And bored. There was nothing to do! He had already shown everyone he knew all the magical sleight-of-hand he could come up with. His sister had tranned to Inikan for three months to be part of the environmental programming university there. She had a summer job as an atmospheric designer's assistant, while Edison was left at home, staring out the window at a freeze-framed image of the skywriting message she'd sent the family. 

Very bored. His parents had yet again tranned for a two month vacation in their second home in Oxnard. 

Oxnard.

It had always sounded like an awful, green breakfast cereal to Edison, and in previous years, when he had gone with them, it hadn't been much more enjoyable. Edison's only comfort today was, in fact, remembering that he wasn't as bored as he had been on that trip. 

Very, very bored. He dejectedly typed "/q" and punched Return on his Apple OZ. He picked up the mouse and held it delicately at arm's length, as if it were the object he loathed most in the world, and he spun the rubber ball so that the pointer rested on "Off." 

WHANG. He brought the mouse down upsidedown, stabbing its button with the tip of the dirty fork he had left there from the previous night's dinner. The fork went flying across the room. Edison loathed user-friendliness, especially when he was bored out of his skull. 

"Are you sure you want to turn me off?" asked the monitor with a little image of an apple with a sad frown on its face. 

"YES, DAMNIT," replied Edison, slamming the mouse down yet again. WHANG. The dirty fork he had left there from two nights previous' dinner went flying across the room. He really did loathe user-friendliness. Especially when he was bored out of his skull. 

"Sure thing!" replied the monitor, and the a tiny picture of the computer's mouse began nibbling away at the unhappy apple. Shutdown. 

Edison was disgusted. He wished he could get a copy of The Professional Terminal, written by middle-aged software pirates, rumored to be unfettered with cute displays, mouse-characters, or any other such creatures of user-friendliness. The Apple people had taken it too far with the Happy Modem line's "Cheeriterm!". But the government had stern regulations against pirating, and he had never been able to locate a copy. 

He stood up. He was sixteen years of age, average height, average weight, dark blonde hair, empty-looking blue eyes, always somewhere else. He was wearing some of his lazy clothes; black shorts; very dark blue shirt with "Don't worry, I'm not in charge of anything" written in small white pica-serif across the front; dirty white softshoes; no socks. He stepped over the pillow that he had thrown on the floor earlier, took out a pen-shaped metal control from his pocket, twisted it, aimed it at the computer, and squeezed the back. 

"Zook!" the computer zooked off. 

"Tlubbit!" the television tlubbitted on. 

"Neeeeeeep!" Edison's control neeped. 

"Yow!" Edison exclaimed, due to the slight shock emitted by the control, too close to the television. 

The television screen came to life, and on it was the face of a rather exasperated young lady. She was looking up and to Edison's right in annoyance, as a voice from the speaker in her ear patiently told her that she was going to be fired from this summer job if she didn't get the connections started faster next time. She turned and looked straight out of the screen. 

"Greetings, uh," (fumbling with papers) "Sir. We at Erkonn Conspiracy's Edge of Wonder Workshop are going to -- all /right/, all /right/ -- are /try-ing/ to arrange a series of games. Now may I ask for a couple of minutes of your time, Sir?" It was her first day at this job, having worked her way up and down the limited rungs of employment available to a temporary worker until she knew half of the Workshop inside-out and the other half more or less correctly. One thing she didn't know, however, was how to please her supervisor, who would unceasingly yammer into her ear at every miniscule failure until she would learn how to nod acknowledgingly while the blasted thing was turned off. 

"Oh, okay," replied Edison, twisting and squeezing the control the appropriate amounts to light the "Clear to Talk" indicator. 

"Hello, Erkonn!" he said grandly. 

"Greetings, Mister Edison Town. We at Erkonn Conspiracy are getting these--"

"Township. Edison Township. Edison Maxwell T--" 

"Yeah. Right. Edison Township. Yes. We at Erkonn Conspiracy are getting this game together, see? Right. And, it's on, or, well, in, I mean, part of, special of, you know, -- right. Privy to. It's privy to only a few selected members of Erkonn and a few invited guests. It doesn't quite say here if you're Erkonn or a guest, but anyway, ...yeah. Well, you're invited." 

"Games? What kind? Adventure? Role-playing?" 

"Wait a sec. Says here you're supposed to meet us today at Twenty-Four Dash Two and Twenty-One Dash One, y'know where that is? In the area where Road 'A' and Road 'B' combine. The games are ... okay, it doesn't say here what the games are all about. But I have been involved with their creation and organization, and if you really want to know, they ssszzzzzzt." 

The screen went black, except for the words "On hook." Then nothing. The connection was broken. 

Edison, after staring a bit at the blank screen, turned from it and walked briskly out of his bedroom, muttering "twenty-four, dash, two; twenty-one, dash, one..."

The door swung shut behind him.