Then had come the disputes over which fantasy environments the delegates would interact in. “We can’t expect lasting results if we lose all touch with reality,” a male delegate from India had declared. He had then demanded a setting similar to an early-nineteenth-century mogul’s palace. When none of the other delegates had agreed with this, he had threatened to leave the conference.

He was back on Earth now.

What had seemed straightforward and promising to begin with had rapidly turned sour.

The remaining delegates had finally settled on a suitable environment for interaction—a duplicate of James Hilton’s Shangri-La, created for downloaded Thistledown vacationers centuries ago. Within a few hours, more disputes had broken out. Two delegates had become enamored of each other and complained when the environment would not allow them to have sexual relations.

“That’s not what we’re here for,” Karen had tried to explain. They had not been mollified. Suli Ram Kikura had put her foot down, explaining that the environment had been modified to forbid sexual interactions. In this project, the delicately balanced psychological atmosphere would be damaged by allowing them. The two delegates had grudgingly given in, but even now complained about other petty issues.

Karen realized now that she and Ram Kikura had approached this project with entirely too much idealism. This shamed her; she knew humans too well to have been so naive. But Ram Kikura’s attitude had affected her deeply; she had approved of the advocate’s upbeat approach, and had unconsciously hoped against her better judgment that it would all turn out well, that people would after all be reasonable…

But even those with the very best attitudes and records were only human. Taken from the surroundings in which they had proven themselves, they had become little better than children.

City memory’s ideal environments were too seductive for Old Natives, and for that reason unsuited for what Karen and Ram Kikura hoped to accomplish.

Besides, there was a tension in the air…even in Shangri-La—something she could not define, but which seemed to put large obstacles in the way of their project’s success.

Suli Ram Kikura appeared on the balcony behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s time you took a rest.”

Karen laughed. “This place was made to be restful.”

“Yes, but for you, it’s not right.”

“So what are we? Wild flowers that wilt in the greenhouse?”

Ram Kikura’s brow wrinkled. Physically, she had changed little since Karen first met her, four decades before; she was still striking, with strong, pleasingly irregular features and golden-brown hair. “I’ve never thought of Thistledown as a greenhouse.”

“It’s Shangri-La to these people, even without going into city memory. I should have known.”

“You’re tired.”

“I’m mad, goddammit.”

“I was wrong. It is not your fault.”