Wonderland
Arrival

American Airlines Flight 42 disembarked at the newly completed gate 3A at Dallas / Fort Worth International Airport , and Kelly Brooke immediately cringed.

It wasn't so much the cold sunshine pouring in through the glass walls overlooking the terminal, or her fellow passengers with whom she had spent the past four hours with. It was the feel of the place, all shiny plastic and brand new carpeting, with friendly-faced people in bland outfits rushing to and fro, or going nowhere at all. And above all, it was the mumbling of the electronics, an almost subliminal noise of computers, fluorescent lighting and buzzing wires which made Brooke shiver.

Not that anyone else there would have understood. In fact, they pointedly avoided her.

Brooke shouldered her carry-on bag, all black velvet and unexpected angles, and walked purposefully through the beige-colored halls to collect her luggage. The scent of vanilla and lilacs followed in her wake, earning the young woman a raised eyebrow and a sly smile from the people she passed. She loathed airports. The mind-numbing waits and the endless tracts of uninspired décor. The sooner she got out of here, the better. As it was, it was twenty minutes before she collected her baggage.

Carting her bags on a little trolly, Brooke ploughed a path through the huddled masses. Weary Texans in their faux-cowboy finery. College students in tee shirts and shorts; a reminder of the warm, bright weather which pervaded the South. Ancient-looking business people in their crumpling suits and briefcases. Everywhere the incoherent buzzing of electronics followed her. She stopped at an information kiosk to glare at a bank of monitors showing arrival and departure times. She hated automation, too.

"Excuse me," she said to a tired-looking girl working a counter, "Could you direct me to your telephones, please?"

The English accent got the girl's attention first, sounding lush and a little absurd to American ears. She glanced up at Brooke and blinked every so slightly at the sight of her. She was petite and very fair-skinned, with long, black hair falling in curls down to her hips. Quite pretty in fact, but it was the dark purple velvet smoking jacket and the gold pocket watch which made the girl pause. Followed by the frilly white blouse she wore underneath, spilling out of the jacket in swirls of lace. She looked to have recently escaped the 19^th Century. Except for the tight black mini and sheer black hose.

"Down the hall to your left, ma'am," the girl replied, as if it were obvious, her twang sounding equally absurd to the velvet and lace-clad apparition.

"Thank you," Brooke murmured. She turned to go, then stopped, glancing around.

"Something wrong?" the discomfited girl asked.

"It's not just the noise," said Brooke thoughtfully, looking up to study the ceiling.

"What noise?"

The young woman glanced over her shoulder at her. "I know you can't hear it," she sighed, "You're too used to it."

She gave Brooke a skeptical look. "Used to what?"

Frowning, Brooke rapped loudly on the top of the girl's computer terminal, attracting the attention of everyone else nearby. The vertical hold on the terminal's display went out, the picture spinning crazily, and the girl cringed. "This. The wheezing of the cooling fan. The high-pitched whine of the cathode-ray tube. That crackling static noise on the surface of the glass. The sound of information moving. Information about you, information about me, information about all these nice people standing about gaping at us. You're too used to it. It's all subliminal to you."

She stopped, her eyes narrowing at a sudden thought. Turning away again, she focused her attention on a small speaker set into the ceiling, eyeing it warily.

Annoyed, the girl cleared her throat. "What? You don't have computers in England ?"

"Yes, we do," Brooke answered darkly, "Far too many of them if you ask me."

"What are you looking at?" the girl countered.

"Your speaker."

Scrunching her face in puzzlement, the girl shrugged. "Okay..."

"Never mind," Brooke said softly, flashing her a polite smile, "I didn't mean to bother you. Thank you for the directions."

And she took off again. When she was out of sight, the girl's terminal flickered slightly and began working properly again.

It was her turn to be bemused when she reached the banks of pay telephones in one of the lobbies which dotted the terminal. Aside from dings, scratches and the occasional defacement, they were all exactly identical, except for two machines on the end marked " Denton Only". These didn't look like telephones either, bearing more resemblance to an ATM, except with a full keyboard and a big, bright LCD screen. One screen was showing weather information for various cities, the other offered a map of the airport. At the bottom right corner of each screen was the sentence, "Touch screen."

Eat me, drink me, Brooke thought to herself.

She approached the machines cautiously. As she watched, the weather was replaced by a scrawl of current news headlines on one screen. The other remained placid, so she walked up to it and tapped the screen with her finger, half-expecting it to shock her.

Instead, the airport map dissolved and was replaced by a two-dimensional illusion of a standard 12-key telephone keypad. Below this, a squib of text politely offered advice: "To make a call: Dial telephone number, then press DIAL." The "DIAL" button waited patiently below the text. To the left, there was a menu of options: Web Browser, Local Information, Airport Information, Complaints & Comments.

Brooke studied the screen for a moment. She'd never seen anything like this except in bad science-fiction films, and it didn't sit right with her. Still, it seemed innocuous, and fairly simple. Recalling the telephone number from memory, she punched it into the keypad, trying not to press to hard for fear of breaking it somehow. The number appeared above the "DIAL" button as she entered it.

Reluctantly, she pressed "DIAL".

There was no dial tone or any other noise. Instead, the instructions were replaced with "Dialing..." Then "Ringing..."

Finally, the entire screen blanked out. For a moment, Brooke felt some smug satisfaction that this gadget had failed to work as advertised. Then the screen brightened and a young woman's face appeared, sitting at a receptionist's desk. She was thin and oriental, with black and blue hair swept to one side. "Better Tomorrow Group," she announced politely, "How can I direct your call?"

"Can you see me?" Brooke asked suspiciously.

"Yes, ma'am," the woman replied, flashing a grin. She had apparently heard this many times before. "This is a video- or vid-phone. There's a small camera mounted on your screen, and on mine. Like video conferencing or a web cam. BTG designs, develops and produces them here in Denton . Sadly, the video element only works for calls within the Denton area for the meantime, but we're trying to expand to other municipalities."

"I see," Brooke murmured, unconvinced.

The woman grinned and nodded. "So how can I direct your call?"

Brooke sighed. "I'd like to speak to Jon Black, please."

"I'm sorry," the receptionist smiled, "Jon's not available at the moment."

"He told me he would be in," Brooke countered.

"What is your name?"

Folding her arms under her breasts, Brooke frowned. "Kelly Brooke."

Nodding, the woman rapped out something into the keyboard in front of her, turning to look at another screen. Her typing sounded like machine gun fire. The sound of someone overly familiar with computers and vast amounts of information. It made Brooke cringe as if it were fingernails on a chalkboard. "I'm sorry, Ms. Brooke," the woman said, her voice brightening slightly as she turned back to her, "Jon left a note about your visit. He had to leave unexpectedly on business, but he asked that we provide you will full accommodations until he returned. How long do you plan on staying in the area?"

"I'm not sure," Brooke replied, frowning thoughtfully, "I was going to back to London , but...I'm sure I can postpone that for a short time."

The woman nodded, smiling. "Excellent. I'll have a rental car arranged for you at the Enterprise down the hall on your right, and we'll find a comfortable place for you to stay while you're in town. At our expense, of course."

Her brow furrowing, Brooke looked askance at her, but she felt odd doing so since she was talking to a screen. Jon was only an acquaintance of hers from university, a 'recruiter' with whom she'd made friends. Better Tomorrow apparently had more than enough money to waste. "Thank you, but that's really not necessary," she replied, "I'm sure I can find something decent on my own..."

"No, really," the woman smiled, brushing this off, "It's the least we can do considering Jon took off and left you in the lurch. It's really no trouble at all. I insist."

Brooke hesitated a moment, but her curiosity and suspicion was piqued. "Well, if it's really no trouble..."

"Excellent! Just give your name at the Enterprise Rental desk. I'll make sure to have directions to our offices there as well."

"Thank you," Brooke murmured, "You're too kind."