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I introduce myself?"
"Just say you're Pete Parnell, and play it off the cuff," said Steve. "You'll see what I mean
when you get there."
Get there. That hit me the idea of making a journey into some nut's nut. My stomach drew
itself up to softball size.
"What's the proper dress for a visit like this? Formal?" I
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- asked. At least, 1 think 1 said that. It didn't sound like my voice.
"Wear what you like." ^ "Uh-huh. And how do I know when to draw my visit to a
" ^ close?"
188 Peier Phitlips
Steve came round to my side. "If you haven't snapped Craswell out of it within an hour, I'll
turn off the current." He stepped back to the machine- "Happy dreams." 1 groaned.
It was hot. Two high summers rolled into one. No, two suns, blood-red, stark in a brazen sky.
Should be cool underfoot soft green turf. pool-table smooth to the far horizon- But it wasn't
grass. Dust. Burning green dust
The gladiator stood ten feet away, eyes glaring in disbelief. Al! of six-four high, great
bronzed arms and legs, knotted muscles, a long shining sword in his right hand.
But his face was unmistakable.
This was where I took a good hold of myself. I wanted to
sW6-
"Boy!" I said. "Do you tan quickly' Couple of minutes ago, you were as white as the
bedsheet."
The gladiator shaded his eyes from the twin suns. "Is this yet another guise of the magician
Garor to drive me insane an Earthman here, on the Plains of Islak? Or am I already
mad?" His voice was deep, smoothly modulated.
My own was perfectly normal. Indeed, after the initial effort, I felt perfectly normal, except for
the heat.
I said: "That's the growing idea where I've just come from that you're going nuts."
You know those half-dreams, just on the verge of sleep, in which you can control your own
imagery to some extent? That's how 1 felt. I knew intuitively what Steve was getting at when
he said 1 could play it off the cuff. 1 looked down. Tweed suit, brogues naturally. That's
what I was weaning when I last looked at myself. 1 had no reason to think I was
wearing and therefore to be wearing anything else. But something cooler was indicated
in this heat, generated by Marsham Craswell's imagination.
Something like his own gladiator costume, perhaps. Sandals fine. There were my feet in
sandals- Then I laughed. 1 had nearly fallen into the error of accept- ing his imagination.
"Do you mind if I switch off one of those suns?" I asked politely. "It's a little hot."
DREAMS ARE SACRED 189
I gave one of the suns a very dirty look. it disappeared. r The gladiator raised his sword.
"You are Garor!" he cried. "But your witchery shall not avail you against the Sword!"
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He rushed forward. The shining blade cleaved the air towards my skull.
I thought very, very fast.
The sword clanged, and streaked off at a sharp tangent from my G.I. brain-pan protector. I'd
last worn that homely piece of hardware in the Argonne, and I knew it would stop a mere
sword. 1 took it off.
"Now listen to me, Marsham Craswell," I said. "My name's Pete Pamell, of the Sunday Star,
and "
Craswell looked up from his sword, chest heaving, startled eyes bright as if with
recognition. "Wait! 1 know now who you are Nelpar Retrep. Man of the Seven Moons,
come to fight with me against the Snake and his ungodly disciple, magician and sorceress,
Garor. Welcome, my friend!"
He held out a huge bronzed hand. I shook it.
It was obvious that, unable to rationalize or irrationalize me, he was writing me into the
plot of his dream! Right. It had been amusing so far. I'd string along for a while. My
imagination hadn't taken a licking yet.
Craswell said: "My followers, the great-hearted Dok-men of the Blue Hills, have just been
slain in a gory battle. We were about to brave the many perils of the Plains of Istak in our
quest for the Diamond but all this. of course, you know."
"Sure," I said. "What now?"
Craswell turned suddenly, pointed- "There." he muttered. "A sight that strikes terror even
into my heart Garor returns lo. the battle, at the head of her dread Legion of Lakros, beasts
of the Overworid, drawn into evil symbiosis with alien intelligences invulnerable to men, but
not to the Sword, or to me mighty weapons of Nelpar of the Seven Moons. We shall fight
them alone'"
Racing across the vast plain of green dust towards us was a horde of ... er ... creatures. My
vocabulary can't cope fully with Craswell's imagination. Gigantic, shimmering things,
drooling thick ichor, half-flying, half-lolloping. Enough to
190 Peter Philiips
say I looked around for a washbasin to spit in. I found one, with soap and towels complete,
but I pushed it over, looked at a patch of green dust and thought hard.
The outline of the phone booth wavered a little before I could fix it. I dashed inside, dialed
"Police H.Q.? Riot squad here and quick!"
i stepped outside the booth. Craswell was whirling the Sword round his head, yelling war
cries as he faced the onrushing monsters.
From the other direction came me swelling scream of a police siren- Half a dozen good,
solid patrol cars screeched to a dust-spurting slop outside the phone booth. I don't have to
think hard to get a New York cop car fixed in my mind. These were just right. And the first
man out, running to my side and patting his cap on firmly, was just right, too.
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Michael O'Faolin, the biggest, toughest, nicest cop I know.
"Mike," I said, pointing. "Fix 'em."
*'Shure, an' it's an aisy job fthe bhoys I've brought along," said Mike, hitching his belt.
He deployed his men.
Craswell looked at them fanning out to take the charge, then staggered back towards me,
hand over his eyes. "Madness!" be shouted. "What madness is this? What are you doing?"
For a moment, the whole scene wavered. The lone red sun blinked out. the green desert
became a murky transparency through which I caught a split-second glimpse of white beds
with two figures lying on mem. Then Craswell uncovered his eyes.
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