“What’s with the clocks?” Warne asked as he struggled to keep up. He’d noticed that, although it was now quarter past eight, the digital clocks set into the towering walls of the Nexus read 0:45.
“Forty-five minutes to Zero Hour.”
“Huh?”
“Utopia is open 365 days a year, 9:00A.M. to 9:00P.M. At closing, the clocks start a twelve-hour countdown. Lets the cast and crew know how much time they have left until opening. Of course, there are no clocks in the Worlds themselves, but—”
“You mean it takes twelvehours to get the Park ready again?” Warne asked in disbelief.
“Lots to do,” Freeman said with another small smile. “Come on, we’ll take a shortcut through Camelot.”
She steered him toward a massive portal in the nearer wall. Above it, the wordCamelot shone in Old English black letter. This typeface was, so far, the only deviation Warne had seen from the rigidly enforced design of the Nexus: even the doors to the bathrooms and the emergency exit signs were in the same reserved Art Deco type.
Three white-jacketed attendants, standing outside the Camelot portal, smiled and nodded at Freeman. She steered Warne past them, through a forest of crowd rails and into a wide, empty queuing chamber. In the far wall stood half a dozen sets of metal doors. On cue, one of the doors slid back and Freeman led the way into a cavernous, darkly appointed elevator.
The doors closed again and that same silky female voice said,You are now entering Camelot. Enjoy your visit . There was a muffled metallic thud and the elevator came to life. Except, Warne noticed, it was neither ascending nor descending: it was moving forward horizontally.
“Is it a long way to the Park itself?” he asked.
“Actually, we’re not really moving,” Freeman replied. “The car just gives the illusion of movement. Studies showed that guests find the Worlds easier to adjust to if they believe it takes a journey—however short—to reach them.”
Then the doors on the far side slid open. For the second time in the last half hour, Warne felt himself stop in surprise.
Ahead lay a wide pavement of dark cobblestones. Quaint buildings—some with thatched roofs, others with peaked gambrels—lined both sides, stretching ahead to what looked from a distance like a large village square. Beyond the square, the cobbled road divided around the bailey of a castle, sand-colored and monolithic. Above its high crenellations flew a hundred multicolored banners. In the distance, he could see more towers and the notched, cruel-looking face of a mountain rising above a grassy hill, snow swirling around its summit. Far overhead, the soaring curve of the dome gave an illusion of endless space. The air smelled of earth, and fresh-cropped grass, and summer.
Warne walked slowly forward, feeling a little like Dorothy, stepping out of her drab monochromatic farmhouse into Oz.Wait until Georgia sees this, he thought. Brilliant sunshine blanketed the entire scene, giving it a clean, lustrous edge. Park employees hurried quickly here and there over the cobbles, but not in the jacketed uniform he had seen elsewhere: here were men in parti-color tights; women in flowing robes and wimples; a knight in armor. Only a small knot of white-blazered supervisors, with palmtop computers and two-way radios, and a crew member from Maintenance, hosing down the cobbles, broke the illusion.
“What do you think?” Freeman asked.
“It’s amazing,” Warne replied honestly.
“Yes, it is.” He turned and saw her smiling. “I love to watch people entering a World for the first time. Since I can’t go back and do it again myself, watching somebody else is the next best thing.”
They made their way down the broad thoroughfare, Freeman pointing out attractions as they went. As they passed a bakery, a mortared window opened, releasing an irresistible aroma. Somewhere, a bard was tuning his lute, singing an ancient lay.
“The design philosophy of all four Worlds is the same,” Freeman said. “Visitors first pass through a set piece—in Camelot’s case, this village we’re in—that helps orient, set the mood. Decompression, we call it. There are restaurants, shops, and concessions, of course, but mostly it’s a spot for the guests to just observe, get acclimated. Then, as you move deeper into the World, we start integrating the attractions—rides, live shows, holographic events, you name it—into the environment. It’s all seamless.”
“I’ll say.” Warne noticed that, except for the signboards of the shops and eateries, there was no modern signage anywhere: rest rooms and the cleverly integrated information kiosks were indicated only by what appeared to be highly realistic holographic symbols.
“Scholars come here because this lane we’re passing through is a superbly detailed reconstruction of Newbold Saucy, an English village depopulated in the fourteenth century,” Freeman said. “Guests come because Dragonspire is probably the second most thrilling roller-coaster in the Park, after Scream Machine over in Boardwalk.”
The castle loomed ahead of them as they approached the square. “An exact re-creation of Caernarvon, in Wales,” Freeman said. “With selective compression and forced perspective, of course.”
“Forced perspective?”
“The upper stories aren’t full-size, they’re smaller. They give an illusion of correct proportion, but are warmer, less intimidating. We use the technique throughout Utopia, on a variety of levels. For example, that mountain, there, is reduced in size to give the illusion of distance.” She nodded through the open portcullis. “Anyway, inside this castle is whereThe Enchanted Prince is shown.”
The troubadour’s song had long fallen behind them, but other noises came to Warne’s ears: birdsong, the patter of fountains, and the same softer noise he had heard in the Nexus. “What’s that sound I keep hearing?” he asked.
Freeman glanced at him. “You’re very observant. Our research specialists have done pioneering work in womb-feedback research. Once guests fill Camelot, the sound won’t be audible. But it will still be there.”
Warne threw her a puzzled look.
“It’s the science of reproducing certain womblike effects—temperatures, ambient sounds—to foster a subliminal sense of tranquility. We have five patents pending on it. The Utopia Holding Company has over three hundred patents, you know. We license some to the chemical, medical, and electronics industries. Others remain proprietary.”
Three of which were developed by me,Warne thought silently, allowing himself a little twinge of pride. He wondered if the woman knew the contribution he’d made to the day-to-day operation of Utopia: his meta-network, which coordinated the activities and intelligence of the Park’s robots. Probably not, considering the way she was showing him around, talking to him like he was some assistant programmer. Once again, he found himself wondering why Sarah Boatwright had summoned him here so abruptly.
“This way,” Freeman said, turning down a side alley.
A man in a violet cape and dark knee breeches passed them, practicing his Middle English. Ahead, two burly maintenance specialists walked by, carrying a large metal cage between them. Inside sat a small dragon, tail twitching, crimson scales shimmering in the sun. Warne stared. The damp nostrils flared as air passed through them. He could swear the thing’s yellow eyes gleamed as they fastened upon him.
“A mandrake, on its way for installation in Griffin Tower,” Freeman said. “The Park’s still closed. That’s why they’re not traveling below. What is it, Dr. Warne?”
Warne was still staring after the dragon. “I’m just not used to seeing skin on them, that’s all,” he muttered.
“Excuse me? Oh yes: that’s your field, isn’t it?”
Warne licked his lips. The costumes, the dialect, the fanatical realism of the surroundings . . . He shook his head slowly.
“Can be a bit much when no guests are around to break the illusion, right?” Freeman’s voice was quieter, less brisk. “Let me guess. When you arrived, you thought the Nexus was spartan-looking, kind of drab.”
Warne nodded.
“People often feel that way when they first enter Utopia.
A guest once told me it reminded her of a billion-dollar airport terminal. Well, it was designed that way, and this is the reason.” She waved her hand at the scene around them. “Sometimes the realism can get disorienting to guests. So the Nexus provides a neutral setting, a buffer zone, a transition between the Worlds.”
She turned toward a two-story half-timbered residence, lifting the iron latch of the front door. Warne followed her inside. To his surprise, the building was merely a shell, open to its roof. A plain gray door was set into the back wall, a finger-geometry scanner and a card reader beside it. Freeman stepped up to the scanner, placed her thumb in the mold. There was a snap, and the door sprang open. Beyond, Warne could see the cool green glow of fluorescent light.
“Back to the real world,” Freeman said. “Or as close as we get to it around here.”
And she motioned him through the doorway.
8:50A.M.
SARAH BOATWRIGHT, HEADof Park Operations, sat at the crowded conference table in her office, thirty feet below the Nexus. The office was frigid—the primary air-conditioning ducts ran behind the rear wall—and she cradled her hands around a large cup of tea. Sarah Boatwright was fanatical about tea. Once an hour, like clockwork, the best restaurant in Gaslight sent down a cup of the day’s house selection. Today it was jasmine, first-grade. She watched the small, ball-shaped young flowers uncurl in the hot liquid, and leaned forward briefly to inhale their fragrance. It was exquisite, exotic, alluring.
It was 0:10, Utopia time, and the various park chiefs had gathered in her office for the daily “Pre-Game Show.” She took a sip, feeling the warmth slowly spread through her limbs.This was the real start of her day: not the alarm clock, not the shower, not the first cup of the morning. It all started now, when she gave the day’s marching orders to her captains and lieutenants; when she took the helm of the greatest theme park ever built. It was her job to make sure that, although behind the scenes almost anything might be happening on a given day—two thousand riotous Boy Scouts, irregularities in the electrical grid, a visiting prime minister and his retinue—to the guests, every day had to seem precisely the same. Perfect. She could imagine no job more challenging, or more rewarding.
And yet today, mingling with the usual sense of anticipation, was something else. It wasn’t apprehension—Sarah Boatwright had never had much use for fear of any kind—so much as a kind of wariness.Andrew is here, she thought.He’s here, and he can’t possibly know the real reason . It was the forced duplicity that made her wary: she felt it quite distinctly as she glanced around, mentally checking off faces. Research, Infrastructure, Gaming, Food Services, Medical, Guest Relations, check, check, and check. Bob Allocco, head of Security, sat at the far end of the table, solid as a bulldog and almost as short, his sunburned face impassive. They all looked back at her, alert, serious, attuned to her mood. She preferred things that way: businesslike, brisk. Few jokes were exchanged unless Sarah made the first overture. Fred Barksdale was the allowed exception, of course: his allusions to Shakespeare and wry English humor had the table helpless with laughter on several occasions. And here he came, café au lait balanced precariously atop a sheaf of computer printouts. Freddy Barksdale, head of Systems, with that oversize mop of blond hair and the cute worry lines scribbled across his forehead. Just the sight of him sent a stab of affection through her that drove away thoughts of Andrew Warne, threatened to upset her brisk professionalism. She gave a brief, managerial clearing of the throat, took another sip of tea, and turned to the group.
“Right. Let’s get it done.” She glanced down at a sheet of paper on the desk before her. “Estimated attendance today: 66,000. The system is running 98 percent operational. Any word on when Station Omega will be back on-line?”
Tom Rose, Infrastructure chief, shook his head. “The ride seems to check out fine, green board all the way. But the diagnostics keep giving us an error code, so the governors refuse to supply any juice from the grid.”
“Can you override the governors?”
Rose shrugged. “Sure, we could. And have an army of safety officials climbing all over us.”
“Dumb question. Sorry.” Sarah heaved a sigh. “I want you to keep on it, Tom. Keep on ithard . That attraction is one of Callisto’s biggest draws. We can’t afford to give it a vacation. Fred will lend you a troubleshooting team if you want.”
“Of course,” Barksdale said, smoothing down the front of his tie as he spoke. It was a beautiful tie, knotted with the same extraordinary attention to detail with which Barksdale invested all his actions. Although he was not in the habit of expressing personal emotions in a public meeting like this, Sarah had noticed that this tie-smoothing habit seemed to surface when he had something on his mind.
Her eyes swept the table. “Any other news I don’t want to hear?”
The head of Entertainment spoke up. “I just learned the band that was supposed to play the Umbilicus Lounge today won’t be making it. Drug arrest at LAX or something.”
“That’s dandy, just dandy. We’ll have to get one of the house bands to cover.”
“Firmware could do it, but they’re booked to play Poor Richard’s.”
Sarah shook her head. “Umbilicus pulls in three times the crowd. Get that band down to Costuming as soon as they get in—if they haven’t played in space suits before, they’ll need to get used to them.” She looked around the table. “Anything else?”
“They nabbed a third-time offender in the Gaslight casino,” the head of Casino Operations said. “Seventy-five years old, if you can believe it. Eye in the Sky got him on tape, stringing a slot machine.”
“Too bad for him. Circulate his picture to Surveillance and Casino Security, get his name on the Guest Services blacklist.” Sarah glanced back down at her sheet. “Any progress report on Atlantis?”
“Fabrication’s on track,” somebody spoke up. “Looks like we’ll make the deadline.”
“Thank God for that.” Atlantis was the new—and quite controversial—World, set for opening late in the year. “Dr. Finch, got the vitals for last week?”
The sallow-faced head of Medical picked up a chart. “Five births, all without complication. Two deaths: one heart attack, one aneurysm. Twenty-nine injuries, broken wrist the worst.” He put the chart down again. “Quiet week.”
Sarah Boatwright glanced at the head of Human Resources. “Amy, any news on that possible wildcat job action by the sanitation specialists?”
“Nothing. And I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.”
“Keep an ear to the ground. Let me know the minute you hear anything.” She looked back at her list. “Let’s see. Attendance is down in Camelot, running about 15 percent below the other Worlds. The head office has asked us to put an exploratory committee together, find out what the problem is.” She paused. “Let’s deal with that when I get back from San Francisco, shall we?”
She scanned the rest of the sheet, put it aside, picked up another. “Okay, drumroll please. The Tony Trischka Band will be performing on the Boardwalk, make sure they get comped for all meals and lodging. Celebrity guests today include Senator Chase from Connecticut and his family, the CEO of GeneDyne . . . and the Earl of Wyndmoor.”
At this last name, another groan went up.
“Is Lady Wyndmoor going to insist on that castle thing again?” someone asked.
“Probably.” Sarah put the second sheet away. “The Nevada Gaming Control Board people will be out here a week from Wednesday—everybody start practicing your best smiles. And just one other thing. The external specialist, Andrew Warne, is arriving today.” Noticing some blank looks, she went on. “He’s the robotics specialist who created the Utopia Metanet. Please give him any assistance he may need.”
When this announcement was greeted with silence, Boatwright stood up. “Very well. We’re at two minutes and counting. Let’s saddle up.”
She turned to her desk as the group began to shuffle out of the office. When she turned back, only Fred Barksdale remain
ed. As she’d known he would.
“Why is Warne coming today?” he asked, elegant Home Counties accent sounding ever so slightly aggrieved. “He wasn’t due for another week.”
So that’s it,she thought. “I moved up his visit.”
“Couldn’t you have informed me, Sarah? I’ll have to get workloads reassigned, he’ll need the resources of—”
Boatwright put a finger to her lips. “It was Emory’s idea; it just came together on Thursday. With the accident at Notting Hill Chase the week before last, OSHA about to get involved, the home office wants us seen as fast on the case. But listen.” She drew closer to Barksdale, lowering her voice. “I’m leaving for that entertainment convention in Frisco tomorrow. Remember?”
“How could I forget?” And then a light suddenly dawned behind Barksdale’s eyes. A smile returned to his lips, faint but noticeable. “And the convention keeps you far from the irritant—who might, after all, still be suffering the, ah, ‘pangs of dispriz’d love’?”
“That wasn’t my first thought. I was going to ask if you feel we can trust Teresa Bonifacio to buy in on this, in my absence. To work with Andrew, get this done. He’s the only one who can do it, but he can’t do it alone. It’s not going to be easy on either of them. After all, this is Andrew’s life work we’re about to compromise. And you know how Teresa feels about the whole thing.”
Barksdale nodded slowly. “Terri and I have had our differences of opinion. But they’ve never been about the quality of her work. She may not like what has to be done, but I think we can count on her to do it.”
“And you’ll keep close watch on their progress, in my absence?”
Barksdale nodded again.
“Thanks, Freddy.” She glanced toward the open door of her office, making sure the corridor was empty. Then she reached for his lapels, pulled him to her, kissed him gently. “I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” she murmured.
Then she stepped back and reached for her cup. “Now, come on. We’ve got a Park to open.”