Rackley yawned and stretched his arms. “I must rest.” He peered up at the doctor. “It was such a fatiguing dream.”
He began to giggle, his great blond head lolling on the pillow. His hands striking at the sheet as though he would die of amusement.
“Do tell me,” he gasped, “what on earth have you in those utterly delightful injections? I’ve asked you so often.”
The doctor picked up his plastic bag. “Merely a combination of chemicals designed to exacerbate the adrenals on one hand and, on the other, to inhibit the higher brain centers. In short,” he finished, “a potpourri of intensification and reduction.”
“Oh, you always say that,” said Justin Rackley. “But it is delightful. Utterly, charmingly delightful. You will be back in a month for my next dream and my dream playback?”
The doctor blew out a weary gust of breath. “Yes,” he said, making no effort to veil his disgust. “I’ll be back next month.”
“Thank heavens,” said Rackley. “I’m done with that awful Ruston dream for another five months. Ugh! It’s so frightfully vile! I like the pleasanter dreams about mining and transporting ores from Mars and the Moon, and the adventures in food centers. They’re so much nicer. But …” His lips twitched. “Do have more of those pretty young girls in them.”
His strong, weary body twisted in delight.
“Oh, do,” he murmured, his eyes shutting.
He sighed and turned slowly and exhaustedly onto his broad, muscular side.
The doctor walked through the deserted streets, his face tight with the old frustration. Why? Why? His mind kept repeating the word.
Why must we continue to sustain life in the cities? For what purpose? Why not let civilization in its last outpost die as it means to die? Why struggle to keep such men alive?
Hundreds, thousands of Justin Rackleys—well-kept animals, mechanically bred and fed and massaged into fair and handsome form. Mechanically restrained, too, from physically turning into the fat white slugs that, mentally, they already were and would bodily resemble if left untended. Or die.
Why not let them? Why visit them every month, fill their veins with hypnotic drugs and sit back and watch them, one by one, go bursting into their dream worlds to escape boredom? Must he endlessly send his suggestions into their loosened brainways, fly them to planets and moons, crowd all forms of love and grand adventure into their mock-heroic dreams?
The doctor slumped tiredly and went into another dorm-building. More figures, strongly or beautifully made, passive on couches. More dream injections.
He made them, watched the figures stand and stumble to the wardrobes. Explorers’ outfits this time, pith helmets and attractive shorts, snake boots and bared limbs. He stood at the window, saw them clamber into their autocars and drive away. He sat back and waited for them to return, knowing every move they would make, because he made them in his mind.
They would go out to the hydroponics tanks and fight off an invasion of Energy Eaters. Bigger than the Rustons and made of pure force, they threatened to suck the sustenance from the plants in the growing trays, the living, formless meat swelling immortally in the nutrient solutions. The Energy Eaters would be beaten off, of course. They always were.
Naturally. They were only dreams. Creatures of fantastic illusion, conjured in eager dreaming minds by chemical magic and dreary scientific incantation.
But what would all these Justin Rackleys say, these handsome and hopeless ruins of torpid flesh, if they found out how they were being fooled?
Found out that the Rustons were only mental fictions for objectifying simple rust and wear and converting them into fanciful monsters. Monsters which alone could feebly arouse the dim instinct for selfpreservation which just barely existed in this lost race. Energy Eaters—beetles and spores and exhausted growth solutions. Mine Borers—vaporous beasties that had to be blasted out of the Lunar and Martian metal deposits. And others, still others, all of them threats to that which runs and feeds and renews a city.
What would all these Justin Rackleys say to the discovery that each of them, in his “dreams,” had done genuine manual work? That their ray guns were spray guns or grease guns or air hammers, their death rays no more than streams of lubrication for rusting machines or insecticides or liquid fertilizer?
What would they say if they found out how they were tricked into breeding with aphrodisiacs in the guise of anti-poison shots? How they, with no healthy interest in procreation, were drugged into furtherance of their spineless strain, a strain whose only function was to sustain the life-giving machines.
In a month he would return to Justin Rackley, Captain Justin Rackley. A month for rest, these people were so devoid of energy. It took a month to build up even enough strength to endure an injection of hypnotics, to oil a machine or tend a tray, and to bring forth one puny cell of life.
All for the machines, the city, for man …
The doctor spat on the immaculate floor of the room with the pneumatic couches.
The people were the machines, more than the machines themselves. A slave race, a detestable residue, hopeless, without hope.
Oh, how they would wail and swoon, he thought, getting grim pleasure in the notion, were they allowed to walk through the vast subterranean tunnel to the giant chamber where the Great Machine stood, that supposed source of all energy, and saw why they had to be tricked into working. The Great Machine had been designed to eliminate all human labor, tending the minor machines, the food plants, the mining.
But some wise one on the Control Council, centuries before, had had the wit to smash the Great Machine’s mechanical brain. And now the Justin Rackleys would have to see, with their own unbelieving eyes, the rust, the rot, the giant twisted death of it … . But they wouldn’t.
Their job was to dream of adventurous work, and work while dreaming.
For how long?
BORN OF MAN AND WOMAN
X—THIS DAY WHEN IT HAD LIGHT MOTHER CALLED me retch. You retch she said. I saw in her eyes the anger. I wonder what it is a retch.
This day it had water falling from upstairs. It fell all around. I saw that. The ground of the back I watched from the little window. The ground it sucked up the water like thirsty lips. It drank too much and it got sick and runny brown. I didnt like it.
Mother is a pretty I know. In my bed place with cold walls around I have a paper things that was behind the furnace. It says on it SCREEN-STARS. I see in the pictures faces like of mother and father. Father says they are pretty. Once he said it.
And also mother he said. Mother so pretty and me decent enough. Look at you he said and didnt have the nice face. I touched his arm and said it is alright father. He shook and pulled away where I couldnt reach.
Today mother let me off the chain a little so I could look out the little window. Thats how I saw the water falling from upstairs.
XX—This day it had goldness in the upstairs. As I know when I looked at it my eyes hurt. After I look at it the cellar is red.
I think this was church. They leave the upstairs. The big machine swallows them and rolls out past and is gone. In the back part is the little mother. She is much small than me. I am I can see out the little window all I like.
In this day when it got dark I had eat my food and some bugs. I hear laughs upstairs. I like to know why there are laughs for. I took the chain from the wall and wrapped it around me. I walked squish to the stairs. They creak when I walk on them. My legs slip on them because I dont walk on stairs. My feet stick to the wood.
I went up and opened a door. It was a white place. White as white jewels that come from upstairs sometime. I went in and stood quiet. I hear the laughing some more. I walk to the sound and look through to the people. More people than I thought was. I thought I should laugh with them.
Mother came out and pushed the door in. It hit me and hurt. I fell back on the smooth floor and the chain made noise. I cried. She made a hissing noise into her and put her hand on her mouth. Her eyes got big.
She looked at me. I heard father call. What fell he called. She said a iron board. Come help pick it up she said. He came and said now is that so heavy you need. He saw me and grew big. The anger came in his eyes. He hit me. I spilled some of the drip on the floor from one arm. It was not nice. It made ugly green on the floor.
Father told me to go to the cellar. I had to go. The light it hurt some now in my eyes. It is not so like that in the cellar.
Father tied my legs and arms up. He put me on my bed. Upstairs I heard laughing while I was quiet there looking on a black spider that was swinging down to me. I thought what father said. Ohgod he said. And only eight.
XXX—This day father hit in the chain again before it had light. I have to try pull it out again. He said I was bad to come upstairs. He said never do that again or he would beat me hard. That hurts.
I hurt. I slept the day and rested my head against the cold wall. I thought of the white place upstairs.
XXXX—! got the chain from the wall out. Mother was upstairs. I heard little laughs very high. I looked out the window. I saw all little people like the little mother and little fathers too. They are pretty.
They were making nice noise and jumping around the ground. Their legs was moving hard. They are like mother and father. Mother says all right people look like they do.
One of the little fathers saw me. He pointed at the window. I let go and slid down the wall in the dark. I curled up as they would not see. I heard their talks by the window and foots running. Upstairs there was a door hitting. I heard the little mother call upstairs. I heard heavy steps and I rushed in my bed place. I hit the chain in the wall and lay down on my front.
I heard my mother come down. Have you been at the window she said. I heard the anger. Stay away from the window. You have pulled the chain out again.
She took the stick and hit me with it. I didnt cry. I cant do that. But the drip ran all over the bed. She saw it and twisted away and made a noise. Oh mygodmygod she said why have you done this to me? I heard the stick go bounce on the stone floor. She ran upstairs. I slept the day.
XXXXX—This day it had water again. When mother was upstairs I heard the little one come slow down the steps. I hidded myself in the coal bin for mother would have anger if the little mother saw me.
She had a little live thing with her. It walked on the arms and had pointy ears. She said things to it.
It was all right except the live thing smelled me. It ran up the coal and looked down at me. The hairs stood up. In the throat it made an angry noise. I hissed but it jumped on me.
I didnt want to hurt it. I got fear because it bit me harder than the rat does. I hurt and the little mother screamed. I grabbed the live thing tight. It made sounds I never heard. I pushed it all together. It was all lumpy and red on the black coal.
I hid there when mother called. I was afraid of the stick. She left. I crept over the coal with the thing. I hid it under my pillow and rested on it. I put the chain in the wall again.
X—This is another times. Father chained me tight. I hurt because he beat me. This time I hit the stick out of his hands and made noise. He went away and his face was white. He ran out of my bed place and locked the door.
I am not so glad. All day it is cold in here. The chain comes slow out of the wall. And I have a bad anger with mother and father. I will show them. I will do what I did that once.
I will screech and laugh loud. I will run on the walls. Last I will hang head down by all my legs and laugh and drip green all over until they are sorry they didnt be nice to me.
If they try to beat me again Ill hurt them. I will.
X—
RETURN
PROFESSOR ROBERT WADE WAS JUST SITTING DOWN on the thick fragrant grass when he saw his wife Mary come rushing past the Social Sciences Building and onto the campus.
She had apparently run all the way from the house—a good half mile. And with a child in her. Wade clenched his teeth angrily on the stem of his pipe.
Someone had told her.
He could see how flushed and breathless she was as she hurried around the ellipse of walk facing the Liberal Arts Building. He pushed himself up.
Now she was starting down the wide path that paralleled the length of the enormous granite-faced Physical Sciences Center. Her bosom rose and fell rapidly. She raised her right hand and pushed back wisps of dark brown hair.
Wade called, “Mary! Over here!” and gestured with his pipe.
She slowed down, gasping in the cool September air. Her eyes searched over the wide sunlit campus until she saw him. Then she ran off the walk onto the grass. He could see the pitiful fright marring her features and his anger faded. Why did anyone have to tell her?
She threw herself against him. “You said you wouldn’t go this time,” she said, the words spilling out in gasps. “You said s-someone else would go this time.”
“Shhh, darling” he soothed. “Get your breath.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and gently patted her forehead.
“Robert, why?” she asked.
“Who told you?” he asked. “I told them not to.”
She pulled back and stared at him. “Not tell me!” she said. “You’d go without telling me?”
“Is it surprising that I don’t want you frightened?” he said. “Especially now, with the baby coming?”
“But Robert,” she said, “you have to tell me about a thing like that.”
“Come on,” he said, “let’s go over to that bench.”
They started across the green, arms around each other.
“You said you wouldn’t go,” she reminded him.
“Darling, it’s my job.”
They reached the bench and sat down. He put his arm around her.
“I’ll be home for supper,” he said. “It’s just an afternoon’s work.”
She looked terrified.
“To go five hundred years into the future!” she cried. “Is that just an afternoon’s work?”
“Mary,” he said, “you know John Randall has traveled five years and I’ve traveled a hundred. Why do you start worrying now?”
She closed her eyes. “I’m not just starting,” she murmured. “I’ve been in agony ever since you men invented that—that thing.”
Her shoulders twitched and she began to cry again. He gave her his handkerchief with a helpless look on his face.
“Listen,” he said, “do you think John would let me go if there was any danger? Do you think Doctor Phillips would?”
“But why you?” she asked. “Why not a student?”
“We have no right to send a student, Mary.”
She looked out at the campus, plucking at the handkerchief.
“I knew it would be no use talking,” she said.
He had no reply.
“Oh, I know it’s your job,” she said. “I have no right to complain. It’s just that—” She turned to him. “Robert, don’t lie to me. Will you be in danger? Is there any chance at all that you … won’t come back?”
He smiled reassuringly. “My dear, there’s no more risk than there was the other time. After all it’s—” He stopped as she pressed herself against him.
“There’d be no life for me without you,” she said. “You know that. I’d die.”
“Shhh,” he said. “No talk of dying. Remember there are two lives in you now. You’ve lost your right to private despair.” He raised her chin with his hand. “Smile?” he said. “For me? There. That’s better. You’re much too pretty to cry.”
She caressed his hand.
“Who told you?” he asked.
“I’m not snitching,” she said with a smile. “Anyway, the one who told me assumed that I already knew.”
“Well, now you know,” he said. “I’ll be back for supper. Simple as that.” He started to knock the ashes out of his pipe. “Any errand you’d like me to perform in the twenty-fifth century?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his lean mouth.
/> “Say hello to Buck Rogers,” she said, as he pulled out his watch. Her face grew worried again, and she whispered, “How soon?”
“About forty minutes.”
“Forty min—” She grasped his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “You’ll come back to me?” she said, looking into his eyes.
“I’ll be back,” he said, patting her cheek fondly. Then he put on a face of mock severity.
“Unless,” he said, “you have something for supper I don’t like.”
He was thinking about her as he strapped himself into a sitting position in the dim time-chamber.
The large, gleaming sphere rested on a base of thick conductors. The air crackled with the operation of giant dynamos.
Through the tall, single-paned windows, sunlight streamed across the rubberized floors like outflung bolts of gold cloth. Students and instructors hurried in and out among the shadows, checking and preparing Transposition T-3. On the wall a buzzer sounded ominously.
Everyone on the floor made their final adjustments, then walked quickly to the large, glass-fronted control room and entered.
A short, middle-aged man in a white lab coat came out and strode over to the chamber. He peered into its gloomy interior.
“Bob?” he said. “You want to see me?”
“Yes,” Wade said. “I just wanted to say the usual thing. On the vague possibility that I’m unable to return, I—”
“Usual thing!” snorted Professor Randall. “If you think there’s any possibility of it at all, get out of that chamber. We’re not that interested in the future.” He squinted into the chamber. “You smiling?” he asked. “Can’t see clearly.”
“I’m smiling.”
“Good. Nothing to worry about. Just keep strapped in, mind your P’s and Q’s and don’t go flirting with any of those Buck Rogers women.
Duel: Terror Stories Page 6