He concentrated, trying to release the dream. Nothing happened. He remained in the glade, his heart still beating, his breath still breathing.
He didn’t know how to turn off the dream. But perhaps he wasn’t helpless. His dream had to have limits; if he explored beyond those limits, he might force it to abort.
He started down the path. He didn’t care where it went; he just meant to follow it beyond the definition that it had. To force the issue.
The path wound through the forest, following a contour. Parts of it were rocky, and he discovered that his feet were tender. Since he had gone barefoot for ail his existence, and his soles had been of toughened pseudoflesh, this was a surprise. But it was consistent with the illusion of living flesh, especially if it was supposed to have used boots.
He came to a fork in the path. Which way should he go? One path led downward, the other upward. He felt thirsty, which was another aspect of the verisimilitude of this dream, so he took the one leading down. There might be a river there.
There was indeed a stream. The water wended lazily through a swampy region. The path descended into this and disappeared. Mach considered, then got down flat and put his lips to the closest clear water he spied. He sucked, employing the physics that he had described to Agape.
Agape? How far away the alien female seemed now!
There was a sudden snort behind him. He jerked his head up, twisting about to look back. It was a man— with the head of a pig. The snout was flattened in the porcine manner, and cruel tusks glinted at the sides of the mouth.
Mach scrambled up. The pighead stepped aggressively forward. Somehow it reminded him of Ware, the android.
“Now look, creature,” Mach said nervously. “I don’t want to bother you. I just want to drink.” For the mouthful he had taken in wasn’t enough.
“Zdringk!” the pighead snorted. “Owrs!”
He was claiming this drinking-spot? “Then I’ll drink farther along,” Mach said, trying to edge around the creature.
“Zrriverr owrs!” the pighead proclaimed.
“The whole river is yours? But that’s unreasonable!”
The pighead lowered his head and ground his tusks together. It seemed that he was not about to be reasonable. He reminded Mach even more strongly of the android.
Mach considered again. He was thirsty, and this seemed to be the only reasonable source of water. If he gave this up, he wasn’t sure where or when he would find another drinking place. He would have to stand his ground.
“I feel that I have about as much right to drink as you do,” he said. “Please allow me to—“
The pighead squealed with rage. Immediately there was a rustling in the vicinity, and the sound of feet striking the ground. Several other pigmen appeared— and several pigwomen too. All were naked and completely humanoid, the females quite attractively so, except for the heads. All looked menacing.
The pigheads blocked off the path. Mach had to retreat into the water. He discovered that the path continued under the surface, firm though slippery; he could proceed without getting dunked, as it was only knee-deep.
The pigheads followed him a little way, but then halted, snorting angrily. Mach went on—and abruptly stepped off the edge and landed up to his waist in water-covered muck. He should have watched where he was going!
There was a hiss. He looked—and spied a man swimming toward him. Relieved, but cautious, he scrambled back to the firm path, and stood knee-deep as the man came close.
And the man turned out to be only the head of a man. The body was that of a monstrous python, undulating through the water.
Mach had thought this was a dream. But he had never heard or read of either pigmen or snakemen, and his computer-type brain was not strong on creative imagination. If he had tried to populate this dream, he would have done it with conventional monsters. In fact, he would not have used monsters at all; he would have made it a completely satisfactory setting, for his own delight. This did not make sense.
“Ourss!” the snakeman hissed, his head lifting above the water. Beyond him, other heads appeared in the water.
Mach realized why the pigheads had stopped their pursuit. Their territory ended where that of the snake-folk began.
He looked back, but saw the pigheads still clustered at the edge of the swamp. He would have to proceed forward.
“I’m going!” he said, and sloshed along the path. He had to slide his bare feet forward under the water to make sure the firm path continued, lest he get dunked again. He wasn’t sure what the snakes would do to him if they caught him, but didn’t care to find out.
Fortunately there was no pursuit. As he moved he continued to ponder. If this was not the kind of situation his robot brain would or could have created, how could he account for his dream? The answer was that he could not. But the alternative was to assume that it was not a dream. That suggested that it was reality.
Had he really been transported to the land he had sought, Phaze? By switching places with his twin? Of course a physical exchange could not have occurred. But a mental one—that did seem plausible. His consciousness was in the body of his twin—and his twin’s consciousness must be in Mach’s own body.
Mach’s lips pursed in a soundless whistle. This thesis was reasonable—but what would a human person do in the body of a machine?
The path led to an island rising out of the swamp. Relieved, Mach sloshed toward it—and stepped off the path again, taking another messy dunking. The path curved about, as it had on land, and he had to check for it constantly.
He drew himself out of the muck, then proceeded to the island. It was thickly overgrown with reeds and brush and small trees, but the path was clear. This was certainly better than the water.
Mach rounded a bend—and came across a worse monster than before. It was a man—with the head of a giant roach. The antennae waved and the complicated insectoid mouth-parts quivered. The thing looked hungry.
Mach backed away—but another roach-head came onto the path behind him. He was trapped.
Well, not quite. He leaped into the brush to the side. Too late he discovered that it was solid brambles; the thorns raked along his legs and torso stingingly. Yet the roach-heads were blocking the path, their ugly mandibles working. He had not been programmed to abhor roaches; indeed, they did not exist in the natural state in the frame of Proton. But his living body evidently loathed the notion of contact with such creatures, and certainly he didn’t want those mandibles chewing into his tender flesh.
Trapped between unacceptable alternatives, Mach let his body govern. His head went back and he screamed. “Heeelp!”
There was a distant sound of music. Then an approaching beat. It sounded as if a horse were approaching.
Mach screamed again. He knew how to ride a horse; that was one of the Game challenges. If the creature were tame, or even if it weren’t—if he could somehow get on it—but of course it was tame, for he heard the music of the rider.
In a very brief time the beat became splashing. The horse was charging through the water. Maybe there was a patrol whose duty was to come to the aid of distressed travelers. Mach called again, making sure the rider could find him.
Now it thundered onto the island, the music of its rider becoming loud. It sounded as though a flute were playing, or several of them. The roach-heads abruptly scuttled into the brush, apparently not bothered by the brambles.
“Here!” Mach cried.
The horse came into sight.
It bore no rider. It was glossy black, with golden socklike coloration on the two hind legs. From the forehead sprouted a long spiraled horn.
This was a unicorn.
Mach was beyond caring at this point. “I beg you, beautiful creature—carry me from here!” he called.