Behind him he could sense the noise and the lights and the chatter of the voices as the hatch slid open with a click, and Emerson leaned in and said, "You okay in there, traveller?"
"Yeah, give me a sec," he said, wiping at his eyes. The dream gone. Just like that. He moved around and started out. Hands reached to him, to lift him, and he tossed them off and blinked again in the harsh light of the testing room.
Workbenches, terminals, monitors, lots of chairs, a table for eating and drinking and dozing underneath. A large white board taking up an entire wall, filled with scribbles and diagrams. People looked at him, short-termers and full-timers, a couple of them with handhelds, pointing at him and sucking everything in, so he gave his quickie debrief, as good as he could: "Better but not quite there yet."
"Why the termination?" Emerson, a tall, lanky guy who was the group leader and still looked like a high school kid, trying to clear up his complexion and grow a beard.
"You were losing clarity on the western horizon. Looked like a damn window was opening up. Quite distracting."
"You could have kept on with the program," somebody said.
"Yeah, but why screw with it?" he said, irritation growing in his voice. "Everything starts chattering and falling apart. And there were two precursors that the program was collapsing. There was about a half-second delay in touching the dog's belly before I could feel anything. And there was something wrong with the woman's scent. The request was for cinnamon. I got vanilla."
"You sure?"
He walked over to one of the easy chairs, set up in the corner, which was his and his alone. He sat down and let his legs stretch out. "Yeah, I know the difference between vanilla and cinnamon. Jesus, leave me alone, will you?"
Somebody passed over a bottle of spring water, and he greedily drank. More comments were coming in from the crew, cascading over one another, as he sat there and decompressed and tried to take everything in. It was always like this after a test session. Always. And even though he felt dehydrated and irritable and everything seemed too bright and too noisy, he knew he was one of the better testers, one of the more calm testers.
There were rumors on the Net about suicides and test facility shoot-ups from other testers, other competitors, who couldn't handle the quickie decompression from virtual reality to real reality, but the CorpNews uploaders always managed to squelch those stories. Most times.
He kept his eyes closed, as the chatter continued:
"…told you we needed another processor for that part of the horizon…"
"…it was a kludgy fix and you know it. Care to write the specs for something so confusing? Man, if you knew…"
"…I dunno, this scenario still seems too white bread for me…"
"…why a dog? I'd rather use my cat, he's better behaved…"
He opened his eyes, took in the test room. Off to the right was the sim module that he had just emerged from, with cables and output jackets coming off the top like some damn Medusa hair scare. A door leading to the rest of the building was off to the left, locked shut and tight, and with a sign pasted in the middle:
WHAT YOU SEE HERE…
WHAT YOU HEAR HERE…
WHAT YOU DO HERE…
WHEN YOU LEAVE HERE…
MAKE SURE IT STAYS HERE!
Just by the door, on both sides, were coat and helmet hangers. It was a warm day – evening by now? – so the coat hangers were empty. The helmet hangers were full up, with black mirrored V/R helmets hanging there, with the glove inputs dangling below. Another sign to the side of the racks: V/R Helmets Are Not To Be Worn During Compensated Time!
Workbenches lined three out of the four walls, with monitors and terminals of many sizes and shapes. He wasn't sure what they all did, and he didn't care. His job was to test, to evaluate, and he was glad to have a job so simple in such a time and place, even though he had been practically shanghaied at first.
He knew jokes were told at his expense, about the rural atavistic knuckle-dragger who didn't care or didn't do much with the wired world, but Fletcher didn't care. Well, he didn't care what they thought. He cared about a lot of things and most times, he couldn't talk to his co-workers about it.
He took another healthy sip of the water, then put the glass down and scratched at a mark on his forearm, where he'd been injected an hour earlier. The cocktail of drug goodies was what counted. The whole virtual reality industry had slammed up against the big brick wall of real reality years earlier, when the gamers and simulators and sexers wanted more than just sounds and images. They wanted the full tactile experience, from scent to touch and everything in between.
But always and always there were bugs, and this crew was hard at work, debugging their merry way along, while he got doped up and placed in the module, running this program over and over again.
They talked to each other in acronyms and phrases and short-hand language, spent hours working on the white board, scribbling and erasing, arguing and eating bad food and worse drink. And all the while he waited, sipping his spring water, eating simple and plain meals, as simple and plain as possible in this corporate cube, and then – like the members of some enthusiastic firing squad – they would turn and look at him and say, okay, Ken, time to get buttoned up and start tripping.
And luckily – oh sweet Jesus, the luck he had – the program was relatively simple and plain. White bread. Watching a meteor shower from the quiet and comfortable confines of a lake shore, with children and friends and a drooling dog, playing about, enjoying the quiet night, looking up into the fabulous night sky. Thank God it was so blessed simple.
Half the crew were now by the white board, the rest by a large monitor watching the events of the previous half hour. The monitor was split in two, a fuzzy display that showed the interior of the sim dome, while the other half was numbers and codes. That crew was trying to find the little burp that had caused him problems, while the crew at the white board was trying to guess what problem might crop up next.