Dream Park

by Larry Niven;Steven Barnes

  “We accept this thy sacred fluid into our bodies in the names . . .”

  Griffin gagged it down. “I don’t like soda pop” he whispered to Acacia. “I don’t drink this junk.”

  “Shut up and glug,” she whispered back, not bother to hide her grin. “You’ve got to.”

  Griffin finished his, and passed another bottle along “What if I have diabetes?”

  “Then you can have your implant adjusted after Game. Drink,” she commanded. Ollie handed him next twelve ounces.

  Griffin drained it, stifling a heartfelt belch. Then reconsidered and eructated with vigor. The echoes were fearsome; they seemed to go on forever, down the line and back up.

  After the fourth round, moans could be heard from all corners. Tony looked green and had hiccoughs. Alex sympathized wholeheartedly.

  “Who’s ready for lunch?” Mary-em’s question raised a chorus of vile suggestions.

  Owen and Gwen finished their drinks, and sat amid a heap of empty bottles. “We are ready. Hear us, oh gods—” The air above the entire group began to shim with electric white. Owen lowered his voice. “All join ands, please.”

  Owen and Gwen faced each other, interlocking fingers, as they closed their eyes.

  The aura jumped and crackled, a bird’s nest woven of lightning. The air sizzled with power. Griffin squinted against the glare. His skin crawled. The ground itself trembled.

  A thunderous voice split their ears, a sound that echoed to the far mountains and back. “Yes, my children,” the voice said with tremendous deliberation, each word rounded and perfectly enunciated. “I know what you wish of us. Yes, your leader may be saved. He shall pick five among you, quick-witted and wise, to compete for his life. If you win, his life will be returned to him. If not . . .”

  The voice faded away, and the dancing glow lifted.

  Chester definitely looked more yellowish. He rose unsteadily to his feet. “Leigh, Acacia, Oliver, Gina, and . . . Griffin.” He gazed at Alex speculatively. “Something tells me that you might answer questions as well as you ask them.”

  Confusion ran unmasked on Alex’s face. “Questions?”

  Acacia took his arm comfortingly. “Don’t worry. I think you’ll do fine.”

  The sky rumbled above them, and clouds began to mass. Like soapsuds floating in a whirlpool, they swirled together, directly in front of the sun, eclipsing it. Darkness fell, and stars glowed above them. Then it seemed that the very fabric of space was twisting and torqueing, tortured by forces beyond imagination. The stars were rippled aside as the sky tore open. Soft, pale blue light pulsed beyond the edges.

  From the region beyond the sky came a tiny shadow that growled noisily, growing larger by the second. Now it was plainly visible, an olive-drab Army-issue helicopter with its engine at full throttle. It hovered above them, then set down on the grass twenty meters away. A dark man in a smart white uniform hopped from the door and ran to them carrying a clipboard.

  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 appointment 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 Gamers 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 Gamers 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 Encyclopedia Britannica next to five years of UFO Quarterly bound into leather volumes. One whole shelf was filled with books in an International Classics series of some sort. Directly below it were paperbacks in Plastic envelopes. The effect was mildly disorienting.

  He should be trying to remember riddles. He couldn’t. As a child he had never been tempted by riddles.

  Footsteps in the doorway. Griffin found himself straightening se
lf-consciously in his seat. He refused to go so far as twisting around to see who was there.

  “Good afternoon.” The man’s voice was cultured, studiedly so. The footsteps came closer, and the figure passed into his peripheral vision and to the wall map. “I trust that it is afternoon on Earth? Ah, good. And your trip was comfortable? Fine, fine.”

  He was a middle-aged black man, larger and stronger than most New Guinea natives. He wore a tropical shirt and razor-creased white plantation pants. He clasped his hands behind his back and fairly pranced from side to side, personal energy radiating from him like waves of heat.

  “I am Yali, and I would like to welcome you to Heaven. I hope you will enjoy your stay.” He laughed heartily, as at a private joke. “Yes, I most certainly hope you do. After all, some of you may stay forever. It is a nice place, actually, one of those infinitely rare situations where one is rewarded commensurately to one’s efforts. Surely that is Heaven by any man’s definition?” Again the vastly amused guffaw.

  “Now that we are all friends, do have lunch with me, won’t you?” Yali clapped his hands, and two beautiful, dark women haloed in pale auras wheeled in twin carts laden with food.

  Oliver ran his tongue lightly over his lips. “I hope this, isn’t a trick. Suddenly I am famished.”

  “Me three,” Gina echoed.

  “No tricks,” Yali assured them. “Please. Enjoy.”

  The two carts locked together, and flaps folded out from the sides to form a buffet. . . of Spam, canned pineapple crepes, rice, meat loaf, corned beef, and sliced white bread.

  Acacia leaned close to Griffin. “It looks as if this whole, place was designed by pulling random pages out of 1950’s, women’s magazines.”

  “Frightening, isn’t it?” Griffin chose a light meal, refused a charitably offered Coca-Cola, and returned to his seat.

  Yali bounced up and down on his toes, grinning, and Griffin paused in mid-bite, a piece of a children’s rhyme running through his mind. . . . And welcome little fishes in with gently smiling jaws . . .

  Yali was unable to restrain his enthusiasm any longer. “I do not wish to interrupt your meal, but just as your mouths must be fed, so must your minds.” He tapped his head with a forefinger. “Do you all agree?” There were no dissenting opinions, and that was enough for Yali. “I am sure you are wondering who I am, and how I earned such a position of honor in Heaven.”

  “All right, Yali, consider us mystified.” Acacia ate while she listened.

  “I was born in the Ngaing bush area of Sor, a member of the Walaliang patrician and the Tabinung matriclan. During World War Two, Europeans came and promised my people that if we fought the Japanese we would be given all of the things that the Europeans had—electric lights, automobiles, metal tools, tinned meat, and so forth. Naturally we were excited.

  “Understand that my people had lived a satisfying, happy existence before the Europeans came with their guns and missionaries. They told us that the reason we were denied sophisticated technology was that we were descended from Ham. Ham, as you may recall, was Noah’s son, and after the flood he laughed at his father’s drunken nakedness. I’m not terribly familiar with JudeoChristian myth patterns, but I believe that Ham . . . no, it was Ham’s son Canaan, was cursed to be a ‘servant of servants’ unto his breathren. Well, being evil and natural slaves and all that, we weren’t fit to have the secret of Cargo, were we? So my people tried to conform themselves to the dictates of the Church, and we helped the Europeans build roads and plantations, and we dutifully marched off to war.

  “I was one of those who fought. I died in the jungle, and because I was a brave and virtuous man, I went to Heaven. Here I learned that God—not my God, nor your God, but God nonetheless—had always intended that we receive our share of Cargo, and that the Europeans had been diverting our goods for their own purposes.”

  Leigh asked, “And why didn’t the Almighty put a stop to it?”

  Yali smiled benevolently. “Because in his infinite wisdom, He perceived that this was merely a skirmish between people of different cultures, and that in time all inequities would be rectified. And indeed this is happening now. My people have learned the Cargo secret and are using it for their own enrichment. I, due to my familiarity with both New Guinea and the European—”

  Acacia interrupted. “Where did you get your knowledge of Europeans?”

  “Ah, an excellent question. Basic training for my army unit was carried out in Australia. There I was appointed Area Manager and given substantial training, including thorough a course in grammar. God, as you may have heard, has little patience for slang, colloquialism, or Pidgin English. Naturally, as soon as the political situation in Melanesia is back to normal, the natives will be able to address me in their own tongues. For the sake of continuity, however, it is now convenient to take messages in English. Paper work, you know. We’re swamped with it.

  Griffin asked, “Heaven doesn’t have computers?”

  “No.” Yali moved up to the wall map and fingered a switch. “Have you been wondering just where we are? After all, theologians have debated for centuries over the exact location of Heaven. Some have said that Heaven can be found beyond the stars. Some say it exists in the heart of Man, and others claim that it does not exist at all or that God is dead, or at least unemployed.”

  Griffin stifled his laugh. “But you know otherwise?”

  “Absolutely.” The flick of a switch turned the wall map transparent. “And it is my pleasure to reveal to you the true location of the Hereafter.” Beyond the transparent wall was a vast white cloud deck. A hundred meters out, a hole punctured the fluffy white. The hole was about twenty meters in diameter, and ladders rose from beneath, resting against the edges. Light- and dark-skinned angels climbed up and down, carrying packages.

  “Heaven is situated directly above Sydney, Australia. Naturally this opening is not visible to the inhabitants of the city. We sometimes sub-contract with Australian manufacturers to create Cargo for us. Some of our angels are presently exchanging goods with a jewelry company which is building a golden throne.”

  Acacia raised one lovely eyebrow. “Is this for Him?”

  “Oh, no. It’s for me. I asked Him if He’d like one Himself, and He said that it was just about the ultimate in kitsch.” Yali flipped the switch and the picture-window became a map again.

  “But I’m sure that we have more interesting things to speak of. Matters of life and death. Philosophical things. For instance, can any of you tell me what a dozen rubber trees with thirty boughs on each might be?”

  At first Griffin didn’t understand, then he felt the sudden tension in his companions. It had begun.

  Oliver looked at the other four Gamers as if checking to assure his right to answer. He cleared his throat. “That would be the months of the year.”

  “Quite right, young sir. And have you a question for me?”

  Oliver considered. “Yes, I think so. It’s in the form of a rhyme

  As I went over London Bridge

  I met my sister Jenny

  I broke her neck and drank her blood

  And left her standing empty.”

  The stout warrior looked at Yali challengingly. “Tell me, who was my sister?”

  Yali rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Such a fine meal you’ve just enjoyed. Would any of you care to share a bottle of wine with me?” He grinned maliciously at Oliver. “Rest assured that it won’t be the same bottle our friend drank atop that famous bridge.”

  Oliver looked only slightly chagrined. “Close enough. Jenny equals gin, not wine.”

  “Ah . . . quite.” Yali pulled a chair up and sat carefully, crossing one leg over the other with exaggerated care. “It is said among my people that some things are improved by death. Tell me, what stinks while living, but in death, smells good?

  Griffin’s mind raced as he tried to come up with an answer.

  “Oh, come now. Surely such clever minds as yours won’t find this too consuming a proble
m.” Yali smiled, smugly.

  Leigh raised a tentative finger. “Ambergris. From whales. They stink while they’re alive, but when they’re dead, you can make perfume from the ambergris.”

  Yali seemed delighted. “Very clever. Very clever indeed. Unfortunately we simple island folk rarely traffic in expensive perfumes. The proper answer is: the pig. I believe that you people were treated to one of the succulent creatures two days ago? Such a delicious aroma when roasted. But perhaps you feel I was unfair. Would you care to ask me a question in return?”

  The sorcerer thought hard for a minute, then said, “All right. Riddle me this: what goes through the door without pinching itself? What sits on the stove without burning itself? What sits on the table and is not ashamed?” He said it all in one breath, and as he waited for his reply he panted slightly.

  “Excellent. Let me think . . .” Yali scratched his ear. His eyes slid shut. Was he getting hints from Lopez? Griffin didn’t want to believe it.

  Yali’s eyes flew open, and his mouth formed an “Aha!” oval. “Could it be the sun? Yes, I rather thought it might.” His eyes rested with gentle malice on Alan Leigh, who squirmed uncomfortably. “We may have further business later, you and I. Now . . . who is next?”

  Acacia glared at him. “Let’s hear it, Yali.”

  “So eager. Let me think . . . what have we for the headstrong young lady? Ah, I know. What work is it that, the faster you work, the longer it is before you’re done, and the slower you work, the sooner you’re finished?”

  The laughter in Yali’s face was totally unreflected in Acacia’s. She beetled her brows and twisted a curl of dark hair around and around on a forfinger . . .

  “Miss Garcia, I’m afraid I must insist on an answer.”

  “Ah . . . weaving a basket? The f-faster you do it, the more mistakes you make, and the more likely you are to have to redo it . . . ?”

  “Such inventive minds we have here today. No, I’m afraid that the correct answer is ‘roasting meat on a spit’. Don’t you see, the faster you turn it, the slower the meat cooks. And of course, the slower you turn it, the faster it cooks. Isn’t that just a corker?”