Gwen sighed and shook her head. "I must needs accept the truth of what thou dost say, since I've not the knowledge to judge it for myself."
"I know." Brother Joey had a smug smile. "That's the secret of the clergy's success."
"But if this 'isomorpher' of which thou dost speak, doth make note of me as a mile-long string of numbers which it doth paint on the wall of eternity, which thou dost term 'H-space,' and then doth take those numbers off that wall to build them once again into myself—have I not died, and been reborn?"
Rod noted that she wasn't at all discomfitted by not having felt anything major as they isomorphed into H-space.
But Brother Joey was shaking his head. "No. You've simply changed form, nothing more."
Gwen threw up her hands in despair.
"Let's try something a little more relaxing." Rod held up a hand to forestall Brother Joey. "I know, I know—to you, this is relaxing. But the rest of us like a little help." He touched the base of an air filter, and its telltale glowed to life. "The smoking lamp is lit. Anyone who wants to pollute, come sit next to it, Whitey."
The poet grinned and slouched into the chair right under the filter. He pulled out a long, sinister-looking brown cigarette, then his lighter. "Just wine, if you don't mind."
Rod peered at the synthesizer's list. "Chablis, Liebfraumilch, or Reisling?"
"Reisling, if you please."
"It's all one set of buttons to me." Rod said, as he punched. "What'll it be, Chornoi?"
"Bourbon. Who made you bartender?"
"I watched Cholly. Yorick?"
A few minutes later, with spirits for everyone and Manischevitz for Brother Joey, Rod propped his feet up on the table with a sigh. "Safe at last—for the moment."
Chornoi shrugged. "We were safe enough, in the dream."
"Yeah, except that a bunch of thugs was getting ready to package and ship us."
"As long as we were dreaming, who cared?"
"All dreams must end." Yorick frowned. "I wonder how that one would have come out?"
"Oh, I think it was pretty well wound down." Whitey held his glass up to the light. "After all, boy had gotten girl."
Gwen was gazing at Mirane, but her eyes weren't quite focused.
"Would have been interesting to see what happened to the rest of them," Yorick sighed. "But how did Mirane's computer-pad get pulled into the story?"
"Oh, it was the dog, Deviz."
"I know that, of course." Yorick glared at Chornoi. "I meant, how did it get tied into the dream-computer?"
"Through Mirane." Gwen kept her gaze on the young woman. "I think thou mayest have some trace of Power about thee, my dear."
"She's talking about psi power," Rod explained. "Oh, don't look so horrified! A lot of people have a touch of one power or another. You just happen to have enough to be useful, that's all."
Mirane shook her head. "How can you mind-read a computer?"
"Thine did say that it hath capacity for joining to thy mind," Gwen explained. "Is that not what 'interface' doth mean?"
"Well, yes, but I'd have to wear a transmitter-helmet."
Yorick shook his head. "Apparently you're capable of sending your thoughts without one. Projective telepathy— right, Major?"
Rod nodded. "A little bit of telepathy, period; the computer-pad said it was wireless, so it must be geared to transmit."
"The operative point," Brother Joey explained, "is that the pad has a built-in converter to transform its operating frequencies to human thought-frequencies. But don't take our word for it—ask it." He raised his voice. "How about it, Notem-Modem 409? Did we guess correctly?"
"Preliminary analysis of available data indicates 88 percent probability of validity," the computer-pad confirmed.
Mirane was pale, but she clutched the notepad to her.
"So." Yorick sat back, studying his glass as he spun the stem between finger and thumb."Mirane was Petty Pure, huh? I mean, she was the one who was closest to Deviz."
Mirane blushed, but she nodded.
"Thought so. I was Frank, of course."
Gwen frowned. "Why dost thou say, 'of course'?"
"Monster to monster, Lady Gallowglass. I was the easiest conversion."
Rod nodded. "The dream-computer did seem to match us up by personalities. But you're no monster."
"Tell it to your folklore, Major."
Gwen was frowning again. "Yet wherefore would it match myself with an old hag?"
"She was a witch," Rod explained, "or thought she was. But don't worry, dear, I didn't exactly find it flattering to be depicted as a klutz of a handyman, either."
"Nor I as a devil." Brother Joey was magenta.
Rod shrugged. "At least it had something to do with religion."
"More importantly," the friar said in a very low tone, "I was the voice of Authority."
Whitey snorted. "Well, if you don't like the idea of orthodoxy, Brother, you blasted well better decide that before you take your final vows. Me, I didn't exactly find it complementary to be depicted as an incompetent vampire."
"But you had a heart of gold," Rod pointed out. "Sweets to the sweet, poet."
"Fangs for nothing," Whitey snorted. He turned to Chornoi. "But you didn't really enjoy being a meanie, did you?"
"Oh, but I did." Chornoi nodded sadly. "And I wish I really was. Callous people seem to do so much better in this world."
"You've been hanging around a tyranny too long." Rod frowned. "Besides, I thought you'd already tried that way of life."
Chornoi looked down at her hands, lips tight. "And I couldn't take it. Right."
"Well," Rod sighed, "I guess you'll have to settle for being a good person, underneath it all."
"And that," Whitey said, "leaves only one role uncast." He directed a stare toward Stroganoff.
The producer shifted uncomfortably. "All right, so I was McChurch. So way down deep, all I want to do is lie around. Is that any crime?"
"Only when you really want to bleed for other people," Whitey said softly.
Mirane stiffened, glaring. "That's a wonderful quality!"
"It is, until he bleeds himself dry," Whitey reminded her. "But I think you two are avoiding a point."
Mirane and Stroganoff glanced at each other, then quickly glanced away."None of your business, Whitey," Stroganoff growled.
"Of course not. That's why I enjoy it so much." Whitey leaned back in his chair. "But the rest of us have bared our souls a bit, so it's your turn. Why was McChurch so totally hooked on Petty at first glance, Dave?"
"We were being controlled by a script," Stroganoff muttered.
"So were we all." Chornoi gave him a look of scorn. "Everybody else turned out to be quite capable of resisting it—except me; I liked it. And you two. You couldn't have cared less."
"How could I care, when I was in a coma? And besides…"
"Strog, cut it off and talk straight!" Whitey demanded. "Are you in love with the lady, or not?"
Mirane paled still further. So did Stroganoff, but he blustered, "That's none of your damn business, Whitey! And besides, I'm a fat ugly fool, and she's way too young."
"Why, thank you." Mirane looked up, some of her color coming back. "Especially because I'm not really all that young—I'm thirty-five. You would have noticed, if you'd ever bothered to look behind the lenses and kerchief. And I think you're handsome!"
Stroganoff stared at her, totally taken aback. Then he glanced about him quickly, and stood up, sliding her chair back a little. "Uh, would you step into my office over here, for a quick conference?"
Mirane stared at him, surprised. Then her chin lifted, and she stood up and walked in front of him, shoulders back, over to the far end of the wardroom. Stroganoff followed her, pantomimed closing a door, and leaned against the bulkhead, hands in his pockets, chatting. Mirane watched him closely.