Store of the Worlds: The Stories of Robert Sheckley (37 page)

The blue-black thing was coming up after him, climbing as though trees were its natural habitat.

Piersen went on, his whole body beginning to shake from the strain. The trunk was thinning out now, and there were only a few branches left to which he could cling. As he approached the top, fifty feet above the ground, the whole tree began to sway beneath his weight.

He looked down and saw the creature ten feet below him and still coming. Piersen groaned, afraid he could climb no further. But fright put strength into his body. He scrambled to the last large branch, took a firm grip, and drew back both legs. As the beast approached, he lashed out with both feet.

He caught it full in the body. Its claw tore out of the bark with a loud rasping sound. The creature fell, screaming, crashing through the overhanging branches, and finally hitting the ground with a squashy thud.

Then there was silence.

The creature was probably dead, Piersen thought. But he was not going down to investigate. No power on Earth—or any other planet in the Galaxy—would induce him to descend willingly from his tree. He was going to stay right where he was until he was damned good and ready to come down.

He slid down a few feet until he came to a large forked branch. Here he was able to make a secure perch for himself. When he was settled, he realized how close to collapse he was. Last night's binge had drained him; today's exertions had squeezed him dry.

If anything larger than a squirrel attacked him now, he was finished.

He settled his leaden limbs against the tree, closed his eyes, and went on with his reconstruction of last night's events.

“Well, friend,” Billie Benz had said, “come along and let me tell you. Better still, let me show you.”

They walked east on 62nd Street, while the deep blue twilight darkened into night. Manhattan's lights came on, stars appeared on the horizon, and a crescent moon glowed through thin haze.

“Where are we going?” Piersen asked.

“Right hyar, podner,” Benz said.

They were in front of a small brownstone building. A discreet brass sign on the door read NARCOLICS.

“New free drug parlor,” said Benz. “It was opened just this evening by Thomas Moriarty, the Reform Candidate for Mayor. No one's heard about it yet.”

“Fine!” Piersen said.

There were plenty of free activities in the city. The only problem was getting to them before the crowds collected, because almost everyone was in search of pleasure and change.

Many years back, the Central Eugenics Committee of the United World Government had stabilized the world population at a sensible figure. Not in a thousand years had there been so few people on Earth, and never had they been so well cared for. Undersea ecology, hydroponics, and full utilization of the surface lands made food and clothing abundantly available—overavailable, in fact. Lodgings for a small, stable population was no problem, with automatic building methods and a surplus of materials. Even luxury goods were no luxury.

It was a safe, stable, static culture. Those few who researched, produced, and kept the machines running received generous compensation. But most people just didn't bother working. There was no need and no incentive.

There were some ambitious men, of course, driven to acquire wealth, position, power. They went into politics. They solicited votes by feeding, clothing, and entertaining the populace of their districts, out of abundant public funds. And they cursed the fickle voters for switching to more impressive promise-makers.

It was a utopia of sorts. Poverty was forgotten, wars were long gone, and everyone had the guarantee of a long, easy life.

It must have been sheer human ingratitude that made the suicide rate so shockingly high.

Benz showed his passes to the door, which opened at once. They walked down a corridor to a large, comfortably furnished living room. Three men and one woman, early birds who had heard of the new opening, were slumped comfortably on couches, smoking pale green cigarettes. There was a pleasantly unpleasant pungent odor in the air.

An attendant came forward and led them to a vacant divan. “Make yourselves right at home, gentlemen,” he said. “Light up a narcolic and let your troubles drift away.”

He handed them each a pack of pale green cigarettes.

“What's in this stuff?” Piersen asked.

“Narcolic cigarettes,” the attendant told them, “are a choice mixture of Turkish and Virginian tobaccos, with a carefully measured amount of narcola, an intoxicant plant which grows in Venus's equatorial belt.”

“Venus?” Benz asked. “I didn't know we'd reached Venus.”

“Four years ago, sir,” the attendant said. “The Yale Expedition made the first landing and set up a base.”

“I think I read something about that,” said Piersen. “Or saw it in a newsreel. Venus. Crude, jungly sort of place, isn't it?”

“Quite crude,” the attendant said.

“I thought so,” said Piersen. “Hard to keep up with everything. Is this narcola habit-forming?”

“Not at all, sir,” the attendant reassured him. “Narcola has the effect alcohol should have, but rarely does—great lift, sensations of well-being, slow taper, no hangover. It comes to you courtesy of Thomas Moriarty, the Reform Candidate for Mayor. Row A-2 in your voting booths, gentlemen. We humbly solicit your votes.”

Both men nodded and lighted up.

Piersen began to feel the effects almost at once. His first cigarette left him relaxed, disembodied, with a strong premonition of pleasure to come. His second enhanced these effects and produced others. His senses were marvelously sharpened. The world seemed a delightful place, a place of hope and wonder. And he himself became a vital and necessary part of it.

Benz nudged him in the ribs. “Pretty good, huh?”

“Damned fine,” said Piersen. “This Moriarty must be a good man. World needs good men.”

“Right,” agreed Benz. “Needs smart men.”

“Courageous, bold, farsighted men,” Piersen went on emphatically. “Men like
us
, buddy, to mold the future and—” He stopped abruptly.

“Whatsa matter?” Benz asked.

Piersen didn't answer. By a fluke known to all drunkards, the narcotic had suddenly reversed its effect. He had been feeling godlike. Now, with an inebriate's clarity, he saw himself as he was.

He was Walter Hill Piersen, thirty-two, unmarried, unemployed, unwanted. He had taken a job when he was eighteen, to please his parents. But he had given it up after a week, because it bored him and interfered with his sleep. He had considered marriage once, but the responsibilities of a wife and family appalled him. He was almost thirty-three, thin, flabby-muscled, and pallid. He had never done anything of the slightest importance to himself or to anyone else, and he never would.

“Tell your buddy all about it, buddy,” Benz said.

“Wanna do great things,” Piersen mumbled, dragging on the cigarette.

“You do, pal?”

“Damn right! Wanna be adventurer!”

“Why didn't you say so? I'll fix it up for you!” Benz jumped up and tugged at Piersen's arm. “Come on!”

“You'll what?” Piersen tried to push Benz away. He just wanted to sit and feel terrible. But Benz yanked him to his feet.

“I know what you need, pal,” Benz said. “Adventure, excitement! Well, I know the place for it!”

Piersen frowned thoughtfully, swaying on his feet. “Lean close,” he said to Benz. “Gotta whisper.”

Benz leaned over. Piersen whispered, “Want adventure—but
don't wanna get hurt
. Get it?”

“Got it,” Benz assured him. “Know just what you want. Let's go! Adventure lies ahead! Safe adventure!”

Arm in arm, clutching their packs of narcolics, they staggered out of the Reform Candidate's drug parlor.

A breeze had come up, swaying the tree in which Piersen clung. It blew across his hot, damp body, suddenly chilling him. His teeth began to chatter and his arms ached from gripping the smooth branch. His parched throat felt as though it were clogged with fine, hot sand.

The thirst was more than he could stand. If necessary, he'd face a dozen blue-black creatures now for a drink of water.

Slowly he started down the tree, shelving his dim memories of last night. He had to know what happened, but first he needed water.

At the base of the tree, he saw the blue-black creature, its back broken, sprawled motionless upon the ground. He passed it and pushed into the jungle.

He trudged forward, for hours or days, losing all track of time under the glaring, unchanging white sky. The brush tore at his clothing and birds screamed warning signals as he plunged on. He ignored everything, glassy-eyed and rubber-legged. He fell, picked himself up, and went on, fell again, and again. Like a robot, he continued until he stumbled upon a thin, muddy brown stream.

With no thought to the dangerous bacteria it might contain, Piersen sprawled on his face and drank.

After a while, he rested and surveyed his surroundings. Close around him were the walls of the jungle—bright, dense, alien. The sky above was glaring white, no lighter or darker than before. And small, unseen life chirped and squeaked in the underbrush.

This was a very lonely place, Piersen decided, and a very dangerous one. He wanted out.

But which way was out? Were there any cities here, any people? And if so, how would he ever find them in this directionless wasteland?

And what was he doing here?

He rubbed his unshaven jaw and tried to remember. Last night seemed a million years ago and a totally different life. New York was like a city in a dream. For him, the only truth was this jungle, and the hunger gnawing at his belly and the strange humming that had just begun.

He looked around, trying to locate the source of the sound. It seemed to come from all sides, from nowhere and everywhere. Piersen doubled his fists and stared until his eyes hurt, trying to catch sight of the new menace.

Then, close to him, a brilliant green shrub moved. Piersen leaped away from it, trembling violently. The shrub shook all over and its thin hooked leaves produced a humming sound.

Then—

The shrub looked at him.

It had no eyes. But Piersen could feel the shrub become
aware
of him, focus on him, come to a decision about him. The shrub hummed louder. Its branches stretched toward him, touched the ground, rooted, sent out searching tendrils which grew, rooted, and sent out new tendrils.

The plant was
growing
toward him, moving at the speed of a man walking slowly.

Piersen stared at the sharp, glittering hooked leaves reaching toward him. He couldn't believe it, yet he had to believe it.

And then he remembered the rest of what had happened last night.

“Hyar we be, podner,” Benz said, turning into a brightly lighted building on Madison Avenue. He ushered Piersen into the elevator. They rode to the twenty-third floor and stepped into a large, bright reception room.

A discreet sign on one wall read ADVENTURES UNLIMITED.

“I've heard about this place,” Piersen said, dragging deeply on a narcolic cigarette. “It's supposed to be expensive.”

“Don't worry about that,” Benz told him.

A blonde receptionist took their names and led them to the private office of Dr. Srinagar Jones, Action Consultant.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Jones.

He was slight, thin, and wore heavy glasses. Piersen found it hard to restrain a giggle.
This
was an Action Consultant?

“So you gentlemen desire adventure?” Jones inquired pleasantly.

“
He
wants adventure,” said Benz. “I'm just a friend of his.”

“Of course. Now, then, sir,” Jones said, turning to Piersen, “what kind of adventure did you have in mind?”

“
Outdoor
adventure,” Piersen replied, a trifle thickly, but with absolute confidence.

“We have just the thing,” Jones said. “Usually there is a fee. But tonight all adventures are free, courtesy of President Main. Row C-1 in your voting booth. Come this way, sir.”

“Hold on. I don't want to get killed, you know. Is this adventure safe?”

“Perfectly safe. No other kind of adventure would be tolerated in this day and age. Here's how it works. You relax comfortably on a bed in our Explorer's Room and receive a painless injection. This causes immediate loss of consciousness. Then, through a judicious application of auditory, tactile, and other stimuli, we produce an adventure in your mind.”

“Like a dream?” Piersen asked.

“That would be the best analogy. This dream adventure is absolutely realistic in content. You experience actual pain, actual emotions. There's no way you can tell it from the real thing. Except, of course, that it
is
a dream and therefore perfectly safe.”

“What happens if I'm killed in the adventure?”

“It's the same as dreaming that you're killed. You wake up, that's all. But while you're in this ultrarealistic, vividly colored dream, you have free will and conscious power over your dream movements.”

“Do I know all this while I'm having the adventure?”

“Absolutely. While in the dream, you have full knowledge of its dream status.”

“Then lead on!” Piersen shouted. “On with the dream!”

The bright green shrub grew slowly toward him. Piersen burst into laughter. A dream! Of course, it was all a dream! Nothing could harm him. The menacing shrub was a figment of his imagination, like the blue-black animal. Even if the beast's jaws had closed on his throat, he would not have been killed.

He would simply have awakened in the Explorer's Room of Adventures Unlimited.

It all seemed ridiculous now. Why hadn't he realized all this earlier? That blue-black thing was obviously a dream creation. And the bright green shrub was preposterous. It was all rather silly and unbelievable, once you really thought about it.