Sammy tried to think of another name, but drew a blank. "Mickey," he said at last, kicking himself.

"Tjan, this is Mickey. He's a regular on the ride in Florida and he's come up here just to see the opening."

Tjan had short hair and sallow skin, and dressed like an accountant, but his eyes were bright and sharp as they took Sammy in, looking him up and down quickly. "Well that's certainly flattering." He reached into his creased blazer and pulled out a slip of paper. "Have a couple comp tickets then -- the least we can do for your loyalty." The paper was festooned with holograms and smart-cards and raised b.u.mps containing RFIDs, but Sammy knew that you could buy standard anti-counterfeiting stock like it from a mail-order catalog.

"That's mighty generous of you," he said, shaking Tjan's dry, firm hand.

"Our pleasure," the other guy said. "Better get in line, though, or you're gonna be waiting a long, long time." He had a satisfied expression. Sammy saw that what he'd mistaken for a crowd of people was in fact a long, jostling queue stretching all the way around the escalator mezzanine and off one of the mall's side corridors.

Feeling like he'd averted a disaster, Sammy followed the length of the queue until he came to its end. He popped in a headphone and set up his headline reader to text-to-speech his day's news. He'd fallen behind, what with the air travel and all. Most of the stuff in his cache came in from his co-workers, and it was the most insipid c.r.a.p anyway, but he had to listen to it or he'd be odd man out at the watercooler when he got back.

He listened with half an ear and considered the gigantic crowd stretching away as far as the eye could see. Compared with the re-opening of Fantasyland, it was nothing -- goths from all over the world had flocked to central Florida for that, Germans and Greeks and j.a.panese and even some from Mumbai and Russia. They'd filled the park to capacity, thrilled with the delightful perversity of chirpy old Disney World remade as a goth theme park.

But a line this long in Boston, in the dead of winter, for something whose sole attraction was that there was another one like it by a s.h.i.tty forgotten b-road outside of Miami? Christ on an Omnimover.

The line moved, just a little surge, and there was a cheer all down the mall's length. People poured past him headed for the line's tail, vibrating with excitement. But the line didn't move again for five minutes, then ten. Then another surge, but maybe that was just people crowding together more. Some of the people in line were drinking beers out of paper bags and getting raucous.

"What's going on?" someone hollered from behind him. The cry was taken up, and then the line shuddered and moved forward some. Then nothing.

Thinking, *screw this*, Sammy got out of line and walked to the front. Tjan was there, working the velvet rope, letting people through in dribs and drabs. He caught sight of Sammy and gave him a solemn nod. "They're all taking too long to ride," he said. "I tell them fifteen minutes max, get back in line if you want to see more, but what can you do?"

Sammy nodded sympathetically. The guy with the funny eyebrow put in an appearance from behind the heavy black curtains. "Send through two more," he said, and grabbed Sammy, tugging him in.

Behind the curtain, it was dim and spotlit, almost identical to Florida, and half a dozen vehicles waited. Sammy slid into one and let the spiel wash over him.

THERE WAS A TIME WHEN AMERICA HELD OUT THE PROMISE OF A NEW WAY OF LIVING AND WORKING. THE NEW WORK BOOM OF THE TEENS WAS A PERIOD OF UNPARALLELED INVENTION, A CAMBRIAN EXPLOSION OF CREATIVITY NOT SEEN SINCE THE TIME OF EDISON -- AND UNLIKE EDISON, THE PEOPLE WHO INVENTED THE NEW WORK REVOLUTION WEREN'T RIP-OFF ARTISTS AND FRAUDS.

The layout was slightly different due to the support pillars, but as similar to the Florida version as geography allowed. Robots humped underfoot moving objects, keeping them in sync with the changes in Florida. He'd read on the message boards that Florida would stay open late so that the riders could collaborate with the attendees at the Boston premiere, tweeting back and forth to one another.

The other chairs in the ride crawled around each exhibit, reversing and turning slowly. Riders brought their chairs up alongside one another and conferred in low voices, over the narration from the scenery. He thought he saw a couple making out -- a common enough occurrence in dark rides that he'd even exploited a few times when planning out rides that would be likely to attract amorous teenagers. They had a key demographic: too young to leave home, old enough to pay practically anything for a private spot to score some nookie.

The air smelled of three-d printer, the cheap smell of truck-stops where vending machines outputted cheap kids' toys. Here it wasn't cheap, though: here it smelled futuristic, like the first time someone had handed him a printed prop for one of his rides -- it had been a head for an updated Small World ride. Then it had smelled like something foreign and new and exciting and frightening, like the first days of a different world.

Smelling that again, remembering the crowds outside waiting to get in, Sammy started to get a sick feeling, the kebab rebounding on him. Moving as if in a dream, he reached down into his lap and drew out a small utility knife. There would be infrared cameras, but he knew from experience that they couldn't see through ride vehicles.

Slowly, he fingered the access panel's underside until he found a loose corner. He snicked out the knife's little blade -- he'd brought an entire suitcase just so he could have a checked bag to store this in -- and tugged at the cables inside. He sawed at them with small movements, feeling the copper wires inside the insulation give way one strand at a time. The chair moved jerkily, then not at all. He snipped a few more wires just to be sure, then tucked them all away.

"Hey!" he called. "My chair's dead!" He had fetched up in a central pathway where the chairs tried to run cloverleafs around four displays. A couple chairs swerved around him. He thumped the panel dramatically, then stepped out and shook his head. He contrived to step on three robots on the way to another chair.

"Is yours working?" he asked the kid riding in it, all of ten years old and of indefinite gender.

"Yeah," the kid said. It scooted over. "There's room for both of us, get in."

*Christ, don't they have stranger-danger in the north?* He climbed in beside the kid and contrived to slide one sly hand under the panel. Teasing out the wires the second time was easier, even one-handed. He sliced through five large bundles this time before the chair ground to a halt, its gyros whining and rocking it from side-to-side.

The kid looked at him and frowned. "These things are s.h.i.t," it said with real vehemence, climbing down and kicking one of its tires, and then kicking a couple of the floor-level robots for good measure. They'd landed another great breakdown spot: directly in front of a ranked display of raygun-shaped appliances and objects. He remembered seeing that one in its nascent stage, back in Florida -- just a couple of toy guns, which were presently joined by three more, then there were ten, then fifty, then a high wall of them, striking and charming. The chair's breakdown position neatly blocked the way.

"Guess we'd better walk out," he said. He stepped on a couple more robots, making oops noises. The kid enthusiastically kicked robots out of its way. Chairs swerved around them as other riders tried to navigate. They were approaching the exit when Sammy spotted a charge-plate for the robots. They were standard issue for robotic vacuum cleaners and other semi-autonomous appliances, and he'd had one in his old apartment. They were supposed to be safe as anything, but a friend's toddler had crawled over to his and shoved a stack of dimes into its recessed jack and one of them had shorted it out in a smoking, fizzing fireworks display.

"You go on ahead, I'm going to tie my shoes."

Sammy bent down beside the charge plate, his back to the kid and the imagined cameras that were capturing his every move, and slipped the stack of coins he'd taken from his pocket into the little slot where the robots inserted their charging stamen.

The ensuing shower of sparks was more dramatic than he'd remembered -- maybe it was the darkened room. The kid shrieked and ran for the EXIT sign, and he took off too, at a good clip. They'd get the ride up and running soon enough, but maybe not tonight, not if they couldn't get the two chairs he'd toasted out of the room.

There was the beginnings of chaos at the exit. There was that Tjan character, giving him an intense look. He tried to head for the down escalator, but Tjan cut him off.

"What's going on in there?"

"d.a.m.nedest thing," he said, trying to keep his face composed. "My chair died. Then another one -- a little kid was riding in it. Then there was a lot of electrical sparks, and I walked out. Crazy."

Tjan c.o.c.ked his head. "I hope you're not hurt. We could have a doctor look at you; there are a couple around tonight."

It had never occurred to Sammy that professional types might turn out for a ride like this, but of course it was obvious. There were probably off-duty cops, local politicians, lawyers, and the like.

"I'm fine," he said. "Don't worry about me. Maybe you should send someone in for the people still in there, though?"

"That's being taken care of. I'm just sorry you came all the way from Florida for this kind of disappointment. That's just brutal." Tjan's measuring stare was even more intense.

"Uh, it's OK. I had meetings here this week. This was just a cool bonus."

"Who do you work for, Mickey?"

s.h.i.t.

"Insurance company," he said.

"That'd be Norwich Union, then, right? They've got a headquarters here."

Sammy knew how this went. Norwich Union didn't have headquarters here. Or they did. He'd have to outguess Tjan with his answer.

"Are you going to stay open tonight?"

Tjan nodded, though it wasn't clear whether he was nodding because he was answering in the affirmative or because his suspicions had been confirmed.

"Well then, I should be going."

Tjan put out a hand. "Oh, please stay. I'm sure we'll be running soon; you should get a whole ride through."

"No, really, I have to go." He shook off the hand and pelted down the escalator and out into the freezing night. His blood sang in his ears. They probably wouldn't get the ride running that night at all. They probably would send that whole carnival crowd home, disappointed. He'd won some kind of little victory over something.

He'd felt more confident of his victory when he was concerned with the guy with the funny eyebrow -- with Perry. He'd seemed little more than a b.u.m, a vag. But this Tjan reminded him of the climbers he'd met through his career at Walt Disney World: keenly observant and fast formulators of strategies. Someone who could add two and two before you'd know that there was such a thing as four.

Sammy walked back to his hotel as quickly as he could, given the icy sidewalks underfoot, and by the time he got to the lobby of the old office tower his face hurt -- forehead, cheeks and nose. He'd booked his return flight for a day later, thinking he'd do more reccies of the new site before writing his report and heading home, but there was no way he was facing down that Tjan guy again.

What had prompted him to sabotage the ride? It was something primal, something he hadn't been in any real control of. He'd been in some kind of fugue-state. But he'd packed the little knife in his suitcase and he'd slipped it into his pocket before leaving the room. So how instinctive could it possibly have been?

He had a vision of the carnival atmosphere in the market stalls outside and knew that even after the ride had broken down, the crowd had lingered, laughing and browsing and enjoying a night's respite from the world and the cold city. The Whos down in Who-ville had gone on singing even after he'd Grinched their ride.