Dream Park

by Larry Niven

  The lead warrior spoke, his words rapid and melodic. Kasan lis­tened carefully, then turned to Chester. "His name is Kagoiano, and he has come to escort you to the Council of Men, at the request of our council chief Pigibidi, who extends greetings and hopes that you will join his company immediately."

  "Pigibidi?" Chester asked in amusement.

  "There is great power in his name. It means ‘Gun-Person,' and when he was at the height of his power, he was a great man in­deed. Shall we proceed?"

  Chester relaxed noticeably. "All right, let's go talk to Gun-Person."

  The Council hut was a little longer and broader than the rest of the wood-and-woven-straw huts. Several sleeping mats were rolled and stored neatly aside near the door flap. Chester assumed Gun-Person liked to keep his warriors close at hand. The walls were hung with skins, and furless and headless bodies of marsupials hung from the rafters.

  Acacia, Mary-em and the other women were stopped at the door. Kagoiano spoke a few words to Kasan, and he interpreted for them. "I am sorry, but the women cannot be admitted to this council. They will be escorted to the Council for Women, for a reading of the omens."

  "What's this reading of the omens business?" Mary-em de­manded. "Try to shuck me, Junior, and you'll be eating soft foods for a month."

  "Only men can be admitted to this hall," Kasan explained pa­tiently, "just as only women may enter the Council of Women. They do not make policy, but provide us with a valuable source of information on the plans and movements of our enemies."

  Chester laid a hand on Mary-em's shoulder. "We'll split up for now. I don't think we're in any danger. We can trade information as soon as we're through here."

  The women departed, reluctantly. The nine male adventurers, escorted by Kasan and Kagoiano, walked to the rear of the coun­cil hut.

  Tony sniffed the air. There was old smoke, and smoked meat, and what smelled like cheap tobacco.

  The air toward the rear of the hut was cooler. Better cross-ventilation, deeper shadow. The floor was wood covered with straw mats, some of them decorated with stain. He looked in vain for the hidden holo projector. Kagoiano was a projection; Tony had contrived to brush against him. But he couldn't figure how the continuity was handled. Surely Lopez had had to switch projectors at least once, when Kagoiano entered the hut, but the transition was carried off so smoothly that it was unnoticeable. Which raised another disturbing possibility: that a hologram could be substi­tuted for a real person, even a Gamer. Tony was learning respect for Henderson. Hell of a Game you've got here, friend.

  In the rear of the hut was an alcove partitioned off with a hang-

  ing mat. Kasan lifted it aside, and the Garners entered the new room.

  In a few seconds Tony's eyes adjusted to the darkness. The first things to emerge from the gloom were ten small points of light. At length he could see that they were eyes: unblinking, glar­ing, not-quite-focused eyes that seemed to stare through them all and off to distant and unknowable reaches beyond. A withered and trembling voice said, "Come."

  He could see more clearly now. Five old men were seated in a semicircle around a dish of what looked like dried fruit. Chester squatted in cross-legged position directly in front of them. Tony saw that their eyes didn't "track" as he moved, and concluded that he had found an easy way to differentiate between holograms and human actors.

  "I am Chester Henderson, and these are my followers," the Lore Master said. "We come to assist your people in any way we can."

  Kasan reeled off a string of gibberish, and one of the men an­swered with his own unintelligible words. The man who spoke was very old, the skin hanging on his body like a coat on a rack, time-ravaged lines eaten into his neck and face until he resembled noth­ing so much as a sun-dried fig. His features were very African, his skin darker than Kasan's, darker than almost any 21st century American black. Tony caught the name Pigibidi.

  "Gun-Person welcomes you to the Council, Chester. He says that he knows you are a mighty sorcerer, and hopes that with your help the threat to the souls of all people can be averted."

  Chester was interested now. His gaze shifted equally between Kasan and the elderly Pigibidi. The old chieftain pulled a piece of fruit from the bowl and chewed it thoughtfully, then spoke again. When he ceased, Maibang interpreted.

  "Gun-Person says that for years the people of the islands en­dured and cooperated with the invading Europeans in the hope that your people would share with them the secret of your enor­mous wealth. When it became clear that you did not wish us to make contact with the spirits who had made such wealth possible, we knew that you had much to lose if we ever discovered your se­cret. We knew that whatever the origin of your cars, your planes and gasoline engines, you had gained some part of them by thiev­ery and lies. The people of the islands began a campaign to dis­cover your secrets, the secret to the rot bilong kako, the path the

  cargo travels from God to men." Kasan paused, and Gun-Person talked in his native language for another minute or two. Kasan sank down into a squat as he listened. Kagoiano and the rest of the Gamers followed suit.

  Kasan Maibang spoke. "We joined your churches, learned of God and Jesus, your names for our deities Manup and Kilibob. We prayed to Jesus-Kilibob for cargo, and received nothing. We worked as slave labor on your plantations, and learned the Pidgin English that you taught us to speak. We built roads, changed many of our native customs, and many ceased to own as many wives as they could feed, all that we might at last be given the secret of Cargo. All was useless, and in the process many of our old gods turned against us, thinking that we had abandoned them. We were a people without a culture, abandoned by our gods, and denied the secrets of yours."

  Kasan paused, his dark face screwed up in concentration as he apparently hung on Pigibidi's every word. "At last we determined how the foul imbalance had happened. God-Manup had always intended for us to receive the Cargo, but the Europeans had, with sacrifice and prayer, won over to their cause some of the minor gods who were in charge of addressing and distributing the Cargo. They changed the labels on the packages to the names of white men. We knew what was happening now, but how could we bring it to a halt?

  "The great battle that you called World War II provided us with the opportunity that we needed. Many of our young men joined your forces against the yellow Europeans, the Japanese. During this time it became possible to kidnap several of your men and officers, attributing their disappearance to field casualties." Pigibidi was grinning as Kasan spoke. "We... entertained them for several days. Some for weeks. At last, shortly before they gave up their ghosts, they also gave up the secret of the Cargo. We know now that the ceremonies must be spoken in proper, not pidgin, language. Sacrifices of pigs and fruits are desirable, as are other things that even you might not know. Paramount is the holy sacrament, the sacred fluid that binds you Europeans together, that infuses your bodies and spirits, that is given to children when they need suck, and to the old wise ones before they close their eyes for the final time." Kasan's voice quavered with religious ec­stasy.

  Chester mused for a second, then shook his bead. "Wine? Milk?"

  ‘Those too have power. But I refer to the rare and precious substance you call Ko-Ka-Ko-La."

  Chapter Eight

  THE BANQUET

  The Lore Master stared, then spread his hands in acquiescence. "You've found us out."

  "We used our newfound knowledge to open the Road of the Cargo, and in the year 1946, began to regain some of the power that had been stolen from us." Pigibidi spoke again, some sadness in his face. "For a time," Kasan said, "we had everything we hoped for. Do not look at our village now and think that you know the way it was then. White soldiers came to take away our Cargo, but the gods were with us once again, and we killed them all. We drove the Europeans from New Guinea, and lived in peace with our neighbors. We, the Daribi, were first to know the secret of the Cargo. We ruled the other peoples of the land, but we did not kill or enslave them. We even made them gifts to
ease their hunger and want.

  "At last, our sorcerers began to divert even the Cargo intended

  for the Europeans, and still your people could not stop us. We had grown too strong. And we grew in power and in mana until the black day on which we grew too proud."

  "What happened?"

  "We stole your greatest and most powerful Cargo. The feat drained their strength from the tindalos, the ghosts and gods who serve us. A rival tribe had stolen a case of the precious Ko-Ka­Ko-La. At the last moment they used their own knowledge of the rot bilong kako, the Road of the Cargo, to divert this tremendous gift to themselves. Our loss cost us much honor and much mana. Today our enemies rule most of the tribes of this land. We and the Agaiambo are the only remaining free peoples. Soon, very soon, our enemies will be strong enough to destroy us for defying them. Afterward they will extend their rule to the other Ocean Peoples, and from there to the entire world, and when they rule the world they will crush all other religions. Your gods will die for lack of worshippers."

  Chester shifted his posture and rubbed his bony knees to get some circulation back into them. "If the entire world is trying to stop them... how can they resist?"

  Kasan spoke a few words to Gun-Person, who spoke in reply. The guide turned to Chester. "Your people do not know that our enemies have removed themselves from the physical plane of your world. They have turned the world, our world, inside-out, and nothing can come here unless a path is opened from within. My people opened the path for you."

  Chester closed his eyes to think. Without opening them, he said, "That would explain the altered shape of Chambri Lake."

  Oliver spoke. "It would explain why the water was salt instead of fresh."

  "An hah."

  "Yeah. I didn't think of it at the time, but the lake was salt. So it wasn't Chambri Lake. It's the Pacific Ocean... in fact, it's every ocean in the world."

  "Good, Ollie. Very good. That means our directions are going to be screwed up. We can't trust our compasses. If it hadn't been for the mountains we used as a reference point, we would never have gotten here." His eyes opened slowly. "What was it your en­emies stole from you?"

  Kasan spoke to Pigibidi, who seemed surprised and disturbed. "Surely you would know better than we? It was large, and we

  sensed many of your greatest men gathering to see it used. Our sorcerers sensed it when it began to move, and we took hold of it and guided it toward us. But it never reached us. We do not know its size nor its weight nor its shape nor its color. But it would have brought us immense power, and now it is in evil hands."

  Chester nibbled at his lower lip. "World War Two. Hmm. Could be... a prototype thermonuclear bomb? But the war was al­ready over. .

  Maibang shrugged.

  "... All right. What exactly do you hope we can do for you?" The chieftain conferred with his council, while Kasan listened. Presently Kasan said, "Tomorrow night is the full moon. There is to be a sacrifice of a woman plucked from the seas, in a place sa­cred to your God, an Anglican mission far to the west. If you can stop the ceremony, you will weaken our rivals and gain precious information from the woman, who has lived among them for a month. She can tell you how to reach their stronghold, there to steal back the mighty Cargo which they stole from us, which we in turn stole from you. You must do this thing, for the sake of all liv­ing souls. We will give you guides and other help, but the trip will be dangerous. Many of you will die. But there will be rich reward as well."

  Chester looked at Maibang, a tiny smile playing over his lips. "Well, we're here, and I guess we're ready. One more thing. Who are we fighting?"

  Maibang acted as if he had been struck with a live wire. Too rapidly to follow, he babbled out a string of words to Gun-Person, whose face grew ashy with fear. "No! No can say!" Pigibidi said, his first English words since his initial invitation to "come."

  Chester frowned. "Why so coy? Why can't you tell us who we're fighting?"

  Maibang shook his head. "Very bad, very very bad. This tribe is our enemy. To use their name would be theft. To use anything that belongs to another without his permission is very bad mana. You Europeans never understood that. Perhaps that is why you lost your power at last."

  "Something like copyright violation? What about the Agaiambo? You used their name."

  "They are allies. They will be helping you on your journey."

  Chester nodded. "All right, we're in. We'll need some more in-

  formation, and we'll need provisions, and a couple of guides. I as­sume you'll be staying with us, Kasan? Good. Is that it?"

  "Only this, 0 Great Sorcerer. Tonight we will feast your people as a sign of our gratitude."

  "How many people are you having for dinner?"

  Kasan repeated the quip to the chieftain, who sat in stony si­lence. Kasan shrugged. "I guess it loses something in translation."

  "Don't we all." Chester hauled himself to his feet. "Well, let's meet the ladies and swap data before dinner." He made a slight bowing motion to Gun-Person and left the hut, brushing the room-divider mat carelessly aside with one hand.

  Gwen and Acacia stood somewhat apart from the other women, watching the Men's Council hut while preparations for the feast went on around them. The feast would be real. Rich mingling smells of roasted pig and yam were thick in the air.

  A pit had been dug in the village square, and had been lined with coals. Alternating layers of leaves, pig meat and various veg­etables had then filled the pit. Men poked holes in the layers with long spears to provide heat flow.

  "That smells just too good, Cas." The blonde's nose crinkled in delight. "I can't take any more. I'm going to go right over there and dive in."

  "I'm afraid they might not pull you out. They'll just divvy you up with the other-I mean, with the pork. Ahem."

  Gwen's fingers drummed on her hips. "Could you run that past me again, Ms. Spindleshanks?"

  "Oh, no, I think that one is happy right where it is. Offle! Tony! Over here."

  The men made their way to the waiting ladies. "Come on," Acacia said after a firm hug, "let's find a place to sit down."

  Oliver asked, "Won't Chester want to debrief you?" Gwen stamped her foot. "Oh, forget Chester for a minute. Let's have our own debriefing."

  He considered that. "Done. It's not cheating to compare notes privately."

  They strolled past the thatch huts to a small stand of trees in view of the main square. They watched the preparations for the feast, and Tony laughed. Acacia pillowed her head against his shoulder as they sat, and nudged him with her small fist.

  "What's so funny, cowboy?"

  "I'm just wondering how much of that food isn't really there." He stretched luxuriously and dropped one arm around her and pulled her closer. "You know, I've almost stopped wondering which of the natives are real."

  "Glad to hear it," Acacia murmured, playing in the grass with the toe of her shoe. "Anyone you only see at a distance, anybody engaged in repetitious movement, and usually anyone you see killed violently, is a hologram. Lopez will use as many holograms as possible."

  "Why? Aren't holograms expensive?"

  "So are actors. Remember, other Gaming parties are going to run this Game. The holograms are part of the package, but the ac­tors have to be replaced every time."

  Oliver lay on his stomach in the grass, watching the native chefs. He asked, "What happened to you ladies whilst we were riddling with the savages?"

  Acacia wagged a finger at him. "You first."

  Oliver and Tony obliged by telling everything they could re­member. Gwen and Acacia listened intently, and finally agreed that they had received much the same.

  "Trappings were a little different, though," Gwen mused. "There were three old women. One was in a trance the whole time. A younger woman translated for us. She's supposed to have been to missionary school as a girl."

  "They brief these actors pretty well." Tony plucked a straw from the ground and stuck it playfully in Acacia's hair. "It seems they can answer an
ything we ask."

  Acacia laughed. "Don't be too impressed. I'm pretty sure Kasan wears a transceiver under that bushy hair. Whenever he stops to pray, or talks gibberish to one of the ‘natives,' or scratches his ear, he's talking to Lopez."

  "Is that legal? I mean, doesn't that put us in a vulnerable posi­tion?"

  "Not really. The I.F.G.S. is watching Lopez pretty closely. I think Lopez considers himself clever enough to destroy us, and Chester particularly, without cheating."

  Oliver sniffed the air. The rich aroma of roasting vegetables and pork had drifted up to them. "Ummm-um. Have you ever been very glad your name isn't Goldberg? It sure feels like dinnertime." He started to get up, then hesitated. "What time is it, anyway?"

  Acacia dug into her backpack, bringing up a disk watch set in an antique silver dollar. "I've got six-fifteen. Why?"

  "Oh, just my devious mind. It's an hour and forty-five minutes before the Game closes down for the night. We're about to be treated to a banquet. Nothing drastic has happened for, oh, call it five hours. We're all pretty relaxed. Do you follow me?"

  Gwen looked gloomy. "Oh, Ollie. Sometimes I don't like the way you think. I hope you're wrong."

  "So do I." Acacia's hand was straying over the hilt of her sword. "But I wouldn't go Banco on it. Eyes open, troops."

  The serving plates were attractive silvery disks with the word "Chevrolet" stencilled on the side. Offie laughed and nudged Gwen. "Hubcaps."

  Gwen nodded and pointed a chubby arm toward the nearest hut. "Look at that window. What's a glass window doing in a New Guinea village?"

  Oliver squinted, scratching his head. "You know, I didn't notice that before."

  "I think it's a truck windshield. Take a closer look around this place. A lot of it is patchwork like that."

  He began to see what she meant. The thatch roofs of several huts had been finished with canvas, and many of the natives' knives seemed jerryrigged from flattened tin cans. Most of the spears were bamboo, but a few were thin steel tubing with nastily sharpened points. Incongruously, the roofs of a couple of the huts sprouted broken remnants of television antennae, and come to think of it, weren't a few of the women wearing skirts made of parachute silk?