Piersen began to feel the effects almost at once. His first cigarette left him relaxed, disembodied, with a strong premonition of pleasure to come. His second enhanced these effects and produced others. His senses were marvelously sharpened. The world seemed a delightful place, a place of hope and wonder. And he himself became a vital and necessary part of it.
Benz nudged him in the ribs. “Pretty good, huh?”
“Damned fine,” said Piersen. “This Moriarty must be a good man. World needs good men.”
“Right,” agreed Benz. “Needs smart men.”
“Courageous, bold, farsighted men,” Piersen went on emphatically. “Men like us, buddy, to mold the future and—” He stopped abruptly.
“Whatsa matter?” Benz asked.
Piersen didn’t answer. By a fluke known to all drunkards, the narcotic had suddenly reversed its effect. He had been feeling godlike. Now, with an inebriate’s clarity, he saw himself as he was.
He was Walter Hill Piersen, thirty-two, unmarried, unemployed, unwanted. He had taken a job when he was eighteen, to please his parents. But he had given it up after a week, because it bored him and interfered with his sleep. He had considered marriage once, but the responsibilities of a wife and family appalled him. He was almost thirty-three, thin, flabby-muscled, and pallid. He had never done anything of the slightest importance to himself or to anyone else, and he never would.
“Tell your buddy all about it, buddy,” Benz said.
“Wanna do great things,” Piersen mumbled, dragging on the cigarette.
“You do, pal?”
“Damn right! Wanna be adventurer!”
“Why didn’t you say so? I’ll fix it up for you!” Benz jumped up and tugged at Piersen’s arm. “Come on!”
“You’ll what?” Piersen tried to push Benz away. He just wanted to sit and feel terrible. But Benz yanked him to his feet.
“I know what you need, pal,” Benz said. “Adventure, excitement! Well, I know the place for it!”
Piersen frowned thoughtfully, swaying on his feet. “Lean close,” he said to Benz. “Gotta whisper.”
Benz leaned over. Piersen whispered, “Want adventure—but don’t wanna get hurt. Get it?”
“Got it,” Benz assured him. “Know just what you want. Let’s go! Adventure lies ahead! Safe adventure!”
Arm in arm, clutching their packs of narcolics, they staggered out of the Reform Candidate’s drug parlor.
A breeze had come up, swaying the tree in which Piersen clung. It blew across his hot, damp body, suddenly chilling him. His teeth began to chatter and his arms ached from gripping the smooth branch. His parched throat felt as though it were clogged with fine, hot sand.
The thirst was more than he could stand. If necessary, he’d face a dozen blue-black creatures now for a drink of water.
Slowly he started down the tree, shelving his dim memories of last night. He had to know what happened, but first he needed water.
At the base of the tree, he saw the blue-black creature, its back broken, sprawled motionless upon the ground. He passed it and pushed into the jungle.
He trudged forward, for hours or days, losing all track of time under the glaring, unchanging white sky. The brush tore at his clothing and birds screamed warning signals as he plunged on. He ignored everything, glassy-eyed and rubber-legged. He fell, picked himself up, and went on, fell again, and again. Like a robot, he continued until he stumbled upon a thin, muddy brown stream.
With no thought to the dangerous bacteria it might contain, Piersen sprawled on his face and drank.
After a while, he rested and surveyed his surroundings. Close around him were the walls of the jungle—bright, dense, alien. The sky above was glaring white, no lighter or darker than before. And small, unseen life chirped and squeaked in the underbrush.
This was a very lonely place, Piersen decided, and a very dangerous one. He wanted out.
But which way was out? Were there any cities here, any people? And if so, how would he ever find them in this directionless wasteland?
And what was he doing here?
He rubbed his unshaven jaw and tried to remember. Last night seemed a million years ago and a totally different life. New York was like a city in a dream. For him, the only truth was this jungle, and the hunger gnawing at his belly and the strange humming that had just begun.
He looked around, trying to locate the source of the sound. It seemed to come from all sides, from nowhere and everywhere. Piersen doubled his fists and stared until his eyes hurt, trying to catch sight of the new menace.
Then, close to him, a brilliant green shrub moved. Piersen leaped away from it, trembling violently. The shrub shook all over and its thin hooked leaves produced a humming sound.
Then—
The shrub looked at him.
It had no eyes. But Piersen could feel the shrub become aware of him, focus on him, come to a decision about him. The shrub hummed louder. Its branches stretched toward him, touched the ground, rooted, sent out searching tendrils which grew, rooted, and sent out new tendrils.
The plant was growing toward him, moving at the speed of a man walking slowly.
Piersen stared at the sharp, glittering hooked leaves reaching toward him. He couldn’t believe it, yet he had to believe it.
And then he remembered the rest of what had happened last night.
“Hyar we be, podner,” Benz said, turning into a brightly lighted building on Madison Avenue. He ushered Piersen into the elevator. They rode to the twenty-third floor and stepped into a large, bright reception room.
A discreet sign on one wall read ADVENTURES UNLIMITED.
“I’ve heard about this place,” Piersen said, dragging deeply on a narcolic cigarette. “It’s supposed to be expensive.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Benz told him.
A blonde receptionist took their names and led them to the private office of Dr. Srinagar Jones, Action Consultant.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Jones.
He was slight, thin, and wore heavy glasses. Piersen found it hard to restrain a giggle. This was an Action Consultant?
“So you gentlemen desire adventure?” Jones inquired pleasantly.
“He wants adventure,” said Benz. “I’m just a friend of his.”
“Of course. Now, then, sir,” Jones said, turning to Piersen, “what kind of adventure did you have in mind?”
“Outdoor adventure,” Piersen replied, a trifle thickly, but with absolute confidence.
“We have just the thing,” Jones said. “Usually there is a fee. But tonight all adventures are free, courtesy of President Main. Row C-1 in your voting booth. Come this way, sir.”
“Hold on. I don’t want to get killed, you know. Is this adventure safe?”
“Perfectly safe. No other kind of adventure would be tolerated in this day and age. Here’s how it works. You relax comfortably on a bed in our Explorer’s Room and receive a painless injection. This causes immediate loss of consciousness. Then, through a judicious application of auditory, tactile, and other stimuli, we produce an adventure in your mind.”
“Like a dream?” Piersen asked.
“That would be the best analogy. This dream adventure is absolutely realistic in content. You experience actual pain, actual emotions. There’s no way you can tell it from the real thing. Except, of course, that it is a dream and therefore perfectly safe.”
“What happens if I’m killed in the adventure?”
“It’s the same as dreaming that you’re killed. You wake up, that’s all. But while you’re in this ultrarealistic, vividly colored dream, you have free will and conscious power over your dream movements.”
“Do I know all this while I’m having the adventure?”
“Absolutely. While in the dream, you have full knowledge of its dream status.”