Robert Sheckley - Dreamworld

'The same,' Lanigan said. 'Worse.'

'The dream?'

Lanigan nodded.

'Let's just run through it again.'

'I'd rather not,' Lanigan said.

'Afraid?'

'More afraid than ever.'

'Even now?'

'Yes. Especially now.'

There was a moment of therapeutic silence. Then Dr Sampson said, 'You've spoken before of your fear of this dream; but you've never told me why you fear it so.'

'Well... It sounds so silly.'

Sampson's face was serious, quiet, composed; the face of a man who found nothing silly, who was constitutionally incapable of finding anything silly. It was a pose, perhaps, but one which Lanigan found reassuring.

'All right, I'll tell you,' Lanigan said abruptly. Then he stopped.

'Go on,' Dr Sampson said.

'Well, it's because I believe that somehow, in some way I don't understand ...'

'Yes, go on,' Sampson said.

'Well, that somehow the world of my dream is becoming the real world.' He stopped again, then went on with a rush. 'And some day I am going to wake up and find myself in that world. And then that world will have become the real one and this world will be the dream.'

He turned to see how this mad revelation had affected Sampson. If the doctor was disturbed, he didn't show it. He was quietly lighting his pipe with the smouldering tip of his left forefinger. He blew out his forefinger and said, 'Yes, please go on.'

'Go on? But that's it, that's the whole thing!'

A spot the size of a quarter appeared on Sampson's mauve carpet. It darkened, thickened, grew into a small fruit tree. Sampson picked one of the purple pods, sniffed it, then set it down on his desk. He looked at Lanigan sternly, sadly.

'You've told me about your dreamworld before, Tom.'

Lanigan nodded.

'We have discussed it, traced its origins, explored its meaning for you. In past months we have discovered, I believe, why you need to cripple yourself with this nightmare fear.'

Lanigan nodded unhappily.

'Yet you refuse the insights,' Sampson said. 'You forget each time that your dreamworld is a dream, nothing but a dream, operated by arbitrary dream laws which you have invented to satisfy your psychic needs.'

'I wish I could believe that,' Lanigan said. 'The trouble is, my dreamworld is so damnably reasonable.'

'Not at all,' Sampson said. 'It is just that your delusion is hermetic, self-enclosed, and self-sustaining. A man's actions are based upon certain assumptions about the nature of the world. Grant his assumptions and his behaviour is entirely reasonable. But to change those assumptions, those fundamental axioms, is nearly impossible. For example, how do you prove to a man that he is not being controlled by a secret radio which only he can hear?'

'I see the problem,' Lanigan muttered. 'And that's me?'

'Yes, Tom; that, in elfect, is you. You want me to prove to you that this world is real, and that the world of your dream is false. Your propose to give up your fantasy if I supply you with those necessary proofs.'

'Yes, exactly!' Lanigan cried.

'But you see, I can't supply them,' Sampson said. 'The nature of the world is apparent, but unprovable.'

Lanigan thought for a while. Then he said, 'Look, Doc, I'm not as sick as the guy with the secret radio, am I?'

'No, you're not. You're more reasonable, more rational. You have doubts about the reality of the world; but luckily, you also have doubts about the validity of your delusion.'

'Then give it a try,' Lanigan said. 'I understand your problem; but I swear to you, I'll accept anything I can possibly bring myself to accept.'

'It's not my field, really,' Sampson said. 'This sort of thing calls for a metaphysician. I don't think I'd be very skilled at it...'

'Give it a try,' Lanigan pleaded.

'All right, here goes.' Sampson's forehead wrinkled as he concentrated. Then he said, 'It seems to me that we inspect the world through our senses, and therefore we must in the final analysis accept the testimony of those senses.'

Lanigan nodded, and the doctor went on.

'So, we know that a thing exists because our senses tell us it exists. How do we check the accuracy of our observations? By comparing them with the sensory impressions of other men. We know that our senses don't lie when other men's senses agree upon the existence of the thing in question.'

Lanigan thought about this, then said, 'Therefore, the real world is simply what most men think it is.'

Sampson twisted his mouth and said, 'I told you that metaphysics was not my forte. Still, I think it is an acceptable demonstration.'

'Yes ... But, Doc, suppose all of those observers are wrong? For example, suppose there are many worlds and many realities, not just one? Suppose this is simply one arbitrary existence out of an infinity of existences? Or suppose that the" nature of reality itself is capable of change, and that somehow I am able to perceive that change?'

Sampson sighed, found a little green bat fluttering inside his jacket and absentmindedly crushed it with a ruler.

'There you are,' he said. 'I can't disprove a single one of your suppositions. I think, Tom, that we had better run through the entire dream.'

Lanigan grimaced. 'I really would rather not. I have a feeling ...'

'I know you do,' Sampson said, smiling faintly. 'But this will prove or disprove it once and for all, won't it?'

'I guess so,' Lanigan said. He took courage - unwisely -and said, 'Well, the way it begins, the way my dream starts—'

Even as he spoke the horror came over him. He felt dizzy, sick, terrified. He tried to rise from the couch. The doctor's face ballooned over him. He saw the glint of metal, heard Sampson saying, 'Just try to relax ... brief seizure ... try to think of something pleasant.'

Then either Lanigan or the world or both passed out.

Lanigan and/or the world came back to consciousness. Time may or may not have passed. Anything might or might not have happened. Lanigan sat up and looked at Sampson.

'How do you feel now?' Sampson asked.

'I'm all right,' Lanigan said. 'What happened?'

'You had a bad moment. Take it easy for a bit.'

Lanigan leaned back and tried to calm himself. The doctor was sitting at his desk, writing notes. Lanigan counted to twenty with his eyes closed, then opened them

cautiously. Sampson was still writing notes.

Lanigan looked around the room, counted the five pictures on the wall, recounted them, looked at the green carpet, frowned at it, closed his eyes again. This time he counted to fifty.

'Well, care to talk about it?' Sampson asked, closing a notebook.

'No, not just now,' Lanigan said. (Five paintings, green carpet.)

'Just as you please,' the doctor said. 'I think our time is just about up. But if you would like to lie down in the anteroom...'

'No thanks, I'll go home,' Lanigan said.

He stood up, walked across the green carpet to the door, looked back at the five paintings and at the doctor, who smiled at him encouragingly. Then Lanigan went through the door and into the anteroom, through the anteroom to the outer door, and through that and down the corridor to the stairs and down the stairs to the street.

He walked and looked at the trees, on which green leaves moved faintly and predictably in a faint breeze. There was traffic, which moved soberly down one side of the street and up the other. The sky was an unchanging blue and had obviously been so for quite some time.

Dream? He pinched himself; a dream pinch? He did not awaken. He shouted; an imaginary shout? He did not waken.

He was in the familiar territory of his nightmare. But it had lasted far longer than any of the others. Ergo, it was no longer a dream. (A dream is the shorter life, a life is the longer dream.) Lanigan had made the transition; or the transition had made Lanigan. The impossible had happened by the simple expedient of happening.