Store of the Worlds: The Stories of Robert Sheckley (38 page)

In a loud voice, Piersen said, “All right. You can wake me up now.”

Nothing happened. Then he remembered that you couldn't awaken simply by requesting it. That would invalidate the sense of adventure and destroy the therapeutic effects of excitement and fear upon a jaded nervous system.

He remembered now. The only way you could leave an adventure was by winning through all obstacles. Or by being killed.

The shrub had almost reached his feet. Piersen watched it, marveling at its realistic appearance.

It fastened one of its hooked leaves into the leather of his shoe. Piersen grinned, proud of the way he was mastering his fear and revulsion. He merely had to remember that the thing couldn't hurt him.

But how, he asked himself, could a person have a realistic adventure if he knew all the time that it wasn't real? Surely Adventures Unlimited must have considered that.

Then he remembered the last thing Jones told him.

He had been lying on the white cot and Jones was bending over him, hypodermic needle ready. Piersen had asked, “Look, pal, how can I have an adventure if I
know
it's not real?”

“That has been taken care of,” Jones had said. “You see, sir, some of our clients undergo
real
adventures.”

“Huh?”

“Real, actual, physical adventures. One client out of many receives the knockout injection, but no further stimulus. He is placed aboard a spaceship and taken to Venus. There he revives and experiences in fact what the others undergo in fantasy. If he wins through, he lives.”

“And if not?”

Jones had shrugged his shoulders, waiting patiently, the hypodermic poised.

“That's inhuman!” Piersen had cried.

“We disagree. Consider, Mr. Piersen, the need for adventure in the world today. Danger is necessary, to offset a certain weakening of human fiber which easy times has brought to the race. These fantasy adventures present danger in its safest and most palatable form. But they would lose all value if the person undergoing them did not take them seriously. The adventurer must have the possibility, no matter how remote, that he is truly engaging in a life-and-death struggle.”

“But the ones who really go to Venus—”

“An insignificant percentage,” Jones reassured him. “Less than one in ten thousand. Simply to enhance the possibility of danger for the others.”

“But is it legal?” Piersen had persisted.

“Quite legal. On a total percentage basis, you run a greater risk drinking miniscarette or smoking narcolics.”

“Well,” said Piersen, “I'm not sure I want—”

The hypodermic bit suddenly into his arm.

“Everything will be all right,” Jones said soothingly. “Just relax, Mr. Piersen ...”

That was his last memory before awakening in the jungle.

By now, the green shrub had reached Piersen's ankle, A slender hooked leaf slid, very slowly, very gently, into his flesh. All he felt was the faintest tickling sensation. After a moment, the leaf turned a dull red.

A blood-sucking plant, Piersen thought with some amusement.

The whole adventure suddenly palled on him. It had been a silly drunken idea in the first place. Enough was enough. He wanted out of this, and immediately.

The shrub edged closer and slid two more hooked leaves into Piersen's leg. The entire plant was beginning to turn a muddy red-brown.

Piersen wanted to go back to New York, to parties, free food, free entertainment, and a lot of sleep. If he destroyed this menace, another would spring up. This might go on for days or weeks.

The quickest way home was to let the shrub kill him. Then he could simply wake up.

His strength was beginning to ebb. He sat down, noticing that several more shrubs were growing toward him, attracted by the scent of blood.

“It can't be real,” he said out loud. “Who ever heard of a bloodsucking plant, even on Venus?”

High above him were great, black-winged birds, soaring patiently, waiting for their chance at the corpse.

Could this be real?

The odds, he reminded himself, were ten thousand to one that it was a dream.
Only
a dream. A vivid, realistic dream. But a dream, nevertheless.

Still, suppose it was real?

He was growing dizzy and weak from loss of blood. He thought,
I want to go home. The way home is to die. The chance of actual death is so small, so infinitesimal
...

The truth burst upon him. In this age, no one would dare risk the life of a voter. Adventures Unlimited couldn't really put a man in jeopardy!

Jones had told him about that one in ten thousand merely to add a sense of reality to the fantasy adventure!

That had to be the truth. He lay back, closed his eyes, and prepared to die.

While he was dying, thoughts stirred in his mind, old dreams and fears and hopes. He remembered the one job he had held and his mingled pleasure and regret at leaving it. He thought of his obtuse, hard-working parents, unwilling to accept the rewards of civilization without, as they put it, earning them. He thought, harder than ever before in his life, and he came into contact with a Piersen whose existence he had never suspected.

The other Piersen was a very uncomplicated creature. He simply wanted to live. He was determined to live. This Piersen refused to die under any circumstances—even imaginary.

The two Piersens, one motivated by pride, the other by desire for survival, struggled briefly, while strength ebbed out of their body. Then they resolved the conflict upon mutually satisfactory terms.

“That damned Jones thinks I'll die,” Piersen said. “Die in order to wake up. Well, I'll be damned if I'll give him the satisfaction!”

It was the only way he could accept his own desire to live.

Frighteningly weak, he struggled to his feet and tried to pull the bloodsucking plant loose. It wouldn't release its grip. With a shout of rage, Piersen reached down and wrenched with all his strength. The hooks slashed his legs as they pulled free, and other hooks slid into his right arm.

But his legs were free now. He kicked aside two more plants and lurched into the jungle, with the green shrub growing up his arm.

Piersen stumbled along until he was far from the other plants. Then he tried to yank the last shrub from his arm.

The shrub caught both his arms, imprisoning them. Sobbing with anger and pain, Piersen swung his arms high and slammed them against the trunk of a tree.

The hooks loosened. Again he slammed his arms against the tree, shutting his eyes to the pain. Again and again, until the shrub released.

Instantly, Piersen began staggering on again.

But he had delayed his life struggle too long. He was streaming blood from a hundred slashes, and the scent was like an alarm bell through the jungle. Overhead, something swift and black descended. Piersen threw himself down, and the shape passed over him with a flurry of beating wings, shrilling angrily.

He rolled to his feet and tried to find protection in a thorny bush. A great, black-winged bird with a crimson breast dived again.

This time, sharp claws caught him in the shoulder and flung him down. The bird landed on his chest with a wild beating of wings. It pecked at his eyes, missed, pecked again.

Piersen lashed out. His fist caught the bird full in the throat, knocking it over.

He scrambled into the thorn bush on all fours. The bird circled, shrilling, trying to find a way in. Piersen moved deeper into the thicket toward safety.

Then he heard a low moan beside him.

He had waited too long. The jungle had marked him for death and would never let him go. Beside him was a long, blue-black, shark-shaped creature, slightly smaller than the first he had encountered, creeping quickly and easily toward him through the thorn thicket.

Caught between a shrieking death in the air and a moaning death on the ground, Piersen came to his feet. He shouted his fear, anger, and defiance. And without hesitation, he flung himself at the blue-black beast.

The great jaws slashed. Piersen lay motionless. With his last vestige of consciousness, he saw the jaw widen for the death stroke.

Can it be real, Piersen wondered, in sudden fear, just before he blanked out.

When he recovered consciousness, he was lying on a white cot, in a white, softly lighted room. Slowly his head cleared and he remembered—his death.

Quite an adventure, he thought. Must tell the boys. But first a drink. Maybe ten drinks and a little entertainment.

He turned his head. A girl in white, who had been sitting in a chair beside his bed, rose and bent over him.

“How do you feel, Mr. Piersen?” she asked.

“Fair,” Piersen said. “Where's Jones?”

“Jones?”

“Srinagar Jones. He runs this place.”

“You must be mistaken, sir,” the girl told him. “Dr. Baintree runs our colony.”

“Your
what?
” Piersen shouted.

A man came into the room. “That will be all, Nurse,” he said. He turned to Piersen. “Welcome to Venus, Mr. Piersen. I'm Dr. Baintree, Director of Camp Five.”

Piersen stared unbelievingly at the tall, bearded man. He struggled out of bed and would have fallen if Baintree hadn't steadied him.

He was amazed to find most of his body wrapped in bandages.

“It was real?” he asked.

Baintree helped him to the window. Piersen looked out on cleared land, fences, and the distant green edge of the jungle.

“One out of ten thousand!” Piersen said bitterly. “Of all the damned luck! I could have been killed!”

“You nearly were,” said Baintree. “But your coming here wasn't a matter of luck or statistics.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Piersen, let me put it this way. Life is easy on Earth. The problems of human existence have been solved—but solved, I fear, to the detriment of the race. Earth stagnates. The birth rate continues to fall, the suicide rate goes up. New frontiers are opening in space, but hardly anyone is interested in going to them. Still, the frontiers
must
be manned, if the race is to survive.”

“I have heard that exact speech,” Piersen said, “in the newsreels, on the solido, in the papers—”

“It didn't seem to impress you.”

“I don't believe it.”

“It's true,” Baintree assured him, “whether you believe it or not.”

“You're a fanatic,” Piersen said. “I'm not going to argue with you. Suppose it is true—where do I fit in?”

“We are desperately undermanned,” said Baintree. “We've offered every inducement, tried every possible method of recruitment. But no one wants to leave Earth.”

“Naturally. So?”

“This is the only method that works. Adventures Unlimited is run by us. Likely candidates are transported here and left in the jungle. We watch to see how they make out. It provides an excellent testing ground—for the individual as well as for us.”

“What would have happened,” Piersen asked, “if I hadn't fought back against the shrubs?”

Baintree shrugged his shoulders.

“And so you recruited me,” Piersen said. “You ran me through your obstacle course, and I fought like a good little man, and you saved me just in the nick of time. Now I'm supposed to be flattered that you picked me, huh? Now I'm supposed to suddenly realize I'm a rough, tough outdoor man? Now I'm supposed to be filled with a courageous, farsighted pioneering spirit?”

Baintree watched him steadily.

“And now I'm supposed to sign up as a pioneer? Baintree, you must think I'm nuts or something. Do you honestly think I'm going to give up a very pleasant existence on Earth so I can grub around on a farm or hack through a jungle on Venus? To hell with you, Baintree, and to hell with your whole salvation program.”

“I quite understand how you feel,” Baintree answered. “Our methods are somewhat arbitrary, but the situation requires it. When you've calmed down—”

“I'm perfectly calm now!” Piersen screamed. “Don't give me any more sermons about saving the world! I want to go home to a nice comfortable pleasure palace.”

“You can leave on this evening's flight,” Baintree said.

“What? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“I don't get it,” said Piersen. “Are you trying psychology on me? It won't work—I'm going home. I don't see why any of your kidnap victims stay here.”

“They don't,” Baintree said.

“
What?
”

“Occasionally, one decides to stay. But for the most part, they react like you. They do
not
discover a sudden deep love for the soil, an overwhelming urge to conquer a new planet. That's storybook stuff. They want to go home. But they often agree to help us on Earth.”

“How?”

“By becoming recruiters,” Baintree said. “It's fun, really. You eat and drink and enjoy yourself, the same as ever. And when you find a likely looking candidate, you talk him into taking a dream adventure with Adventures Unlimited—exactly as Benz did with you.”

Piersen looked startled. “Benz? That worthless bum is a recruiter?”

“Certainly. Did you think recruiters were starry-eyed idealists? They're people like you, Piersen, who enjoy having a good time, enjoy being on the inside of things, and perhaps even enjoy doing some good for the human race, as long as it's no trouble to them. I think you'd like the work.”

“I might try it for a while,” Piersen said. “For a kick.”

“That's all we ask,” said Baintree.

“But how do you get new colonists?”

“Well, that's a funny thing. After a few years, many of our recruiters get curious about what's happening here. And they return.”

“Well,” Piersen said, “I'll try this recruiting kick for a while. But only for a while, as long as I feel like it.”

“Of course,” said Baintree. “Come, you'd better get packed.”