Dayworld

by Philip José Farmer

  “Take him to his room,” she said. “And make sure that he doesn’t talk to anybody on the way. Make sure!”

  “I’ll go quietly,” Caird said. “But think about what I’ve said. You may not have much time to do that.”

  When he returned to his small but comfortably furnished room, Caird sat down. He stared at the blank wall strips as if he was trying to conjure displays of the future on them. Probably, the psychicist was doing the same in her office. But he could not depend upon her to do anything that might help him. She would be thinking of her own self-survival. Meanwhile, she would be going through the routine of therapy sessions with him. He would be going through the same mechanical business until she disappeared, having been taken away by the organics or having broken day in a frenzied effort to escape.

  Next Tuesday, if events went as on many Tuesdays, he would breathe the truth mist. And he would be asked if he had thought of any way to escape.

  He would reply that he had. He was hoping that he could get the psychicist to help him. That was all. He had no other plan, and that one was almost hopeless.

  He sighed. Why hadn’t he thought of many ways to get out of here? Any prisoner would have concocted a score of plans for escape. Any prisoner. But he had thought of only one and that had been this morning before he went to the psychicist and he had expected nothing from it. It had seemed to him more of an amusement than anything.

  The psychicist had said that his lack of escape plans was puzzling her.

  He was also puzzled.

  35.

  There was a place where there was no illumination but there was light. Yet it could be said that there was no light but that there was illumination.

  There was no time there unless a clock with one hand could be said to mark time. That hand did not move. It was waiting for time to strike it. Not just time. The time.

  There was in that place which was many places a creature that had no shape. Yet it looked exactly like Jeff Caird and exactly like the others.

  It had no name. It was waiting for the right time to choose one.

  It could be said that it had no parts yet was a sum.

  Formed on Tuesday, it had lived its short life in Tuesday only. Yet it looked forward to moving through seven weekdays in a row again.

  It had all the thoughts about escape that Caird should have had. It knew how to break out from the escape-proof institution and how it would get to the forests across the Hudson River.

  Yet Caird had grown it and had encysted it except for one channel. Through this channel, it had siphoned off thoughts of escape as swiftly as they had come to Caird. It cut off the channel when Caird was subjected to the truth drug, and it switched the channel back on when the drug had worn off.

  It had also siphoned off, neurally speaking, all the thoughts that Caird had had when, long ago, he was planning this thing of no time, no shape, and no name.

  The government would sound the alarm and notify all relevant authorities when it discovered that he had escaped. But its identification of the fugitive would be wrong. The thing, which had become a man, would not be the prisoner known as Jefferson Cervantes Caird.

  About the Author

  Philip José Farmer is considered one of the great masters of the science fiction genre. He reached his deserved level of success with the Riverworld series, begun in 1971 with the Hugo award-winning To Your Scattered Bodies Go. Mr. Farmer lives in Peoria, Illinois.

  The Sliced-Crosswise Only-on-Tuesday World

  Getting into Wednesday was almost impossible.

  Tom Pym had thought about living on other days of the week. Almost everybody with any imagination did. There were even TV shows speculating on this. Tom Pym had even acted in two of these. But he had no genuine desire to move out of his own world. Then his house burned down.

  This was on the last day of the eight days of spring. He awoke to look out the door at the ashes and the firemen. A man in a white asbestos suit motioned for him to stay inside. After fifteen minutes, another man in a suit gestured that it was safe. He pressed the button by the door, and it swung open. He sank down in the ashes to his ankles; they were a trifle warm under the inch-thick coat of water-soaked crust.

  There was no need to ask what had happened, but he did, anyway.

  The firemen said, “A short-circuit, I suppose. Actually, we don’t know. It started shortly after midnight, between the time that Monday quit and we took over.”

  Tom Pym thought that it must be strange to be a fireman or a policeman. Their hours were so different, even though they were still limited by the walls of midnight.

  By then the others were stepping out of their stoners or “coffins” as they were often called. That left sixty still occupied.

  They were due for work at 08:00. The problem of getting new clothes and a place to live would have to be put off until off-hours, because the TV studio where they worked was behind in the big special it was due to put on in 144 days.

  They ate breakfast at an emergency center. Tom Pym asked a grip if he knew of any place he could stay. Though the government would find one for him, it might not look very hard for a convenient place.

  The grip told him about a house only six blocks from his former house. A makeup man had died, and as far as he knew the vacancy had not been filled. Tom got onto the phone at once, since he wasn’t needed at that moment, but the office wouldn’t be open until ten, as the recording informed him. The recording was a very pretty girl with red hair, tourmaline eyes, and a very sexy voice. Tom would have been more impressed if he had not known her. She had played in some small parts in two of his shows, and the maddening voice was not hers. Neither was the color of her eyes.

  At noon he called again, got through after a ten-minute wait, and asked Mrs. Bellefield if she would put through a request for him. Mrs. Bellefield reprimanded him for not having phoned sooner; she was not sure that anything could be done today. He tried to tell her his circumstances and then gave up. Bureaucrats! That evening he went to a public emergency place, slept for the required four hours while the inductive field speeded up his dreaming, woke up, and got into the upright cylinder of eternium. He stood for ten seconds, gazing out through the transparent door at other cylinders with their still figures, and then he pressed the button. Approximately fifteen seconds later he became unconscious.

  He had to spend three more nights in the public stoner. Three days of fall were gone; only five left. Not that that mattered in California so much. When he had lived in Chicago, winter was like a white blanket being shaken by a madwoman. Spring was a green explosion. Summer was a bright roar and a hot breath. Fall was the topple of a drunken jester in garish motley.

  The fourth day, he received notice that he could move into the very house he had picked. This surprised and pleased him. He knew of a dozen who had spent a whole year—forty-eight days or so—in a public station while waiting. He moved in the fifth day with three days of spring to enjoy. But he would have to use up his two days off to shop for clothes, bring in groceries and other goods, and get acquainted with his housemates. Sometimes, he wished he had not been born with the compulsion to act. TV’ers worked five days at a stretch, sometimes six, while a plumber, for instance, only put in three days out of seven.

  The house was as large as the other, and the six extra blocks to walk would be good for him. It held eight people per day, counting himself. He moved in that evening, introduced himself, and got Mabel Curta, who worked as a secretary for a producer, to fill him in on the household routine. After he made sure that his stoner had been moved into the stoner room, he could relax somewhat.

  Mabel Curta had accompanied him into the stoner room, since she had appointed herself his guide. She was a short, overly curved woman of about thirty-five (Tuesday time). She had been divorced three times, and marriage was no more for her unless, of course, Mr. Right came along. Tom was between marriages himself, but he did not tell her so.

  “We’ll take a look at your bedroom,” Mabel s
aid. “It’s small but it’s soundproofed, thank God.”

  He started after her, then stopped. She looked back through the doorway and said, “What is it?”

  “This girl…”

  There were sixty-three of the tall gray eternium cylinders. He was looking through the door of the nearest at the girl within.

  “Wow! Really beautiful!”

  If Mabel felt any jealousy, she suppressed it.

  “Yes, isn’t she!”

  The girl had long, black, slightly curly hair, a face that could have launched him a thousand times times a thousand times, a figure that had enough but not too much, and long legs. Her eyes were open; in the dim light they looked a purplish-blue. She wore a thin silvery dress.

  The plate by the top of the door gave her vital data. Jennie Marlowe. Born 2031 A.D., San Marino, California. She would be twenty-four years old. Actress. Unmarried. Wednesday’s child.

  “What’s the matter?” Mabel said.

  “Nothing.”

  How could he tell her that he felt sick in his stomach from a desire that could never be satisfied? Sick from beauty.

  For will in us is over-ruled by fate.

  Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

  “What?” Mabel said, and then, after laughing, “You must be kidding?”

  She wasn’t angry. She realized that Jennie Marlowe was no more competition than if she were dead. She was right. Better for him to busy himself with the living of this world. Mabel wasn’t too bad, cuddly, really, and, after a few drinks, rather stimulating.

  They went downstairs afterward after 18:00 to the TV room. Most of the others were there, too. Some had their ear plugs in; some were looking at the screen but talking. The newscast was on, of course. Everybody was filling up on what had happened last Tuesday and today. The Speaker of the House was retiring after his term was up. His days of usefulness were over and his recent ill health showed no signs of disappearing. There was a shot of the family graveyard in Mississippi with the pedestal reserved for him. When science someday learned how to rejuvenate, he would come out of stonerment.

  “That’ll be the day!” Mabel said. She squirmed on his lap.

  “Oh, I think they’ll crack it,” he said. “They’re already on the track; they’ve succeeded in stopping the aging of rabbits.”

  “I don’t mean that,” she said. “Sure, they’ll find out how to rejuvenate people. But then what? You think they’re going to bring them all back? With all the people they got now and then they’ll double, maybe triple, maybe quadruple, the population? You think they won’t just leave them standing there?” She giggled, and said, “What would the pigeons do without them?”

  He squeezed her waist. At the same time, he had a vision of himself squeezing that girl’s waist. Hers would be soft enough but with no hint of fat.

  Forget about her. Think of now. Watch the news.

  A Mrs. Wilder had stabbed her husband and then herself with a kitchen knife. Both had been stonered immediately after the police arrived, and they had been taken to the hospital. An investigation of a work slowdown in the county government offices was taking place. The complaints were that Monday’s people were not setting up the computers for Tuesday’s. The case was being referred to the proper authorities of both days. The Ganymede base reported that the Great Red Spot of Jupiter was emitting weak but definite pulses that did not seem to be random.

  The last five minutes of the program was a précis devoted to outstanding events of the other days. Mrs. Cuthmar, the housemother, turned the channel to a situation comedy with no protests from anybody.

  Tom left the room, after telling Mabel that he was going to bed early—alone, and to sleep. He had a hard day tomorrow.

  He tiptoed down the hall and the stairs and into the stoner room. The lights were soft, there were many shadows, and it was quiet. The sixty-three cylinders were like ancient granite columns of an underground chamber of a buried city. Fifty-five faces were white blurs behind the clear metal. Some had their eyes open; most had closed them while waiting for the field radiated from the machine in the base. He looked through Jennie Marlowe’s door. He felt sick again. Out of his reach; never for him. Wednesday was only a day away. No, it was only a little less than four and a half hours away.

  He touched the door. It was slick and only a little cold. She stared at him. Her right forearm was bent to hold the strap of a large purse. When the door opened, she would step out, ready to go. Some people took their showers and fixed their faces as soon as they got up from their sleep and then went directly into the stoner. When the field was automatically radiated at 05:00, they stepped out a minute later, ready for the day.

  He would like to step out of his “coffin,” too, at the same time.

  But he was barred by Wednesday.

  He turned away. He was acting like a sixteen-year-old kid. He had been sixteen about one hundred and six years ago, not that that made any difference. Physiologically, he was thirty.

  As he started up to the second floor, he almost turned around and went back for another look. But he took himself by his neck-collar and pulled himself up to his room. There he decided he would get to sleep at once. Perhaps he would dream about her. If dreams were wish-fulfillments, they would bring her to him. It still had not been “proved” that dreams always expressed wishes, but it had been proved that man deprived of dreaming did go mad. And so the somniums radiated a field that put man into a state in which he got all the sleep, and all the dreams, that he needed within a four-hour period. Then he was awakened and a little later went into the stoner where the field suspended all atomic and subatomic activity. He would remain in that state forever unless the activating field came on.

  He slept, and Jennie Marlowe did not come to him. Or, if she did, he did not remember. He awoke, washed his face, went down eagerly to the stoner, where he found the entire household standing around, getting in one last smoke, talking, laughing. Then they would step into their cylinders, and a silence like that at the heart of a mountain would fall.

  He had often wondered what would happen if he did not go into the stoner. How would he feel? Would he be panicked? All his life, he had known only Tuesdays. Would Wednesday rush at him, roaring, like a tidal wave? Pick him up and hurl him against the reefs of a strange time?

  What if he made some excuse and went back upstairs and did not go back down until the field had come on? By then, he could not enter. The door to his cylinder would not open again until the proper time. He could still run down to the public emergency stoners only three blocks away. But if he stayed in his room, waiting for Wednesday?

  Such things happened. If the breaker of the law did not have a reasonable excuse, he was put on trial. It was a felony second only to murder to “break time,” and the unexcused were stonered. All felons, sane or insane, were stonered. Or mañanaed, as some said. The mañanaed criminal waited in immobility and unconsciousness, preserved unharmed until science had techniques to cure the insane, the neurotic, the criminal, the sick. Mañana.

  “What was it like in Wednesday?” Tom had asked a man who had been unavoidably left behind because of an accident.

  “How would I know? I was knocked out except for about fifteen minutes. I was in the same city, and I had never seen the faces of the ambulance men, of course, but then I’ve never seen them here. They stonered me and left me in the hospital for Tuesday to take care of.”

  He must have it bad, he thought. Bad. Even to think of such a thing was crazy. Getting into Wednesday was almost impossible. Almost. But it could be done. It would take time and patience, but it could be done.

  He stood in front of his stoner for a moment. The others said, “See you! So long! Next Tuesday!” Mabel called, “Good night, lover!”

  “Good night,” he muttered.

  “What?” she shouted.

  “Good night!”

  He glanced at the beautiful face behind the door. Then he smiled. He had been afraid that she might hear him say goo
d night to a woman who called him lover.

  He had ten minutes yet. The intercom alarms were whooping. Get going, everybody! Time to take the six-day trip! Run! Remember the penalties!

  He remembered, but he wanted to leave a message. The recorder was on a table. He activated it, and said, “Dear Miss Jennie Marlowe. My name is Tom Pym, and my stoner is next to yours. I am an actor, too; in fact, I work at the same studio as you. I know this is presumptuous of me, but I have never seen anybody so beautiful. Do you have a talent to match your beauty? I would like to see some run-offs of your shows. Would you please leave some in room five? I’m sure the occupant won’t mind. Yours, Tom Pym.”

  He ran it back. It was certainly bald enough, and that might be just what was needed. Too flowery or too pressing would have made her leery. He had commented on her beauty twice but not overstressed it. And the appeal to her pride in her acting would be difficult to resist. Nobody knew better than he about that.

  He whistled a little on his way to the cylinder. Inside, he pressed the button and looked at his watch. Five minutes to midnight. The light on the huge screen above the computer in the police station would not be flashing for him. Ten minutes from now, Wednesday’s police would step out of their stoners in the precinct station, and they would take over their duties.

  There was a ten-minute hiatus between the two days in the police station. All hell could break loose in these few minutes and it sometimes did. But a price had to be paid to maintain the walls of time.

  He opened his eyes. His knees sagged a little and his head bent. The activation was a million microseconds fast—from eternium to flesh and blood almost instantaneously and the heart never knew that it had been stopped for such a long time. Even so, there was a little delay in the muscles’ response to a standing position.

  He pressed the button, opened the door, and it was as if his button had launched the day. Mabel had made herself up last night so that she looked dawn-fresh. He complimented her and she smiled happily. But he told her he would meet her for breakfast. Halfway up the staircase, he stopped, and waited until the hall was empty. Then he sneaked back down and into the stoner room. He turned on the recorder.