With a mighty effort, he opened his eyes and stood up.
He was standing in tall grass. Surrounding him, as far as he could see, were giant orange-boled trees. The trees were interlaced with purple and green vines, some as thick as his body. Around the trees, impenetrably dense, was a riotous jungle of ferns, shrubs, evil yellow orchids, black creepers, and many unidentifiable plants of ominous shape and hue. Through this dense jungle, he could hear the chitter and squeak of small animals and a distant grating roar from some larger beast.
“This is not Central Park,” Piersen informed himself.
He looked around, shielding his eyes from the glaring sunless sky.
“I don’t even think it’s Earth,” he said.
He was astonished and delighted with his calmness. Gravely, he sat down in the tall grass and proceeded to review his situation.
His name was Walter Hill Piersen. He was thirty-two years old, a resident of New York City. He was a fully accredited voter, respectably unemployed, moderately well off. Last night, he had left his apartment at seven-fifteen, with the intention of partying. It must have been quite an evening.
Yes, quite an evening, Piersen told himself. At some time during it, he seemed to have blacked out. But instead of coming to in bed, or even in Central Park, he had awakened in a thick and smelly jungle. Furthermore, he felt certain that this jungle was not on Earth.
That summed it up rather well, Piersen told himself. He looked around at the vast orange trees, the purple and green vines which interwove them, the harsh white sunlight streaming through. And, finally, the reality of it all filtered through his befogged mind.
He shrieked in terror, buried his head in his arms, and passed out.
The next time he recovered consciousness, most of his hangover had gone, leaving behind only a taste in his mouth and a general state of debility. Then and there, Piersen decided it was time he went on the wagon—past time, when he started having hallucinations about orange-colored trees and purple vines in an alien jungle.
Cold sober now, he opened his eyes and saw that he was in an alien jungle.
“All right!” he shouted. “What’s this all about?”
There was no immediate answer. Then, from the surrounding trees, a vast chattering of unseen animal life began, and slowly subsided.
Shakily, Piersen stood up and leaned against a tree. He had reacted all he could to the situation; there was no more astonishment left in him. So he was in a jungle. All right—then what was he doing there?
No answer sprang to mind. Obviously, he told himself, something unusual must have happened last night. But what? Painfully, he tried to reconstruct the events of the evening.
He had left his apartment at seven-fifteen and gone to ...
He whirled. Something was coming toward him, moving softly through the underbrush. Piersen waited, his heart hammering. It came nearer, moving cautiously, sniffing and moaning faintly. Then the underbrush parted and the creature came out into the open.
It was about ten feet long, a streamlined blue-black animal shaped like a torpedo or a shark, moving toward him on four sets of thick, stubby legs. It seemed to have no external eyes or ears, but long antennae vibrated from its sloping forehead. When it opened its long, undershot jaw, Piersen saw rows of yellow teeth.
Moaning softly to itself, the creature advanced upon him.
Although he had never seen nor dreamed of a beast like this, Piersen didn’t pause to question its validity. He turned and sprinted into the jungle. For fifteen minutes, he raced through the underbrush. Then, completely winded, he was forced to stop.
Far behind him, he could hear the blue-black creature moaning as it followed.
Piersen started again, walking now. Judging by the creature’s moans, it couldn’t move very rapidly. He was able to maintain his distance at a walk. But what would happen when he stopped? What were its intentions toward him? And could it climb trees?
He decided not to think about it at present.
The first question, the key to all other questions, was: What was he doing here? What happened to him last night?
He concentrated.
He had left his apartment at seven-fifteen and gone for a walk. The New York climatologist had, by popular demand, produced a pleasant misty evening with a fertile hint of rain, which, of course, would never fall on the city proper. It made for pleasant walking.
He strolled down Fifth Avenue, window-shopping, and making note of the Free Days offered by the stores. Baimler’s Department Store, he noticed, was having a Free Day next Wednesday, from six to nine A.M. He really should get a special pass from his alderman. Even with it, he would have to wake up early and stand in the preferential line. But it was better than paying.
In half an hour, he was comfortably hungry. There were several good commercial restaurants nearby, but he seemed to be without funds. So he turned down 54th Street, to the Coutray Free Restaurant.
At the door, he showed his voting card and his special pass, signed by Coutray’s third assistant secretary, and was allowed in. He ordered a plain filet mignon dinner and drank a mild red wine with it, since no stronger beverages were served there. His waiter brought him the evening newspaper. Piersen scanned the listings for free entertainment, but found nothing to his liking.
As he was leaving, the manager of the restaurant hurried up to him.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” the manager said. “Was everything satisfactory, sir?”
“The service was slow,” said Piersen. “The filet, although edible, was not of truly prime quality. The wine was passable.”
“Yes, sir—thank you, sir—our apologies, sir,” the manager said, jotting down Piersen’s comments in a little notebook. “We’ll try to improve, sir. Your dinner came to you courtesy of the Honorable Blake Coutray, Water Commissioner for New York. Mr. Coutray is standing for re-election on November 22. Row J-3 in your voting booth. We humbly solicit your vote, sir.”
“We’ll see,” said Piersen, and left the restaurant.
In the street, he helped himself to a souvenir pack of cigarettes which a record-playing dispensing machine was distributing for Elmer Baine, a minor Brooklyn politician. He strolled again along Fifth Avenue, thinking about Blake Coutray.
Like any accredited citizen, Piersen valued his vote highly and bestowed it only after mature consideration. He, like all voters, considered a candidate’s qualifications carefully before voting for or against him.
In Coutray’s favor was the fact that he had maintained a good restaurant for nearly a year. But what else had he done? Where was that free amusement center he had promised, and the jazz concerts?
Shortage of public funds was not a valid excuse.
Would a new man do more? Or should Coutray be given another term? These were not questions to be decided out of hand, Piersen thought. And now was not the time for serious thinking. Nights were made for pleasure, intoxication, laughter.
What should he do this evening? He had seen most of the free shows. Sporting events didn’t interest him particularly. There were several parties going, but they didn’t sound very amusing. He could find available girls at the Mayor’s Open House, but Piersen’s appetites had been waning of late.
So he could get drunk, which was the surest escape from an evening’s boredom. What would it be? Miniscarette? A contact intoxicant? Skliti?
“Hey, Walt!”
He turned. Billie Benz was walking toward him, grinning broadly, half roasted already.
“Hey, there, Walt boy!” Benz said. “You got anything on tonight?”
“Nothing much,” Piersen asked. “Why?”
“A new kick’s opening. Fine, brilliant, lively new kick. Care to try?”
Piersen frowned. He didn’t like Benz. The big, loud, red-faced man was a thoroughgoing shirker, a completely worthless human. The fact that he held no job didn’t bother Piersen. Hardly anyone worked anymore. Why work if you can vote? But Benz was too lazy even to vote. And that, Piersen felt, was too much. Voting was the obligation and livelihood of every citizen.