"Right!" Rod looked about him, thinking fast. He pointed a finger. "There!"
Yorick turned, looked, and grinned. "The very place. Come on, folks, let's go." And he shooed them all toward a shop front replete with flashing letters, garish holos, and animated enticers. They sauntered into a huge mouth with incarnadined lips below a mustache that read, "GAMES ARCADE."
Where the upper teeth should have been was a sign that read,
"NO CALCULATORS OR PERSONAL COMPUTERS ALLOWED! They louse up our games."
As they stepped in, they were assaulted with a primal cacophony of whistles, squeaks, booms, shrieks, screeches, chimes, explosions, cackles, zooms, and rings. Gwen pressed her hands over her ears. "Aiee! Wherefore must they needs have such a deal of noise? And wherefore is there so much haze?"
The hall was filled with smoke, and dimly-lit by spotlights focused on each separate gaming machine.
"It's supposed to help their concentration," Rod called into her ear. "They won't be distracted by the other machines around them, because they can't see them clearly."
Gwen only shook her head, exasperated.
As they plowed on through the arcade, they were assailed by gunfire from a variety of periods: the booming of muskets, the sharp cracks of squirrel rifles, the continuous racket of repeating rifles, the rattle of machine guns, the sizzle of blasters. Names of famous battles flashed past them as they slogged doggedly ahead. Finally, gasping and panting, they reached an island of comparative quiet, where there were only a few rings of people sitting on the floor, chatting and laughing, and a man talking to a machine.
"Praise Heaven," Gwen gasped. "I feel as though I have just run the gaunt of the worst of Man's history."
Beside them, a calm voice asked, "What is the acceleration of a falling body on the planet Terra?"
"Thirty-two feet per second!" the player cried, and the machine chimed agreeably. A counter on its panel registered the number "20."
"Excellent," the machine murmured. "What was the first English novel?"
"Richardson's Pamela!"
The machine chimed again. "Excellent. Why did Alexander's empire fail?"
Rod looked up at the name of the game. It read, "Universe-Class Trivia." joy
"Invalid." One of the people in the nearest ring held up a hand. "He can't be using a two-handed sword in pre-Roman Britain."
One of the other people frowned. "Why not?"
"Because it wasn't invented until the 1200s."
"So what did the British use?"
"Axes."
The young man shook his head with deliberation. "He's my character, and he's using a broadsword."
"No way-o, Wolfbay-o. This game sticks to historical accuracy. That's Rule Three."
"Says who?"
"I do—and you know Rule One."
The young man sighed and said, "Okay. 'Wolfbay unlimbered his twenty-pound war-ax
"Hold it." The first man held up a hand again.
"Okay, O-kay! A two-pound ax!"
Gwen bent down and murmured something to one of the other players. The player answered her, and Gwen straightened, nodding, but still mystified.
"What was that all about?" Rod asked.
"I wished to know the source of the smaller man's authority." Gwen shrugged. "She told me 'tis because he is the… my lord, what is a 'diem'?"
"'Diem'?" Rod frowned. "I think it was a Latin word that meant 'day,' dear."
"Lost!" Beside them, Yorick gave a machine a slap. "Doggone it, this is too much! Three straight losses—in three moves each!"
A neatly-dressed man was at his elbow in a second. "I'm Alkin Larn, the manager. Do you have a problem with our games, citizen?"
"I sure do." Yorick nodded toward the machine. "You know how this thing gives you three tries on each game? Well, I never got past the first hurdle once! I think the joystick's broken!"
The manager stepped in front of the machine and slipped a credit card into the slot. "Let me see…" He began to play.
"This is one hell of a welcome to Terra," Yorick snorted. "Here I am, just in from the outlying planets—you know, Wolmar, Otranto—and I met a guy in a bar who recommended this particular arcade, so I came in here to get a taste of Terran high life, and what happens? The machine beats me out!"
Rod was frantically making shushing motions.
The manager stilled, gazing at the screen. Then he looked up at Yorick with a polite smile. "You may have a point about this machine, sir. I'll certainly arrange a refund; your acquaintance's recommendation is exactly what I'm always hoping to hear. Would you like to step into the back room to try the really advanced games?"
"Fine." Yorick grinned. "Just take me to them."
Personally, Rod hadn't thought Yorick had exactly been piling up a sky-high score, even on the kiddie level.
But the manager slipped a "MALFUNCTIONING" sign out of his coverall, hung it on the machine, and turned away. Yorick turned with him.
Chornoi and Rod looked at each other in mingled panic and disbelief.
"We have trusted him thus far," Gwen reminded them. "Wherefore should we think him mistaken now?"
"A point," Rod sighed, "and I must admit we don't see any squadron of armsmen charging down on us. Come on."
They turned and followed Yorick and Larn.
"With the advanced games, I really must warn you," Larn was saying, "that the stakes are advanced, too."
"Oh, sure, I know these machines are really just low-level gambling." Yorick shrugged. "After all, the government has to have an income, doesn't it?"
"It certainly does," Larn said grimly, "sixty percent of all gambling profits."
Yorick nodded. "But you can make a living off the forty percent that's left over?"
"A good living." Larn opened the door to the back room. "But I don't have any assistants—only two night managers. You're just in from Otranto, and you stepped into a games arcade?"
"What can I tell you?" Yorick shrugged as he stepped through the door. "We got tired of the Gothic motif."
Rod stepped aside for the ladies, then followed them in, feeling as though he were walking into a trap. Larn closed the door behind him.
Gwen was staring around at the walls. "So many books!"
Chornoi gawked. "Why? Why not just keep them on cube?"
"Books are more convenient in a great number of ways." Larn walked around in front of them, gesturing to an easy chair and a table with a lamp. "But the main reason is atmosphere. You can hide away from the world in here— and about twenty percent of our customers do."
Rod was still looking around. "I don't see anything but books. Where's the gambling?"
"The gamble is whether or not we get caught," the manager answered. He moved past them, beckoning.
They followed, past six people sitting around a circular table. The oldest was saying, "All right, Gerry, but you're assuming that nice, fair political system Plato's proposing, is representing the whole population."
Gerry frowned. "But that's what he said, isn't it?"
"Yeah," another student answered, "but that's not what the real city was like, the one he was modeling this 'Republic' of his after."
Gerry frowned. "How?"
"There were a lot of slaves in the population," answered a third student, "and they weren't represented."
Larn escorted them into a six-by-six cubicle with transparent walls, a small table, and a single chair. He closed the door behind them and explained, "This is a study carrel—soundproof, so the student won't be distracted by the discussion groups."
"Those are volunteers out there?" Rod asked.