Robert Sheckley: Dreamworld

Lanigan dreamed the dream again and managed to wake himself up with a hoarse cry. He sat upright in bed and glared around him into the violet darkness. His teeth were clenched and his lips were pulled back into a spastic grin. Beside him he felt his wife, Estelle, stir and sit up. Lanigan didn't look at her. Still caught in his dream, he waited for tangible proofs of the world.

A chair slowly drifted across his field of vision and fetched up against the wall with a quiet thump. Lanigan's face relaxed slightly. Then Estelle's hand was on his arm -a touch meant to be soothing, but which burned like lye.

'Here,' she said. 'Drink this.'

'No,' Lanigan said. 'I'm all right now.'

'Drink it anyhow.'

'No, really. I really am all right.'

For now he was completely out of the grip of the nightmare. He was himself again, and the world was its habitual self. That was very precious to Lanigan; he didn't want to let go of it just now, not even for the soothing release of a sedative.

'Was it the same dream?' Estelle asked him.

'Yes, just the same ... I don't want to talk about it.'

'All right,' Estelle said. (She is humouring me, Lanigan thought. I frighten her. I frighten myself.)

She asked, 'Hon, what time is it?'

Lanigan looked at his watch. 'Six-fifteen.' But as he said it, the hour hand jumped forward convulsively. 'No, it's five to seven.'

'Can you get back to sleep?'

'I don't think so,' Lanigan said. 'I think I'll stay up.'

'Fine, dear,' Estelle said. She yawned, closed her eyes, opened them again and asked, 'Hon, don't you think it might be a good idea if you called—'

'I have an appointment with him for twelve-ten,' Lanigan said.

'That's fine,' Estelle said. She closed her eyes again. Sleep came over her while Lanigan watched. Her auburn hair turned a faint blue and she sighed once, heavily.

Lanigan got out of bed and dressed. He was, for the most part, a large man, unusually easy to recognize. His features were curiously distinct. He had a rash on his neck. He was in no other way outstanding, except that he had a recurring dream which was driving him insane.

He spent the next few hours on his front porch watching stars go nova in the dawn sky.

Later, he went out for a stroll. As luck would have it, he ran into George Torstein just two blocks from his home. Several months ago, in an incautious moment, he had told Torstein about his dream. Torstein was a bluff, hearty fellow, a great believer in self-help, discipline, practicality, common-sense, and other, even duller virtues. His hard-headed no-nonsense attitude had come as a momentary relief to Lanigan. But now it acted as an abrasive. Men like Torstein were undoubtedly the salt of the earth and the backbone of the country; but for Lanigan, wrestling with the impalpable (and losing), Torstein had grown from a nuisance into a horror.

'Well, Tom, how's the boy?' Torstein greeted him.

'Fine,' Lanigan said, 'just fine.' He nodded pleasantly and began to walk on under a melting green sky. But one did not escape from Torstein so easily.

'Tom, boy, I've been thinking about your problem,' Torstein said. 'I've been quite disturbed about you.'

'Well, that's very nice of you,' Lanigan said. 'But really, you shouldn't concern yourself—'

'I do it because I want to,' Torstein said, speaking the simple, deplorable truth. 'I take an interest in people, Tom. Always have, ever since I was a kid. And you and I've been friends and neighbours for a long time.'

'That's true enough,' Lanigan said numbly. (The worst thing about needing help was having to accept it.)

'Well, Tom, I think what would help you would be a little vacation.'

Torstein had a simple prescription for everything. As he practised soul-doctoring without a licence, he was always careful to prescribe a drug you could buy over the counter.

'I really can't afford a vacation this month,' Lanigan said. (The sky was ochre and pink now; three pines had withered; an oak had turned into a cactus.)

Torstein laughed heartily. 'Boy, you can't afford not to take a vacation just now! Did you ever consider that?'

'No, I guess not.'

'Well, consider it! You're tired, tense, all keyed-up. You've been working too hard.'

'I've been on leave of absence all week,' Lanigan said. He glanced at his watch. The gold case had turned to lead, but the time seemed accurate enough. Nearly two hours had passed since he had begun this conversation.

'It isn't good enough,' Torstein was saying. 'You've stayed right here in town, right close to your work. You need to get in touch with nature. Tom, when was the last time you went camping?'

'Camping? I don't think I've ever gone camping.'

'There, you see! Boy, you've got to put yourself back in touch with real things. Not streets and buildings, but mountains and rivers.'

Lanigan looked at his watch again and was relieved to see it turn back to gold. He was glad; he had paid sixty dollars for that case.

'Trees and lakes,' Torstein was rhapsodizing. 'The feel of grass growing under your feet, the sight of tall black mountains marching across a golden sky—'

Lanigan shook his head. 'I've been in the country, George. It doesn't do anything for me.'

Torstein was obstinate. 'You must get away from artificialities.'

'It all seems equally artificial,' Lanigan said. 'Trees or buildings - what's the difference?'

'Men make buildings,' Torstein intoned. 'But God makes trees.'

Lanigan had his doubts about both propositions, but he wasn't going to tell them to Torstein. 'You might have something there. I'll think about it.'

'You do that,' Torstein said. 'It happens I know the perfect place. It's in Maine, Tom, and it's right near this little lake—'

Torstein was a master of the interminable description. Luckily for Lanigan, there was a diversion. Across the street, a house burst into flames.

'Hey, whose house is that?' Lanigan asked.

'Makelby's,' Torstein said. 'That's his second fire this month.'

'Maybe we ought to give the alarm.'

'You're right. I'll do it myself,' Torstein said. 'Remember what I told you about that place in Maine, Tom.'

Torstein turned to go, and something rather humorous happened. As he stepped over the pavement, the concrete liquefied under his left foot. Caught unawares, Torstein went in ankle-deep. His forward motion pitched him headfirst into the street.

Tom hurried to help him out before the concrete hardened again. 'Are you all right?' he asked.

'Twisted my damned ankle,' Torstein muttered. 'It's OK, I can walk.'

He limped off to report the fire. Lanigan stayed and watched. He judged the fire had been caused by spontaneous combustion. In a few minutes, as he expected, it put itself out by spontaneous decombustion.

One shouldn't be pleased by another man's misfortunes;

but Lanigan couldn't help chuckling about Torstein's twisted ankle. Not even the sudden appearance of flood waters on Main Street could mar his good spirits.

Then he remembered his dream, and the panic began again. He walked quickly to the doctor's offic.

Dr Sampson's office was small and dark this week. The old grey sofa was gone; in its place were two Louis Quinze chairs and a hammock. The worn carpet had rewoven itself, and there was a cigarette burn on the puce ceiling. But the portrait of Andretti was in its usual place on the wall, and the big free-form ashtray was scrupulously clean.

The inner door opened and Dr Sampson's head popped out. 'Hi,' he said. 'Won't be a minute.' His head popped back in again.

Sampson was as good as his word. It took him exactly three seconds by Lanigan's watch to do whatever he had to do. One second later Lanigan was stretched out on the leather couch with a fresh paper doily under his head. And Dr Sampson was saying, 'Well, Tom, how have things been going?'