Buzzabeez's face wrinkled with disgust. "What a revolting development!"
"Good idea!" Sucar cried. "Let's have a revolution!"
"Shut up," Buzzabeez snapped.
But Sucar went on. "Myself, I'm beginning to remember that I'm not really me—not Sucar Blutstein, anyway."
"Shut up," Buzzabeez snapped again.
"I was once someone else," Sucar cried, "but somebody did something to me, fed me something, that made me into what I am now!"
"Shut up!" Buzzabeez shouted.
"No, you shut up!" Roderick commanded. "Sucar has the floor."
"Who appointed you chairman?" Buzzabeez snarled.
"I did, myself!"
"And I impeach Buzzabeez!" Sucar cried. "I move that Buzzabeez be deposed!"
Deviz yapped.
"He says, 'I second the motion,'" Roderick explained. "All in favor?"
"Aye!" shouted Auntie Dil, Roderick, and Sucar. Deviz barked.
"The vote is unanimous," Roderick confirmed, "except for L'Age, who's incapacitated, and McChurch and Petty, who're oblivious. The motion passes, and so does Buzzabeez."
"You can't do this!" Buzzabeez shouted.
"We just did, as I remember."
"And I remember something else!" Sucar cried. "I remember that what whoever-it-was fed me, was only supposed to put me to sleep and make me more amenable to suggestion! But it did more—it made me willing to do whatever this deposed dumbkopf dictated!"
"Watch the pejoratives," Buzzabeez snarled, but Auntie Dil cried, "I too," and Roderick said, "Same here."
Deviz yapped and snarled.
"He says, 'The drug that produces those effects is commonly known as the zombie drug,'" Roderick translated.
"I deny it!" Buzzabeez ranted, waving his hands. "I deny everything! I didn't do it! I didn't give orders for it to be done! Nobody told me…"
"That, I believe." Roderick nodded. "You're probably just another poor zombie like the rest of us—but for some reason, you were much more apt to do what the script said."
"But that means he's the one who's acting as the voice of the script!" Sucar cried.
"Aye," Auntie Dil said, frowning. 'T truth, we know not what this 'script' doth say, save what he doth tell us."
"So," Sucar said, with a bright smile, "if we can just wake up Buzzabeez, we won't have to listen to any nonsense about this 'script' anymore!"
"No!" Buzzabeez was beginning to foam at the mouth. "You can't! That'd destroy any semblance of order! It'll shred sensibility! It'll play dice with the universe!"
"But we'll be able to do as we think right," Roderick said.
"See? Rampant chaos!"
"But we'll all wake up, and quit being zombies," Sucar pointed out.
"Anarchy!"
"Grab him!"
They all pounced on Buzzabeez, who realized what was happening just a second too late to dodge. He thrashed about, howling and trying to break free, but Sucar and Roderick wrestled him to the ground, and Auntie Dil sat on his legs while Roderick pinned his arms and Sucar pulled out his saltshaker.
"You can't do this!" Buzzabeez shouted. "It's immoral! It's unethical! It's against all… GACK!"
"Helped that he had his mouth open," Roderick commented.
"I couldn't miss," Sucar agreed.
Buzzabeez swallowed convulsively, and his eyes bulged, staring, his whole body rigid. He began to tremble, and as he shook, he faded away and was gone.
Auntie Dil landed with a thump on her rump, and stared at the empty floor in astonishment. "Forsooth! Wither went he?"
Deviz yapped happily.
"He says, 'Wherever he came from,'" Roderick translated.
"But where is that?" Auntie Dil asked.
"None of us know," Sucar told her. He turned to Roderick. "Do you know where you came from?"
Roderick stared up at the ceiling, frowning, then shook his head. "Not quite. I can almost remember…"
Deviz yapped, barked, and growled.
"He says he does," Roderick explained. "He says, 'I know who I am—I am Notem-Modem 409, a computerized notepad—and I know where I came from. But where did all you zombies come from?'"
Sucar shrugged. "I don't know, to tell the truth."
"Neither do I," Roderick confessed.
"Nor I," Auntie Diluvian said, "yet I do know that we must waken."
"Good point." Roderick held up a finger, then used it to point to L'Age's mouth, frozen open. "Maestro, if you please?"
"Glad to." Sucar turned to sprinkle a little salt into L'Age's mouth. Instantly, she faded away, and they found themselves staring at a very dusty oaken floor.
"Success!" Roderick said, elated. "Now for the hard job. You grab him, Auntie, and I'll grab her."
"I mislike the sound of that, somehow," Auntie Dil said, but she took hold of McChurch's biceps while Roderick caught Petty's shoulder. "Now," he said, "Sucar, you stand ready to sprinkle. All right, now, on the count of three— One! Two! Three!"
He and Auntie Dil heaved. With a smacking like a huge suction cup coming unglued. Petty and McChurch peeled apart and stared in total bewilderment, mouths still wide open.
"Gotcha!" Sucar cried, sprinkling salt in each one's mouth.
Startled, they closed their mouths and swallowed with twin gulps, then stared at each other, appalled, as they faded.
Petty gave a mew of distress, reaching out toward the vanishing McChurch, but she faded too, and was gone.
"Success!" Sucar crowed. "Okay, you three—line up! Shoulders back! Stomachs in! Mouths open!"
Roderick and Auntie Dil snapped to attention, side by side, and Deviz sat up on his hind legs next to Auntie Dil. Sucar walked down the line, sprinkling salt on each tongue, and, one by one, they faded. Sucar halted, appalled, as he looked around at the bare, empty room and, for the first time, became aware of the wind's muted moaning around the corners of the huge old house. Left to himself, Sucar sniffed, wiped away a tear of loneliness, and said, "I miss you very much."
Then he tilted his head back, opened his mouth, sprinkled salt on his own tongue, and disappeared.
One by one, the dreamers wakened. They opened their eyes, frowning, squinting against the light, and began to struggle up from their couches.
The hostess stared at them, horrified, then turned and ran from the room, crying, "Get the manager! These patrons just woke up—before the dream ended!"
Rod groaned, and swung his legs over the side of the couch. "I feel as though I've just been hit by a meteor!"
Mirane slid off her sofa blinking, and tried to stand up. Her knees gave way, and she caught at the cushions. Stroganoff leaped off his couch with a cry, but she called, "No, I'm all right. But… but thanks, Dave." And she blushed.
Rod frowned, wondering what the red face was about. Then he hauled his mind back to the immediate problem. "Hold on, everybody! Remember, take the helmets off carefully! I don't think they could do any harm if we yanked 'em off, but I'd rather not find out the hard way."
Brother Joey lifted his helmet off with caution, then held it out, staring at it and blinking, then pushed it away with revulsion.
Chornoi took hers off with regret. "Well, it was fun while it lasted."
Rod looked up in surprise. "You must have been L'Age d'Or."
A short, stocky man in a business coverall bustled into the room. "All right, what's going on here?"
Rod felt his hackles rise. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm Roksa, the manager. How the hell did you wake up before the dream was over?"
"Oh, that's easy enough to answer," Brother Joey said. "According to the traditional superstitions, you see, you can break the spell that holds a zombie, by filling his mouth with salt. Of course, you have to sew his lips shut so he can't spit it out, and when he comes out of the spell, he may try to kill you. But after that, he'll go back to where he came from—his grave—as fast as he can."
Roksa frowned. "What's that got to do with you waking up from the dream?"
<
br /> Brother Joey shrugged. "Dreams are fantasies, so the symbols of superstition work, within the structure of the dream-universe. When our dream selves realized we'd been fed zombie drugs, they sprinkled salt on each other's tongues—and the symbol worked; we went back to where we'd come from—here."
"Zombie drugs?" The manager darted glances from one face to another. "Who said anything about zombie drugs?"
"I did."
They all turned, astonished. The tinny voice was coming from Mirane's couch, where her computer-notepad lay. "I am a Notem-Modem 409, and I have wireless capabilities for connection to larger computers—and for interfacing with the human brain. I have become symbiotic with my operator."
Mirane paled. Her eyes were huge.
Stroganoff clasped her around the shoulders. "Take it easy, kid. I know it's hard to take, but any artist has to develop a feel for her tools."
Mirane snatched up the notepad and clutched it to her.
"Consequently, when my operator entered into the dream-state, I participated in it with her," the notepad went on. "However, being electronic, I was immune to the drug, and was able to realize that the dream was not the safe and pleasant refuge these patrons had anticipated."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Chornoi muttered.
Stroganoff shook his head. "Lousy plot. Not to mention the characterization."
Roksa's head lifted, eyes narrowing. "You don't like my dreams, citizen, you can make your own."
"I just might."
"The zombie drug isn't terribly legal," Rod pointed out. "And there are supposed to be certain guarantees of safety, for patrons experiencing a dream."
Roksa shrugged impatiently. "All right, so I bent a few rules."
"Bent!" Yorick snorted. "How about 'mangled'?"
But Whitey held up a hand. "Hold on, you two. The laws he broke don't really matter."
"Don't matter?"
"Not compared to what that dream was doing, all by itself." Whitey faced Roksa squarely, head lowered a little, glowering. "That plot just took it for granted that people should take orders and not think about them. If we'd stayed in it long enough, we'd have waked up conditioned to just accept whatever Authority said, without question, without
■ even a notion of resisting!" Yorick whistled. "Wow! The ideal brainwashing system—with the victims footing the bill!"
Roksa paled and took a step back. "You can't prove that."
"Oh, I think I could," Whitey said with a shark's grin. "A semiotic analysis of the plot, and a neurological analysis of the choice-alternatives… yes, I think I could prove it very thoroughly." very thoi
"So what?" Roksa's jaw thrust out a little. "There's nothing illegal about it."
"Only because nobody's thought of it yet. Tell me—do all your dreams do that?"
"I don't have to answer that question!"
Yorick grinned and stepped forward, massaging his fist. "Why not?"
"Because of them!" Roksa stepped back and yanked the door open. A dozen big, muscular men slouched into the room. Only eight of them carried clubs. The other four carried blasters.
Rod stabbed a finger at the leader. "You're the peasant! The one with the pitchfork!"
The leader gave a mock bow. "Wirlin Eaves, at your service."
"He's too modest," Roksa chuckled. "That's Wirlin Eaves, Ph.D."
"Ph.D.?" Rod frowned. "What're you doing leading a bunch of assassins?"
"I couldn't get a job teaching. Besides, this pays better."
"What's your area," Rod snorted, "political science?"
"Naw." Eaves grinned wickedly. "I'm the real thing—a Ph.D. in philosophy."
Rod stared. "You're a certified philosopher?"
"What's so strange about that?"
"But—you kill people!"
"You noticed."
"How can a philosopher justify doing such horrible things?"
"What else is philosophy for, these days?"
"But what kind of reasons could philosophy give you for killing people!"
"The best." Eaves grinned. "It's profitable."
"I thought philosophy was supposed to be ethical."
"Haven't you ever heard of existentialism?" Eaves shrugged. "Besides, it is ethical; it's just that you don't agree with this ethic." He turned serious for a moment. "But if you really want to know, before I burn your brains out, I'll tell you. It's a way of exercising power over my subjective universe."
"A solipsist," Rod groaned. "I thought you were supposed to be a philosopher, not a hatchet man. No, one last question!" He held up a hand as Eaves started forward, and the thug stopped."What would have happened if we'd slept through the whole dream?"
"Oh, you would've waked up, same as usual." Eaves shrugged. "You just would've found yourselves surrounded, that's all—and wearing straitjackets."
"But the inmates took over the asylum, eh?"
"Management's about to reassert itself," Eaves informed him. "Take 'em!"
He lifted his blaster.
Gwen concentrated all of her attention on the weapon.
Eaves pressed the trigger with an ecstatic grin. Then the grin faded into horrified shock. He pressed the trigger again— and again, and again.
His three sidekicks lifted their blasters and pressed their triggers, too, with the same lack of result.
"What'd you do to them?" Eaves growled.
"You really don't want to know," Rod assured him. "It might upset your philosophical system."
Eaves' eyes narrowed. "All right, we'll do it the old-fashioned way. Now.'"
He and his men waded in, swinging their blasters as clubs. Their mates fanned out fast around the company and started in with their truncheons.
Whitey shouted and lashed a kick at a thug. The man howled and dropped his club, as Chomoi barked and chopped at another one. He blocked and snapped his club down, but she twisted aside and bounced a chop off another man's neck. As he dropped, she slashed a kick at the first one, ducked under a swing from a third and stabbed him in the solar plexus with a shout, then blocked a swing from the first attacker and followed it with a kick in the chin. He slammed back into the wall, and she spun to a fourth thug.
Yorick was much more conservative. He dodged as an attacker swung a club at him, caught the man's wrist and whipped it around and up behind his back—way up. The thug howled as Yorick twisted the club out of his hand and cracked it down on his skull. Then he shoved the man into an oncoming assassin, grabbed a third by the neck and rammed his head into the wall, then turned back just as the second was picking himself up, and slammed a haymaker into his jaw.
Rod's head was ringing; Eaves had connected. But so had Rod, and the lead thug had dropped his blaster. He circled to Rod's left, guard tight, shaking his head. Rod jabbed at his belly, his head, his belly again, and caught him with a right cross. Eaves staggered back, and Rod followed with a kick that sent him crashing into the wall.
Gwen glared at three other thugs who were crowding back together, trying to fend off a cloud of dream-helmets and fallen clubs that whirled at them. Every now and then, one got through.
Mirane crouched behind Stroganoff, frantically punching keys on her computer-pad. He stood between her and the thugs, arms outstretched to shield her as he watched, dazed and muttering, "I gotta remember this! For my next fight sequence! Gotta remember!"
"Not quite!" Rod yanked Roksa and the hostess back into the room and kicked the door shut. He sent the girl spinning over to Chornoi, who advanced on her, eyes steely. The hostess backed against the wall, terrified. Roksa tried to twist to swing at Rod, but Rod had him by the coverall collar at the end of a very long arm, and Roksa's eyes bulged as the collar tightened around his neck. He turned back, quickly—and stared at twelve unconscious men littering the floor of his dream-room.
"Don't take it so hard," Rod soothed. "Only one of them is dead." He raised his voice. "A little careless there, Chornoi."
She shrugged impatiently. "I was in a rush."
"
I wasn't complaining."
Yorick shook his head slowly, clucking his tongue. "Messy, messy! What'll we do with them?"
"We could hook them up to the dream-machines," Chornoi suggested.
"No!" Roksa cried. The hostess's terror turned to horror.
"It won't be that bad." Mirane stepped out from behind Stroganoff. "I've been doing a little reprogramming on your computer."
Roksa and the hostess stared, white showing all around their eyes.
"I changed it to stop conditioning people," Mirane explained.
"But that's impossible!"
"Not at all; I just told it to insert new plot-alternatives that stress individuality and skepticism."
Roksa didn't exactly look reassured. "We'll wake up totally confused!"
"No, just curious. You'll question authority—and you'll keep questioning, until you find answers you can prove."
"But there won't be time to enjoy life!" the hostess wailed.
"Learning can be fun," Yorick assured her.
"Would you rather not have a life?" Chornoi watched her, taut and alert.
"I… think I'll take the dream," the young woman said slowly.
Rod nodded. "Very wise." He turned to Roksa. "You'll take it, too. The only question is whether or not you'll do it willingly."
Roksa stared at him.
Then his fist slammed into Rod's belly.
Rod doubled over in agony, and Roksa started to turn to the door, so he was at just the right angle as Yorick's fist crashed into his jaw. The manager folded, very neatly.
"Courage, husband." Gwen was beside him, massaging his back, soothing. "Tis but pain, and 'twill pass."
Yeah, but so will I. Rod couldn't say it aloud, due to a temporary malfunction of the diaphragm. He fought to breathe in. Finally, air came in a long, shuddering gasp. He straightened slowly, turning to Mirane. "Can you make it a nightmare?"
"We don't stock any," the hostess said quickly.
Stroganoff gave her the jaundiced eye. "That makes me think I ought to check through your whole catalog."
"We don't have time," Mirane said quickly.
Rod nodded. "I'm afraid she's right. We've got to hook them up for the longest time the computer will manage, and get out of here." He turned to the hostess. "We need something that will handle a dozen men."
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