And on and on, past Asteroids Delux, The End and all the rest, Lora and Alan moved through the swirl of happy, strangely determined players amid the glare of the lights and the variegated game screens. Flynn’s seemed some technological fantasy palace. They came to a girl sporting a junior high school cheerleader’s jacket, who watched as her companions tried their luck at Battle Zone. One was working the lateral grips, blowing away tanks and saucers and buzz-bomb missiles.
Lora tapped the cheerleader’s arm, shouting to be heard, “Hey, where’s Flynn tonight?’.
The girls looked Lora up and down, and Dr. Lora Baines suddenly felt out of place and conspicuous. Then the cheerleader pointed toward the rear of the arcade.
They found Flynn before a Space Paranoids game with the ENCOM logo prominent on its side and the well-known Recognizer stencil, of the flying, robotlike killer craft that hunted across its screen. Flynn stood straddle-legged, leaning over the machine, playing with a great deal of body English. He used the controls with the same quick facility he’d shown at the CRT keyboard. He was unshaven, his hair tousled, dressed in T-shirt, jeans, and jogging shoes.
Delight was obvious in Flynn’s face; his place was much more than a business to him. Seeing him, Alan recalled hearing that Flynn’s was noted for fairness to its customers. On one occasion, the story went, a kid had chalked up an incredible score on one of the games, winning extension after extension of playing time. Closing time came, and any other place would undoubtedly have made the kid leave—maybe giving him back his original quarter, maybe not. But it was said that Flynn had let him stay on after closing and sat a vigil with the kid’s friends for the additional hour and a half required to finish the game.
Alan gave Lora a dubious glance, then they both walked over to Flynn. He’d racked up an astounding score, and was surrounded by boisterous youngsters who plainly felt that they were present on an historical occasion, and urged him on.
“I’ll show you how it’s done,” Flynn said, all concentration. A Recognizer was barreling down the canyon maze at him. “You back off him—” The Reco, approaching at an angle, had most of its speed neutralized. “Wait till he’s ranged and—” Flynn brought the cross hairs back around suddenly, firing. His shot hit the Reco dead center and it fragmented. “—pop ’im!”
The onlookers cheered. Alan saw the Space Paranoids machine’s nine-digit scorecard change, the numbers increasing as Flynn warred with the Recognizers and evaded their fire. Flynn’s fans went wild as the numbers crept to 999,999,999. Tension mounted. Flynn made a final shot with a yelp and a curt slap of his hand; a Recognizer disappeared.
The scoreboard blanked and the word RECORD!!! appeared, blinking, as a tone-siren wailed and the crowd threatened to go mad, cheering, whooping, the bolder ones among them pounding Flynn on the arms and back. Lora, watching and reminding herself that this was Flynn’s, wondered if she hadn’t just seen him set a world’s record.
Flynn, hands up, was laughing and trying to quiet his admirers. “ ’S all in the wrist, friends!” They hooted at his assumed modesty. Someone else stepped up to the Space Paranoids game while others drifted off to try some other. Flynn turned from the dissipating crowd and saw Alan and Lora.
He laughed again, raising his voice to be heard. “Hey! Good to see you guys!” And he meant it, they saw. Alan found, as he had before, that it was difficult to dislike Flynn in person. Lora was thinking that he hadn’t changed much.
“Nothing classes up the place like a clean-cut young couple,” Flynn finished. Seeing Lora again tugged at him with a force that surprised him though he’d long since come to peace, he’d thought, with losing her. She’d had real affection for him then, and he for her, but it seemed very long ago—or had, until now.
“We have to talk,” Lora hollered over the din. Flynn smiled. Just her style: no windup, no fooling around.
“Good luck!” He grinned. “You can’t even think in here!” But he saw that she was serious, as was Alan. Flynn had a feeling that he know what it would be about, and led them off with a beckoning gesture. “Come on.”
Alan and Lora preceded Flynn upstairs while Flynn paused to make sure everything was going smoothly and to lock the downstairs door. “So how’re things going in the world of serious science?” he called up after them.
Alan looked around at Flynn’s morning-after of a room, sizing up his life. The room opened onto the high-ceilinged arcade on two sides, over waist-high partitions; an L-shaped pillow sectional occupied the corner between them. Blinds had been lowered, muffling the din from below. There was a computer terminal, a scattering of videogames in various states of repair, a bed that hadn’t been made in a while.
Alan arched his back, stiff from the ride to the arcade and hours at his terminal. He gazed down through the blinds at the arcade. “The best programmer ENCOM ever saw,” Alan half-sneered, “and he ends up playing space cowboy in some sleazy back room.”
Lora had found a seat on the pillow couch. Flynn’s footfalls clapped on the staircase. “Alan, let me handle this.”
He relented as Flynn entered the room, abruptly aware that he had no real wish to insult Flynn, even if he could—which he doubted. It’s just that Flynn’s got such a gift, he fumed. Alan hated waste, particularly the waste of a good brain.
Flynn plopped down in the corner of the couch, stretching, clasping hands behind his neck. He’d heard Lora’s remark. “Go right ahead,” he leered.
She ignored the leer, determined not to be goaded. She asked, “Have you been sneaking into the ENCOM system?”
Flynn blew his cheeks out. “Whew! You never were much for small talk!” There was admiration in his statement. But she saw that she’d scored with the question. A little too quickly, a little too glibly, he swung to Alan and asked, “She still leave her clothes all over the floor?”
The change of subject caught Alan off guard. Lora, blushing, cried out, “Flynn!” Flynn, sniggering, recalled, algorhythms!
Alan managed, “Uh, no. I mean, not that often.”
“Alan!” Lora exploded. Flynn chuckled; Alan, scowling, wondered why he’d bothered to come.
Lora, pointing to the arcade, told Alan, “You can see why all his friends are fourteen-year-olds.”
Flynn picked up a handheld videogame, pointedly ignoring the barb. From the little plastic case came the sounds of miniature struggle. He grinned ruefully. “Touché, honey! Yeah; I’ve been doing a little hacking up here.” He looked up defensively. “Which I’ve got every reason, as you well know—”
“Did you break in?” Alan interjected.
Flynn made a face. “Tried to.” He indicated the terminal with a tilt of his head. “Can’t quite make the connection with that sucker, though.” He sighed. “If I had a direct terminal…” He let the sentence trail off, the broadest of hints.
Alan met his gaze squarely. Flynn was surprised to find himself thinking that different circumstances might have made Bradley and himself friends. The man had no use for lies or evasion, non sequiturs or dishonesty. Alan sat down to Flynn’s right and asked, “Flynn, are you embezzling?”
Flynn looked to the game again and did his best to sound like a B-movie shyster. “Embezzlement is such an ugly word, Mr. Bradley.”
Alan looked vexed and Lora clicked her tongue impatiently. Flynn finished in a normal voice, “No. Actually, I’m trying to get some solid evidence together.”