Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  “There aren’t any more factories,” Foeren insisted stubbornly. “There’s no need of them. Any goods which a man requires can be produced by thought-control.”

  “The hell they are!” Joe said. “I’m telling you, I can remember the floating cities! I used to live in the Nimui sector on the island of Pasiphae.”

  “You think that proves anything?” Rend asked. “I remember that I worked on the 18th underground level of Nueva Chicaga. My work-quota was twenty days a year. The rest of the time I spent outdoors, in the forests—”

  Foeren said, “That’s wrong, Tom. There aren’t any underground levels. I can remember distinctly that my father was a Controller, 3rd Class. Our family used to trek several hundred miles every year. When we needed something, my father would think it, and there it’d be. He promised to teach me how, but I guess he never did.”

  Barrent said, “Well, a couple of us are certainly having false recall.”

  “That’s for sure,” Joe said. “But the question is, which of us is right?”

  “We’ll never find out,” Rend said, “unless we can return to Earth.”

  That ended the discussion for the evening.

  Toward the end of the week, Barrent received another invitation from the Dream Shop, more strongly worded than the first. He decided to discharge the obligation that evening. He checked the temperature, and found that it had risen into the high nineties. Wiser now in Omegan ways, he packed a small satchel full of cold-weather clothing, and started out.

  The Dream Shop was located in the exclusive Death’s Row section. Barrent went in, and found himself in a small, sumptuously furnished waiting room. A sleek young man behind a polished desk gave him an artificial smile.

  “Could I be of service?” the young man asked. “My name is Nomis J. Arkdragen, assistant manager in charge of nightside dreams.”

  “I’d like to know something about what happens,” Barrent said. “How one gets dreams, what kind of dreams, all that sort of thing.”

  “Of course,” Arkdragen said. “Our service is easily explained, Citizen—”

  “Barrent. Will Barrent.”

  Arkdragen nodded and checked a name from a list in front of him. He looked up and said, “Our dreams are produced by the action of drugs upon the brain and the central nervous system. There are many drugs which produce the desired effect. Among the most useful are heroin, morphine, opium, coca, hemp, and peyote. All those are Earth products. Found only on Omega are Black Slipper, nace, manicee, tri-narcotine, djedalas, and the various products of the carmoid group. Any and all of these are dream-inducers.”

  “I see,” Barrent said. “Then you sell drugs.”

  “Not at all!” Arkdragen said. “Nothing so simple, nothing so crude. In ancient times on Earth, men administered drugs to themselves. The dreams which resulted were necessarily random in nature. You never knew what you would dream about, or for how long. You never knew if you would have a dream or a nightmare, a horror or a delight. This uncertainty has been removed from the modern Dream Shop. Nowadays, our drugs are carefully measured, mixed and metered for each individual. There is an absolute precision in dreammaking, ranging from the Nirvana-like calm of Black Slipper through the multi-colored hallucinations of peyotl and tri-narcotine, to the sexual fantasies induced by nace and morphine, and at last to the memory-resurrecting dreams of the carmoid group.”

  “It’s the memory-resurrecting dreams I’m interested in,” Barrent said.

  Arkdragen frowned. “I wouldn’t recommend, it for a first visit.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dreams of Earth are apt to, be more unsettling than any imaginary productions. It’s usually advisable to build up a tolerance for them. I would advise a nice little sexual. fantasy for your first visit. We have a special sale on sexual fantasies this week.”

  Barrent shook his head. “I think I’d prefer the real thing.”

  “You wouldn’t,” the assistant manager said, with a knowing smile. “Believe me, once one becomes accustomed to vicarious sex experiences, the real thing is pallid by comparison.”

  “Not interested,” Barrent said. “I’ll handle my own sex life. What I want is a dream about Earth.”

  “But you haven’t built up a tolerance!” Arkdragen said. “You aren’t even addicted.”

  “Is addiction necessary?”

  “It’s important,” Arkdragen told him, “as well as being inescapable. All our drugs are habit-forming, as the law requires. You see, to really appreciate a drug, you must build up a need for it. It heightens pleasure enormously, to say nothing of the increase in toleration. That’s why I suggest that you begin with—”

  “I want a dream about Earth,” Barrent said.

  “Very well,” Arkdragen said sullenly. “But we will not be responsible for any traumas which acrue.”

  He led Barrent into a long passageway. It was lined with doors, and behind some of them Barrent could hear dull moans and gasps of pleasure.

  “Experiences,” Arkdragen said, without further explanation. He took Barrent to an open room near the end of the corridor. Within sat a cheerful-looking bearded man in a white coat reading a book.

  “Good evening, Doctor Wayne,” Arkdragen said. “This is Citizen Barrent. First visit. He insists upon an Earth dream.” Arkdragen turned and left.

  “Well,” the doctor said, “I guess we can manage that.” He put down his book. “Just lie down over there, Citizen Barrent.”

  In the center of the room was a long, adjustable table. Above it hung a complicated-looking instrument. At the end of the room were glass-sided cabinets filled with square jars; they reminded Barrent of his antidotes.

  He lay down. Doctor Wayne put him through a general examination, then a specific check for suggestibility, hypnotic index, reactions to the eleven basic drug groups, and susceptibility to tetanic and epileptic seizures. He jotted down his results on a pad, checked his figures, went to a cabinet and began mixing drugs.

  “Is this apt to be dangerous?” Barrent asked.

  “It shouldn’t be,” Doctor Wayne said. “You appear healthy enough. Quite healthy, in fact, and with a low suggestibility rating. Of course, epileptic fits do occur, probably because of cumulative allergic reactions. Can’t help that sort of thing. And then there are the traumas, which sometimes result in insanity and death. They form an interesting study in themselves. And some people get stuck in their dreams and are unable to be extricated. I suppose that could be classified as a form of insanity, although actually it isn’t.”

  The doctor had finished mixing his drugs. He was loading a hypodermic with the mixture. Barrent was having serious doubts about the advisability of the whole thing.

  “Maybe I should postpone this visit,” he said. “I’m not sure that I—”

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” the doctor said. “This is the finest Drug Shop on Omega. Try to relax. Tight muscles can result in tetanic convulsions.”

  “I think Mr. Arkdragen was right,” Barrent said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have a dream about Earth for my first visit. He said it was dangerous.”

  “Well, after all,” the doctor said, “what’s life without a little risk? Besides, the most common damage is brain lesions and burst blood vessels. And we have full facilities for taking care of that sort of thing.”

  He poised the hypodermic over Barrent’s left arm.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Barrent said, and started to get off the bed. Doctor Wayne deftly slid the needle into Barrent’s arm.

  “One does not change one’s mind,” he told Barrent, “inside a Drug Shop. Try to relax . . .”

  Barrent relaxed. He lay back on the bed, and heard a shrill singing in his ears. He tried to focus on the doctor’s face. But the face had changed.

  The face was old, round, and fleshy. Ridges of fat stood out on the chin and neck. The face was perspiring, friendly, worried.

  It was Barrent’s 5th Term Advisor.

  “Now Will,” the Advisor said, “
you must be careful. You must learn to restrain that temper of yours. Will, you must!”

  “I know, sir,” Barrent said. “It’s just that I get so mad at that damned—”

  “Will!”

  “All right,” Barrent said. “I’ll watch myself.”

  He left the university office and walked into the city. It was a fantastic city of skyscrapers and multi-level streets, a brilliant city of silver and diamond hues, an ambitious city which administered a far-flung network of countries and planets. Barrent walked along the third pedestrian level, still angry, thinking about Andrew Therkaler.

  Because of Therkaler and his ridiculous jealousy, Barrent’s application for the Space Exploration Corps had been turned down. There was nothing his Advisor could do about the matter; Therkaler had too much influence on the Selection Board. It would be a full three years before Barrent could apply again. In the meantime he was Earth-bound and unemployable. All his studies had been for extraterrestrial exploration. There was no place for him on Earth; and now he was barred from space.

  That damned Therkaler!

  Barrent left the pedestrian level and took the high-speed ramp into the Sante district. As the ramp moved, he fingered the small weapon in his pocket Handguns were illegal on Earth. He had procured his through untraceable means.

  To hell with the Social Code. He was determined to kill Therkaler.

  There was a wash of grotesque faces. The dream blurred. When it cleared, Barrent found himself aiming his handgun at a thin, crosseyed, foxy-faced fellow whose scream for mercy was abruptly cut short.

  The informer, blank-faced and stern, noted the crime and informed the police.

  The police, in uniforms of black and gray, took him into custody and brought him before the judge.

  The judge, with his parchment face and shaking fingers, sentenced him to perpetual servitude upon the planet Omega, and handed down the obligatory decree that Barrent be cleansed of memory.

  Then the dream turned into a kaleidoscope of horror. Barrent was climbing a slippery pole, a sheer mountainside, a smoothsided well. Behind him, gaining on him, was Therkaler’s corpse with its chest ripped open. Supporting the corpse on either side were the blank-faced informer and the parchment-faced judge.

  Barrent ran down a hill, a street, a rooftop. His pursuers were close behind him. He entered a dim yellow room, closed and locked the door. When he turned around, he saw that he had locked himself in with Therkaler’s corpse. Fungus was blossoming in the open wound in the chest, and the scarred head was crowned with red and purple mold. The corpse advanced, reached for him, and Barrent dived headfirst through the window.

  “Come out of it, Barrent. You’re overdoing it. Come out of the dream.”

  Barrent had no time to listen. The window turned into a chute, and he slid down its polished sides into an amphitheatre. There, across gray sand, the corpse crept toward him on the stubs of arms and legs. The enormous grandstand was empty except for the judge and the informer, who sat side by side, watching.

  “He’s stuck.”

  “Well, I warned him . . .”

  “Come out of the dream, Barrent. This is Doctor Wayne. You’re on Omega, in the Dream Shop. Come out of the dream. There’s still time if you pull yourself out immediately.”

  Omega? Dream? There was no time to think about it. Barrent was swimming across a dark, evil-smelling lake. The judge and the informer were swimming just behind him, flanking the corpse whose skin was slowly peeling away.

  “Barrent!”

  And now the lake was turning into a thick jelly which clung to his arms and legs and filled his mouth, while the judge and the informer—

  “Barrent!”

  Barrent opened his eyes and found himself on the adjustable bed in the Dream Shop. Doctor Wayne, looking somewhat shaken, was standing over him. A nurse was nearby with a tray of hypodermics and an oxygen mask. Behind her was Arkdragen, wiping perspiration from his forehead.

  “I didn’t think you were going to make it,” Doctor Wayne said. “I really didn’t.”

  “He pulled out just in time,” the nurse said.

  “I warned him,” Arkdragen said, and left the room.

  Barrent sat up. “What happened?” he asked.

  Doctor Wayne shrugged his shoulders. “It’s hard to tell. Perhaps you were prone to circular reaction; and sometimes the drugs aren’t absolutely pure. But these things usually don’t happen more than once. Believe me, Citizen Barrent, the drug experience is very pleasant. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it the second time.”

  Still shaken by his experience, Barrent was certain there would be no second time for him. Whatever the cost, he was not going to risk a repetition of that nightmare.

  “Am I addicted now?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” Doctor Wayne said. “Addiction occurs with the third or fourth visit.”

  Barrent thanked him and left. He passed Arkdragen’s desk and asked how much he owed.

  “Nothing,” Arkdragen said. “The first visit is always on the house.” He gave Barrent a knowing smile.

  Barrent left the Dream Shop and hurried home to his apartment. He had a lot to think about. Now, for the first time, he had the proof that he was a willful and premeditated murderer.

  CHAPTER 9

  BEING accused of a murder you can’t remember is one thing; remembering a murder you have been accused of is another thing entirely. Evidence like that is hard to disbelieve.

  Barrent tried to sort out his feelings on the matter. Before his visit to the Dream Shop he had never felt like a real murderer, no matter what the Earth authorities had accused him of. At worst, he had thought that he might have killed a man in a sudden uncontrollable fit of rage. But to plan and perform a murder in cold blood . . .

  Why had he done it? Had his lust for revenge been so great as to throw off all the restraint of Earth’s civilization? Apparently so. He had killed, and someone had informed on him, and a judge had sentenced him to Omega. He was a murderer on a criminal’s planet. To live here successfully, he simply had to. follow his natural bias toward murder.

  And yet, Barrent found this extremely difficult to do. He had surprisingly little taste for bloodshed. On Free Citizen’s Day, although he went into the streets with his needlebeam, he couldn’t bring himself to slaughter any of the lower classes. He didn’t want to kill. It was a ridiculous prejudice, considering where and what he was; but there it was. No matter how often Tom Rend or Joe lectured him on his Citizen’s duties. Barrent still found murder quite distasteful.

  He sought the aid of a psychiatrist, who told him that his rejection of murder had its roots in an unhappy childhood. The phobia had been further complicated by the traumatic qualities of his experience in the Dream Shop. Because of this, murder, the highest social good, had become repugnant to him. This anti-murder neurosis in a man eminently suited for the art of killing would, the psychiatrist said, inevitably lead to Barrent’s destruction. The only solution was to displace the neurosis. The psychiatrist suggested immediate treatment in a sanitarium for the criminally non-murderous.

  Barrent visited a sanitarium, and heard the poor mad inmates screaming about goodness, fair play, the sanctity of life, and other obscenities. He had no intention of joining them. Maybe he was sick, but he wasn’t that sick!

  His friends told him that his uncooperative attitude was bound to get him into trouble. Barrent agreed with them; but he hoped, by killing only when it became necessary, that he would escape the observation of the highly-placed individuals who administered the law.

  For several weeks his plan seemed to work. He ignored the increasingly peremptory notes from the Drug Shop, and did not return to services at the Wee Coven. Business prospered, and Barrent spent his spare; time studying the effects of the rarer poisons, and practicing with his needlebeam. He often thought about the girl. He still had the gun she had loaned him. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

  And he thought about-Earth. Since his visit to the Drug Shop, h
e had occasional flashes of recall, isolated pictures of a weathered stone building, a stand of live-oaks, the curve of a river seen through willows. This half-remembered Earth filled him with an almost unbearable longing. Like most of the citizens of Omega, his only real wish was to go home.

  And that was impossible.

  The days passed, and when trouble came, it came unexpectedly. One night there was a heavy knocking at his door. Half asleep, Barrent answered it. Four uniformed men pushed their way inside and told him he was under arrest.

  “What for?” Barrent asked.

  “Non-drug addiction,” one of the men told him. “You have three minutes to dress.”

  “What’s the penalty?”

  “You’ll find out in court,” the man said. He winked at the other guards and added, “But the only way to cure a non-addict is to kill him. Eh?”

  Barrent dressed.

  He was taken to a room in the sprawling Department of Justice. The room was called the Kangaroo Court, in honor of an ancient Anglo-Saxon judicial proceeding. Across the hall from it, also of antique derivation, was the Star Chamber. Just past that was the Court of Last Appeal.

  The Kangaroo Court was divided in half by a high wooden screen, for it was fundamental to Omegan justice that the accused should not see his judge nor any of the witnesses against him.

  “Let the prisoner rise,” a voice said from behind the screen. The voice, thin, flat and emotionless, came through a small amplifier. Barrent could barely understand the words; tone and inflection were lost, as had been planned for. Even in speaking, the judge remained anonymous.

  “Will Barrent,” the judge said, “you have been brought before this court on a major charge of non-drug addiction and a minor charge of religious impiety. On the minor count we have the sworn statement of a priest. On the major count we have the testimony of the Drug Shop. Can you refute either of these charges? If so, do so at once.”

  Barrent thought for a moment, then answered, “No sir, I can’t.”