By Tom Clancy, Diane Duane, Steve R. Pieczenik
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Outside the bar it was afternoon, or pretending to be. The light lay long and low and golden over the pedestrianized street outside, as people strolled up and down it with shopping bags and small children in tow. Something came between the afternoon light pouring through the windows and the man sitting by the fountain, blocking away the golden glint of the afternoon light on the martini glass. The man in the ultrablack single-all looked up and squinted slightly at the second man standing there.
Pray that it doesn’t,” said Darjan. “Get on it. ” Heming went out hurriedly through the open French doors to the square, where the afternoon light was beginning to tarnish. Darjan looked after him, once more reaching around to the martini glass and beginning to turn it around and around on the white marble. Then his hand clenched slowly around the stem. A moment later there was a sharp crack as the stem of the Dartington crystal, tough as it was, gave way. This being virtual experience, there was no blood.
And a second later Brickner felt the other push in his back, one of his team-mates impacting him at exactly the right moment, offering him for that split second before they “bounced” an opposing force to push against. Brickner rolled backward hard against his buddy’s back, kneed the ball as it came to him. It flew again at the White goal— One of the White players rocketed toward the ball in stretched-out, linear configuration, trying to get there in time, but he didn’t have enough inertia to reach it, not having been able to push off soon enough, and his progress slowed, slowed more, he was going to come up short— The orange ball slammed into the white-lit hex, and the score froze it, half-illuminated, in the very act of precessing.