She could wait. Alternate was fine. This was the Game where the I.F.G.S. would sit up and take notice of Holly Frost.

The ballroom of the Dream Park Sheraton was empty but for a forlorn maintenance ‘bot sucking up dust and trash, and a pair of tired human beings at the big conference table.

Chester Henderson looked at the stack of seventeen dossiers sit­ting in front of him. It had taken hours of culling the pre-selected finalists to find these people. They would be an odd crew, but any expedition that included Mary-Martha and Ollie Norliss would be both exciting and profitable.

Gina sat at the table next to him, her lovely face drawn with fa­tigue. He reached up and took her hand, squeezed it appreci­atively. "You know, hon? After everyone else is gone, you're still around." He was surprised to hear the sincerity in his voice. It was so easy to discount Gina. Just a beautiful Fantasy-Game groupie with a stunning body and a love for playing dumb.

She rubbed his head with a hand that smelled faintly of musk oil and clean sweat. "Oh, Chester. I just like to feel needed, that's all."

He started to tell her that he didn't need anybody, that three other girls had proposed sharing his bedroll for a position in the Game, that one was in Gina's league as regards beauty. But there was something.

"Well," he said, feeling sleep-demons tug at his eyelids. Tomor­row is a big day, they whispered. Surrender. "You're needed, Gina. You pull your weight. You always do."

"Nice to know the team needs me," she said softly, and behind the heavy makeup her face was warm and open. "What about you, Chester?"

"What about me?" He tried to smile up at her, but the muscles in his face were fast asleep.

"Don't you need me too?"

Again Chester was tempted to say something other than what was in his mind, but he was too tired for anything but the truth. He closed his eyes and said, "Gina, you are very much appreci­ated. Let's go to bed."

Gina kissed him wetly. "You say the sweetest things."

"It's why you love me as you do." He tucked the stack of dos­siers under his left arm and slipped his right about Gina's waist.

The echoes of their footsteps followed them as they walked past

the empty bleachers. The lights in the ballroom dimmed to deep shadow. The only sound was the lonely bumming of the mainte­nance ‘bot.

Gwen stepped out of the shower and into a drying screen, feel­ing her skin tingle as the water evaporated from it. She wrapped herself in a towel and looked at the effect in the mirror. She pulled the towel tight around her waist and let one leg protrude from the slit. Not bad, she thought. The leg was white and firm and smooth; only the ankle and upper thigh betrayed her chunki­ness. If she pulled the towel a little tighter.

She tossed her head to the side, watching the bounce of her short blond hair. Good enough. Have at you, Oliver the Frank! A dab of perfume behind each ear and another in the rounded cleft of her bust, and she was ready for her entrance.

Stepping from the bathroom to the bedroom was like stepping into another world. Phantasms floated through the air, and shad­ows shifted menacingly on the walls. Something tapped at the win­dow, and when she looked, a large black bird was squatting on the sill, pecking at the glass. It cocked its head at her and uttered the inevitable three-syllable word.

Wrong-o, she thought at it.

Ollie lay on the bed, naked, watching the raven. When Gwen emerged from the bathroom he flipped a switch at the bedside and the bird faded away, along with the other illusions. His eyes gleamed. "You know, I really like the way you look fresh out of a shower."

She curtsied low, then lay down on the bed and, still in her towel, snuggled next to him.

"What do you think, Gwen?"

"I wanna."

Ollie rolled to face her, and tried again. "What do you think about tomorrow's Game?"

"I think it's going to be hard. Harder than anything I've been in, that we've been in. That's why I don't want to think about it right now."

"South Seas Treasure. What would that mean?"

"It means I'm going to roll over and go to sleep if you don't pay some attention to me, that's what it means!"

Ollie snapped out of his reverie. "I'm sorry, hon. I'm just worried about my standing, that's all."

"Oh. Well, I think I can handle that," she said, and reached down.

Ollie wiggled delightedly. "Okay, all right, you win, monorail mind," and they kissed in a chorus of giggles. Some time later Ollie said, "You know something? I love the way you smell."

"I was hoping you'd notice."

Tony McWhirter poured himself a big glass of orange juice and added a splash of vodka. "Do you want anything, Cas?" he called over his shoulder.

Acacia's eyes flamed at him, and she coyly raised the bedsheet up to her chin. "Lo que yo quiero no veine de la botella, hombre," she said.

He sipped from his drink as he crossed the room to the side of the bed. "That drink's too complicated for our limited bar facili­ties. What's it mean?"

"Why don't you put that drink down and find out?"

"No sooner said..." He lifted the glass and chug-a-lugged. His robe hit the floor with a rustle, his glass hit the dresser with a clink, and he landed on Acacia with a grin. "And what is your pleasure tonight, madam?"

"Well, I was thinking. .

"A pleasant change of pace, to be sure."

"Hush." She kissed him. "You know, you and I aren't going to be quite this secluded again for four days. Oh, we can snuggle in the sleeping bag, but..."

"You think maybe we should put a little something in the bank?"

She nodded. "For a rainy day."

"For a rainy day," he agreed. Rain and hurricane winds were attacking the windows, and phantom skeletons were passing through the room. The human occupants ignored them.

THE NAMING OF NAMES

Midnight. Alex Griffin had stolen three hours of blissful uncon­sciousness before showering and tubing back to Dream Park. It wasn't quite enough. One of the quirks of an otherwise astound­ingly healthy metabolism: he couldn't stay alert on less than eight hours sleep a night.

He'd sleep an extra hour tomorrow morning. Nobody would complain. Tonight was business.

Skip was dozing, chin on fist, elbow on table. Griffin pushed him slightly off balance and smiled as O'Brien jerked alert. "They're coming, Skip."

Skip said, "Right," in a voice that went from drowsy to alert in mid-syllable. His fingers smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his shirt. He was smiling 1~ightly when the foursome rounded the Corner.

Lopez and his wife Mitsuko were both radiant as children on

Christmas morning. They carried totebags over their shoulders, and behind them tottered the security guard, Albert Rice, hauling three more cases. Ms. Metesky brought up the rear, clucking with quiet disapproval.

"I didn't know they were bringing everything over right now, Alex," Metesky said petulantly. "They wouldn't even wait for a cargo ‘bot."

"Sokay, Chief," Rice gasped, setting the cases on the floor. "I was there. No hassle."

"Good man. We'll take this stuff now." Alex hefted one of the cases. It was heavy. Alex wondered what was in them. They must have been checked out at the front gate of the R&D complex, but still...

When he looked up, Rice was still there, with a funny kind of half-smile on his face. Did he want something? Oh, yes, the break-in. Alex said, "I don't remember seeing your report on the dam­age."