He was definitely more alert now. "Did I exceed Harmony's projected red last quarter?"

"Don't think so. Better not have. That's my department, and I don't make mistakes like that. Heh heh."

"Heh heh. Well?"

"I think we're switching over from zero-base budgeting to some new system that Harmony is hot on."

"Oh, Lord. What else? Don't I have a class to teach today?"

"Yes. One o'clock, right after a scheduled lunch with O'Brien." Alex's face lit up. "Hallelujah. A bright spot at last. Tell Skip to meet me at ‘leven-thirty at the White Hart, okay? And ask him to bring me the L5 specs. I want to see them. What about the class?"

"Standard Constraint and Detention stuff. For the new security people."

"Right." Alex glanced at his sleeve; the station was seconds away. "Make me a memo. Standing arm bar, crossover toe hold for the ground work, and oh, let's say knife disarms. Right and left wrist locks with low kicks. I'll wing it from there. I'm almost in, now, hon. I'll see you in a few minutes, okay?"

"Right, Griff," she said, flashing him a smile as the picture faded out.

The shuttle let him out in the central core of the 1200-acre Dream Park complex, two levels underground. Activity was heavy for this early, he thought. Then he remembered the Game. Odds were there would be five thousand dollars of last-minute work to be done, or ho didn't know the catch-up kings over in Special Projects.

Tunnels stretched off in all directions: up, down, sideways and maybe to yesterday and tomorrow if the Research Department had come up with anything since breakfast. Most of the people scurrying past knew him by name, tossing off a "Hi, Alex," or "Sappening, Griff?", or "Morning, Chief" as they ferried racks of costumes, or props, or electronic equipment to the different divi­sions. A cargo tram hissed in, and a crew of overalled workers and tiny humming cargo ‘bots rushed in to unload so that another shipment could hurry down the line.

He tossed a friendly salute to the guard at the elevator and pressed his right thumb against the ID pad. The door opened. Five or six people crowded in after him, and Alex controlled his an­noyance when only two of them put their thumbs to the pad for clearance. More memos, dammit.

It was 6:22 A.M., Thursday, March 5, 2051, according to Alex's desk clock. Propped on the clock was a sheet of fanfold paper, Millicent's printout of the day's obligations.

Alex doffed his coat and dropped into his chair. He punched a finger at the desk console. A hologram "window" formed above his desk: a nameplate that read "Ms. Summers," and behind the nameplate a dark pretty face whipping around to answer the buzz.

"Millicent, can't I foist some of this off on Bobbick? How the hell is he going to earn his pay if I do all the work?"

"Marty is already with Insurance going over the damage report on the Salvage Game that ended yesterday in Gaming Area B. He should be free by about two this afternoon, or do you want me to...

"No, leave him on it. Listen. Do I have to go all the way over to R&D or can we take care of this mess by phone? Lord knows I've got enough paper to shuffle before eight. Check it out, would you?"

"Right, Griff…I'm pretty sure that'll go."

Her face blinked out, and Alex punched for a display of today's "paperwork." Three columns of headings ran off the screen. An executive secretary and a deputy Security Chief and this much gar­bage still filtered up to him. Work first?

A slow smile played over his face. A little peek at the Park first.

He triggered the exterior monitor and watched the room swell with the darkened spirals of Dream Park. From the vantage of the monitoring camera the workers readying the Park for the day's visitors were ants streaming in and out of the long black shadows of early morning.

There was the somber shape of the Olde Arkham tour. (The kids loved it. The adults... well, an old lady with a heart mur­mur had damn near croaked when Chthulhu appeared to devour her grandchildren. Some people!)

Snakelike and far off around the edge of the Park the Gravity Whip coiled, offering a total of thirty seconds of weightlessness via computer-designed parabolic arcs. The monitor eye swept over to Gaming Area B, where the Salvage Game had been conducted.

That one was interesting. Partly in desert territory and partly underwater, it had involved twelve players for two days. Alex figured that the Game Master on that one would just about break even. It had cost three hundred thousand dollars to set the Game up. The twelve participants had paid four hundred a day, each, for the privilege of earning "Gaming Points" for the fantasy charac­ters they portrayed and, not incidentally, for having the bejeezus scared out of them. Book rights presold, film rights likewise.

He couldn't pretend to understand the logic behind it. The va­garies of the International Gaming Society were totally beyond him. The players seemed to speak a foreign language. And this month they had two Games back to back!

The Games did help the Park, though. The Olde Arkham Tour had started as a Game, thirty or forty years ago.

There, now, that was more like it. The big shooting gallery over across from the Hell Ride was more his cup of tea. Alex slipped in there occasionally to knock off a few Nazis or dinosaurs or muggers. God, that was a realistic "experience." The R&D boys were incredible. And quite mad.

He thumbed the control, and the camera roved further afield. Over there- His monitor buzzed, and with a grimace Alex shut off the holo and answered the call. Muffle's voice spoke, but the congealing vis­ual image was of a guard Griffin couldn't quite place.

"Research and Development, Gruff," Muffle's voice said.

"Right." Name and background fell into place now. This would be Albert Rice calling from his guard station between Files and the technological monster known as Game Center.

Rice was strong and smart, quick to volunteer his services, and Griffin sometimes felt a twinge of guilt at not warming to the man. Maybe just jealousy, he mused. Rice cut a handsome blond profile, almost pretty, and several of the secretaries in Protective Services had bets going to see who would score with him first. In the year Rice had been with Dream Park, nobody had yet col­lected.

Something was bothering Rice. He seemed agitated; he kept shifting his feet.

"Yes, Rice, what's the problem?"

"Ah, good morning, sir. Nothing wrong here at the post, but-" He hesitated, then blurted, "I just got word that my apartment in CMC was vandalized."

Griffin felt himself coming to attention. "When was the report filed?"

"Only about a half hour ago. Lock broken, and some stuff scat­tered around, the cop said, but they didn't take my electronics. I'd like to see what is missing."

Griffin nodded somberly. "You don't have any crazy friends over there in R&D, do you- No, scratch that." They weren't that crazy. "You'd better take the rest of your shift off. I'll get some­body over there to fill in in about twenty minutes. Check out then. What's going on over there?"

"Mostly prepping Game Central for the South Seas Treasure Game."

"Yeah, that looks to be a monster. Listen, would you like to make up the hours you'll lose this afternoon?" Albert Rice nodded enthusiastic agreement. "Good. Put in for the night shift, and check back in at midnight. We'll work you eight to five for a few days, all right?"

"Right, Chief."

Alex signed out and blanked the image. He popped on the inter-office line and Millie appeared, smile neatly in place. "Millie, send me the dossiers on the Game tomorrow, will you?"

"Right, Griff."

The printer on his desk began hissing immediately, and sheets of fanfold paper arced slowly up and folded themselves into a neat pile. Griffin shook his head. How could Muffle be so cheerful every morning? Ho ought to steal a cup of her coffee and send it to R&D to be analyzed...