The Complete Dangerous Visions

by Anthology

  “I’ve spent the last year or so trucking from Florida to New Orleans to California to Florida, etc., in a series of escape attempts from some unpleasant realities. I’m weary of that now. If I have any control over what happens next, I’m going to grow here in California like a barnacle.”

  Moth Race

  Most of them came early, flowing smoothly into the stadium and finding their seats as if by some miracle, then blinking at each other as they thought, I’m really here at last, and it’s so easy. It was unheard-of to sit in the direct sunlight this way and they marveled at the look, feel, and smell of perspiration on themselves. There was no weather control here and some of them were actually uncomfortable for the first time in their lives. Of course they had all experienced some of the heat and smell and crowd noise through the medium in past years, but it was not the same as being here.

  Although the Race would not begin for an hour or more, the stadium was nearly full. John Van Dorn had ridden the pedwalk from the transporter platform outside almost directly to his seat. He was not certain just how he had managed it and was still amazed at his accomplishment. The few people he knew who had been outside Johannesburg had told him how easy it was and now he had to admit they were right—Johannesburg to Chicago in thirty minutes. A ticket to the Race was the only way a man like John could travel, unless, of course, he won the Race. And only one man had ever done that.

  More people together than he had ever seen before, and John felt the excitement they generated, at once stimulated and disturbed by it. He saw medium cameras perched around the stadium ring and around the track below, and he knew that dwellings all over the world were full of the recreated sensations of the stadium. Even those who could not go, he knew, were synched-in, hours before the Race, waiting. Those who had been before knew they could never go again. Those who hadn’t hoped for a ticket next year, wondered what they could do to improve their chances. Only They—The Government—understood why some got tickets and others didn’t. This year there had been a ticket for John; he did not know why.

  It was the one day of the year that nobody used easypills, and John loved the unaccustomed wildness he felt in his blood. Probably They knew this would not work as well if you used easypills. But because nobody used them, there was anxiety—in dwellings where screens glowed and people sat and in the stadium itself where the lucky ones gathered. There were even a few fights; impossible any other day of the year. They were brief, chiefly because the men fighting were not used to it and were frightened by their own violence. John saw one such fight. When one man’s nose began to bleed both men stopped, stared at each other in surprise for a moment, then sat down.

  There was also the wine—something you could only get in the stadium—and everyone took advantage of the chance to drink it. Synthetic, of course; only the Champion, as far as John knew, got to drink real wine. It came from dispensers at the end of each row and people passed it down to others with comradely cheer. John raised his pouch and shot a stream of the delicious red stuff into his mouth. He was at the end of the row, next to the dispenser, and had only to reach for more. He was also almost directly below the dignitaries’ box and would be able to see what went on there. He filled his mouth again and thought, as he slowly swallowed, about those outside, watching him drink and wondering how it tasted; or watching him and knowing they would never taste it again. He didn’t know why, but the taste and effect of the wine was never broadcast over the medium.

  John turned and looked at the dignitaries’ box and saw the Champion. He must have just come and, as the murmur of acknowledgement passed through the crowd, John thought, How close he is, 1 could walk five feet and touch him.

  Gray-haired and imposing, with lined face, the Champion looked fixedly at the track, ignoring the chatter of the unknown dignitaries seated around him. Some complained he was an unsatisfactory Champion—too quiet or egotistical and reluctant to talk about himself. After all, they argued, was it not part of a Champion’s duties to share his experiences with others? At least that was the theory; but since there had never been another Champion, comparisons were impossible.

  John could remember when there was no Champion at all and, very dimly, the times before the Races. The Race had been held for five years before there was a Champion, and people whispered that They were thinking of stopping them because it appeared no one could win. Then the Champion came and the rumors stopped.

  Like everyone else in the world, John had followed him on the medium. For seven years now they had watched him hunt lions, fish for marlin, climb mountains—all in off-limits areas where none of them could go. They had shared his romance with Rita Landers, the medium star and the only one in the world whose fame approached his. Of course there were Government officials, some of them in the dignitaries’ box with him now, but nobody knew or cared about them. They were not the real Government anyway, only its physical representatives. Or so, at least, John suspected, though he never spoke of it with anyone. He had once seen the Champion on an iceberg, and thought the Government must be like that—mostly out of sight and different from what it appeared.

  There was a rumor that Rita Landers—every man’s idea of perfect beauty—was the result of an experiment in genetics which They had abandoned after creating her. Since They had her, the rumor went, They decided to make her the only medium star, a receptacle of men’s desires. It was shortly after her rise to fame that the Champion won.

  The people had all seen the Champion make love to other women—an endless string of them chosen from all over the world. They were not Rita Landers, but they were the best that accidental breeding could produce. And the people had experienced as well as seen the Champion’s conquests through the medium. They had sex themselves, but never with such variety. And they had dined, through him, on food none of them could ever have. They took their vitamin-enriched yeast and algaepills three times a day and waited to experience his meals—shiny red lobsters with plump, white meat, succulent roasts and steaks, chickens with shiny brown crusts from roasting, and much more. All this was only part of the winner’s prize. It was one of the reasons men raced.

  John would never race, although as a member of the audience he was eligible. Probably some of the men around him would try, lured by the possibility of a life like the Champion’s. Some always did.

  “What do you think?” a man beside him asked.

  “About what?”

  “About the race. What do you think I’m talking about?”

  His accent was difficult to identify. There were still many dialects of English, despite the influence of the medium. Remnants, John guessed, of the days before Language Unification, influence of the original tongue on English. John hadn’t heard many other dialects; he didn’t think of his own speech as dialect.

  “Of course it’s exciting,” he said.

  “Will you race?”

  “Not me, I’m on the list to be married.”

  “Who isn’t?” the man laughed. “But we got about as much chance of marrying as we do of winning this race.” The man jabbed him in the ribs as he laughed. A local custom, maybe, but that was how the fights started.

  “I still have hope,” John said. “I want a child.”

  “The world has enough children,” said the man, looking up, “but we could use another champion.”

  “Don’t you like him?”

  “Sure I admire him,” said the man, “but why can’t he loosen up? Hell, it’s undemocratic. What’s a champion for if not to tell us what it’s like to stick it in old Rita Landers and those other chunks, huh?”

  “But we all had it on the medium,” John said, remembering how aroused he and Betty had been afterward.

  “Okay, good but not good enough. You remember what he said afterward when reporters asked him? ‘You saw for yourselves.’ If that isn’t arrogance for you! I want to hear him talk about it.”

  “He did seem excited about that African girl,” John said, remembering how strangely the Champion had behave
d in that interview. “She must have been something. Sometimes it doesn’t come across on the medium.”

  “Yeah, yeah, true love. Too bad they wouldn’t let him stay with her. Poor, poor man. But how about the rest? Imagine having all the ass in the world, being moved from one choice cunt to another and having nothing more to say than that.” He glanced, almost fearfully, at the Champion again. “Besides, I don’t like the idea of him preferring that black.”

  “Did you take your pills today?” John asked him.

  “Of course not. Damn you, nobody does on the day of the. . . .” He realized what John was asking him and looked embarrassed. It was the first prejudice John had seen in years. The easypills usually took care of that.

  “I wouldn’t be that way,” said a voice to John’s left. He was younger than John, really only a boy. “I’d be a good champion.”

  “Hah,” said the other man. “You wouldn’t know what to do with Rita Landers.”

  The boy was on his feet. “Take that back,” he said, trembling.

  The man hesitated, then dropped his eyes. “What the hell,” he said finally, “you won’t race anyway.”

  “But I will,” said the boy, as if he’d just made up his mind. “I’m going now.”

  The boy began walking down the ramp. John had an impulse to stop him, but didn’t. After all, without racers there could be no Race. Perhaps he would make it. After all, the Champion had.

  “Well, what do you think of that?” asked the man. “He’s really going to do it.”

  John looked away and didn’t answer.

  There were six racers on the track now, one more than last year. Perhaps there would be others, although it was rare for others to volunteer after the Race had begun.

  A boy like this one who had just gone down might have been expected to live another eighty or ninety years before he failed his physical. He would never be ill, never hungry, never anxious, neither too hot nor too cold, never without a sexual partner. If he wanted a child, he could get on the list like everyone else and maybe before he was too old he could get permission to have one. If he were exceptional, he might even go to college and do something really important, like work in the undersea food farms or in a moon lab. He might be selected for one of the colonies or join the Government if his tests indicated such an aptitude. Then he could have a travel permit, at least on a need basis, and would not have to wait, like the shop people, for the Race and hope for a ticket just to leave his city.

  Yet he and others did it, risked everything just to be heroes. If being a hero was all you wanted, that was the way. Even those who lost the Race became famous, had their pictures all over the world for a year. But it had never made sense to John. He had his moments of foolishness when it occurred to him, but then he would think of Betty’s warmth and softness, and smile. Why should he risk losing that? Or he would think again of how hopeless it was to win, that the Race was rigged, and the thought would frighten him. There was something about the spectacle that disturbed him; though he would never admit it to anyone.

  The six below presented their info cassettes to the recorder so that everything about them could be digested before the Race. They waited as the computer worked. He saw the boy move his feet nervously. Once the computer had your cassette you had to go.

  The cars were lined up at the starting gate. They seemed smaller than in years past when he’d seen them on the medium. They were bright-colored aluminum machines with room for only the driver.

  The gates were buried in the track now, apparently under the control of the track computer. John realized with surprise that he was already sunburned and that the wine was working on him. He looked around the crowd, noticing that the noise level had risen and that the others, too, were affected. It was a strange feeling, something like power and something like courage, as though those words were just beginning to have meaning. The track was clear now and the crane stood ominously in the infield. The sight of it sobered John somewhat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the Race will begin in five minutes.”

  The announcer’s voice surprised him. He hadn’t realized Race time was so close. Tension was heavy in the air and the crowd noise was suddenly hushed.

  The language of the program was simple, low key, nothing to detract from the serious purpose of the day. They would never have allowed this, John thought vaguely, if it were not serious and important. He didn’t know where the idea had come from, though there had been rumors about that too. One was that the social engineers or whoever controlled them were worried about the easypills. They were not sure that undesirable behavior would not somehow come to the surface despite the easypills. Nor were they certain that everyone could be trusted to take them. Strict enforcement was possible but not desirable. They wanted some way to release the tension the pills merely covered up. Someone had come up with the Race.

  “The events here today,” said the announcer, “are serious and of great magnitude for the world. We have gathered to admire the courage of those who race today, and to praise once again our great Champion.”

  The crowd was immediately on its feet, despite the earlier grumbling, applauding wildly as the grizzled Champion stood. All the wine-reddened and sunburnt faces grinned, and there was even more noise. Wine skins plopped to the floor. The other dignitaries with the Champion were clapping and trying to shake his hand, trying to draw some of his glory to themselves. John realized that Rita Landers had arrived and was now standing beside the Champion. As though true to some ancient ritual, she had arrived at the last minute.

  “Champ,” the crowd screamed, “Rita, Champ, Rita, Champ, Rita.” John was caught up in their emotion. Surely there had never been two more desirable and admirable people, he thought, and his eyes were wet with tears of pride. Yet somehow the Champion seemed untouched by the crowd, almost sad and bored. John chanted louder, as though that would break the Champion from his dark mood, and the tears streamed down his sun-reddened cheeks. He yelled until he grew dizzy and had to sit down.

  Finally the crowd’s noise began to subside, but not completely. There was now that frenzied undertone he remembered hearing from the medium at other Races. This was what they had come for.

  The announcer knew it and moved them expertly. “Our first racer,” he said before they could begin their chant again, “is Sadakichi Muramoto from Tokyo. He is twenty-five years old and works in Shop Thirteen.” The announcer went on, using the computer-organized biography. By the time he had finished, John felt he, knew the man from Tokyo—no, felt he was the man from Tokyo.

  Then it was time for the first Race. Sadakichi climbed into his car, a red one, and was pushed the few feet to the starting line. An official stood by a button with his hand raised. There was, as everyone knew, no controlling the speed. It was 60 miles an hour, calculated to round the track in two minutes—if the driver could avoid the gates. The gates would rise as the computer determined, at various places along the five lanes. At that speed, it was unrealistic to try to avoid them; indeed, by the time the car reached one it might well have snapped back into the track. It was all simply a matter of chance. There was no controlling one’s fate on the track. Yet almost every driver tried.

  Muramoto got almost a mile, weaving from lane to lane, before a gate rose in front of him. He swerved to avoid it and ran into another which had risen where a moment before no gate had been. The gate he had swerved to avoid was already back in place by the time his car impacted. The car crumpled, as it was designed to do, like an accordion.

  “Oh,” breathed the crowd as one. Then individual shouts of, “Oh no,” and, “He’s hit it.”

  All around him people were crying and John felt tears again in his own eyes. It was difficult to remember from year to year what it was like. The easypills probably prevented that. But this was it, all right, and much stronger than what you got through the medium. His head throbbed with the wine as he let his emotions be purged with the others. “He was such a promising young man,” a woman near h
im moaned. “Why couldn’t he make it?” She was comforted by a man sitting next to her. “It’s all right,” he said sadly. “You know they have to try.” “But you can’t beat the gates,” she said.

  “The Champion did,” the man said, without much conviction.

  The crane moved smoothly to the place on the track where the car had struck and lifted it. The gate snapped back into place unharmed and the crane deposited crumpled car and driver into a vehicle waiting on the infield. There would be a collective burial of drivers in their cars after the Race.

  “Our next racer,” said the announcer, his own voice full of emotion, “is a man from . . .”

  And so it continued. John knew why it was better to be here at the stadium than to experience it at home. The crowd was as one, sharing its collective sorrow and strength. There was no more hatred, no more separation. After the third racer—a woman named Consuela from Buenos Aires who barely got away from the starting line before a gate crushed her like a moth against a moving transport window—he saw the man who had shown bigotry earlier, walk down three rows to put his hand on a weeping black woman’s shoulder. Everyone was crying now, except the Champion. John saw him above, sitting impassively while Rita wept on his shoulder.

  The boy was last. They saw him hesitate, then climb into a yellow car. The official’s hand came down and he was off, attaining top speed almost immediately. He too chose to dodge from lane to lane. The second-hand moved on the stadium clock as he got farther around the track. You’re from Jacksonville, John thought as the tiny car moved. You work in Shop Thirty-six. Your name is Henry Matthews. All of that must count. Make it count.