The Warlock Wandering

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Close," Yorick agreed. "Courage, lady. You're almost out of it."

  "How do you know?" Chornoi wondered.

  "I don't—but this kind of thing can't go on forever!"

  "Optimist," she snorted.

  However, the colony was young yet; the cheapside didn't last more than a quarter mile. They came up out of aromas and sensations with huge, rasping gasps, into clear, quiet air.

  "I don't think I could have taken much more." Rod sagged against a lamp post.

  "And you didn't even have any money." Yorick finally took his hand off his hip pocket and flexed it. "I think I've got cramps."

  Cramps in your soul, friend? Does this mortal world pain you, with its plethora of Philistines?"

  They looked up, startled.

  A monk stood before them—the real, genuine article, in a brown robe and rope belt. No tonsure, though.

  "Why, he is quite like those at home," Gwen cried.

  "Uh, well, no, not really, dear." Rod scratched the tip of his nose. "Just looks like it."

  "Nay! He doth wear the badge! Dost'a not see?"

  Gwen pointed, and Rod looked. The robe had a breast pocket, and in it was a small yellow-handled screwdriver. "You're a Cathodean."

  The monk bowed his head in greeting. "Brother Joseph Fumble, though my acquaintances generally call me Brother Joey. And yourselves?"

  "Gwen and Rod Gallowglass." Rod pointed at his wife. "She's Gwen." He gestured toward the other two. "He's Yorick, and she's Chornoi."

  "Pleased to meet you," Brother Joey said, with a small bow. "I don't suppose any of you would be interested in taking up religion?"

  "Uhhhh…" Rod glanced uncomfortably at Gwen. "We're, ah, pretty well set along that line, thanks. I take it you're a priest?"

  "No, but I'm working on it."

  Rod eyed the man; he wasn't all that young. "But you are a deacon."

  "Oh, yes, everything set except final vows." Brother Joey sighed and shook his head. "It's just that I'm not really sure I'm cut out for this sort of thing."

  "For what? The priesthood?"

  Brother Joey nodded. "I've got the drive, mind you; I've visited nine planets so far, but I've had spectacularly little success as a missionary. Only two converts so far, and they were both religious recidivists." He brightened. "I'm an excellent engineer, though."

  "I see the problem," Rod agreed. "But isn't Otranto a rather odd place to be preaching?"

  "Apparently it is, but I thought it would be an excellent, ah, 'hunting-ground,' if you follow me. Sort of a virgin wilderness of the spirit. I mean, if there's any planet where people need religion, it's Otranto!"

  "Yes, but considering how much money most of them have spent to come here to wallow in pleasure, and how much more the rest are making from giving it to them, it's the last place I'd expect to find people in remorse."

  "And, apparently, your expectations are sharper than mine," the monk sighed. "But it seemed such an excellent idea!"

  "Yet not all clergymen must needs be missionaries," Gwen said gently. "Mayhap thou wouldst be more suited to a village church."

  "Uh, if you two are gonna talk about it…" Rod glanced nervously along their back trail. "Would you mind if you keep walking while you do? I admit it'd take a genius of a bloodhound to track us through that aroma heaven back there, but we did kind of stand out, being live people in the vapor-light district at this hour of the morning. I need room."

  "Well, you'll find it in this neighborhood, I assure you." Brother Joey fell into step beside them, gesturing about him.

  Rod had to agree with him. The houses, if you could call them that, were far apart and far back from the road, each one sitting centered on several acres of ground, with flawless lawns rolling down to the walkway. The nearest was a gloomy old Tudor manor house, but right next to it was a Gothic castle. A rambling Georgian mansion glowered across from it, and the lot after that held a medieval ruin.

  "Odd notion of housing developments they have here." Rod frowned, looking about him, and sniffing the air. "Smells like rain."

  "It always does, here," Brother Joey assured him, "and it's always overcast, except for the first half-hour after dawn each day. Just enough so that those who like sunrises, can have them."

  "They're doing such wonderful things with weather control these days." Rod shook his head in wonder. "But why?"

  "To make Otranto stand out," Brother Joey explained. "There are only a half-dozen of these pleasure-planets so far, but that's already enough to make the competition strong—after all, there are just so many really wealthy citizens in the Terran Sphere."

  Chomoi nodded. "And most of them want to go to Orlando."

  "Orlando does seem to have the general tourist trade locked up—'something for everyone,' and all that. I understand they have a separate continent for each amusement theme."

  "More like very large islands," Chornoi said, "but there are a lot of them, yes."

  Brother Joey nodded. "So the other pleasure-planets have to specialize. They draw only a small percentage of the customers, but that small percentage comes to a billion a year. They attract those customers by doing only one theme, but doing it in all the variations that a whole planet has room for."

  "Oh." Rod looked around at the ruined castle and the gloomy manor houses, with the heavy gray sky brooding over it all. "I take it Otranto opted for Gothic romance."

  Brother Joey nodded. "They even renamed the planet for the purpose. It used to be Zane's Star IV."

  Chomoi said, "They've filled it with haunted houses, gloomy moors, and the most elaborate graveyards ever to bear bodies. The tourists get to live out their fantasies, dressing up in full costume and stalking around their borrowed family mansions, listening for clanking chains or moaning ghosts."

  "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."

  "Maybe somebody else…?" Yorick suggested, grinning hugely.

  The young woman threw up her hands. "Producers! What do they expect production secretaries to do, if they keep bypassing 'em and ordering things on their own? Strogan-off!" and she was off, careening through the crowd.

  "Stroganoff?" Yorick looked at the table. "Little odd, for breakfast."

  "I think it's somebody's name." Brother Joey pointed at someone. "See the plump fellow she's talking to? The one in the gray flannel coverall?"

  Yorick nodded. "Probably giving him what-for, about sending for a monk when the script didn't call for it."

  "You're enjoying this," Chornoi accused.

  "Why not?" Yorick couldn't stifle a chuckle. "I just love other people's mistakes!"

  "Do you get the feeling we've wandered into a 3DT set?" Rod asked Brother Joey.

  "Oh, of course," the monk confirmed. "Where else would so many weird people seem so normal?"

  "What is a '3DT set'?" Gwen asked.

  "An absurdity based on a fantasy derived from a reality that never existed," Rod answered. "The abbreviation stands for 'Three-Dimensional Television'—pictures that look and move like real people, but are absolutely artificial. The folk you see there, use 3DT for telling stories. Well, no," he said, correcting himself instantly, "not telling, really— showing. They show a story, as though you were right there, watching it happen."

  "Yes, but this story is much more interesting." Brother Joey beamed, watching the actors mill about. "I've been watching these people for three or four days now. They're fascinating, they take so much time to do something that seems so simple!"

  "Well, if they're making it look simple, they must be doing it really well." Rod had enough experience trying to run an army, to be sure that managing even a hundred people had to be a minor nightmare.

  "My lord," said Gwen, "who are those men with those devices strapped on their shoulders?"

  "Camera operators, darling. Those little plastic bulges are 3DT cameras. When they're recording, the men will wear special goggles that sense every movement of their eye muscles, and transmit them to the cameras. Then the camfiras will automatically 'look' wherever the men do."

  Chornoi frowned. "I thought they made all these 3DT epics on Luna."

  Brother Joey looked up in surprise. "Oh, no! Not since the PEST regime took over Terra and cut off the unprofitable planets. The ones that still had trade operating, adapt
ed— quickly, too! And while they were at it, they developed ways of making their own entertainment. You really didn't know about this?"

  "I've been out of circulation for a while," Chornoi said, flustered.

  "Cloistered, you might say," Rod put in.

  Chornoi glared daggers at him, but Brother Joey nodded with full understanding. "Oh, a retreat? Well, let me explain it to you, then. You see, some of these people were nice enough to explain it all to me. Not the young lady in the kerchief and computer tablet, of course—she's always busy, and she never remembers me from one day to the next. But the 'extras' do—the ones who just dress up like peasants and lurk in the background, bystanding."

  "They get paid for that?"

  Brother Joey nodded. "So they always have a great deal of time on their hands, and they're glad to talk."

  "But how can the company afford it?" Rod looked around, frowning. "This looks like a pretty expensive operation."

  "Oh, yes, it certainly is! So when PEST cut them off, they had to work out ways of cutting costs. The main one seems to be specialization: Each 3DT company works in just one genre, and settles down on whichever pleasure-planet has its kind of settings."

  "So this company is making a Gothic epic—a horror story," Rod observed. "But didn't PEST want to keep the resort planets?"

  "No. Pleasure costs money, so it isn't profitable."

  "For the customers, at least." Rod gave him a dry smile. "Never mind how much money it makes for the sellers."

  "PEST doesn't. They're rather puritanical."

  "Most dictatorships are, during their early years."

  "All PEST could see was the amount of money Terran citizens were spending on those 'foreign' planets, so they cut off trade with the resorts. They reasoned that if the dissolute couldn't go to the pleasure-planets, the money would stay at home."

  Rod's smile gained real warmth. "I take it that only drove up the price of transportation?"

  "Correct. Which did rather hold down the number of people who could come here from Terra."

  "Let me guess—most of the ones who do are in the PEST bureaucracy."

  "Why, how did you know? You're right, of course—the really wealthy will keep their privileges, no matter who sits on the throne. But it has been hard on the people who live here; they're experiencing some rather lean times."