the other attendants.
“Their interactions make suns or mountains, grass or blood. What would you like to be? Think of something soothing? Would you like to be a star? A blade of grass?”
Floating in that decelerating chamber, I felt something of what had been mine as an ion, but without the speed or fury, the fear or delight, the overwhelming forces of nature or the joy of discovery.
“Relax,” she kept urging me.
I thought of the grass back home, the first grass of summer, and I wept, watering myself and my lost dreams with my own tears.
I was lucky. Three of the other C-Wearers had to be hospitalized. We, the survivors, as you might say, were escorted by our attendants to the exit. “Goodbye, come again,” Cleo said professionally.
“Can’t I see you?”
“I have another tour of duty.”
“I mean when you’re through working.”
She shrugged and walked off. I decided to wait for her, and when she saw me again she yawned. I couldn’t blame her. After a second thirty-one minute spin on the Rollercoaster, not to mention the preliminary ride through the Tunnel of Love, or the Hall of Quantum Mirrors, her emotions were well taken care of.
She had removed her skintight Park uniform and was wearing a St. Ewagiow dress. As we stepped into a Shrinkmobile I said, “I didn’t think you would be interested in the latest style.”
“Oh, leave me alone,” she said, cuddling up in a corner of the cab. She was beautiful, yes, a beautiful neutron, and the assignment I had was impossible, I thought. I only persisted because this thrill addict happened to be suspect number one.
She yawned at my advances, yawned at my compliments, and finally in disgust as we neared Greater Miami I said. “All you love is that damned job of yours!”
“Oh, go away,” she yawned.
“I’ll see you in my dreams. A box of Sweet Dreams and you,” I said bitterly.
Suddenly she almost seemed to become human. “Do you use Sweet Dreams?”
“I do,” I said.
“Know what I dream of?”
“The Rollercoaster.”
“How did you guess? I dream that some day the magicientist at the controls will make a mistake.”
“That would mean death, wouldn’t it?”
“We’d smash into the world of Urania 235 and die!” she exclaimed. “Oh, what a wonderful thrill.” She was smiling like an angel.
After I had left her and reported to the Commissioner, I couldn’t forget that smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s really sympathetic to the St. Ewagiow,” I said. “She’s a death addict!”
And that was the lead we worked on. The next day, with the Park’s chief magicientist, Dr. Lawrence 1 Quipper, I called on Cleo Fly. There was no answer to my knock. The doctor smiled and rearranged the molecular structure of the lock with a pocket-size cyclotron 2 . We went inside and found Cleo asleep on a couch, a box of Sweet Dreams on the floor.
“One second,” the doctor said and he took out a tiny rod from his pocket, explaining that it was the latest model of Consciousness-Exhilarator, or Con-Ex. He touched her breast with it, above her heart, and in less than a minute she sat up on the couch, her face confused and unhappy.
She stared at the doctor in his black and purple cape and black hat with purple feather 1 . She gasped. “Dr. Quipper,” she said in a shaky voice. “This is a great honor.”
“Cleo,” he said softly. “We’ve been thinking of an experiment where the Rollercoaster, instead of being deflected at the last minute, will actually penetrate Urania 235. But we haven’t as yet solved the problem of the safety factor. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and her black eyes began to glow.
“An experiment is necessary: Science demands it, Cleo. Such an experiment could mean death at the first venture. Would you want to volunteer?”
In her baggy St. Ewagiow dress with its miniature silver coffin, she had looked about as lifeless as a piece of beautiful mortuary. But now she was trembling with excitement.
“Their interactions make suns or mountains, grass or blood. What would you like to be? Think of something soothing? Would you like to be a star? A blade of grass?”
Floating in that decelerating chamber, I felt something of what had been mine as an ion, but without the speed or fury, the fear or delight, the overwhelming forces of nature or the joy of discovery.
“Relax,” she kept urging me.
I thought of the grass back home, the first grass of summer, and I wept, watering myself and my lost dreams with my own tears.
I was lucky. Three of the other C-Wearers had to be hospitalized. We, the survivors, as you might say, were escorted by our attendants to the exit. “Goodbye, come again,” Cleo said professionally.
“Can’t I see you?”
“I have another tour of duty.”
“I mean when you’re through working.”
She shrugged and walked off. I decided to wait for her, and when she saw me again she yawned. I couldn’t blame her. After a second thirty-one minute spin on the Rollercoaster, not to mention the preliminary ride through the Tunnel of Love, or the Hall of Quantum Mirrors, her emotions were well taken care of.
She had removed her skintight Park uniform and was wearing a St. Ewagiow dress. As we stepped into a Shrinkmobile I said, “I didn’t think you would be interested in the latest style.”
“Oh, leave me alone,” she said, cuddling up in a corner of the cab. She was beautiful, yes, a beautiful neutron, and the assignment I had was impossible, I thought. I only persisted because this thrill addict happened to be suspect number one.
She yawned at my advances, yawned at my compliments, and finally in disgust as we neared Greater Miami I said. “All you love is that damned job of yours!”
“Oh, go away,” she yawned.
“I’ll see you in my dreams. A box of Sweet Dreams and you,” I said bitterly.
Suddenly she almost seemed to become human. “Do you use Sweet Dreams?”
“I do,” I said.
“Know what I dream of?”
“The Rollercoaster.”
“How did you guess? I dream that some day the magicientist at the controls will make a mistake.”
“That would mean death, wouldn’t it?”
“We’d smash into the world of Urania 235 and die!” she exclaimed. “Oh, what a wonderful thrill.” She was smiling like an angel.
After I had left her and reported to the Commissioner, I couldn’t forget that smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s really sympathetic to the St. Ewagiow,” I said. “She’s a death addict!”
And that was the lead we worked on. The next day, with the Park’s chief magicientist, Dr. Lawrence 1 Quipper, I called on Cleo Fly. There was no answer to my knock. The doctor smiled and rearranged the molecular structure of the lock with a pocket-size cyclotron 2 . We went inside and found Cleo asleep on a couch, a box of Sweet Dreams on the floor.
“One second,” the doctor said and he took out a tiny rod from his pocket, explaining that it was the latest model of Consciousness-Exhilarator, or Con-Ex. He touched her breast with it, above her heart, and in less than a minute she sat up on the couch, her face confused and unhappy.
She stared at the doctor in his black and purple cape and black hat with purple feather 1 . She gasped. “Dr. Quipper,” she said in a shaky voice. “This is a great honor.”
“Cleo,” he said softly. “We’ve been thinking of an experiment where the Rollercoaster, instead of being deflected at the last minute, will actually penetrate Urania 235. But we haven’t as yet solved the problem of the safety factor. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and her black eyes began to glow.
“An experiment is necessary: Science demands it, Cleo. Such an experiment could mean death at the first venture. Would you want to volunteer?”
In her baggy St. Ewagiow dress with its miniature silver coffin, she had looked about as lifeless as a piece of beautiful mortuary. But now she was trembling with excitement.
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