The Dream Master

by Roger Zelazny

Here!

  ... and here! replied the trees, the bushes, the stones, the grass.

  "Choose one," said the brook, as it widened, rounded a mass of rock, then bent its way down a slope, heading toward a blue pool.

  I cannot, was the answer from the wind.

  "You must." The brook widened and poured itself into the pool, swirled about the surface, then stilled itself and reflected branches and dark clouds. "Now!"

  Very well, echoed the wood, in a moment.

  The mist rose above the lake and drifted to the bank of the pool.

  "Now," tinkled the mist.

  Here, then...

  She had chosen a small willow. It swayed in the wind; it trailed its branches in the water.

  "Eileen Shallot," he said, "regard the lake."

  The breezes shifted; the willow bent.

  It was not difficult for him to recall her face, her body. The tree spun as though rootless. Eileen stood in the midst of a

  quiet explosion of leaves; she stared, frightened, into the deep blue mirror of Render's mind, the lake.

  She covered her face with her hands, but it could not stop the seeing.

  "Behold yourself," said Render.

  She lowered her hands and peered downwards. Then she turned in every direction, slowly; she studied herself. Final-

  ly:

  "I feel I am quite lovely," she said. "Do I feel so because you want me to, or is it true?"

  She looked all about as she spoke, seeking the Shaper.

  "It is true," said Render, from everywhere.

  "Thank you."

  There was a swirl of white and she was wearing a belted garment of damask. The light in the distance brightened almost imperceptibly. A faint touch of pink began at the base of the lowest cloudbank.

  "What is happening there?" she asked, facing that di­rection.

  "I am going to show you a sunrise," said Render, "and I shall probably botch it a bit—but then, it's my first profession­al sunrise under these circumstances."

  "Where are you?" she asked.

  "Everywhere," he replied.

  "Please take on a form so that I can see you."

  "All right."

  "Your natural form."

  He willed that he be beside her on the bank, and he was.

  Startled by a metallic flash, he looked downward. The world receded for an instant, then grew stable once again. He laughed, and the laugh froze as he thought of something.

  He was wearing the suit of armor which had stood be­side their table in The Partridge and Scalpel on the night they met.

  She reached out and touched it.

  "The suit of armor by our table," she acknowledged, run-

  ning her fingertips over the plates and the junctures. "I as­sociated it with you that night."

  "... And you stuffed me into it just now," he commented. "You're a strong-willed woman."

  The armor vanished and he was wearing his graybrown suit and looseknit bloodclot necktie and a professional ex­pression.

  "Behold the real me." He smiled faintly. "Now, to the sun­set. I'm going to use all the colors. Watch!"

  They seated themselves on the green park bench which had appeared behind them, and Render pointed in the di­rection he had decided upon as east.

  Slowly, the sun worked through its morning attitudes. For the first time in this particular world it shown down like a god, and reflected off the lake, and broke the clouds, and set the landscape to smoldering beneath the mist that arose from the moist wood.

  Watching, watching intently, staring directly into the as­cending bonfire, Eileen did not move for a long while, nor speak. Render could sense her fascination.

  She was staring at the source of all light; it reflected back from the gleaming coin on her brow, like a single drop of blood.

  Render said, "That is the sun, and those are clouds"— and he clapped his hands and the clouds covered the sun and there was a soft rumble overhead—"and that is thunder," he finished.

  The rain fell then, shattering the lake and tickling their faces, making sharp striking sounds on the leaves, then soft tapping sounds, dripped down from the branches overhead, soaking their garments and plastering their hair, running down their necks and falling into their eyes, turning patches of brown earth to mud.

  A splash of lightning covered the sky, and a second later there was another peal of thunder.

  "... And this is a summer storm," he lectured. "You see how the rain affects the foliage, and ourselves. What you just saw in the sky before the thunderclap was lightning."

  "... Too much," she said. "Let up on it for a moment, please."

  The rain stopped instantly and the sun broke through the clouds.

  "I have the damnedest desire for a cigarette," she said, "but I left mine in another world."

  As she said it one appeared, already lighted, between her fingers.

  "It's going to taste rather flat," said Render strangely.

  He watched her for a moment, then:

  "I didn't give you that cigarette," he noted. "You picked it from my mind."

  The smoke laddered and spiraled upward, was swept a-way.

  "... Which means that, for the second time today, I have underestimated the pull of that vacuum in your mind-in the place where sight ought to be. You are assimilat­ing these new impressions very rapidly. You're even going to the extent of groping after new ones. Be careful. Try to con­tain that impulse."

  "It's like hunger," she said.

  "Perhaps we had best conclude this session now."

  Their clothing was dry again. A bird began to sing.

  "No, wait! Please! I'll be careful. I want to see more things."

  "There is always the next visit," said Render. "But I sup­pose we can manage one more. Is there something you want very badly to see?"

  "Yes. Winter. Snow."

  "Okay"—the Shaper smiled—"then wrap yourself in that fur-piece..."

  The afternoon slipped by rapidly after the departure of his patient. Render was in a good mood. He felt emptied and filled again. He had come through the first trial with­out suffering any repercussions. He decided that he was going to succeed. His satisfaction was greater than his

  fear. It was with a sense of exhilaration that he returned to working on his speech.

  "... And what is the power to hurt?" he inquired of the microphone.

  "We live by pleasure and we live by pain," he an­swered himself. "Either can frustrate and either can en­courage. But while pleasure and pain are rooted in biology, they are conditioned by society: thus are values to be de­rived. Because of the enormous masses of humanity, hectically changing positions in space everyday throughout the cities of the world, there has come into necessary being a ser­ies of totally inhuman controls upon these movements. Eve­ry day they nibble their way into new areas—driving our cars, flying our planes, interviewing us, diagnosing our diseases— and I can not ever venture a moral judgment upon these intrusions. They have become necessary. Ultimately, they may prove salutary.

  "The point I wish to make, however, is that we are often unaware of our own values. We cannot honestly tell what a thing means to us until it is removed from our life-situation. If an object of value ceases to exist, then the psychic energies which were bound up in it are released. We seek after new objects of value in which to invest this—mana, if you like, or libido, if you don't. And no one thing which had vanished during the past three or four or five decades was, in itself, massively significant; and no new thing which came into being during that time is massively malicious to­ward the people it has replaced or the people it in some manner controls. A society though, is made up of many things, and when these things are changed too rapidly the results are unpredictable. An intense study of mental illness is often quite revealing as to the nature of the stresses in the society where the illness was made. If anxiety-patterns fall into special groups and classes, then something of the discon­tent of society can be learned from them. Karl Jung p
ointed out that when consciousness is repeatedly frustrated in a quest for values it will turn its search to the unconscious; fail­ing there, it will proceed to quarry its way into the hypo-

  thetical collective unconscious. He noted, in the postwar analyses of ex-Nazis, that the longer they searched for something to erect from the ruins of their lives—having lived through a period of classical inconoclasm, and then seen their new ideals topple as well—the longer they searched, the further back they seemed to reach into the collective unconscious of their people. Their dreams themselves came to take on patterns out of the Teutonic mythos.

  "This, in a much less dramatic sense, is happening today. There are historical periods when the group tendency for the mind to turn in upon itself, to turn back, is greater than at other times. We are living in such a period of Quixo­tism in the original sense of the term. This because the power to hurt, in our time is the power to ignore, to baffle—and it is no longer the exclusive property of human beings—"

  A buzz interrupted him then. He switched off the record­er, touched the phone-box.

  "Charles Render speaking," he told it.

  "This is Paul Charter," lisped the box. "I am headmaster at Dilling."

  "Yes?"

  The picture cleared. Render saw a man whose eyes were set close together beneath a high forehead. The forehead was heavily creased; the mouth twitched as it spoke.

  "Well, I want to apologize again for what happened. It was a faulty piece of equipment that caused—"

  "Can't you afford proper facilities? Your fees are high enough."

  "It was a new piece of equipment. It was a factory de­fect-"

  "Wasn't there anybody in charge of the class?"

  "Yes, but-"

  "Why didn't he inspect the equipment? Why wasn't he on hand to prevent the fall?"

  "He was on hand, but it happened too fast for him to do anything. As for inspecting the equipment for factory de­fects, that isn't his job. Look, I'm very sorry. I'm quite fond

  of your boy. I can assure you nothing like this will ever happen again."

  "You're right, there. But that's because I'm picking him up tomorrow morning and enrolling him in a school that exercises proper safety precautions."

  Render ended the conversation with a flick of his finger.

  After several minutes had passed he stood and crossed the room partly masked, though not concealed, by a shelf of books. It took only a moment for him to open it and withdraw a jewel box containing a cheap necklace and a framed photo­graph of a man resembling himself, though somewhat younger and a woman whose upswept hair was dark and whose chin was small, and two youngsters between them—the girl holding the baby in her arms and forcing her bright bored smile on ahead. Render always stared for only a few seconds on such occasions, fondling the necklace, and then he shut the box and locked it away again for many months.

  Whump! Whump! went the bass. Tchg-tchg-tchga-tchg, the gourds.

  The gelatins splayed reds, greens, blues and godawful yellows about the amazing metal dancers.

  HUMAN? asked the marquee.

  Robots? (immediately below).

  COME SEE FOR YOURSELF! (across the bottom, cryp­tically).

  So they did.

  Render and Jill were sitting at a microscopic table, thank­fully set back against a wall, beneath charcoal caricatures of personalities largely unknown (there being so many per­sonalities among the subcultures of a city of 14 million peo­ple) . Nose crinkled with pleasure, Jill stared at the present focal point of this particular subculture, occasionally raising her shoulders to ear level to add emphasis to a silent laugh or a small squeal, because the performers were just too human— the way the ebon robot ran his fingers along the silver robot's forearm as they parted and passed...

  Render alternated his attention between Jill and the danc-

  ers and a wicked-looking decoction that resembled nothing so much as a small bucket of whisky sours strewn with sea­weed (through which the Kraken might at any moment arise to drag some hapless ship down to its doom).

  "Charlie, I think they're really people!"

  Render disentangled his gaze from her hair and bouncing earrings.

  He studied the dancers down on the floor, somewhat below the table area, surrounded by music.

  There could be humans within those metal shells. If so, their dance was a thing of extreme skill. Though the manufacture of sufficiently light alloys was no problem, it would be some trick for a dancer to cavort so freely—and for so long a period of time, and with such effortless-seeming ease—with­in a head-to-toe suit of armor, without so much as a grate or a click or a clank.

  Soundless...

  They glided like two gulls; the larger, the color of polished anthracite, and the other, like a moonbeam falling through a window upon a silk-wrapped manikin.

  Even when they touched there was no sound—or if there was, it was wholly masked by the rhythms of the band.

  Whump-whump! Tchga-tchg!

  Render took another drink.

  Slowly, it turned into an apache-dance. Render checked his watch. Too long for normal entertainers, he decided. They must be robots. As he looked up again the black robot hurled the silver robot perhaps ten feet and turned his back on her.

  There was no sound of striking metal.

  Wonder what a setup like that costs? he mused.

  "Charlie! There was no sound! How do they do that?"

  "Really?" asked Render.

  The gelatins were yellow again, then red, then blue, then green.

  "You'd think it would damage their mechanisms, wouldn't you?"

  The white robot crawled back and the other swiveled

  his wrist around and around, a lighted cigarette between the fingers. There was laughter as he pressed it mechanically to his lipless faceless face. The silver robot confronted him. He turned away again, dropped the cigarette, ground it out slowly, soundlessly, then suddenly turned back to his partner. Would he throw her again? No ...

  Slowly then, like the great-legged birds of the East, they recommenced their movements, slowly, and with many turn­ings away.

  Something deep within Render was amused, but he was too far gone to ask it what was funny. So he went looking for the Kraken in the bottom of the glass instead.

  Jill was clutching his bicep then, drawing his attention back to the floor.

  As the spotlight tortured the spectrum, the black ro­bot raised the silver one high above his head, slowly, slow­ly, and then commenced spinning with her in that position-arms outstretched, back arched, legs scissored—very slowly, at first. Then faster.

  Suddenly they were whirling with an unbelievable speed, and the gelatins rotated faster and faster.

  Render shook his head to clear it.

  They were moving so rapidly that they had to fall—hu­man or robot. But they didn't. They were a mandala. They were a gray-form uniformity. Render looked down.

  Then slowing, and slower, slower. Stopped.

  The music stopped.

  Blackness followed. Applause filled it.

  When the lights came on again the two robots were standing statue-like, facing the audience. Very, very slowly, they bowed.

  The applause increased.

  Then they turned and were gone.

  Then the music came on and the light was clear again. A babble of voices arose. Render slew the Kraken.

  "What d'you think of that?" she asked him.

  Render made his face serious and said: "Am I a man

  dreaming I am a robot, or a robot dreaming I am a man?" He grinned, then added: "I don't know."

  She punched his shoulder gaily at that and he observed that she was drunk.

  "I am not," she protested. "Not much, anyhow. Not as much as you."

  "Still, I think you ought to see a doctor about it. Like me. Like now. Let's get out of here and go for a drive."

  "Not yet, Charlie. I want to see them once more, huh? Please?"

  "If I have another drin
k I won't be able to see that far."

  "Then order a cup of coffee."

  "Yaagh!"

  "Then order a beer."

  "I'll suffer without."

  There were people on the dance floor now, but Render's feet felt like lead.

  He lit a cigarette.

  "So you had a dog talk to you today?"

  "Yes. Something very disconcerting about that ..."

  "Was she pretty?"

  "It was a boy dog. And boy, was he ugly!"

  "Silly. I mean his mistress."

  "You know I never discuss cases, Jill."

  "You told me about her being blind and about the dog." All I want to know is if she's pretty."

  "Well... Yes and no." He bumped her under the table and gestured vaguely. "Well, you know..."

  "Same thing all the way around," she told the waiter who had appeared suddenly out of an adjacent pool of darkness, nodded, and vanished as abruptly.

  "There go my good intentions," sighed Render. "See how you like being examined by a drunken sot, that's all I can say."

  "You'll sober up fast, you always do. Hippocratics and all that."

  He sniffed, glanced at his watch.

  "I have to be in Connecticut tomorrow. Pulling Pete out of that damned school..."

  She sighed, already tired of the subject.

  "I think you worry too much about him. Any kid can bust an ankle. It's a part of growing up. I broke my wrist when I was seven. It was an accident. It's not the school's fault those things sometimes happen."

  "Like hell," said Render, acceping his dark drink from the dark tray the dark man carried. "If they can't do a good job I'll find someone who can."

  She shrugged.

  "You're the boss. All I know is what I read in the papers.

  "—And you're still set on Davos, even though you know you meet a better class of people at Saint Moritz?" she added.

  "We're going there to ski, remember? I like the runs better at Davos."

  "I can't score any tonight, can I?"

  He squeezed her hand.

  "You always score with me, honey."

  And they drank their drinks and smoked their cigarettes and held their hands until the people left the dance floor and filed back to their microscopic tables, and the gelatins spun round and round, tinting clouds of smoke from hell to sunrise and back again, and the bass went whumpl