The Impossible Fortress(78)

She put a hand on my shoulder, turning me slightly so I could see what she saw. Standing behind Finalist’s Row was a silver-haired man in a purple sports coat and black jeans. He was watching the players carefully, observing how they reacted to the game. I recognized him immediately, of course, the way anyone else might notice if Ronald Reagan walked into a room.

“You’re Fletcher Mulligan,” Mary said. “You made it!”

He gave a little bow. “Better late than never. We left LA nine hours ago, but Mother Nature was determined to thwart us.”

He was accompanied by two younger men and a younger woman—his entourage from Digital Artists. They looked like teenagers themselves—older than me and Mary, but not by much.

Fletcher pointed to the screen. “I’m getting a real kick out of this one,” he said. “Look at the animation on those sprites! And the music! Such a clever use of the SID chip, don’t you think?”

I was too terrified to answer. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. Mary elbowed me in the side.

“We made this,” I said. “Me and Mary. This is our game.”

“Are you kidding?” Fletcher looked us up and down. “But you guys are just kids! What are you, fourteen? Did your teachers help you?”

Mary laughed. “Definitely not.”

One of the players restarted the game, and the title screen popped up. Fletcher leaned closer to the monitor, squinting to read the credits. “What’s Radical Planet?”

Zelinsky, Mom, and Tack had wandered up behind us, and everyone was waiting for me to answer the question: What’s Radical Planet? I thought back to the night in the store when we coined the name. It seemed like a million years ago.

“It’s our company,” Mary said. “Will oversees the games, and I handle the music. But we both do a little of everything.”

“Who handles your sales?”

“We don’t have a publisher yet,” Mary said. “We just want to make good stuff and worry about distribution later.”

“Exactly, exactly!” Fletcher turned to his entourage and asked Mary to repeat herself, like she’d just summarized the meaning of life. “This is what I keep saying! Nothing ships before it’s ready! Just ask Atari. They learned their lesson with that dreadful E.T. game.”

Fletcher’s companions laughed politely while our parents looked on, confused, trying to grasp what extraterrestrials had to do with anything.

“Do you guys have business cards?” Fletcher asked.

I nearly said no, but again Mary was way ahead of me. “We forgot them.”

“How can I follow up with you?”

Mary wrote the address of her father’s store on a slip of paper, along with the phone number. “We have an office in Wetbridge. Across the street from the train station. It’s a really nice setup.”

Mr. Zelinsky cleared his throat. “And newly renovated,” he said dryly. “All new lights and shelving.”

Fletcher gave us business cards. They were embossed with the famous Digital Artists logo, the image stamped on the boxes of all my favorite games. “I want to keep this conversation going, understand? Stay in touch with me.” He shook hands with both of us, then shook hands with our parents and Tack, and then spun off into the crowd like a whirling dervish.

As soon as he left, Mary and I exploded with nervous laughter. “Did you hear what he said about the animation?” she asked. “Did you hear Fletcher Mulligan complimenting the animation in our game?”

We marveled over the business cards like they were made of gold. They were way better than any trophy, certainly better than any fifty-dollar savings bond. Mary pushed the card in her father’s face. She was practically jumping up and down. “Dad, that’s the guy I was telling you about! He’s like the Willy Wonka of video games! Did you hear what he said about the SID chip?”

“Calm down,” Zelinsky said. “What’s a SID chip?”

Mary’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God. He’s coming back!”

“Who’s coming back?” I asked.

“Behind you!” she whispered. “Fletcher Mulligan’s coming back!”

And the Willy Wonka of video games strolled up like we were old friends, like we’d known each other forever. “I forgot to ask,” he said. “What’s next?”

“Next?” Mary asked.

“What’s the next game?” Fletcher asked. “What are you guys working on?”

I froze. We all froze. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to ruin anything. Even Fletcher seemed to understand he had asked a delicate question. “You are working on a new game, right?”

Mary took a deep breath, like she was getting ready to blow out some candles. “It’ll be ready in a month?”

“Perfect!” Fletcher said. “It’s good?”

“You’ll love it,” Mary promised. “It’s way better than The Impossible Fortress. Better graphics, better music, faster gameplay. It’s probably the best thing Will and I have ever made.”

Fletcher nodded, like this was the answer he’d been expecting all along. “Then I want to see it as soon as you’re finished,” he said. “My address is on the card. I’ll be waiting, okay?”