Dan shook his head. "I'm not even sure that she wants to take over the Mansion. I know Debra, all she wants to do is turn ideas into things, as fast and as copiously as possible. She picks her projects carefully. She's acquisitive, sure, but she's cautious. She had a great idea for Presidents, and so she took over. I never heard her talk about the Mansion." "Of course you didn't. She's cagey. Did you hear her talk about the Hall of Presidents?" Dan fumbled. "Not really. . . I mean, not in so many words, but --" "But nothing," I said. "She's after the Mansion, she's after the Magic Kingdom, she's after the Park. She's taking over, goddamn it, and I'm the only one who seems to have noticed." # I came clean to Lil about my systems that night, as we were fighting. Fighting had become our regular evening pastime, and Dan had taken to sleeping at one of the hotels on-site rather than endure it. I'd started it, of course. "We're going to get killed if we don't get off our asses and start the rehab," I said, slamming myself down on the sofa and kicking at the scratched coffee table. I heard the hysteria and unreason in my voice and it just made me madder. I was frustrated by not being able to check in on Suneep and Dan, and, as usual, it was too late at night to call anyone and do anything about it. By the morning, I'd have forgotten again. From the kitchen, Lil barked back, "I'm doing what I can, Jules. If you've got a better way, I'd love to hear about it." "Oh, bullshit. I'm doing what I can, planning the thing out. I'm ready to _go_. It was your job to get the ad-hocs ready for it, but you keep telling me they're not. When will they be?" "Jesus, you're a nag." "I wouldn't nag if you'd only fucking make it happen. What are you doing all day, anyway? Working shifts at the Mansion? Rearranging deck chairs on the Great Titanic Adventure?" "I'm working my fucking _ass_ off. I've spoken to every goddamn one of them at least twice this week about it." "Sure," I hollered at the kitchen. "Sure you have." "Don't take my word for it, then. Check my fucking phone logs." She waited. "Well? Check them!" "I'll check them later," I said, dreading where this was going. "Oh, no you _don't_," she said, stalking into the room, fuming. "You can't call me a liar and then refuse to look at the evidence." She planted her hands on her slim little hips and glared at me. She'd gone pale and I could count every freckle on her face, her throat, her collarbones, the swell of her cleavage in the old vee-neck shirt I'd given her on a day-trip to Nassau. "Well?" she asked. She looked ready to wring my neck. "I can't," I admitted, not meeting her eyes. "Yes you can -- here, I'll dump it to your public directory." Her expression shifted to one of puzzlement when she failed to locate me on her network. "What's going on?" So I told her. Offline, outcast, malfunctioning.