Dreamer's World
By Bryce Walton
They wanted a world without war. The answer was simple: Stay in bed.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A warning hum started somewhere down in the audoviso.
Greg stared. Perspiration crawled down his face. This was it. This wasthe end of the nightmare. This had to be Pat Nichols.
After seventy-two hours in which Greg had had to do without anesthesia!Seventy-two hours of reality! Seventy-two hours of consciousness!Consciousness. Reality.
Greg didn't know how he'd managed to remain sane.
It seemed incredible that a man who had advanced to Stage Five inthe Dream Continuity Scale, and who had been in anesthesia most ofthe time, could suffer seventy-two hours of boring, drab, dreary andrevolting reality. And still be sane.
Pat Nichols was the answer. Her body faded into slim and luscious focuson the three-dim screen. Her brooding eyes and wide mouth that curledso reprovingly.
In his mind was the certainty: This is no dream.
She had gone psycho. Had fled from the Cowl into the dreadful Outside,seventy-two hours ago. Gone to join that fanatical group of VenusianColonists, those outlaw schizoids who planned to start over on Venus.
"Pat!" Greg's hand reached as though she weren't just a three-dimimage. "Listen, Pat! Thank the Codes, you haven't blasted yet. I'vebeen crazy, waiting for this call. Pat, I can't even go into integratedanesthesia without you around. My dreams don't seem to focus right."
"That's too bad, Greg," she said.
He moistened his lips slowly. He slid his hand toward the warningbutton beneath the table. Her eyes didn't notice, never left his face.Accusative, sad eyes.
He felt sick. He pushed the button. Now! Now Drakeson up on theapartment roof would trace the point of her call. He'd chart herlocation with the rhodium tracker beams. Then the two of them wouldgo and pick Pat up and prevent that insane, suicidal, one-way trip toVenus.
She might consider it a very unfair thing, but then she was psycho.She'd be glad of it, after she was brought back, brain-probed, andre-conditioned. The thought made Greg even more ill. Brain-probing andre-conditioning involved months of a kind of mental agony that no onecould adequately describe. The words were enough to give anestheticnightmares to any Citizen. But, it was for the good of the Cowls, andof the psychos.
Her voice was sad too, like her eyes. "I was hoping you would join me,Greg. Anyway, I called to tell you that in about five hours, we'reblasting. This is goodby."
He said something. Anything. Keep her talking, listening. Give Drakesona chance to employ the rhodium tracker, and spot her location.
A kind of panic got loose in Greg's brain. "Pat, don't you have anyinsight at all? Can't you see that this is advanced psychosis, that—"
She interrupted. "I've tried to explain to you before, Greg. But you'vealways preferred anesthesia. You loathe reality. But I'm part ofreality."
Yes. He had dreams. The anesthetic cubicles, Stage Five where a man wasmaster of thalamic introjection, dream imagery. A stage where any partof reality