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meant standing in
awkward silence, while he sat stoic and waited for them to call on
someone else. The social worker could make him go to school with the
soft ones, but she couldn't make him act like one.
George watched the boys carefully, as carefully as he had when he
stood silently in the schoolyard, not seeming to watch anything. He was
better at spotting a donkey than any of the soft ones. When a boy was
ready to turn, George could almost see the shape of the donkey
superimposed on the boy, and he radioed a keeper to pick up the
donkey come morning. He got a bonus for each one he spotted, and
according to Bill, it had accumulated to a sizable nest-egg.
George looked at the inventory and decided that the fudge was getting a
little long in the tooth. He'd start pushing fudge-nut dips, and by the
end of his shift, the tub would be empty and he'd be able to give it a
thorough cleaning and a refill from fresh stock. "Hey guys!" he called
to three boys. "Is anybody hungry?" He dipped a floss and held it up, so
that it oozed fudge down his wrist. The boys shyly approached his
booth. George knew from their manner that they were new to the Island:
probably just picked up from a video-arcade or lasertag tent on the
mainland that afternoon. They didn't know what to make of their
surroundings, that was clear.
"Step right up," he said, "I don't bite!" He smiled a smile he'd practiced
in the mirror, one that shaped his soft, flexible features into a
good-natured expression of idiotic fun. Cautiously, the boys came
forward. They were the target age, eleven-to-fourteen, and they'd
already accumulated some merch, baseball hats and fanny packs made
from neoprene in tropical-fish colours, emblazoned with the Island's
logomarks and character trademarks. They had the beginnings of dark

circles under their eyes, and they dragged a little with low blood-sugar.
George dipped two more and distributed them around. The eldest, a
towheaded kid near the upper age range, said, "Mister, we haven't got
any money -- what do these cost?"
George laughed like a freight train. "It's all free, sonny, free as air!
Courtesy of the Management, as a reward for very special customers
like you." This was scripted, but the trick was to sell the line like it was
fresh.
The boys took the cones from him timidly, but ate ravenously. George
gave them some logoed serviettes to wipe up with and ground the fudge
into his wrists and forearms with one of his own. He looked at his
watch and consulted the laminated timetable taped to the counter.
1300h, which meant that the bulk of the Guests would be migrating
towards Actionland and the dinosaur rides, and it was time to push the
slightly down-at-the-heels FreakZone, to balance the crowds. "You
boys like rollercoasters?" he said.
The youngest -- they were similar enough in appearance and distant
enough in ages to be brothers -- spoke up. "Yeah!" The middle elbowed
him, and the youngest flipped the middle the bird.
"Well, if you follow the midway around this curve to the right, and go
through the big clown-mouth, you'll be in the FreakZone. We've got a
fifteen-storey coaster called The Obliterator that loops fifty times in
five minutes -- running over ninety-five miles per hour! If you hurry,
you can beat the line!" He looked the youngest in the eye at the start of
the speech, then switched to the middle when he talked about the line.
The youngest started vibrating with excitement, and the middle looked
pensive, and then to the eldest said, "Sounds good, huh, Tom?"
The eldest said, "We haven't even found out where we're sleeping yet --
maybe we can do the ride afterwards."
George winked at the youngest, then said, "Don't worry about it, kids.
I'll get that sorted out for you right now." He picked up the white house

phone and asked the operator to connect him with Guest Services. "Hi
there! This is George on the midway! I need reservations for three
young men for tonight -- a suite, I think, with in-room Nintendo and a
big-screen TV. They look like they'd enjoy the Sportaseum. OK, I'll
hold," he covered the mouthpiece and said to the boys, "You'll love the
Sportaseum -- the chairs are shaped like giant catcher's mitts, and the
beds are giant Air Jordans, and the suite comes with a regulation
half-court. What name should I put the reservation under?"
The eldest said, "Tom Mitchell."
George made the reservation. "You're all set," he said. "The monorails
run right into the hotel lobby, every ten minutes. Anyone with a name
tag can show you to the nearest stop. Here's