But then she saw something that made her heart leap. It was a large stone block by the side of the river. The block was worn around the sides from rope chafing. It had clearly been used to tie up boats.

"Chris…"

"I see it."

She saw what looked like a worn path beyond the block, but she couldn't be sure. Chris rowed to the side, and they tied up the boat and got out. There was a definite path, leading to a tunnel with smooth, artificially cut walls. They started down the tunnel. She held the torch in front of her.

She caught her breath.

"Chris? There's a step."

"What?"

"A step. Cut in the rock. About fifty feet ahead." She moved faster. They both moved faster. "In fact," she said, raising the torch higher, "there's more than a step. There's a whole staircase."

By the flickering torchlight, they saw more than a dozen steps, rising at a steep angle upward, without a railing, until they ended in a stone ceiling - a trapdoor fitted with an iron handle.

She handed Chris the torch, then scrambled up the stairs. She pulled at the ring, but nothing happened. She pushed at it, putting her shoulder into it.

She managed to raise the stone an inch.

She saw yellow light, so bright that it made her squint. She heard the roar of a nearby fire, and the laughter of men's voices. Then she couldn't hold the weight any longer, and the stone came back down again.

Chris was already coming up the stairs toward her. "Earpieces on," he said, tapping his ear.

"You think?"

"We have to risk it."

She tapped her ear, heard the crackle. She heard Chris's breathing, amplified as he stood beside her on the narrow ledge.

She said, "I'll go first." She reached into her pocket, took out the marker, and gave it to him. He frowned. She said, "Just in case. We don't know what's on the other side."

"Okay." Chris set the torch down, then leaned his shoulder against the trapdoor. The stone crunched, moved upward. She scrambled through the opening, then helped him quietly swing the door all the way open and lay it on the floor.

They had made it.

They were inside La Roque.

Robert Doniger spun, holding the microphone in his hand. "Ask yourself," he said to the empty, darkened auditorium. "What is the dominant mode of experience at the end of the twentieth century? How do people see things, and how do they expect to see things? The answer is simple. In every field, from business to politics to marketing to education, the dominant mode has become entertainment."

Across from the narrow stage, three padded booths had been set up, all in a row. Each booth contained a desk and chair, a notepad, and a glass of water. Each booth was open at the front, so that a person in the booth could see only Doniger, and not the people in the other booths This was the way Doniger gave his presentations. It was a trick he had learned from old psychological studies of peer pressure. Each person knew there were people in the other booths, but he couldn't see or hear them. And it put tremendous pressure on the listeners. Because they had to worry what the other people were going to do. They had to worry if the other people were going to invest.

He walked back and forth across the stage. "Today, everybody expects to be entertained, and they expect to be entertained all the time. Business meetings must be snappy, with bullet lists and animated graphics, so executives aren't bored. Malls and stores must be engaging, so they amuse as well as sell us. Politicians must have pleasing video personalities and tell us only what we want to hear. Schools must be careful not to bore young minds that expect the speed and complexity of television. Students must be amused - everyone must be amused, or they will switch: switch brands, switch channels, switch parties, switch loyalties. This is the intellectual reality of Western society at the end of the century.

"In other centuries, human beings wanted to be saved, or improved, or freed, or educated. But in our century, they want to be entertained. The great fear is not of disease or death, but of boredom. A sense of time on our hands, a sense of nothing to do. A sense that we are not amused.

"But where will this mania for entertainment end? What will people do when they get tired of television? When they get tired of movies? We already know the answer - they go into participatory activities: sports, theme parks, amusement rides, roller coasters. Structured fun, planned thrills. And what will they do when they tire of theme parks and planned thrills? Sooner or later, the artifice becomes too noticeable. They begin to realize that an amusement park is really a kind of jail, in which you pay to be an inmate.

"This artifice will drive them to seek authenticity. Authenticity will be the buzzword of the twenty-first century. And what is authentic? Anything that is not devised and structured to make a profit. Anything that is not controlled by corporations. Anything that exists for its own sake, that assumes its own shape. But of course, nothing in the modern world is allowed to assume its own shape. The modern world is the corporate equivalent of a formal garden, where everything is planted and arranged for effect. Where nothing is untouched, where nothing is authentic.

"Where, then, will people turn for the rare and desirable experience of authenticity? They will turn to the past.

"The past is unarguably authentic. The past is a world that already existed before Disney and Murdoch and Nissan and Sony and IBM and all the other shapers of the present day. The past was here before they were. The past rose and fell without their intrusion and molding and selling. The past is real. It's authentic. And this will make the past unbelievably attractive. That's why I say that the future is the past. The past is the only real alternative to - Yes? Diane, what is it?" He turned as she walked into the room.

"There's a problem in the transit room. It seems the explosion damaged the remaining water shields. Gordon's run a computer simulation that shows three shields breaking when they're filled with water."

"Diane, this is a goddamn no-brainer," Doniger said, tugging at his tie. "Are you telling me they may come back unshielded?"

"Yes."

"Well, we can't risk that."

"It's not that simple… ."

"Yes, it is," Doniger said. "We can't take the risk. I'd rather they didn't come back at all than to have them come back seriously damaged."

"But-"

"But what? If Gordon has this computer projection, why is he going forward?"

"He doesn't believe the projection. He says it's quick and dirty, and he thinks the transit will go fine."

"We can't risk it," Doniger said, shaking his head. "They can't come back without shields. Period."

She paused, bit her lip. "Bob, I think the-"

"Hey," he said. "We got short-term-memory loss here? You were the one who wouldn't let Stern go back, because of the risk of transcription errors. Now you want to let the whole goddamn bunch come back unshielded? No, Diane."

"Okay," she said, obviously reluctant. "I'll go and talk to-"

"No. No talk. Kill it. Pull the power plug if you have to. But don't let those people come back. I'm right about this, and you know it."

In the control room, Gordon said, "He said what?"

"They can't come back. Absolutely not. Bob was firm."

"But they have to come back," David Stern said. "You have to let them."

"No, I don't," Kramer said.

"But-"

"John," Kramer said, turning to Gordon. "Has he seen Wellsey? Have you shown him Wellsey?"

"Who's Wellsey?"

"Wellsey's a cat," Gordon said.

"Wellsey's split," Kramer said to Stern. "He was one of the first test animals that we sent back. Before we knew that you had to use water shields in a transit. And he's very badly split."