Down on the floor below, Simly had downloaded the Mission Report from the IFR Library and was now hard at work rea.s.sembling the Glitchometer.

"Mamma Frye's pride and joy needs himself a Special Commendation."

He tentatively flipped the repaired switch and the needle bounced into action, focusing itself back on zero.

"Yeah, baby. . . that's what I'm talkin' about!"

But just as the device was starting to hum, black smoke churned out the sides again, along with a stream of green fluid.

"Slamnit!"

The Briefer chucked the machine aside, utterly dejected. In the history of the IFR, only two Seemsians had ever been promoted to Fixer,23 and either Simly had to do something splashy soon or he would be doomed to the path of the Fryes who came before him-professional Brieferhood (totally respectable, yet short on glory) or accepting a desk job at Central Command. and either Simly had to do something splashy soon or he would be doomed to the path of the Fryes who came before him-professional Brieferhood (totally respectable, yet short on glory) or accepting a desk job at Central Command.

"Concentrate, Simly. Imagine you're from The World."

With eyes closed so tight that steam was almost coming out of his ears, Simly tried to do what Becker had suggested earlier. He pretended he was a schoolboy from Amsterdam or So Paulo (places he had always wanted to visit but never had the chance) and sought to isolate the feeling that something had gone wrong in The Seems. But trying to locate his 7th Sense was like trying to use a muscle that you just didn't have, and facts were facts: Simly was born over here . . . Sense was like trying to use a muscle that you just didn't have, and facts were facts: Simly was born over here . . .

. . . and Fixers were born over there.

SHHH-KUH . . . BUBBA . . . GLUBBA . . . RATTA-TATTA . . . WHOOSH.

The machine that towered over Becker was a contraption unlike any other in The Seems. Well, that's not exactly true. The Wish Washer from the Department of Everything That Has No Department was also canister-fed, but instead of a blue detergent, this behemoth used a golden speckled fluid. Once that fluid left the canister, it was stream-fed through a web of filtration systems, combined with a cleansing agent, then carefully billow-blown through a four-p.r.o.nged revolving wand, which churned out the world-containing bubbles one by precious one.

SHHH-KUH . . . BUBBA . . . GLUBBA . . . RATTA-TATTA . . . WHOOSH.

Becker didn't need to check his Manual to know that he was looking at the Dreamweaver, and judging by the veridical crispness of the worlds it was creating, it seemed to be in perfect working order.

"Simly, you there?" He whispered into his Receiver, but only static came across. At this point, Becker had little choice but to pry open the complex machine and try to locate the Glitch inside the cross-woven circuitry. But before he could reach into his Toolkit, something unexpected pa.s.sed before his eyes.

It was a big black Dream bubble-or at least darker in shading-and the first of its kind that Becker had seen. There was still a world taking place, but it was different, less fun, and strangely enough, there was someone he recognized inside.

"Jennifer Kaley is a haley, and she has no friends!"

Becker was stunned to see Jennifer Kaley, the girl from Canada who had become his Mission Inside the Mission. She was on the playground of her school, encircled by a group of jeering kids.

"Leave me alone!" she begged.

"But Jenny . . . we love you!" said one of the girls, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "We're so so happy you came to our school." happy you came to our school."

Jennifer tried to call for help from the teachers, who were busily chatting by the fence, but amid the cacophony of recess they didn't seem to notice what was going on.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because it's fun!" said one of the boys, unrepentant. All the kids laughed and Jennifer tried to make a run at the side of the circle, but she was quickly pushed back into the center.

"Where you going?" asked another of the mob. "Don't you like us anymore?"

Helpless, Jennifer fought back tears, until someone from the crowd hurled a water balloon that struck her right in the face. She fell to her knees, where she buried her head in her hands and cried. But as the throng laughed even louder, none took note of something high above them in the sky. . .

Becker Drane's enormous face, hazy and distorted by the bubble's walls.

The Fixer didn't understand what he was looking at. He knew this had to be Jennifer Kaley's 532-the Dream that was supposed to make her feel better-but it didn't seem like it was going as Planned. Instead of brightening her hopes for tomorrow, this was going to destroy them altogether, and there was only one explanation for what was going wrong. He was too late, and the Glitch had already trashed the Dreamweaver, causing it to spew out mixed and mangled Dreams.

"Jennifer?" he tried to shout through the hazy membrane. "Can you hear me?"

Inside, there was no reaction, except more kids gathering around the awful spectacle.

The Rulebook was specific, especially where the Plan is concerned, and Becker knew he probably shouldn't get involved, but he couldn't just idly stand by and watch someone be tortured for no apparent reason. He didn't even know what he was trying to do-maybe Fix the Dream or at least disperse the crowd-but the moment his hand touched the surface of the bubble, it began to wobble and shake, and soon thereafter . . .

POP-WHAM!.

When Becker recovered his bearings, he was immersed in total darkness. All he could hear was the falling of debris and static booming over his radio when he tried to reach his Briefer. He quickly shuffled through his Toolkit and found his Night Shades, so he could get a better look at his surroundings.

Wherever he was, it certainly wasn't the Dreamatorium anymore. The explosion had sent him back through the wall of that chamber and into one of the sealed-off rooms he'd seen on the Sleep Foreman's blueprints. Through the infrared lenses, it looked to be an abandoned laboratory, filled with dusty test tubes, beakers, and canisters of the same make and model as those that fit into the Dreamweaver.

He brushed himself off and approached the cobwebbed walls, still trying to figure out where his Mission had taken him. On the outside of the old canisters were peeling white labels, inscribed with arcane symbols that he couldn't quite decipher. Good thing for Becker that Night Shades came with a language filter, and he flipped through the settings-"Gaelic," "Toltec," "Aramaic," "Obbinglobbish"-until he found the one he was looking for: "Olde Seemsian."

The labels instantly translated, and Becker could now read what they said: MONSTER IN THE CLOSET.

LATE FOR THE FINAL EXAM AND FORGOT TO STUDY.

THE BOTTOMLESS PIT.

All in a rush, a wave of panic flooded his brain. He tried to make a run for it, because he knew whose territory he'd unwittingly stumbled upon, but an awful sound froze him in his tracks.

Giggling . . . evil and full of malicious glee.

"C'mon, Becker. Get yourself outta here."

He sprinted again, but the pathway back was blocked with wreckage from the explosion and the lab seemed to have no exit at all. Suddenly, the lights flipped on.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

There were three of them, each wearing lab technician's coats that bore the insignia of the single closed eye. This meant they were officially Tireless Workers, but their teeth were rotted, their skin was pasty, and their eyes were swollen from toiling in the dark.

"Such a fine sepcimen . . ."

"So young . . . so tender . . ."

The technicians poked him like a melon.

"Get your hands off me," said Becker.

Ever since he was a young boy, Becker's mom had given him the same admonition right before she turned off the lights. A warning that she thought meant nothing-without realizing that many of the sayings of our World come from obscure corners of The Seems. He now found himself face-to-face with the origins of one of those sayings, a pack of mad geniuses whose specialty was designing the most horrible Dreams imaginable, "affectionately" known as . . .

The Bed Bugs.

"I sent in a request for a Taster," croaked the largest of the trio. "But I never thought he'd come."

"It's about time. They wonder why Nightmares aren't scary anymore, then they cut our budget like we're second-cla.s.s citizens."

"I told you we should have gone on strike."

Becker tried to talk his way out of it.

"Listen, guys-great to see you and all, but I'm not the Taster you're looking for. I'm a Fixer on a Mission to find a Glitch." The Bed Bugs looked at each other, confused, as if they had never heard any of those terms. "I just hit a minor snag in my search, so if we're all done here-"

"I love the way he makes up stories!" said the one with the sweaty shirt. "Such imagination!"

"That should lend itself to a high degree of terror!"

"Maybe we should test the new batch on him!"

They burst into laughter and began scurrying about, collecting a series of instruments: a b.u.t.terfly net, a ball of twine, a set of metal p.r.o.ngs.

"Seriously, you guys. This is a big mistake. I know you have a job to do, but I have to warn you, I'm trained in the art of Fixing, and nothing, I mean nothing nothing, can compromise my Mission."

From out of his Toolkit, Becker pulled out his Sticks & Stones and was about to kick some serious b.u.t.t, when he felt something sharp bite him right in his own. Becker turned to see a fourth Bed Bug, this one short and pimply and bearing a hypodermic needle-which had just been emptied into the Fixer's rump.

"Don't worry. Our last Taster totally recovered."

They all laughed again but the bad medicine had already found its way into Becker's bloodstream. The walls became woozy and the crooked shelves even more warped, and the Bed Bugs themselves began to change shape, morphing into horrifically tall insectosoid beasts.

"Well, he almost did . . ."

Following the sound of the explosion, Simly had radioed Central Command, but he wasn't getting the answer he was hoping for.

"With all due respect, Mr. Dispatcher, sir, the Manual is quite clear on this matter." The force of the bubble's detonation had knocked a stack of pillow tiles off the ceiling, but Simly had cleared a s.p.a.ce beneath the Transport Tube. "Appendix B, Paragraph 6, Line 4: 'In a crisis situation, or if the a.s.signed Fixer is rendered incapable, a Briefer may may be granted a temporary elevation in clearance.' " be granted a temporary elevation in clearance.' "

"I repeat," said the Dispatcher, as humorless as ever, said the Dispatcher, as humorless as ever, "clearance denied." "clearance denied."

"But sir, it's an emergency! I've been out of radio contact for-"

"Are you requesting backup, Briefer Frye?"

Simly was about to say, "Of course I want some backup, you stupid jarhead," but he bit his tongue. To call in an emergency team on Becker's first Mission would be a huge embarra.s.sment to the Fixer, and regardless of the circ.u.mstances, it would forever plant a subconscious blemish on his record.

"Negative, sir."

"Then carry on. Central Command out."

Simly slammed down his Receiver, then looked back up at the tube above. He was paralyzed between his respect for the Rules and his responsibility to his Fixer.

"Where the heck are you, Becker?"

The light in the walk-in freezer automatically turned on when the door opened, and in came the leader of the Bed Bugs.

"Where is it? Where is it?" Frost filled the air, and there were racks of canisters on the metal-grated shelves. But these containers had much more modern packaging than those in the other room. "Marty! Where's Today's Horrors?"

"Check on the back shelf," came the voice of the pimply one.

On the shelf in the back, shrink-wrapped and labeled in Seemsian Modern font (22 point), was a rack called: TODAY'S HORRORS: A NEW SERIES OF NIGHTMARES FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF SLEEP The vials had names like EXISTENTIAL ANGST, DIRTY BOMB, EXISTENTIAL ANGST, DIRTY BOMB, and and YOU GO TO THE DOCTOR FOR A ROUTINE CHECKUP AND HE FINDS THIS STRANGE "GROWTH" ON YOUR BODY AND IT'S REALLY ITCHY AND RED AND GETS BIGGER AND BIGGER AND BIGGER UNTIL . . . YOU GO TO THE DOCTOR FOR A ROUTINE CHECKUP AND HE FINDS THIS STRANGE "GROWTH" ON YOUR BODY AND IT'S REALLY ITCHY AND RED AND GETS BIGGER AND BIGGER AND BIGGER UNTIL . . . But separate from the others was one with a skull and crossbones tag. But separate from the others was one with a skull and crossbones tag.

"Ahhh . . . there you are, my pretty."

It was labeled: YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE (BETA).

Becker was still dazed and confused from the sedative but he was aware enough to tell that his situation wasn't good. He was strapped into an old metal chair, his arms affixed by leather cords, and the Bed Bugs were placing a conductive leather helmet on his skull.

"What are you doing to me?"

"The only way to measure the fear factor of our Nightmares is to test them on the Scaredy Cat."

Becker blanched, for he'd thought this primitive method of gauging abject horror had been banned long ago. Ever since the concept of Dreaming had been introduced, the notion of Nightmares had been fiercely debated. The decision had been made to grant the Bed Bugs autonomy to conduct a limited amount of "necessary evil." After all, a little helping of Fear is sometimes just what the doctor ordered.

"Is he all strapped in?" The lead Bed Bug returned, holding the canister with his metal tongs. Inside was a fluorescent yellow liquid, and a noxious mist floated from the top.

"Seymour, no! That one's still in development!"

"But how often do we get a specimen from the other side, right here in our own lab?"

Marty, the pimply Bed Bug, looked deeply concerned.

"But what if he doesn't come back? What if he's . . . scared to death?"

"Then we'll know it works!"

All of their reservations evaporated as they suddenly grasped the genius of Seymour's plan. The Bed Bugs burst into a new round of cackling and back-patting, as if on the verge of a great discovery.