Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

“Would that it were that simple,” he said, picking up my thought. “It requires a rather complex process of thought links however.”

I nodded.

“It won’t be too long,” he reassured me.

I thanked him and he took me back to Leona. I was quiet as we left the building and she told me not to be disheartened.

I made an effort to cheer myself. After all, wasn’t I better off now than before? I’d thought I was going to have to wait all those years for Ann’s arrival never knowing when she was to arrive. Now, at least, I’d know how long it was to be. It would give me a goal.

I vowed that I wouldn’t be dismayed by what I learned. Ann was only forty-eight. Undoubtedly, she had a good thirty to forty years remaining. Nor would I have wanted it any other way. I’d wait in good cheer however long it took.

“Shall we look around the city until they have your answer?” Leona asked.

“All right,” I smiled at her. “I do appreciate your kindness and your company.”

“I’m happy to be with you.”

I looked at the different buildings as we crossed the square. I was about to ask about them when I accidentally bumped into another man. That’s not an apt description really. On earth, I would have collided with him, perhaps painfully. Here, I felt as though I’d struck a cushion of air. Then the man moved past me, smiling and patting me cordially on the shoulder.

I asked Leona what had happened and she told me that my body is surrounded by a field of energy which prevents collision. Only when contact is desired does the field neutralize itself-as when the man patted my shoulder to reassure me.

As we walked around the fountain, I asked Leona how the buildings were made. I was determined not to dwell on that all-important answer coming from the Office of Records.

The buildings, she told me, are designed by people who knew about such things during their lives or who learn about it in Summerland. They create the model image of a building in their minds, which appears from the matrix. They correct the model as needed, then instruct those who were builders on earth-or who learned to be here-and, together, all their minds in unified concentration, they cause the matrix to produce a full-scale impression of the structure. They stop before it’s completed, correct to perfection, then proceed until solidification takes place.

“They just concentrate on empty space ?” I asked, the notion flabbergasting me.

“It isn’t really empty, of course,” she said. “They stand in front of the desired site and ask for help from the higher spheres. Soon a beam of light descends from above, another concentrated beam is projected by the builders and designers and, in time, the conception takes on density.”

“They look so real ,” I said.

“They are real,” she replied. “And, albeit created by thought, far longer-lasting than those on earth. Here, there’s no erosion and materials never decay with age.”

I asked her if anyone lived in the city and she answered that those who preferred to live in cities on earth prefer it here as well. Of course, the disadvantages they endured on earth no longer exist: no crowding, no crime, no unbreathable air, no traffic commotion.

Mostly though, she told me, cities are centers for instruction and study: Schools, colleges, universities, art galleries, museums, theatres, concert halls, libraries.

“Are plays written on earth performed in the theatres?” I asked.

“If they’re appropriate,” she said. “Nothing that’s sordid though. Nothing conceived merely to harrow an audience.”

“Albert mentioned a line from a play he couldn’t have seen on earth,” I said.

“He may have seen it here,” she told me. “Or on earth. It’s possible, when one is advanced enough, to visit earth.”

“And its people?”

Leona’s smile was understanding. “You’ll be able to see her later if you wish,” she said. “By then, you may not want to though.”

“Not want to?” I couldn’t understand how she could say such a thing.

“Not from a lessening of devotion,” she explained, “but because your presence can do no good for her and-well, because descending to that level isn’t all that pleasant.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because-” She hesitated for a moment or two before going on. “-one has to lower one’s entire system to adjust to it-which can be physically and mentally uncomfortable.” She smiled and touched my arm. “Better to avoid it,” she said.

I nodded but couldn’t believe I’d ever want to avoid it. If, in addition to knowing when Ann was due to join me, I could actually see her from time to time, the wait could be endurable.

I was about to ask another question when I noticed that-as Leona had predicted-the nimbuses of light were starting to fade and I could see the people more clearly. I confess-not to my credit-that I felt momentary surprise at seeing other races as well as my own. I realized, then, how rarely I’d seen them in my life-especially at home-and how terribly limiting a view that creates.

“What would a rabid segregationist say?” I asked as we walked by a black man, exchanging smiles with him.

“I doubt if he’d even be in Summerland,” Leona said. “Anyone who couldn’t understand that what’s important is a man’s soul, not the color of his skin, would never be content here.”

“All races living in harmony,” I said. “It could only happen here.”

I was taken back to see a sad smile on her face. “I’m afraid that’s true,” she agreed.

When we passed a man with one arm, Leona saw my look of startlement as I turned to stare at him.

“How can that be?” I asked. “Isn’t this a place of perfection?”

“He’s a newcomer too,” she explained. “In life, he only had one arm and, since the spirit body responds entirely to mind, it reflects his conviction about the missing arm. Once he understands that he can be whole, the arm will appear.”

I said it once again, Robert. I’m sure you would have too. “Incredible.” I looked at the city and its resplendent beauty and felt a burst of happiness. Now I could be newly fascinated by everything around me because, within a short while, I’d know when Ann was to join me.

WE WERE APPROACHING A TWO-STORY STRUCTURE WHICH, LIKE the others, had the texture and translucence of alabaster, which Leona told me was the Hall of Literature.

We ascended the broad steps and went inside. Like the Office of Records, there were many people inside but almost total silence. Leona escorted me into a large, high-ceilinged room, the walls of which were shelved with books. Spaced throughout the room were large, attractive tables, dozens of people sitting at them, reading.

I realized, abruptly, why it was so quiet, the main source of sound absent since we conversed with our minds. “We can talk and not disturb anyone,” I said. “A perfect library.”

She smiled. “That’s right.”

I looked around the room. “What kind of books are these?”

“The histories of every nation on earth,” she told me. “As they were though-nothing suppressed.”

“That must be an eye-opener,” I said, thinking of the near impossibility, on earth, of trying to establish the literal truth of history.

“It is indeed,” Leona agreed. “The history books on earth are largely fictional.”

We walked around the room and I noticed that, like every object in Summerland, the books, too, emitted a faint yet visible radiation.

“Are there books here that were published on earth?” I asked, remembering my scripts in Albert’s home.