal meeting with Sarah. Her administrative assistant had told him the meeting would concern future development of the Metanet, the computer infrastructure he’d designed to run the Park’s robots. And he could certainly use an assignment like expanding its functionality. But at first, he hadn’t allowed himself to get too excited. After all, his break with Utopia’s home office hadn’t been exactly amicable. Then, just last Thursday, the assistant had called to move up the meeting by a week. That meant eagerness on their part: after all, the Atlantis rollout wasn’t far off. The Metanet would have to be expanded to accommodate the robots in this new World. That must be it. No doubt this initial meeting would be a brief, fence-mending visit, in which the project would be laid out. Then, after touring the Park with Georgia, he’d go home, put together a proposal. And then more, longer meetings would follow. That’s the way Utopia worked.
To his right, he noticed a set of double doors. “Here we are,” he said, grasping the nearest handle and turning it. His palm was slippery on the polished metal. The thought of seeing Sarah again filled him with a strange mixture of anticipation and dread. He let Georgia in, followed her through the door, and then stopped in surprise.
The conference room was much bigger than he’d anticipated. He closed the door and walked forward slowly, looking around. There was a large table in the center, surrounded by perhaps a dozen chairs. An electronic whiteboard, covered with scribbled logic diagrams, stood at one end. An LCD projector sat at the other. Several computer terminals on wheeled metal racks were crowded together along one wall. Georgia glanced around for a moment, then walked curiously toward the whiteboard. Warne watched her absently.
And then the door opened again and Sarah Boatwright stepped into the room.
He’d wondered what it would feel like to see her again. He had imagined awkwardness, a little reproach, maybe even anger. But the one thing he had never imagined was mere desire. And yet the longing that rose inside him as he caught sight of her was unmistakable.
It had been twelve months since she’d accepted the job as head of Operations, left Carnegie-Mellon, and effectively ended her relationship with Warne. And yet she looked younger somehow, as if the chill air of Utopia had regenerative properties. Under t
he artificial daylight of the Utopia Underground, her coppery hair looked almost cinnamon, her green eyes flecked with gold. As always, she stood very erect, chin held high. She had always been self-possessed, self-assured, without doubt the strongest woman he’d known. But there was a new bearing about her, a way she carried her statuesque limbs, that he was instantly aware of: an air of command. The omnipresent teacup hovered in one hand, and a small sheaf of papers was balanced under the opposite elbow.
“Andrew,” she said, nodding. “Thank you for coming.” She placed the teacup on the desk, extended her hand.
Warne shook the proffered hand. Sarah’s touch was brief, professional, without trace of lingering affection.
And then she caught sight of Georgia, who was watching them silently from the far side of the whiteboard. Sarah let her hand fall to her side. For a very brief moment, her face registered surprise: a blank, expressionless look that Warne had seen only rarely. Then, as quickly as it had come, it vanished.
“Hi, Georgia,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t know you were coming. This is a surprise. A nice surprise.”
“Hi,” was Georgia’s reply.
There was an awkward silence of perhaps five seconds.
“You look like you’ve grown at least five inches since I last saw you. Even more pretty, too.”
In response, Georgia walked away from the whiteboard to stand beside her father.
“How’s school going? I remember you were having a little trouble with French.”
“It’s fine, I guess.”
“That’s good.” A beat. “Have you been in the Park yet? Visited any of the attractions?”
Georgia nodded. Her eyes remained low.
Sarah’s own eyes moved toward Warne’s. Drew, what’s she doing here? her expression read.
At that moment, two more people appeared in the doorway: a tall, slender man around forty, and a young Asian woman in a white lab coat.
Sarah glanced at them. “Come in, please,” she said crisply. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Warne. Andrew, this is Fred Barksdale, CTO and head of Systems.”