Robert Sheckley - Options

"What happens to me if I eat some of this?" Mishkin asked.

"Nothing," the sacristan said. "Imaginary food cannot nourish you; but it also cannot make you sick."

"Does it have a mental effect?" Mishkin asked, sampling a chili dog.

"It must have a mental effect," the sacristan pointed out, "since imaginary food is, literally, food for the mind. The precise effect varies with the intelligence and sophistication of the partaker. Among the ignorant and gullible, for example, imaginary food tends to be quite nourishing. Pseudo-nourishing, of course, but the nervous system cannot differentiate between real and imaginary events. Some idiots have managed to live for years and years on this insubstantial stuff, thus demonstrating once again the effects of belief upon the human body."

"It tastes good," Mishkin said, gnawing on a turkey drumstick and helping himself to a portion of cranberry sauce.

"Of course," the sacristan said. "Imaginary food always has the best taste."

Mishkin ate and ate, and enjoyed himself hugely. Then, heavy-laden, he went over to a couch and lay down. The gentle insubstantiality of the couch lulled him to sleep.

The sacristan turned to the robot and said, "Now the shit is really going to hit the fan."

"Why?" the robot asked.

"Because, having partaken of imaginary nourishment, that young man is about to have imaginary dreams."

"Is that bad?" the robot asked.

"It tends to get confusing."

"Perhaps I should wake him up," the robot said.

"Of course you should; but first, why don't we turn on the tube and tune in on his dream?"

"Can we do that?"

"You'd better believe it," the sacristan said. He crossed the room and turned on the television set.

"That wasn't there before," the robot said.

"One nice thing about an imaginary castle," the sacristan pointed out, "is that you can have pretty much what you want when and where you want it, with no necessity for tedious explanations that are always something of a bringdown."

"Why don't you focus that screen?"

"It is in focus," the sacristan said. "Here come the titles."

On the screen the following credits appeared:

Robert Sheckley Enterprises Presents

MISHKIN'S IMAGINARY DREAM

A Neo-Menippean Rodomontade

Produced in Can Pep des Correu Studios, Ibiza

"What was that all about?" the robot asked.

"Just the usual crap," said the sacristan. "Here comes the dream."

Mishkin was strolling along contemplating the nature of reality when a voice said to him, "Hi."

Mishkin started uncontrollably and looked all around. He saw no one. He was on a flat, level plain, and there was no object more than one foot high for at least five miles in any direction for anyone to hide behind.

Mishkin did not lose his cool. He answered, "How do you do?"

"Fine, thank you. And yourself?"

"Quite well, all things considered. Have we met before?"

"I don't think so," the voice said. "Still, you can never tell, can you?"

"No, you can't," Mishkin said. "What are you doing around here?"

"I live around here."

"It seems like a nice place."

"It's all right," the voice said. "But the winters are impossibly cold and damp."

"Really?"

"Yes. I suppose you're a tourist?"

"More or less," Mishkin said. "It's the first time I've been here."

"How do you like it?"

"It's very nice. I haven't seen much yet, but what I've seen seems very nice."

"I'm used to it all," the voice said. "But I suppose that's because I live here."

"Probably," Mishkin said. "That's how I usually feel at home."

"Where is your home, by the way?"

"Earth," Mishkin said.

"Big red planet."

"Small green planet."

"I think I've heard of it. Yellowstone National Park?"

"That's the place."

"You're a long, long way from home."

"I suppose I am," Mishkin said, "But, of course, I enjoy travelling."

"Did you come by spaceship?"

"Yes, I did."

"I'll bet that was interesting."

"Yes, it was."

There was a silence. Mishkin didn't know how to bring up the fact that he couldn't see whom he was talking to. He realized that he should have mentioned it earlier. Now he would appear foolish if he brought it up.

"Well," the voice said, "I suppose I'd better be getting along."

"It's been nice talking to you," Mishkin said.

"I've enjoyed it, too. I wonder if you've noticed that I'm invisible?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. I suppose that you can see me?"

"Yes, I can. We invisibles can see visible things such as yourself very well. Except for the unfortunate few among us who are blind, of course."

"Can you see each other?"

"No, of course not. We wouldn't be really invisible if we could."

"I hadn't thought of that," Mishkin said. "I suppose it's a bother?"

"Definitely," the invisible said. "We pass each other in the streets without noticing each other. That hurts people's feelings, even though they know it can't be helped. And invisibility makes falling in love difficult, too. For example, if I meet a nice young lady at the Saturday night YMCA dance I don't know if she's cute or a complete dog. And one hates to ask. I know that that sort of thing shouldn't matter, but it always seems to, doesn't it?"

"It does on Earth," Mishkin said. "But I suppose there are advantages to being invisible."

"Oh, yes. We used to get a lot of pleasure out of springing out at people and saying boo. But now, everyone around here knows about us and no one is frightened anymore, they just tell us to go fuck off."

"I suppose that being invisible is an advantage when you go hunting?"

"Not really. We invisibles tend to be pretty heavy-footed, so we make a lot of noise when we hunt, unless we stand perfectly still. Because of this we tend to hunt only a single species of animal. We call them the Unhearables, since they are all totally deaf.

Against them our invisibility is a great advantage. But the Unhearables make rather mediocre eating, even potted and served with bechamel sauce."

"I always thought that an invisible creature would have an edge over everything else," Mishkin said.

"That's what everybody thinks," the invisible said. "But really, invisibility is just a kind of handicap."

"That's too bad," Mishkin said politely.

There was a short, uncomfortable silence.

"What do you look like?" Mishkin asked.

"Can't say, old man. Invisible, you know. Makes shaving difficult. Watch out!"

Mishkin had blundered into an invisible object and had given himself a severe rap on the forehead. He walked more slowly now, with one hand stretched out in front of him.

"How did you see that invisible object?" he asked.

"Didn't see it, old man," the invisible told him. "Saw the identification marker."

Looking around him, Mishkin could see various metal plaques set into the ground.

These were engraved with self-translating characters (required by interstellar law), which made them as easy to read as English is to the average literate Englishman.

Ahead of him were plaques marked, "Rock", "Clump of Cactus", "Abandoned Volkswagen Microbus", "Unconscious Person", "Withered Fig Tree", "Lost Dutchman Mine", and the like.

"That's very considerate," Mishkin said, threading his way between "Trash Heap" and "Tourist Office".

"It's purely selfish," the invisible said. "We got tired of bumping into those things ourselves."

"How did those things become invisible?" Mishkin asked.

"Some sort of contamination. For a while everything is all right, we go about our business, get our work done. Then the objects we associate with begin to grow dim, and then they vanish entirely. For example, one fine morning a bank president finds that he can't find his own bank. No one knows if the street lights are on or off. Invisible milkmen try to deliver invisible milk in invisible bottles to the invisible occupants of invisible houses. The results are comico-pathetic. Everything gets a bit mixed up."