he could have some idea today—
Hall sighed. “If they’re paying for it, they’re seldom in a hurry. If they get it for free, they want it the day before yesterday.” He grinned. “Okay. A feature story when we open the room. Deal?”
Artie thought about it a moment, then nodded as if the decision were a hard one to make. Hall pointed to the room outside. “The first booth is set up to go—you might as well try it out while I go through this stuff. The software’s already in the machine—just put on the helmet and gloves, turn the computer on, and you’re all set. The full program runs about an hour. When we’re up and operating we’ll slice it into five-minute segments—just about the attention span of kids these days.”
In the Visions of the Past room, the cubicle setup looked as simple as Hall had said. Artie fumbled with the gloves a moment, slipped on the helmet with the virtual reality goggles and headphones, and flicked the computer’s On switch.
The scene was blurry at first, taking a few seconds to swim into focus. Artie gasped. He was back in his dream, lying on the hillside, naked except for a piece of hide tied around his waist. White clouds floated slowly overhead and he could even smell the faint fragrance of the wildflowers. How the hell could they program odors? Or was he imagining the smells that would naturally go with the scenery?
There was a buzz of conversation in the air and he rolled to his knees, then stood up and turned to the caves behind him. Gathered in front were maybe twenty members of the Tribe, mostly young adults with half a dozen kids plus a middle-aged giant of a man with a dirty white beard. Just coming out of one of the caves was an old woman of forty winters, half supported by her young daughter. The kids were naked, the adults not wearing anything more than he was. A piece of hide around their waist, nothing binding the breasts. A husky-looking group, all of them with tangled hair and several with livid scars and limps, including the white-bearded giant.
He knew them all, Artie thought with wonder. Purple Flower, Deep Wood, Soft Skin, Clear Stream—the old woman, White Beard. He knew the kids even better; he was only a little older than they. Few of them had been named yet because so many, like Little Fox, died early.
White Beard grunted at him and he had a sudden mental image of a small pile of chipped rocks. The image faded and he scurried back into the cave and picked up a rush bag filled with a dozen flints. He was the most proficient in the Tribe at making scrapers and cutters, and he was responsible for them. They were moving to another set of caves and they couldn’t afford to leave anything behind, least of all the flints.
He came out in the bright sunshine blinking. Deep Wood laughed at him and he laughed back and pegged a stone at his feet. White Beard scolded him again, and the Tribe got in a ragged line and started off down the path that wound along the side of the stream. It was time to move on; game was getting scarce and the berry bushes had been pretty well picked over. The new caves were closer to bigger game, which both excited and frightened him. A lot of meat for the effort, but you had to get in close to kill the larger animals and it could cost you your life.
He looked back only once, to glance at the spot where Little Fox had been given to the Spirit of the Flames the previous evening, after coughing for the last time. When they reached the riverbank, Clear Stream scattered the ashes from a leather pouch and Little Fox was returned to the Mother of Waters.
Artie shivered, then concentrated on Soft Skin walking in front of him, admiring the sway of her ample hips and imagining them both in a dark corner of the cave. She picked up on his thoughts and emphasized the swing of her hips even more. He grinned, delighted. Then Tall Tree noticed his arousal poking out from under his strip of hide and hooted and the rest of the Tribe turned
Hall sighed. “If they’re paying for it, they’re seldom in a hurry. If they get it for free, they want it the day before yesterday.” He grinned. “Okay. A feature story when we open the room. Deal?”
Artie thought about it a moment, then nodded as if the decision were a hard one to make. Hall pointed to the room outside. “The first booth is set up to go—you might as well try it out while I go through this stuff. The software’s already in the machine—just put on the helmet and gloves, turn the computer on, and you’re all set. The full program runs about an hour. When we’re up and operating we’ll slice it into five-minute segments—just about the attention span of kids these days.”
In the Visions of the Past room, the cubicle setup looked as simple as Hall had said. Artie fumbled with the gloves a moment, slipped on the helmet with the virtual reality goggles and headphones, and flicked the computer’s On switch.
The scene was blurry at first, taking a few seconds to swim into focus. Artie gasped. He was back in his dream, lying on the hillside, naked except for a piece of hide tied around his waist. White clouds floated slowly overhead and he could even smell the faint fragrance of the wildflowers. How the hell could they program odors? Or was he imagining the smells that would naturally go with the scenery?
There was a buzz of conversation in the air and he rolled to his knees, then stood up and turned to the caves behind him. Gathered in front were maybe twenty members of the Tribe, mostly young adults with half a dozen kids plus a middle-aged giant of a man with a dirty white beard. Just coming out of one of the caves was an old woman of forty winters, half supported by her young daughter. The kids were naked, the adults not wearing anything more than he was. A piece of hide around their waist, nothing binding the breasts. A husky-looking group, all of them with tangled hair and several with livid scars and limps, including the white-bearded giant.
He knew them all, Artie thought with wonder. Purple Flower, Deep Wood, Soft Skin, Clear Stream—the old woman, White Beard. He knew the kids even better; he was only a little older than they. Few of them had been named yet because so many, like Little Fox, died early.
White Beard grunted at him and he had a sudden mental image of a small pile of chipped rocks. The image faded and he scurried back into the cave and picked up a rush bag filled with a dozen flints. He was the most proficient in the Tribe at making scrapers and cutters, and he was responsible for them. They were moving to another set of caves and they couldn’t afford to leave anything behind, least of all the flints.
He came out in the bright sunshine blinking. Deep Wood laughed at him and he laughed back and pegged a stone at his feet. White Beard scolded him again, and the Tribe got in a ragged line and started off down the path that wound along the side of the stream. It was time to move on; game was getting scarce and the berry bushes had been pretty well picked over. The new caves were closer to bigger game, which both excited and frightened him. A lot of meat for the effort, but you had to get in close to kill the larger animals and it could cost you your life.
He looked back only once, to glance at the spot where Little Fox had been given to the Spirit of the Flames the previous evening, after coughing for the last time. When they reached the riverbank, Clear Stream scattered the ashes from a leather pouch and Little Fox was returned to the Mother of Waters.
Artie shivered, then concentrated on Soft Skin walking in front of him, admiring the sway of her ample hips and imagining them both in a dark corner of the cave. She picked up on his thoughts and emphasized the swing of her hips even more. He grinned, delighted. Then Tall Tree noticed his arousal poking out from under his strip of hide and hooted and the rest of the Tribe turned
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