Ellison Wonderland (5 page)

She used one of his socks, holding it as far away from her as possible. It was hideously pungent and ripe after only one wearing. The dog itself took shape quickly. The Tube seemed to retain the air blown into it; there was no blowback.

The surge of anticipation turned her hands clumsy when she hooked the Essence to the blown–up Tube and a few drops spilled onto the newsfax underneath it.

The thing moved softly. It looked for all the world like a medium-sized mongrel dog of no apparent lineage.

It limped toward the door and stood there whining, its jaws slavering hideously.

“Not for a few more minutes,” she told it soothingly, afraid of it herself, yet exhilarated by what she was doing, what was to be done soon enough. “He won't be getting off the slipway for a few minutes.” She spent the time neatly hiding the rest of the Kit and the now–silent pamphlet in her clothes closet, at the bottom of a moth–proof garment safette. Then, when it was time, she let the dog out.

Carl came gruffily into the house, cursing foully, and her heart sank.

The hairy arms surrounded her like a scratching womb, and she stood passively hoping for a blast of lightning that would char him on the spot, and
damn
the rug damage! She could smell his teeth rotting in his head.

“Damn dog tried t'bite me when I got offa the expresswalk. Thing musta been sick.” He nodded proudly, “Kicked it an' the sonofabitch died right there. Real soggy mess,” and he laughed imbecilically. “Never even touched me.”

The next morning, as soon as he had slipped to work, as soon as she had watched the slipway carry him out of sight over the horizon to the Bactericidal Dome, she went to get the Do–It–Yourself Murder Kit. She took the Kit from its hiding place at the bottom of the moth–proof garment safette, and carried it into the dining nook. She was really annoyed; this Kit had not cost a pittance, and she wanted value for her money.

She punched herself a second cup of coffee — black with Saccha — and opened the pamphlet again.

“If you failed,” the booklet began, as though anticipating her anger, “it was, as I warned you, through human error, and not on the part of this Kit. Was your murder a success?”

“No!” she answered, in a consummate pique.

The pamphlet was silent for an instant, as though refraining from taking offense. Then it began: “If you have not succeeded, attribute your failure to one of the following:

“One. You snagged your Animaux Tube and it was not fully inflated, or later lost air.

“Two. You did not allow the Essence to fill the Tube completely. Perhaps you spilled a portion.

“Three. You prepared your rabid dog for the scent improperly.

“Four. You did not attach your Essence vial properly, causing irreparable damage from leakage.

“Well, does one of these fit your case?”

The pamphlet waited, and she remembered the few drops of substance that had trickled free in her eagerness to set the dog loose on Carl. She mumbled something.

“What?” asked the pamphlet.

“I said: I spilled some!” she confessed loudly, shamefacedly, toying with the sip–tip of her coffee bulb.

“Ah so,” the pamphlet agreed. “Undoubtedly, certain vital organs were not properly formed and stabilized, thus causing a malfunction of the pseudo–beast.”

Recollections formed of the evening before, and she saw the rabid animal again, froth dripping from its viciously–spiked jaws . . . limping and whining. So
that
was it. Well, it wouldn't happen again. She would follow the instructions more carefully in the future.

Madge Rubichek was a methodical woman.

“What do I do now?” she asked.

The pamphlet seemed to make a snickering sound, as if it were acknowledging her loss of annoyance at it, and her own recognized sense of failure, her inferiority. It might be said the pamphlet was its own brand of snob.

Then its snideness disappeared, and the booklet advised, “Remove the Deadly Nightshade from your Kit. Be careful
not
to spread it out. Repeat, do
not
unfold it!”

She knew at once what was meant. The black sheet with the horrible feeling of dead flesh.

She hesitated to touch it, so repulsive was the tactile impression it offered; nonetheless, she reached into the Kit and brought out the layer of softly–folded, unbelievably black, ghastly–feeling material. She dropped it at her feet.

“Are you ready?” asked the pamphlet.

She started violently. It was uncanny the way that thing knew what and when and how and oh well . . . it was
supposed
to, wasn't it? But so
creepy
!

“Yes, thank you.”

“Excellent. Now this second method allows less room for human error. However, it is more dangerous, and more complex. Your three methods of murder are offered in order of increasing effort and danger. Sequentially, they are held so the simplest can be allowed to work first, thus denying the element of failure and discovery as much as possible.

“Your Deadly Nightshade is nearly flawless. If you follow my instructions to the exact letter
precisely
— and I cannot stress this enough — you will have accomplished your desire by morning.

“Your Deadly Nightshade is a copyrighted, patented — ” and it reeled off, in a bored voice, a string of Guatemalan Patent Authority designates, “ — exclusive with the Do–It–Yourself Murder Kit.” She realized at once that the voice was huckstering out of necessity, that it found such commercialism odious, vulgar and tedious.

“It will provide night,” the pamphlet said. “Night for the purpose you seek. Here is how it is used:

“Place it in the bedroom of the one you wish to eliminate. It is very important that this be done precisely as directed. On no account should you, after placing the Deadly Nightshade in the bedroom, re–enter it before the intended victim. The Deadly Nightshade acts as a controlled form of narcolepsy, by the release of hypnotically–keyed visual and mental depressants. The intended victim is cast into a hypnotic spell of long night. In three days he or she will
sleep
all life away. The room will be a place of perpetual darkness to him or her and slowly the vital bodily functions will fail and cease, beginning with the flow of blood to the brain.

“However, it is very important that you place the Nightshade in the intended's room evenly and without wrinkles, stretching it out under the bed or somewhere else where it will escape observation. And . . . you must
not
re–enter the room once you have placed the Deadly Nightshade. Exposure begins once the sheet is spread.”

She shook it like a chenille bedspread and laid it out neatly, placing it very carefully under the bed, once again taking the precaution of laying out newsfax to avoid any later residue of unpleasantness on the floor. She tidied the bed, tucking nicely, the blankets as tight as those on the bunk of a United States Marine. She spread the Deadly Nightshade in a tight, wrinkle–free sheet.

She missed seeing the socks, somehow.

They were on the floor, just peeping out from under the bed, half-
under the Deadly Nightshade.

She caught them out of the corner of her eye, just as she pulled the door to behind herself.

Carl's filthy, filthy socks. A pang of hysteria went through her. He always left them where they fell. She could not understand how she had failed to see them when she had tidied that morning, nor more important, when she had stretched out the Deadly Nightshade. Perhaps the excitement of the night before, and the fervor of now.

She remembered the instructions clearly.

“ . . . you must
not
re–enter the room once you have placed the Deadly Nightshade. Exposure begins once the sheet is spread . . . ”

Well! She certainly wasn't going to chance
that
.

As it was, she would have to invent a reason for coming to bed after he had retired. Perhaps the Midnight Movie on tri–V.

Nor was she going to foul it up as she had with the Animaux Tube. But just the same . . . those stinking socks.

On a level far deeper than any conscious urge to murder Carl, the training of a lifetime, the murmured words of her Mother, and the huge distaste of her Father for litter, sent her to the broom closet.

She re–opened the door, and yes . . . just by holding the broom tightly at the sucker–straws, by keeping her wrist flexed and tight to maintain rigid balanced control, she was able to snag the socks, one by one.

— and withdraw them.

— without entering the room.

— and close the door again.

Madge congratulated herself, once she had slung the stench–filled socks into the dispop. She busied herself in the kitchen, punching out a scrumptious frappé dessert for Carl's dinner. His last dinner on this Earth. Or anywhere.

Not that he'd notice, the big boob, not that he'd notice.

Nor did
she
notice the great wrinkle in one end of the Deadly Nightshade. Caused by the prodding of the broom handle.

He was yawning, and it looked like the eroded south forty getting friendly.

“Jeezus, Madge honey, I nearly overslept. Whyn'tcha wake me? I'll be late for my shift.”

She gawked, stricken. Twice!

“I ain't never seen nothin' like it, honey. I was enjoyin' the best sleep of my life, but this here bright, real bright streak of light was in my dreams, y'know? An' I couldn't rest easy, y'know. I kept squintin' and tossin' and finally hadda get up, cause I mean, Jeezus, it was painful. Piercin', y'know? So I got up, an' a lucky thing, too, or I'd'a missed my shift. Whyn'tcha wake me, huh?”

She mumbled a reply, her face hot and her hands constantly at her mouth; she had the urge to clamp down hard with her teeth, to keep from shrieking.

She continued to mumble, punched–out a hurried breakfast, and summarily ushered him off to his expressway.

Then she sank into a chair and had a good, deep cry.

Later, when she was certain she had control of herself, she got out the pamphlet again.

This time there was no mistaking the annoyance in the pamphlet's voice.

“You failed again. I can tell from your emanations. Very seldom does anyone need two of the methods provided by our Kits . . . you are the first one in nearly eight thousand Kits that has needed all three. We hope you are proud of yourself.”

“His dirty socks,” she began, “I had to get them out. I just couldn't stand the thought . . . ”

“I do not wish apologies. I want attention! The third method is very simple — even a dunce — ”

“There's no need to get nasty about it!” she interrupted.

“ — even a
dunce
cannot fail with it,” the booklet plowed on ruthlessly. “Take out the last article contained in the Kit. The heart–globe. Do
not
agitate it as it is a sympathetic stimulator of the heartbeat — ”

Then the sound came to Madge, and the knowledge that someone was near. Listening. She flipped the pamphlet closed, but it was too late.

Much too late.

Carl stood at the door. He showed his decaying teeth in a brown smile without humor. “I came back,” he said. “Felt so damn tired 'n beat I just couldn't go to work . . . ”

She fluttered a little. She could feel the tiny muscles jumping all through her body. Muscles she had never known she had.

“So that's what's been goin' on, huh Madge? I shoulda guessed you'd get up the guts one day soon. I'll haveta think back an' see if I can figger out what this Kit included. It'll be fun. My three was real wowzers, y'know.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending. Had he found her Kit, and had she not noticed?

“I rekcanize the pamphlet,” he explained with a wave of his meaty hand. “I sent for one of them things over three months ago.” His voice altered with incredible swiftness. Now casual and defacing, now harsh and bitter as sump water. “But how'n a hell could I of used it around someone like you . . . you'd of noticed the first lousy little trap that I'd'a set . . . you'd of vacuumed an' swept an' pried an' found it.

“I know you've hated me — but Gawd A'mighty, how I've hated
you
! You straighten an' pick an' fuss till . . . ” he summed it all up, and ended it all, eleven years of it, “ . . . till a guy can't even come home an' enjoy a belch!”

He smiled again . . . this time with dirty mirth. “Your goddam floor's gonna get filthy today, Madge.” He drew out the long, shiny knife. “Had one of the guys in Steel Molding make this for me . . . a
real
do–it–yourself.”

Then there was pain and a feeling of incompleteness and she saw the blood begin to drip on the rug that she had kept so immaculate. A great deal of blood, a sea of blood, so much blood.

Madge Rubichek had been a methodical woman . . .

So she could not check the dying statement that came bubbling to her lips:

“There's . . . a . . . double . . . money . . . back . . . ”

His voice came from far away. “I know,” he said.

Simply put, an adventure. A fable of futurity. A pastiche of men in conflict, in another time, another place, where the strength of the inner man counts for more than the bone and muscle and cartilage of the outer man. A swashbuckler and a fantasy, perhaps, but in the final analysis, when all the geegaws, foofaraws and flummery are cleared away, don't we all fight our own particular, contemporary, pressing problems in a kind of half–world of thought and phantasmagoric perception like

“We can't be responsible for death or disfigurement, you know,” reminded the duelsmaster.

He toyed with the company emblem on his ceremonial robe absently, awaiting Marmorth's answer. Behind him, across the onyx and crystal expanse of the reception chamber, the gaping maw of the silver corridor opened into blackness.

“Yes, yes, I know all that,” snapped Marmorth impatiently. “Has Krane entered his end?” he asked, casting a glance at the dilation-
segment leading to the adjoining preparation room. There was fear and apprehension in the look, only thinly hidden.

“Not quite yet,” the duelsmaster told him. “By now he has signed the release, and they are briefing him, as I'm about to brief you, if you'll kindly sign yours.” He indicated the printed form in the built–in frame and the stylus on the desk.

Marmorth licked his lips, grumbled briefly, and flourished the stylus on the blank line. The duelsmaster glanced quickly at the signature, then pressed the stud on the desk top. The blank slipped out of sight inside the desk. He carefully took the stylus from Marmorth's unfeeling fingers, placed it in its holder. They waited patiently for a minute. A soft clucking came up through a slot at the side of the desk, and a second later a punched plastic plate dropped into a trough beneath it.

“This is your variation–range card,” explained the duelsmaster, lifting the plate from the basket. “With this we can gauge the extent of your imagination, set up the illusions, send you through the corridor at your own mental pace.”

“I understand perfectly, Duelsman,” snapped Marmorth. “Do you mind getting me in there! I'm freezing in this breechclout!”

“Mr. Marmorth, I realize this is annoying, but we are required both by statute of law and rule of the company to explain thoroughly the entire sequence, before entrance.” He stood up behind the desk, reached into a cabinet that dilated at the approach of his hand.

“Here,” he said, handing Marmorth a wraparound, “put this on till we've finished here.”

Marmorth let breath whistle between his teeth in irritation, but donned the robe and sat back down in front of the desk. Marmorth was a man of medium height, hair graying slightly at the temples and forelock, a middle–aged stomach bulge. He had dark, not-quite-piercing eyes, and straight plain features. An undistinguished man at first glance, yet one who had a definite touch of authority and determination about him.

“As you know — ” began the duelsmaster.

“Yes, yes, confound it!
I know, I know!
Why must you people prolong the agony of this thing?” Marmorth cut him off, rising again.

“Mr. Marmorth,” resumed the duelsmaster patiently but doggedly, “if you don't settle yourself, we will call this affair off. Do you understand?”

Marmorth chuckled ruefully, deep in his throat. “After the tolls Krane and I laid out? You won't cancel.”

“We will if you aren't prepared for combat. It's for your own survival, Mr. Marmorth. Now, if you'll be silent a minute, I'll brief you and you can enter the corridor.”

Marmorth waved his hand negligently, grudging the duelsman his explanation. He stared in boredom at the high crystal ceiling of the reception chamber.

“The corridor,
as you know,”
went on the duelsman, adding the last phrase with sarcasm, “is a super–sensitive receptor. When you enter it, a billion scanning elements pick up your thoughts, down to the very subconscious, filter them through the banks, correlating them with your variation-range card, and feed back illusions. These illusions are matched with those of your opponent, as checked with
his
variation–
range card. The illusion is always the same for both of you.

“Since you are in the field of the corridor, these are substantial illusions, and they affect you as though they were real. In other words, to illustrate the extreme — you can die at any moment. They are not dreams, I assure you, even though they are not consciously projected. All too often combatants find an illusion so strange they feel it must be unreal. May I caution you, Mr. Marmorth, that is the quickest way to lose an affair. Take everything you see at face value.
It is real!”

He paused for a moment, wiping his forehead. He had begun to perspire freely. Marmorth wondered at this, but remained silent.

“Your handicap,” the duelsmaster resumed, “is that when an illusion is formed from a larger segment of your opponent's imagination than from yours, he will be more familiar with it, and will be better able to use it against you. The same holds true for you, of course.

“The illusions will strengthen for the combatant who is dominating. In other words, if Krane's outlook is firmer than yours, he will have a more familiar illusion. If you begin to dominate him, the illusion will change to one that is more of your making.

“Do you understand?”

Marmorth had found himself listening more intently than he had thought he would. Now he had questions.

“Aren't there any weapons we begin with? I'd always thought we could choose our dueling weapons.”

The duelsmaster shook his head, “No. There will be sufficient weapons in your illusions. Anything else would be superfluous.”

“How can an illusion kill me?”

“You are in the corridor's field. Through a process of — well, actually, Mr. Marmorth, that is a company secret, and I doubt if it could be explained in lay terms so that you would know any more now than you did before. Just accept that the corridor converts your thought–impressions into tangibles.”

“How long will we be in there?”

“Time is subjective in the corridor. You may be there for an hour or a month or a year. Out here the time will seem as an instant. You will go in, both of you; then, a moment later — one of you will come out.”

Marmorth licked his lips again. “Have there been duels where a stalemate was reached — where both combatants came back?” He was nervous, and the question trembled out.

“We've never had one that I can recall,” answered the duelsmaster simply.

“Oh,” said Marmorth quietly, looking down at his hands.

“Are you ready now?” asked the duelsman.

Marmorth nodded silently. He slipped out of the wraparound and laid it across the back of the chair. Together they walked toward the silver corridor. “Remember,” said the duelsmaster, “the combatant who has the strongest convictions will win. That is a constant, and your only real weapon!”

The duelsmaster stepped to the end of the corridor and passed his hand across an area of wall next to its opening.

A light above the opening flashed twice, and he said, “I've signalled the duelsman on the other side. Krane has entered the corridor.”

The duelsmaster slipped the variation–range card into a slot in the blank wall, then indicated Marmorth should step into the corridor.

The duelist stepped forward, smoothing the short breechclout against his thighs as he walked.

He took one step, two, three. The perfectly round mouth of the silver corridor gaped before him, black and impenetrable.

He stepped forward once more. His bare foot touched the edge of the metal, and he drew back hesitantly. He looked back over his shoulder at the duelsman. “Couldn't I — ”

“Step in, Mr. Marmorth,” said the duelsmaster firmly. There was a granite tone in his voice.

Marmorth walked forward into the darkness. It closed over his head and seeped behind his eyes. He felt nothing! Marmorth blinked . . .

Twice. The first time he saw the throne room and the tier-mounted pages, long-stemmed trumpets at their sides. He saw the assembled nobles bowing low before him, their ermine capes sweeping the floor. The floor was rich, inlaid mosaic, the walls dripped color and rich tapestry, the ceiling was high-arched and studded with crystal chandeliers.

The second time he opened them, hoping his senses had cleared, he saw precisely the same thing. Then he saw Krane —
High Lord
Krane, he somehow knew — in the front ranks.

The garb was different — a tight suit of chain–mail in blued–steel, ornamental decorations across the breastplate, a ruby–hilted sword in a scabbard at the waist, full, flowing cape of blood–red velvet — but the face was no different from the one Marmorth had seen in the Council Chamber, before they had agreed to duel.

The face was thin: a V that swept past a high, white forehead and thick, black brows, past the high cheekbones and needle–thin nose, down to the slash mouth and pointed black beard. A study in coal and chalk.

The man's hair had been swept back to form a tight knot at the base of his skull. It was the knot of the triumphant warrior.

Marmorth's blood churned at the sight of the despised Krane! If he hadn't challenged Marmorth's Theorem in the Council Chamber, with his insufferable slanders, neither of them would be here.

Here!

Marmorth stiffened. He sat more erect. The word swept away his momentary forgetfulness: this was the silver corridor. This was illusion. They were dueling — now, at this instant! He had to kill Krane.

But whose illusion was this? His own, or the dark–bearded scoundrel's before him? It might be suicide to attempt killing Krane in his own illusion. He would have to wait a bit and gauge what the situation represented in his own mind.

Whatever it was, he seemed to be of higher rank than Krane, who bowed before him.

Almost magically, before he realized the words were emerging from his mouth, he heard himself saying, “Lord Krane, rise!”

The younger man stood up, and the other nobles followed suit, the precedent having been set. By choosing Krane to rise first, Marmorth the King had chosen whom he wanted to speak first in the Star Chamber.

“May it please Your Illustriousness,” boomed Krane, extending his arms in salute, “I have a disposition of the prisoners from Quorth. I should beg Your Eminence's verdict on my proposal.”

He bowed his head and awaited Marmorth's reply.

Had there been a tone of mockery in the man's voice? Marmorth could not be sure. But he did know, now, that it was his own illusion. If Krane was coming to
him
for disposition, then he must be in the ascendant in this creation.

“What is your proposal, High Lord Krane?” asked Marmorth.

Krane took a step forward, bringing him to the bottom of the dais upon which Marmorth's throne rested.

“These
things
are of a totally alien culture, Your Highness,” began Krane. “How can we, as humans, even tolerate their existence in our way of life? The very sight of them makes the gorge rise! They are evil–smelling and accursedly–formed! They must all be destroyed, Your Highness! We must ignore the guileful offers of a prisoner–for–prisoner exchange! We will have our fleet in Quorth City within months; then we can rescue our own captured without submitting to the demands of four monsters! In the meantime, why feed these beasts of another world?

“I say, destroy them! Launch all–out attack now! Rescue our people from the alien's slave camps on Quorth and Fetsa!”

He had been speaking smoothly and forcefully. The nods of assent and agreement from the assembled nobles made Marmorth wary. A complete knowledge of the Quorth–Human war was in his mind, and the plan of Krane sounded clear and fine. Yet, superimposed over it, was his knowledge that this was all merely illusion and that somewhere in the illusion might be a chink in which his errors could lodge. The plan sounded good, but . . .

“No, Krane!” he decided, thinking quickly. “This would be what the aliens want! They
want
us to destroy our prisoners. That would whip their people at home into such a frenzy of patriotism — we would be engulfed in a month!

“We will consider the alien proposal of prisoner–for–prisoner exchange.”

The rumbles from the massed nobles rose into the cavern of the Star Chamber. There was unrest here.

He had to demonstrate that he was right. “Let them bring in the chain of aliens!” he commanded, clapping his hands. A page went out swiftly.

While the hall waited, Marmorth concentrated fiercely; had he made the proper decision? There seemed to be a correlation between Krane's challenging of his Theorem of Government in the Council — back in the world outside the corridor — and this proposal he had just defeated.

There
was
a correlation! He saw it suddenly!

Both his proposal of the Theorem in the Council and his decision here in the illusion had been based on his personal concept of government. Krane's refutation out there and his proposal here were the opposite. Once again they had clashed.

And this time Marmorth had won!

But had he?

Even as he let the thought filter, the chained aliens were dragged between the massed nobles and cast on their triple–jointed knees before Marmorth's dais. “Here are the loathesome beings!” cried Krane, flinging his arms high and apart.

It had been a grandstand gesture, and the frog–faced, many–footed beings on the Star Chamber's floor realized it.

Suddenly, almost as though they were made of paper, the chains that had joined the aliens snapped, and they leaped on the nobles.

Marmorth caught the smile on Krane's lips.
He
had been behind this; probably had the chains severed in the corridor outside by some henchman!

Without thinking, Marmorth was off his throne and down the stepped dais, his sword free from its scabbard and arcing viciously.

A hideously warted alien face rose before him and he thrust with all his might! The blade pierced between the double–lidded eyes, and thick ochre blood spurted across his tunic. He yanked the blade free, kicking the dead but still quivering alien from its length. He leaped, howling a familiar battle–cry.

Even as he leaped, he saw Krane's slash–mouthed smile, and the Lord's sword swinging toward him!

So it
hadn't
been his illusion! It had been Krane's! He hadn't chosen the proper course. Krane's belief at the moment was stronger than his own.