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by Robert Sheckley

  I'll just assume that you've chosen a complex way of getting into (or out of) Maya and that there's no need for me to remind you of the pitfalls and perils involved, since you know more than I do about mirror-deformations in the theatre of self. Of course, I just now have reminded you; but I don't mean to be insulting, I know that even the greatest adepts can profit from the words of a fool.

  Your wives have remarried, as you must have foreseen. Some of your children have changed their names, which maybe you didn't expect. But then, maybe you expected everything.

  Yours,

  Otto

  49. Do Not Fill in Separations

  These apparent discontinuities have been devised and implanted for your own safety and welfare. Please do not connect them with «logical» links. This sort of premature closure would spoil their facticity, and would result in a dangerous — perhaps fatal — state of accidie for you. Extreme perceptual looseness is recommended. Remember that low-level scanning is the key to total field perception.

  Thank you,

  John Macpherson,

  Commissioner, Dept of Public

  Mental Hygiene

  50. Whispering Voices

  "Repetition is inevitable."

  "Proceed by separations."

  "Is someone trying to tell you something?"

  "Read reversals."

  "Distortions must be expected."

  51. Reminder

  Mishkin saw a tape recorder on stilts. He went over and turned it on. The recorder said: "This is a recorded message to remind you not to forget to record a message to remind you not to forget."

  52

  "Yep, sonny, it's quite a sight — the biggest cause and effect factory in the whole danged galaxy. Works simple enough. We put the causes into this hopper and the effects into this hopper. Then the machinery takes over, and there's a lot of clanging and banging, and the product comes out over here — a nicely bonded cause-and-effect without a single seam visible to the naked eye. Our cause-and-effect bonds will stand up in any court of law anywhere.

  "We don't have no truck with them newfangled ideas about discontinuity and synchronicity and all that crap. Around here, if a horse kicks you, you get a broken leg, and if you've got a bellyache it's because you ate Italian sausage last night. That way everybody knows where they stand."

  "Well, damnation, I don't know why a thing like that had to go and happen. Still, sometimes it does happen. Sometimes a cause and effect absolutely refuse to bond.

  When that happens, and we ain't got no explanation for something, we call it God's Will.

  So I guess it was God's Will that this happened now with you, and I think we should kneel down for a moment of silent prayer."

  53

  Mishkin came to a long line of men. The man on the extreme left was listening to a transistor radio tuned very low. He heard something, turned to the man on his right, whispered, "You only live once. Pass it on."

  54

  Tom Mishkin and James Bradley Sooner sat down to the meal. The mouse jumped on to the table and began lugging plates around, serving mashed potatoes, cutting the roast beef. Mishkin asked, "Does he always do that?"

  The mouse said, "I will admit that it is a curious situation. Allow me to explain. For one thing, I am Jewish. For another…"

  "Serve the goddamned food!" Sooner roared.

  "Don't get so excited," the mouse said and went back to work.

  "Now, about this strange thing that happened to me," Sooner said.

  55

  The player drew three cards and threw down his hand in disgust. "I came into this game with no stake and lousy cards," he said, "but this draw is simply the end." He pulled a revolver from his pocket and shot himself in the head.

  Another man moved into his place, picked up his hand, grinned, and bet his life.

  Speckled landscape. The whitebird of bitterness. White eyes. White legs. Whiteout.

  Like the man who set fire to his friend's overcoat upon hearing the command, "Light up a Chesterfield".

  SILVER SWANS SWAP SOPHISTRIES

  56

  "How long do the hallucinations go on?" Mishkin asked.

  "Not long enough."

  57

  "What is this?" Mishkin asked.

  "This," Orchidius said, "is a device for altering reality."

  The object was the size and shape of an ostrich's egg. It had a single toggle switch.

  One side was marked, «On». The other side was marked, «Off». The switch was turned to "Off".

  "Where did you get it?"

  "I bought it at the Whole Earth Store," Orchidius said. "It cost $9.95."

  "Does it really alter reality?"

  "It's supposed to. I haven't tried it yet."

  "How could it?" Mishkin asked. "How could anything alter reality for $9.95?"

  "At that price it sounded too good to pass up," Orchidius said. "But I guess it can't work."

  "You can't be sure," Mishkin said. "You haven't tried it yet."

  "I don't suppose it's really necessary to try it," Orchidius said.

  "Of course it is! Push the switch!"

  "You push it."

  "All right, I'll push it." Mishkin took the egg and pushed the switch «On». They both waited for several seconds.

  "Nothing happened," Orchidius said.

  "I guess not. But how would we know it if something did happen? I mean, whatever happened would still seem like reality to us."

  "That's true."

  "Maybe you'd better turn it off."

  "Turn what off?" Sooner asked.

  58

  The heroic figure of a man, holding a flute in one hand, a serpent in the other. This man says, "Enter."

  A horned woman mounted on a werewolf, holding a sickle in one hand, a pomegranate in the other. This woman takes your overcoat.

  A man with a jackal's head, naked except for winged sandals. In one hand he holds a fragment of papyrus, in the other a bronze disc. This man says, "Immediate seating in the first three rows."

  How many more reminders could anyone want?

  59

  Puzzle picture: Concealed in this rustic landscape is God. The first viewer who correctly identifies himself will receive, at absolutely no cost to himself, satori. Second prize is a weekend at Grossingers.

  60

  "How long will the hallucinations continue?" Mishkin asked.

  "What hallucinations?"

  61

  Mishkin, at the age of twelve, loved God so greatly that he broke his marriage vows to himself.

  Mishkin was unfaithful to himself again today, preferring the affections of a stylish sports car and a suede jacket to the ardent constancy and unstinting love of Mishkin.

  "Your problem," the analyst said, "is an inability to love yourself."

  "But I do love myself!" Mishkin declared. "I do! I really do!"

  "Do you expect me to believe that?" the analyst asked. "I saw you looking at Sartre, Camus, Montaigne, Plato, Thoreau — to mention only a few of your lights o'love. When will you stop having these absurd, incessant, and unrewarding affairs?"

  "I love myself," Mishkin wept. "I really do."

  "Still smoking," the analyst noted. "Still lethargic, passive, uncontrolled. Is this the way you treat one whom you claim to love?"

  62

  Deep in the woods, Mishkin found an apostrophe. It was lost and crying softly to itself.

  Mishkin took it in his arms and stroked its soft fur. The apostrophe sank its curved claws into Mishkin's shoulder. Mishkin ignored the pain and continued to smoke his cigarette.

  They took his card and punched it. At once he felt relief, and then boredom, and then anxiety. He felt fine as soon as they put a new card into his hand.

  The footprints continued into the woods. Mishkin followed them. He was well armed, prepared to face the fabulous beast. At last he saw it ahead of him and hastily fired. Too late he realized that he had shot one of his avatars. The avatar expired. Mishkin felt a sense of
loss that became, inevitably, a sense of relief.

  63. The Sorrows of the Man of a Thousand Disguises

  The Man of a Thousand Disguises sat in his temporary office and considered the problem of Mishkin and the engine part. Somehow, the two would not come together, the desired juxtaposition would not come off. There was no flow towards the desired objective.

  Because of the difficulties inherent in this problem, The Man had been forced to invent himself — a deus ex machina — now standing tongue-tied in front of the audience and endeavouring to explain what was to himself still inexplicable.

  Having constructed himself, The Man of a Thousand Disguises was now stuck with himself. Did he also have to explain himself? Quickly, he abolished the necessity for doing so. He only had to explain about how Mishkin and the engine part came together.

  But how in fact did they come together? Did they really have to?

  "And so they came to their untimely ends, Mishkin, the cosmic jester, and the engine part, which was the cruel and paradoxical point of his joke. Yes, they perished, and at the same time the Earth fell into the sun, the sun blew up, and the entire galaxy fell through a black hole in the fabric of space-time, thus obliterating the tragi-comedy of human existence, and indeed, all dramas, all existences."

  No, delicious though it was, it simply wouldn't do. Mishkin and his engine part had to get together, the original problem had to be solved, all promises and premises had to be kept. After that was done, everything could be blown up but not before.

  So there it was again: The Man of a Thousand Disguises still had the unhappy duty of accomplishing the job for which he had created himself.

  He thought. Nothing intruded upon his disastrous solitude. Stray conceptions clouded his mind: "Any drug that fucks you up is good". "Depression is inevitable". "Concomitants".

  "Paris".

  With an effort The Man forced his attention towards the engine part. Where was the damned thing now? In some dusty warehouse on Earth, presumably, awaiting extrication for the delectation of the patient reader.

  "But who needs a reader who's a patient?" The Man snarled. Nevertheless, there it was: He was under contractual obligation to himself to construct a ballet for catatonics.

  The Man tried to pull himself together. "I am losing my mind."

  "Nonexistent problems have the maximum reality."

  "Not exactly what we had in mind."

  How true it was! People who live in glass psyches shouldn't cast words.

  To work: The Man of a Thousand Disguises picked up his analogic slide rule and inferential stylus. Now then: engine part become eagle heart, standing start, running water, ice. So much for the J series. Again now: treasure in the earth, crystal goblet, lathe, laughter, bat, slink, reduction gear.

  More like it!

  Moving with more confidence now, The Man put all the available data into the recycler and let it stand for three revolutions. Then he pressed the Outcome button. Up came an antelope mounted on a polar bear. Worthless! But wait a minute now—polar bear — yes, it's coming: polarity bears ante lope! A yin function breach delivery, definitely productive.

  Now to put it all through the constructs simulator.

  64. The Reality Principle Revisited

  Johnny Allegro was feeling out of sorts that morning. He set the derby on his black glossy hair. Carefully, he straightened the cuffs of his chocolate mohair shirt. Now he was ready for business.

  The telephone rang. Allegro pounced on it. "Allegro speaking."

  "Johnny? This is Harry van Orlen."

  Allegro pictured the big-bellied, slack-jawed gunman with the heavily stubbled jaws and the grimy fingernails.

  "Well, what is it?" Johnny snapped. He hated cheap gunsels, even though his work frequently required him to spend eighteen hours a day with them.

  "It's like this, Johnny. Do you remember that job we did on South Main Street?"

  "Yeah," Johnny snarled, recognizing at once the euphemism referring to the recent burglary of the Wel-Rite Storage Company on Varick Street.

  "Well, we found buyers for all the inventory except one piece of hardware we're still stuck with."

  "What kind of a product is it?" Johnny asked.

  "It's some sort of gadget labelled Spaceship Engine Part L-1223A. It was supposed to be sent to some guy named Mishkin in some place called Harmonia."

  "So, sell it."

  "Nobody wants it."

  "Then dump it somewhere." Johnny slammed down the telephone, scowling. He hated it when his underlings bothered him with questions that an ape would be able to solve while going downhill on roller skates. But he also hated unwarranted initiative.

  Just then a thought occurred to him: Maybe he should send that engine part to that guy, what was his name, that Mishkin, thus acquiring for himself the reputation of an eccentric philanthropist. Then he could do a few more nice things and maybe after that run for elected office.

  This notion suited Johnny's strange notions of noblesse oblige. He reached for the telephone.

  Just then the door burst open and three policemen and an author burst into the room with drawn guns.

  Johnny snarled in rage. His lightning-quick reflexes enabled him to dive beneath the desk before the policemen's bullets ripped through the space where he had just been.

  "Get him!" screamed the author. "He knows where the part is!"

  But Johnny had already pushed the blue button under his desk. A section of floor opened under him and Johnny fell through a chute that led to the garage where his Mercedes SL 300 was waiting, its motor ticking over quietly.

  65

  Some days later, on the cool, raffia-covered veranda of the large, weather-beaten house on lower Key Largo, Professor John O. MacAllister was undergoing a moment of severe perplexity. This was unusual for the tall, strongly built, sandy-haired physicist from Rockport, Maine. Beside him was Lois, his tall, attractive, chestnut-haired wife. She had just entered the veranda.

  Before Lois had a chance to speak, towheaded Tyie Oliver ran up on to the cool veranda with a five ball in his hand. "Pool, anyone?" he asked fatuously.

  "Not just now, Tyie," said Professor MacAllister in quiet tones.

  Tyie turned to go. But then it became apparent, even to his untrained and unobservant eye, that there was something strange and unnatural in the bearing of the two people he had known for only a month but already prized more than anyone in the world.

  "Is anything the matter?" Tyie asked.

  Before anyone could answer, Lois MacAllister's younger sister, Patty, came down the inner steps and out on to the veranda. Not yet seventeen, Patty was singularly developed for her age. She sat down in a faded green armchair and crossed the long, generously curved legs that fell from the slender waist below her ample and delicately shaped breasts.

  "Yes, John," she said, tart-sweet, "is anything the matter?"

  Professor MacAllister went a shade pale beneath the healthy glow of his tan. He noted that his wife's grey eyes had widened. Quietly, he said, "Now, wait just a minute…"

  The kitchen door opened. Out on to the veranda came Chang, the Chinese cook, Kyoto, the Philippine houseboy, and Mary Lou, the Jamaican housekeeper. They ranged themselves silently along the wall. And now it was Patty's turn to go pale.

  There was a long silence. Then Tyie said, "Uh, I guess I'd better be getting home. The paint on the birdcage is probably dry by now, and I…"

  "Don't rush away, Tyie," said Lois MacAllister. "There's someone here I think you should meet."

  The cellar door opened and out on to the veranda came a bald, one-eyed dwarf, a thin man in a black suit, and a pair of giggling, blonde, female twins.

  "Now I think we can clear this thing up," MacAllister said. "First, as to the so-called mysterious package that Ed Whittaker found in the bilge of the garbage scow, Clotilda, just two days before his disappearance…"

  "Yes?" Patty breathed.

  "It contained nothing more than an engine part for a spaceship. It w
as supposed to be sent to a Mr Mishkin of Harmonia, and in the presence of Judge Clarke I forwarded it to the Dade County Emergency Expediting Service."

  Patty slumped back, her body slack with relief. "Well, that takes care of that! We've all been a pack of fools!"

  "Maybe," said Lois MacAllister. "But we still haven't heard any explanation for the rest of it."

  Professor MacAllister looked thoughtfully at the people on the veranda. "That," he said, "may take a little longer." He went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink.

  66

  The sign on the door read: CONTINUITIES, INC. Uncle Arnold went inside and was shown to the office of Thomas Grantwell.

  "I've come here about my nephew," Uncle Arnold said. "Tom Mishkin is his name. He's stranded on a planet called Harmonia, and he's gotta have a certain engine part so's he can make his spaceship run again. But I can't seem to get the part to him."

  "Have you tried shipping it by space freight?" Grantwell asked.

  "I have. But they told me that the Interstellar Space Flight Premise had been suspended this year, and therefore they were unable to help me".

  "Did you ask them what was supposed to happen to your nephew?"