"So," Rod said, "I can expect to see a whole pack of decadent aristocrats haunted by family spectres?"
Chornoi nodded. "And a bevy of penurious governesses, a host of crochety country squires fairly overflowing with Weltschmerz, and a veritable zooful of assorted monsters."
"But the biggest attractions, of course," said Brother Joey, "are the dreamhouses."
"Yeah." Chomoi gazed off into space with a dreamy smile. "You lie down, take a drug that puts you into a trance…"
Rod jerked to a halt, staring in horror. "A zombie-drug?!!?"
"No, no! It just deadens bodily sensations, and heightens suggestibility. A zombie-drug would totally knock out the forebrain, leave the customer without any freedom of choice! And choice plays a big part in it—the customer actually gets to react! Of course, he reacts pretty much in keeping with the plot line, unless he's a real maverick…"
"Plot?" Rod frowned. "I thought he just dreamed!"
"Well, she does, but it's a dream coming out of a computer directly into the customer's brain. Completely pre-scripted, of course—and the customer plays the hero or heroine. I hear it's the ultimate entertainment—exciting, emotion-stirring, full color, total sound-surround, full range of aromas and tastes—and the full sensation of touch." She shivered. "Bodice-rippers cost extra."
Gwen was staring in disbelief.
"I understand," said Brother Joey, "that it's all considerably more vivid than reality."
"Oh, no!" Rod squeezed his eyes shut. "Why do I suddenly feel sorry for anyone who's been through one of those?"
"Possibly because most of their customers are never able to be satisfied with actual life, after they've been through one such dream. As a result, they constantly crave another dream, and another." Brother Joey shuddered. "Under such circumstances, to claim they're not addictive, just because they don't build physical dependence, is simply weaseling with the meaning of the term."
"Never," Gwen said, with total determination, "shall I ever essay such."
"Oh, but they're not dangerous!" Chornoi cried. "They can't be, or the dreamhouses would lose customers."
Rod shook his head. "Forget about the dream itself. You're lying there, out cold, for a few hours, right?"
Chornoi shook her head. "Just a few minutes, real time. An hour, at the most."
"An hour?" Yorick turned to her, frowning. "Just how much does this emotional candy cost, anyway?"
"Only a couple of hundred kwahers…"
"A couple of hundred? For less than an hour?"
"That's real time," Chornoi protested. "But while you're dreaming, it seems to go on and on for weeks—maybe even months!"
"So you're really paying for weeks of entertainment." Rod nodded, his mouth wry. "But it only costs the house a few minutes' use of its facilities. Talk about high turnover…"
"The overnight vacation," Yorick mused, gazing off into space. "Fun, excitement, and romance, all in an evening's sleep…"
Rod shook himself. "What are we, the dreamhouses' advertising bureau? The fact remains that while your mind is enjoying this total illusion, your body is lying there, totally vulnerable!"
Chornoi nodded. "That's why the dreamhouses guarantee your safety."
"How can they do that? I mean, while you're asleep, they could…" Rod stared in horror. "My lord! They could just channel indoctrination into your brain, along with the entertainment!"
"No, they couldn't," Chornoi said quickly. "I mean, they could, but it's totally illegal. The laws safeguarding dream-house patrons are very rigid."
"Rather elaborate, too," Brother Joey agreed.
Rod shrugged. "So? As I believe I pointed out not too long ago, murder is illegal, but people get killed anyway."
"But these laws get enforced! Very tightly!"
"So do the laws against murder. It doesn't help the corpse much."
Chornoi's jaw set. "Say what you like—the dreams are safe. Not even the police are allowed to disturb a dreamer."
"Oh!" Rod smiled brightly. "So a dreamhouse is the perfect hiding-place for a crook on the lam!"
"As long as his money holds out," Yorick qualified.
"The Church used to be able to offer a better deal than that," Brother Joey sighed.
"You can't deny we could use a good place to rest." Chornoi stabbed a finger at Rod.
Rod parried. "And you can't deny we're short on cash. In fact, we're going to have trouble scrounging fare to Terra."
"Of course…" Yorick pursed his lips. "… we might be able to persuade the local government to want to get rid of us, really badly, again…"
"Not too badly," Rod said quickly.
"I must ask your pardon," said tall, dark, and bloodless as he brushed past them and hurried away, muttering to the man beside him, "We will be late for our call."
"Aren't you getting into character a little bit early?" his partner asked.
Chornoi's head swiveled, tracking him. "Wasn't that guy a little long in the tooth?"
"I do get the feeling I've seen him before," Yorick agreed.
"Count Dracula?" Rod stared. "And who was that guy with him?"
"The one with the shaggy face?" Yorick asked. "For a minute, I thought he was a relative."
"Twas a werewolf," Gwen gasped.
"More like one who got stuck halfway." Rod had vivid memories of the werewolf he'd had to fight once. "Didn't you say the customers like to dress up in costumes here?"
"Yeah, but they wouldn't be up this early in the morning!"
"Especially if the guy pretending to be the vampire was really going to try to get into character," Yorick agreed. "After all, we might get sunshine any minute now."
"I gotta see where they're going." Rod started after the pair. "Go ahead, call me gullible, but I gotta see!"
Gwen and Chornoi exchanged glances, then shrugs. "Wherefore not?"
"Can't think of a reason."
"One direction's as good as another when you don't know where you're going," Yorick agreed.
"I'll come along, if you don't mind," Brother Joey said. "After all, I'm not doing much good where I am…"
"Who among us is?" Yorick sighed.
They came out into a village square, surrounded by half-timbered shops on three sides, the fourth open to a gloomy castle atop an artificial crag, several hundred yards away. A rough hillside with picturesque, stunted trees led up to its walls.
"Good landscape architect," Rod noted.
"Or set designer." Yorick pointed. "Look."
"My lord, what be these folk?" Gwen asked.
"A group of arcane specialists, dear," Rod answered. "I think they're making a story."
The square was littered with people, most of them in Bavarian peasant costumes, one or two in nineteenth century business suits. Right in among them were people in up-to-date coveralls. Most of them were gathered around a long table fairly groaning with food.
A woman in her early twenties, with a focal headband low on her forehead and her hair tied up in a kerchief, hurried past them. The headband had thickened the air in front of her eyes with twin forcefields, suggesting how she would have looked if she were wearing spectacles, which is what the forcefields were—energy lenses. She carried a computer pad in her left hand. As she passed, she glanced up at them, then jerked to a halt, frowning at Rod and Gwen. "How did the costumer get you into those rigs? You're at least three hundred years out of period! Those outfits are Elizabethan, if they're anything. Go back to Wardrobe and tell them you want nineteenth century Bavarian." She turned to Brother Joey, looking him up and down. "You'll do, but if you've seen one monk, you've seen 'em all." Brother Joey started to protest, but she held up a hand. "No, don't tell me—'Monk, he see; monk, he do.' I've heard it already. I don't remember ordering you, though."