Dad, she thought, and smiled slightly. Bananas are good for all-nighters Bananas are good for all-nighters, he always said. The pota.s.sium helps keep your brain working The pota.s.sium helps keep your brain working. And since he pulled so many all-nighters himself, he would know.

There had been fewer repercussions regarding Megan's skipping "family night" than she had feared. Her dad had clearly understood that something important was going on. He had apparently spoken to her mom about it as well, and hadn't asked Megan any questions about it...which was kind of him, and typical. But there would be questions today, all right. She was going to have to explain what was going on...and she dreaded that. She knew that what she hadn't told Winters, her dad would quickly deduce, and he would tell her to forget about the bouncing problems in Sarxos and let Net Force handle it. If he told her that, she would have to do what he said. Megan respected him that much, at least.

Still....

She put the kettle on the stove and turned the burner on under it, peeled the banana, and sat down at the kitchen table, eating reflectively. For about the tenth time she began going over again, in her head, the lines of investigation she and Leif had been following. It was hard to think, though. She was really tired, and the image of d.u.c.h.ess Morn, laughing at them uproariously, kept intruding.

She and Leif hadn't exactly needed armor to deal with her. Maybe Fettick had been overstating that end of things. But Morn's good-natured scorn at the idea that someone might be about to bounce her her was like enough to Fettick's to be its twin. Morn was in her seventies, small and skinny and tough as old boot leather, and intensely funny. was like enough to Fettick's to be its twin. Morn was in her seventies, small and skinny and tough as old boot leather, and intensely funny. Fierce Fierce, Megan thought. She found herself wishing that when she she hit seventy, she could be something like that. hit seventy, she could be something like that.

"Let them try to get me," had been Morn's att.i.tude about the whole thing. She was satisfied that her computer was secure enough, that her life was well enough protected. But even if it hadn't been, Megan thought, Morn had the total fearlessness of someone who reckons that she's lived her life well, for a long time, and is not afraid to "check out" if that is the card that falls in front of her when the next deal comes along. Megan and Leif had gone away from Woodhouse with their ears full of an old lady's amused scolding of those who had the nerve to intrude in her personal business. And then both of them had had to get out of Sarxos, because school was coming up later in the day, and they were both dead tired, though they'd hated to admit it to each other.

"I've had a long day," Megan had said to Leif. "But I may be back in here later. Leave Chris's token with me, okay?"

"No problem," Leif had said. He'd handed it to her and disappeared, looking as tired as Megan felt, and more dejected.

So there the thing sat, on her "desk" in her virtual works.p.a.ce. Now, as she finished the banana and the kettle started shrieking, Megan got up hurriedly to shut it up, and thought about the token again.

Not Lateran. She still couldn't get over that. It just seemed wrong. But Sherlock Holmes was whispering in her ear: Eliminate the impossible, and what you have left is the truth Eliminate the impossible, and what you have left is the truth. Or at least possible.

Five-thirty. I can't believe I was in there all night. But...She raised her eyebrows, sighed at herself, poured boiling water into her teacup, then went into the small bathroom off the kitchen, wetted a washcloth with cold water, and just plastered it over her eyes for a moment. The chill of it on her face was something of a shock, a welcome one.

Megan let it rest there for a moment, and looked at the faint lights moving inside her eyelids, phosphene byproducts of how tired her eyes were. Then she peeled the washcloth off, left it by the sink, and went in to get her tea.

Megan sat down, sipped at it gingerly, and started to go over things one more time. She couldn't get rid of the feeling that she'd missed something about the server logs. But then Leif seemed to think they'd exploited everything they could from examining that set of information, and she was willing enough to bow to his expertise in this area. There must be something else There must be something else, she thought. Something we've missed... Something we've missed...

But the back of her mind kept going back to the server logs, and wouldn't be appeased. It's just brain fugue It's just brain fugue, Megan thought to herself after a while, sipping at the tea again, and burning herself again. I'm like a rat going down a tunnel with no cheese in it, again and again I'm like a rat going down a tunnel with no cheese in it, again and again. It was the same kind of behavior she made fun of in her mother when her mother put the car keys down and later couldn't find them, and kept checking the same spot over and over and over, even though she knew perfectly well by now that they weren't there. I'm no better than she is I'm no better than she is.

The tea was beginning to cool enough to drink. Megan sipped at it one more time. I feel so grungy. What'm I going to wear to school today? I haven't checked the laundry situation in days I feel so grungy. What'm I going to wear to school today? I haven't checked the laundry situation in days.

Then she swore softly, got up again, and headed straight back into the office.

She went over to the desk and pushed yet another pile of books off to one side. Baedeker's Handbook for London, 1875? Fungi of the World? Taste of the East? What, he wants to go back in Baedeker's Handbook for London, 1875? Fungi of the World? Taste of the East? What, he wants to go back in time time for a curry now? With mushrooms in it, I guess for a curry now? With mushrooms in it, I guess. She sat down in the implant chair again and lined the implant up.

There was Rhea's ochre surface spread out before her, all powdered blue with new-blown snow from one of the nearby methane vents, and there was Saturn hanging golden and uncommunicative in the long cold darkness, like a message delivered and unread. All that e-mail.... All that e-mail.... Megan thought. "Computer? Chair, please." The chair appeared. "Show me what's come in." Megan thought. "Computer? Chair, please." The chair appeared. "Show me what's come in."

The icons of about fifteen messages appeared in the air before her, some holding still, some rotating gently, some vibrating up and down as an indication of their urgency. The urgent ones were in the majority-though as Megan read through the mail, she found once again that other people's definitions of urgency didn't usually match hers. Two more mails from Carrie Henderson, who really really wanted her to do something that Megan didn't bother finish listening to. Yet another unnecessary notice about the SATs. Someone selling subscriptions to a new virtual news service, a demo account of which began playing itself noisily in one corner of her s.p.a.ce, showing her a smoke-filled expanse st.i.tched with the burning lines of battlefield lasers, a firefight going on in some dark place in Africa. She wished she had a hammer to hit the sender with. Instead, Megan just told the machine to turn the demo off, and went back to reducing the clutter, icon by icon.

Several failed connects of attempted live chat...Well, she routinely refused chat while she was in Sarxos. J. Simpson? Who's that? J. Simpson? Who's that? She shook her head. You did sometimes get requests to chat from people you'd never seen or heard of before. Probably it was someone she'd run into in the game who wanted to follow up on something. She shook her head. You did sometimes get requests to chat from people you'd never seen or heard of before. Probably it was someone she'd run into in the game who wanted to follow up on something.

She opened the messages, but they had nothing but the characteristic "failed message, chat refused" tag inside them. Oh, well Oh, well, Megan thought. As her mother usually said, if it was important, they'd call back. If it wasn't important, they'd call back.

Maybe whoever this is left some mail inside Sarxos, Megan thought. "Computer? Sarxos log-in."

"Working."

Her own area didn't go away, but went shadowy while the Sarxos logo and copyright notices displayed themselves burning in the air before her as usual, and her scores and last-play times came up. "Resume from previous extraction point?" said the computer. "Or start new area play?"

"Another alternative."

"State it, please."

"Do you recognize this token?" She picked up Rodrigues's golden sigil, tossing it in her hand.

"Concessionary token recognized. How can I help you?"

Down the same old tunnel, Megan thought, resigned. "Identify attempted chat connections to my account from 1830 local last night to 0515 today."

A moment's silence. "No connections from within Sarxos."

"Okay." J. Simpson J. Simpson. She shook her head. "Any e-mail waiting?"

"No e-mail."

So Wayland had come up with nothing new. "I want access to server logs," Megan said.

"That access is allowed with your token. Which logs would you like to see?"

"Logs for players Rutin, Walse, Hunsal, Orieta, Balk the Screw, and Lateran."

"Specify mode. Audio? Text? Graphical?"

"Graphics, please," Megan said. Her eyes weren't up to reading much text at the moment.

"What span of time?"

"The last-" Megan waved her hand, not really caring. "Four months."

"Working."

Six separate bar graphs stacked themselves up in the air in front of Megan, looking something like a long detailing of what the Dow Jones index might have been doing for the last quarter. Each upright bar was a twenty-four-hour period; in it, as a series of bright vertical dashes st.i.tched down the darker "bar," was a representation of the number of hours that the person in question had been in Sarxos playing.

The six players were serious ones. Not one of them seemed to have played less than four hours a day, for all four months. Some of them had played six, or eight, routinely. Some of them had repeated stretches, especially at weekends or around holidays, when they were in the game for fourteen hours a day, or more. I wonder where they've been getting their ma.s.sage programs from I wonder where they've been getting their ma.s.sage programs from, Megan thought, stretching her aching body. Jeez, I thought Jeez, I thought I I was fairly serious about the game. But these people are was fairly serious about the game. But these people are obsessed. obsessed.

For amus.e.m.e.nt, she said to the computer, "Put up the matching server log for Brown Meg."

It came up. She breathed out a rueful laugh. Over the last few days, her usage, staggered as it was, had become almost as obsessive as theirs. Dad's gonna have words with me Dad's gonna have words with me, she thought. And as for Mom...no, let's not even think about it right now And as for Mom...no, let's not even think about it right now.

"Display matching server usage for Leif Hedge-wizard," Megan said. Another bar graph appeared below hers. His usage looked a lot like hers, for the past few days. He's no better He's no better.

And there was the tunnel, still with no cheese in it. She made a face at herself, and said, "Oh, go on, display server usage for Lateran."

It came up. Lateran was as bad as any of them. Worse. Another mad one, in and out constantly. "Display usage for Argath."

Argath, strangely, wasn't in as much as Megan would have thought. His usage over the past several months actually looked more like her her usual pattern, though it had been busier than usual the past few days. It didn't seem normal, somehow...but then, what usual pattern, though it had been busier than usual the past few days. It didn't seem normal, somehow...but then, what was was normal usage for a Sarxos player? normal usage for a Sarxos player? Was Was there any such thing? Probably not. there any such thing? Probably not.

Megan raised her eyebrows at the thought, and said to the computer, "Display usage pattern for-oh, Wayland-"

His pattern came up under Argath's. Megan sipped at her tea again, which she had "brought" into the virtual s.p.a.ce with her, and sat gazing a little blearily at all the bar graphs hanging there glowing in the air in front of her. I should go out and do the cold-washcloth trick again I should go out and do the cold-washcloth trick again, she thought, blinking.

And then she stopped, and looked at the graphs again: not the way she normally would have, but with her eyes squinted shut a little bit, as they had been before.

Lateran's graph looked a lot like Wayland's.

In the general patterning, the way the dashes and blank s.p.a.ces fell...there were a lot more dashes, times "in," than there were empty s.p.a.ces. Lateran's graph made Megan wonder a little more as she looked at each twenty-four-hour period and realized how much of it was taken up by gameplay. Most of it. A whole lot lot of it. And if you compared the end of one day with the beginning of the next-as often as not, they ran right into one another. of it. And if you compared the end of one day with the beginning of the next-as often as not, they ran right into one another. Well, midnight. Peak game time, after all Well, midnight. Peak game time, after all.

But that wasn't it. Twelve-hour stretches. Fourteen, sixteen sometimes Twelve-hour stretches. Fourteen, sixteen sometimes. The pattern repeated, cycling backward very slowly through the four-month period. Six hours in, twenty minutes out. Eight hours in, one hour out. Two hours in, an hour out. Five hours in- The pattern definitely repeated. And Lateran's timings were beyond "obsessed." They were positively pathological. When does he sleep? When does he sleep? Megan wondered. Megan wondered. More to the point, when does he More to the point, when does he work? work? Even if you worked at home, you'd have a hard time keeping up a schedule like this. Without getting fired, anyway... Even if you worked at home, you'd have a hard time keeping up a schedule like this. Without getting fired, anyway...

"Computer."

"Listening."

"User profile on player Lateran."

"Your concessionary token does not allow that access. Please consult with Chris Rodrigues for further information."

"What time is it for Chris Rodrigues?" Megan said.

"0242."

He's on the West Coast somewhere. I'm not going to wake him up at quarter of three in the morning. Unless... "Is Chris in the game at the moment?" "Is Chris in the game at the moment?"

"No."

I'll have to wait. She looked again at Lateran's server log. If this person has a job, it has to be done at home. But even if it is, it can't be more than part-time...not with this kind of usage. And it's not a child If this person has a job, it has to be done at home. But even if it is, it can't be more than part-time...not with this kind of usage. And it's not a child. Sarxos's age limit, because of the violence, was sixteen and up. So Lateran has to either be in school or some kind of work.... So Lateran has to either be in school or some kind of work.... She shook her head. The usage didn't make sense. She shook her head. The usage didn't make sense.

And Megan looked down at Wayland's usage. It really was very very much like Lateran's. Six hours on, two hours off...eight hours on, two hours off...seven hours on...And the pattern repeated, and cycled slowly backward through the four-month period. much like Lateran's. Six hours on, two hours off...eight hours on, two hours off...seven hours on...And the pattern repeated, and cycled slowly backward through the four-month period. They're a little out of synch. Not They're a little out of synch. Not exactly exactly alike, but... alike, but... She shook her head. She shook her head.

But the strange way that Wayland had sounded this morning was still on Megan's mind. A very peculiar suspicion began to grow in her. It was impossible, of course, because Wayland's server log and Lateran's server log showed them as often being on line at the same time...and you couldn't play two characters at once.

Could you?

"Computer," Megan said.

"Listening."

"Maximum number of characters played by any one Sarxos user."

"Thirty-two."

"What's the user's name?"

"That information is not available to you with your present concessionary token. Please consult Chris Rodrigues for further information."

"Yeah, yeah. Access the records of player Lateran."

"Records accessed: holding in store."

"How many other characters does the person playing Lateran play?"

"Five."

"Is one of them 'Wayland'?"

Silence for a moment, then: "Yes."

Megan flushed hot and then cold with the confirmation. "Listen," she said, as a whole group of horrible possibilities started opening up in front of her. Now her job was to start limiting them. "With this token, can I access Chris Rodrigues's file of attempted and successful bounces on Sarxos players?"

"That access is allowed."

"Access the file, please, and hold it in store."

"Done."

"Display the bounce periods on a similar bar graph. Star each one."

The computer did so. Each bright star of a bounce "timing" was superimposed on a dark translucent bar corresponding to the graphs above.

"Pull down the graphs for Lateran and Wayland. Superimpose them on the 'bounce' chart."

Obediently, the computer did so. All the bounces, including the latest one with Elblai, fell inside time periods when both Wayland and Lateran were reported to be in the game.

But it's impossible, Megan thought, horror and triumph beginning to rise in her together. It's It's impossible. impossible. Both those logs for Wayland and Lateran can't be true. They can't both be there at once. But if one of them was- Both those logs for Wayland and Lateran can't be true. They can't both be there at once. But if one of them was- "Computer!"

"Listening."

"Is it possible for a player to play two characters at once during the same game period?"

"Only sequentially. Simultaneous play of multiple characters has been ruled out by the designer and is illegal in the system."

They're the same player. They're both there at the same time. They can't be. And the computer hasn't noticed, because it's not trained to notice And the computer hasn't noticed, because it's not trained to notice.

Someone's found a way to fake being in the system.

"It's too important," she whispered. "Computer, I need to talk to Chris Rodrigues right now. This is an emergency."

There was a moment's silence, and the computer said, "Chris is not answering his page. Please try again later."

"This is an emergency emergency," Megan said. "Don't you understand me?"

"The system understands 'emergency,'" the computer said, "but has no authority from a concessionary token of the type presently in your possession to contact him at this time. Please try again later."

It's him, she thought. The bouncer. It's The bouncer. It's him. him.

Oh, s.h.i.t...!

"Do you wish to leave a message for Chris Rodrigues?"

Megan opened her mouth, then shut it again as another thought occurred. "No," she said.