Abner Buell glanced out at the Pacific in the morning, annoyed with himself. He really wasn't playing this one with skill, when every time he didn't get the people moving right, he killed them. You just didn't do that in a computer game, not even the early version of Zonkman.
An out-of-focus and dark pistol grip came into view on the screen. Casey was carrying the codebox in his pocket again. Abner Buell checked his joystick control. It was working in unison with the code box. Next to the lever was a little red button. He put the button on user mode.
A printed message came onto the screen:
YOU ARE READY TO BLAST.
"What's that?" came a child's voice from the screen.
"That's my pistol and that's my special code box," said Casey. Light came onto the screen. Wire fencing appeared in a corner. Then concrete at the bottom. Casey was in a schoolyard. He might be surrounded by many children.
Buell calculated instantly. There were no points won for children. Then again, he hadn't programmed any points against taking innocent lives. He would do that right now. Abner Buell punched into his game memory five hundred deficit points for every innocent life, double that, one thousand points, for children. He would deduct a thousand points for every innocent child's life lost in this game. He wondered for a brief moment if that was fair to him, or if it was too great a point penalty, but he decided, magnanimously, to let it stand.
Buell pressed talk mode.
"Say, Casey, how many kids are around you now?"
"About ten, codebox," said Casey. Casey always referred to Buell's voice as codebox. That was all he knew of the source anyhow.
"Can you get to some place private?"
"Kids don't know what's going on," Casey said.
"Some place away from people, even kids."
Children's voices could be heard close. They wanted to talk into the box.
"More people across the street," came Casey's voice. "This is rush hour here in the Bronx."
"How many across the street?"
"Twenty," Casey said.
Suddenly a blue flashing light beeped on the adjacent screen in the mosaic of screens on Buell's game wall. Pamela Thrushwell was calling and her face appeared. Buell had to make a fast decision. The Pamela screen was starting to deduct power points for his delay in answering. Everything had to be timed in these things, or it wouldn't really be a challenge. You had to have something you were going after and something that could also destroy you. Leaving play pieces stranded cost the worst kind of points: power points which meant the money he used to play the game.
He made his decision.
Abner Buell pressed the red button on the joystick.
In a New York City schoolyard a continent away, a codebox blew up, taking out the chest of a crooked New York City cop and slaughtering, in a spray of vicious metal fragments, seven children also.
Abner Buell had cost himself seven thousand points. To make that up, he would have to turn somebody completely around and get them to do something they would have sworn they would never do. Otherwise, he would lose badly. It was moving close to a legend appearing on the screen: "Game Over."
"Good morning, Miss Thrushwell."
"Is that you again?" she said. The pictures from the overhead cameras in her office showed clearly on Buell's screen. Pamela Thrushwell's cheeks were beginning to redden with anger. She was signaling another worker. She wrote on a note: "It's him."
The worker read the note and signaled a manager to come over.
"Bit of a bad day that other day, wasn't it?" Buell said. "People trying to cop a feel. Then goosing you on the street."
"You are a filthy pervert," she said.
"Pamela, child, what do you think I want you to do?"
"I think you want dirty filthy things. I think you are sick and need help."
"Pamela, I want you to do something for me."
As Buell watched, the manager handed another note to Pamela. It read: KEEP HIM TALKING.
"Something filthy, I suppose," Pamela said.
"Only if you think so. I want you to do something you would ordinarily never do. Something horrible."
"I don't do horrible things, thank you. I was raised not to."
"You tell me what you think is a horrible thing," Buell said.
"Lots of things are horrible," she said.
Abner Buell pressed Difficulty-A button on his computer keyboard. A name appeared on the screen, followed by "Closest relative in the United States."
"I want you to kill your Aunt Agnes. You live with her, right?" Buell said.
Pamela Thrushwell chuckled. He saw a smile appear on her dimpled face.
"Give me something difficult, will you, Jack?"
"What do you mean?"
"You've never met my Aunt Agnes, have you?"
"Then you will kill her?"
"Of course not. I don't do things like that. Listen, Jack, why don't you do yourself a bit of a favor and go see a headshrinker. It would do you good."
"I want to see you murder your Aunt Agnes. I want you to lick a fire hydrant at noon in Times Square. I want you to fornicate with a wildebeest in St. Peter's Square, I want you to punch the queen, kick the Duke of Edinburgh in the nuts, and throw a pound of warm caramel mousse on Prince Charles and Lady Di."
"Sounds ducky, love," said Pamela. She was laughing. Buell saw her. The tart was laughing. Up on the screen, the mirth was costing Abner Buell points. She was not taking him seriously. She was enjoying it.
A coworker came to her desk and flashed a message. Buell was able to read it. It said: WE GOT HIM.
Abner watched the excitement, saw an office manager appear, and heard someone in the back whisper how the number of the pervert had been traced. Abner waited for the excitement to reach a crescendo.
"Pamela, why are you so happy?" he asked.