The fall of the dream machine

Chapter One
    Mike Jorgova watched the barren fields flash past. Most of the snow
had melted since his escape. Gray mounds of ugly slush lay at cliff
overhangs where plows had shoved them. Muddy, brown earth showed
through most places. Snow was a problem even for floaters, for it did
not present a solid enough surface for the blowers. It sent the
vehicles in weaving, bobbling flight paths that usually ended in
disaster. In many of the newer highways, heating coils were being
installed in the roadbeds to vaporize the snow before it could lay. In
time, plows would be obsolete.
    The fields, meantime, were barren.
    But the sky was a bright and cheerful blue, and the contrast kept
him from sinking into an emotional morass that had been lying stagnant
in the rear of his mind all morning. It was a swamp of doubt. Again, he
had no idea where he was going, why, or for exactly what purpose.
"Further training" was a very vague phrase. He felt the gray smog of
unbelonging creep over him again. In the distant corners of his mind,
there was a flame named Lisa that burned through the overcast. Perhaps
it was that which kept him going. Yet he did not wholly trust that
flame. It was a symbol of love to him, yet he was not certain that he
loved her. He had never known another woman. He had been conditioned to
love Lisa. It was the knowledge of that which made him afraid. He
wanted to overthrow Show. He hated Cockley and all the things the man
stood for. But he was afraid that once he faced Lisa the flames would
prove a false spark. His single purpose would be hollow and
meaningless. It was a great fear; and it was black.
    A flock of geese drifted from horizon to horizon.
    He forced his thoughts from the pessimistic and tried to concentrate
on a few of the mysteries he had not yet solved. He still did not know
where McGivey lived. The house was certainly underwater, for he had
felt the pressure as they had left it, heard the turning of screws,
felt the breaking free and switching to floater status. They did not
remove the blindfold for thirty minutes. When he could see again, the
only water was in the form of snow and melting snow in the drainage
ditches. Now he was going to an equally mysterious place, one which
harbored the President of the United States. McGivey had explained that
Cockley's men had tried to kill Nimron, forcing the President to
secrete himself while circulating public announcements that he had
taken a short working vacation. No one questioned the announcement.
Very few people even cared. Only slightly over a quarter of the
populace could identify the President by name, the latest poll showed.
People generally cared very little about the activities of a minor
official.
    "You had best blindfold yourself now, Mr. Jorgova," the driver said,
handing him a white cloth.
    "Again?"
    "It's top secret."
    "But I can be trusted."
    "Until you take the Prober test

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

    Jake Malone held the phone very close to his ear and waited. He was
nervous, but he knew he could control it. He could clamp firm hands on
any case of nerves he had ever met up with, choke it into submission.
He raised his hand, stared at it. Not one tremble. Or was it that his
eyes were trembling too, thus voiding any possible neutral observation?
His mouth was dry, certainly. He swallowed a bit of water, lubricated
his lips.
    "Yes?" the ghost tone said on the other end

Chapter One

    At two o'clock in the morning, the main spire of Cockley Towers
stood like a giant concrete and steel tree, its main shaft the trunk,
its balconies and overhanging, glass-floored rooms the branches and the
leaves. There were scattered lights glowing in the upper floors. The
ground lobby was a blaze of warm, orange light. The dark floater
drifted silently across the lawn, lights out, a slow, nocturnal
butterfly. There was a driver, a second bodyguard, and Mike Jorgova
seated within the cave-like interior.
    "Alarm line directly ahead," the bodyguard said.
    "Breaks anywhere?" the driver asked.
    "Hmm. No. Solid. Rings the building, apparently."
    The craft slowed behind a line of shrubs, stopped. Mike leaned over
the seat to watch the green scope pulsate yellow in one thin line that
curved from one corner of the screen, down to the middle, and back up
and out of the opposite corner.
    "How broad?" the driver asked.
    "Ten, maybe twelve feet."
    "If we trip it, every guard in the tower will be down here,
pulverizing us with vibra-pistols."