Art - Amir Zand

 Art - Amir Zand

Back to Base

PSYOP

Speed Paints (18)

Tranquility

Wandering Earth

Interview with Dr. Jeffrey A. Robinson

Interview with Dr. Jeffrey A. Robinson

 

Q. I was recently listening to a podcast of your short story, Ripples in Time. There’s a mention of a city that appeared as a mirage during the 1930s and the description was so believable that I found myself searching the web to see if it were true. How did you come up with that?

A: Well, I have a physics background and I juxtaposed a picture of a mirage with the memory that once, long ago, the great plains were under water. A fleeting idea occurred to me that mirages could be looking back to those times. Then I thought of turning it into a love story. The rest of the story just fell in place. That’s the way stories develop… from random ideas and strange questions that often start out with “what if?”

It's strange. The idea of the city came to me when I heard about distant mirages at sea. So… I just made up the story about a newspaper article years ago that recounted such an event.

It’s funny, I typically add fictional details to my stories and try to make them sound real... but sometimes I get people asking if that drug is real, or if that piece of science is true, or if a fictional historic event actually occurred.

I like to make my stories seem realistic and I guess it’s a compliment when people can’t tell where reality stops and the fiction begins.

Q. So this takes us nicely in to your rather successful Untold Tales podcast. You’re up to 72 stories now. How did it all start?

A: I had just published three short story anthologies when I met Melissa Del Toro, a voice-over specialist at a writer’s workshop. She was explaining how written books can be turned into audiobooks. After her presentation, I spoke to her and said that my biggest problem with audiobooks is that they take so long to listen to. (I read a lot and I also read much faster than a normal speaking pace) I explained that it typically took many sittings to work my way through an audiobook of any appreciable length… often 8 or 9 hours. I said that it was sad that no one converted short stories to audio format and suggested that such short audio stories could be listened to in a single sitting… such as while commuting to or from work, or at lunch. Thus, the idea of audio anthologies was born. Such collections of audio shorts could be targeted for people who don’t have enough time to listen to long audio recordings…. People who don’t want to stop listening when only partially finished. We envisioned that such a collection would be ideal for commuters going to and from work. And we thought of calling it TALES FOR TRAVELERS. However, we stuck with the title UNTOLD TALES since that was the name of my science fiction anthologies.

Q. So you met Melissa Del Toro Schaffner at a writing group?

A: Yes, as I mentioned we met and immediately started brainstorming about collections of audio short stories. We decided to start with the science fiction short stories that I had just published, but we’ve always planned to expand to other genres. When we get a larger listenership we plan to offer other podcast playlists for stories other than science fiction. They could be called CRIME FOR COMMUTERS, MURDER FOR THE METRO, DRAMA FOR THE DRIVE HOME, HORROR FOR THE HIGHWAY and more. We hope to kick off some new genres soon.

Q. One of the attractions of the podcast is that the stories are science fiction of a ‘high quality.’ How do you decide what qualifies as high quality and what doesn’t?

A: Well, I fell in love with Science Fiction at an early age. My father was a nuclear physicist and he got me reading books that his father had started. I grew up reading Edgar Rice Burroughs and JOHN CARTER OF MARS, H.G. Wells, horror from the 20’s and 30’s H.P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, writers from the GOLDEN AGE, Asimov, Clark, Bradbury, Sturgeon, Simak, Doc E.E. Smith, and so many more. I tend to compare new books that I read to those classics. The other advantage that I have is that I was privileged to work with a friend who edited and published one of the early e-zines on the web. As co-editor, I had the unfortunate task to read through unpublished submissions that we received. We called the backlog the ‘slush pile’ because 95% of the stories we got were so terribly bad. It is ironic how reading very bad stories makes you really appreciate the very rare good ones.

Ultimately, only about 5% of the books you buy or read are worth the cost of the book or the time that you invest in reading it. Often, you work your way to the end, feeling in your heart that it will get better, but it doesn’t. I try to write stories that I would like to read and that I would consider to be in that 5%.

Q. What are the essential elements to a good science fiction story?

A: Ah… many authors think the focus of good science fiction is the quality of the science. It is not. Science is really not that important to a good SF story. Science should be an excuse for a novel setting or situation. A really good science fiction story is ultimately just a good story… a who-dun-it, or a romance, a mystery, comedy or tragedy. Science should take a back seat to the story, the characters, and the plot. Science is really the backdrop, the surrounding scenery, window dressing. If the focus is on the science, how a blaster works or how a stardrive functions, then you often have characters that are flat and uninteresting, plots that don’t make sense or that go nowhere and writing that is bland and colorless. Indeed, I have written good science fiction that is in the Victorian setting as well as the far future and the heart of a good science fiction story is just that… a good story, one that is well written and has interesting characters that you identify with and care about, people who are doing interesting things in interesting situations.

Q. As well as an author of short stories, you’ve also written a few novels, some of which are grouped into trilogies. How about picking one and introducing it to us?

A: One trilogy, that is waiting for the third book to be finished is called MINDGAMES and is based on the premise that two researchers discover a drug that has a strange effect on a very small segment of the population. These people have a genetic defect that makes them hear voices. But there is medication they can take to treat that problem. Anyway, when those people take this new drug, they become telepaths… fully functional telepaths who can hear other people’s thoughts. It seems that they people were ‘latent’ telepaths and the voices that they sometimes heard were really ‘other’ people’s voices, or rather thoughts. These people have only one gene, a recessive, that partially enables telepathic abilities in their brain and when they take the drug it is like having that missing second gene and they become fully telepathic. The story basically addresses a specific problem. What would the government do if they had a drug that could turn one in 10,000 people into a telepath? and if they were the only people who knew about the drug? It is a story about power and potential, good and evil, and how such abilities would affect people. It weaves ancient myth and modern science and reveals that telepaths have always been among us, but have hidden themselves because over centuries they were killed as sorcerers or burned as witches when their powers were discovered. There is romance, horror, intrigue and drama.

The first book KNIGHT’S GAMBIT is about the discovery of the drug. The second book is called QUEEN SACRIFICE and is about conflict between the few remaining telepathic groups that have been hidden for centuries. And the third book CHECKMATE is about the conflict between world governments and these new telepaths. I like to think it is comparable to the Saga of Pliocene Exile and The Galactic Milieu Series by Julian May.

I have another completed trilogy that is a classic ‘space opera’ and a third that is partially written but most of my novels are standalone and almost all of them started with the question… “what if?”

Q. You’re a doctor of science and I’ve been looking up your qualifications (Ph.D, MBA, BA, BSEE, MBB, PMP). Also your career experience with computer programming and automation. How much do you think knowing your stuff helps with the creation of a science fiction theme/idea?

A: Well, it sure helps with managing details about science and technology. You see there are two types primary types of science fiction. Hard and Soft. Hard SF is technically accurate (though we may wink at things like faster than light travel or large cheap sources of energy. Hard SF tries to be as realistic as you can be. Soft SF is of two types. One is in the sense that it deals with softer disciplines of science, like psychology, sociology, anthropology, and so on.

The other aspect of Soft-science is where science is not treated realistically or where basic laws of physics are simply not applied. Things like, I bumped my computer, it became aware and took over the world. Or, using common household chemicals I developed a drug that made me super intelligent and immortal. Or you forget about things like inertia, mass, or gravity and end up doing things like walking on the surface of the sun. For those who have even an inkling of understanding of science, such things are as offensive as stating that 2 plus 2 is 22.

Q. You also flew F-4 Phantom Jets. What can you tell us about that? (Or is this classified?!)

A: Oh…well. When I went to college, the Vietnam war was still raging. Many of my classmates were drafted right out of college and spent the next couple years in foxholes in distant jungles. I had a very low draft number and would have been drafted, so I joined the Marines and qualified for their pilot training program. I got my private license and after college went into the marines. Fortunately, the month that I got my wings, the US pulled out of Vietnam. I never served in combat and count myself lucky in several ways. But I did have a few incredible experiences, like walking away from a plane crash, and flying at Mach 2 fifty feet above the surface of the Arizona desert. I later served as an air traffic controller too. It was…amazing.

But I have had a lot of other experiences too. I have been a short-order cook, a cartoonist, a business manager for a small weekly paper, a marathoner, a scuba diver, and more. My background is rather… eclectic.

Q. You’ve said already that you grew up loving to read sci-fi. What were your old favourites?

A: The Lensman by Doc E.E. Smith. Anything by Issac Asimov, Arthur C Clark, or Ray Bradbury. Later I fell in love with dozens of authors in other genres, Michael Moorcock, the English author who wrote the Eternal Champion series. Robert Heinlein, of course. And I have fallen in love with others along the way, David Gemmel, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Pohl Anderson, Ben Bova, comedy by Terry Prachett, mysteries by Lee Child. I sit in a room filled with 15,000 books. That’s a book a day, every day, for 40 years. My list of favorites would sadly be many pages long.

Q. Is it true that you read one book a day?

A: Yes … I have read one (or more) books a day for nearly 40 years (though I am down to one a week now because I am writing so much).

Consider a typical paperback book that is about 120 pages long. If you open the book to any random page, you can probably read a single page out loud in about a minute. True, you would probably be reciting words as fast as you can, but it would still only take about a minute to read one page out loud. Therefore, if you could keep up that pace, you should be able to read the average paperback book, out loud in about 120 minutes or two hours.

First you have to build up the endurance to sit in one place and focus sufficient attention that you can read or an hour or two a day. When you do that, your reading speed, comprehension and attention will all eventually improve as well. Then, in the time that you would have spent watching a single TV movie each night, you can read a book instead.

Q. Having read so many books, it must put you in a unique position in terms of coming up with something original. That is, you’re more likely to know if an idea you have has been done before. Does this help or hinder your writing?

A: Yes … original is hard, but sometimes I borrow pieces from other stories but add a new twist that I think is interesting. (For example: One Last Time, Where All The Roads End, and Collaboration)

I do get some original ideas (for example Ripples in Time), but some topics are so overdone that it is almost impossible to do something new – but I try, for example The Timepiece).

Q. Being an avid reader as well as a writer, how much do you in turn think of the reader when you are creating and editing a story?

A: Constantly… is the pace too fast or too slow? Is the sentence structure varied enough so that it does not get boring? How much should I explain and how much needs to be revealed slowly? It is ultimately ALL about the reader. If a writer does not constantly think about the reader he is likely just a self-centered egotist writing to himself to themself.

A true storyteller respects and identifies with his audience. The best storytellers are lucky because they get actual eye-contact with their audience.

You see… I am also a reader and I want to write stories that I would like to read. As a writer I am trying to paint a picture with words, just like every artist who has to figure out what colors to use to make the viewer see the picture properly. In the same way, I have to find the right words to convey that image that I see. If they don’t see or hear or experience what I meant… then I used the wrong words or the wrong ‘colors.’

Q. Okay, and as a final question, what are you working on at the moment? Any new stories or novels in the works?

A: Well, I am continuing to work on the podcasts, of course. We just published episode 72. We are in our third year and we have a major release coming at the end of the year that will include re-airing all our podcasts as YouTube videos as well as creating a new website, facebook pages, and a writer’s blog. We have a total of 111 short stories in the pipeline for our podcasts and we haven’t opened up the other genre playlists yet (mystery, crime, drama, horror, or military-SF) I have written nearly two dozen short stories in the past two years… about one per month and have also published 7 novels in that time. I currently have two more anthologies already completed and they will launch at the end of the year, and… if possible… two more novels, as well. Ideas are not my problem. My problem is that I have too many stories and not enough time. Note… I also have seven grandchildren who are competing for my time and attention and a wife who tolerates my eccentricities remarkably well. I couldn’t do any of this stuff without her.

It’s funny. I worked as a technologist for 40 years while teaching graduate school for 30 of those years. I’m supposed to be retired, but I feel busier than ever.

Thanks very much for the interview, Jeff.

You can check out the Untold Tales Podcast here.

Also you can find Jeffrey’s website here,

connect with him on goodreads here

and his amazon page is here.

Dating

 

Dating

by Chris Morton

This one was all right - short dress, glossy red lipstick. But she was taking out her phone already.

“You don’t hang about, do you?”

She was chewing gum, fast and swiping away. She pointed her phone at mine then screwed up her face, confused for a moment.

“You not gonna turn it on, then?”

“And what if I don’t?”

She screwed up her face some more. There was a mole on her right cheek that I was finding strangely attractive. “Listen,” I said. “How about we get to know each other first?”

She was looking around the bar. Still holding her phone, she raised it high above her head and I didn’t need to know which APP she was on because that’s what this story is about, you see. The damned MATCH APP.

Her phone lit up.

“Listen, bud,” she said. “I just been paired with three guys in this bar.” She was looking at me in the eye. I have blue eyes, did I mention that? Before this APP came along, these blue eyes were all I needed.

She was chewing her gum slowly. Chewing her gum and looking at me. “I like you.” She was scanning me up and down. “You’re fit. A hottie. Something this place is definitely lacking.”

“You’re pretty damned fine looking yourself.”

She laughed and it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Sure, maybe a little too loud, a little too rough, and there was just a touch of falseness. But this girl had spirit. She was my type. Energy. A bit of gusto. She had a tattoo on her shoulder of a thin red dragon. Her skin was tanned, and she was large in all the right places.

She was watching me.

“Say, you got something to hide, mister?”

“Nah, you don’t need to worry about that. I’m clean. An upright standing citizen.” I was wearing a t-shirt and showed her my arms. “You ever see a junkie with skin as smooth as a baby’s behind?”

She laughed again, this time a little more gently. She placed her phone onto the glass table between us; next to her drink and mine – neither of which we had touched.

“Been sat here five seconds,” I said. “Don’t you wanna get acquainted?”

She reached out a hand and placed it on the back of my own. Then the other one too, and I was staring at her mascara. I was thinking all sorts of things you probably don’t want to know about. And what the hell? Maybe this time it would be different. We’d be the perfect match. There’d be no going back. She’d be mine tonight and later we’d have six kids and a subsidy from the city government. We’d get a house out by the coast.

Leaning forward, she gave me a peck on the nose. “Thing is,” she said. “I been there already. I’ve had my fun.”

Her eyes shifted to the left and she smiled, remembering a whole lot of fun that was none of my business.

“But I’m ready,” she said. “I wanna slow down.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” I replied, seeing that this was going nowhere. “No more wasting your time with Mr Wrong.”

I lifted my hands from under hers and reached for the phone in my pocket. I turned it on and selected the MATCH APP (the official name of which it pains me to mention).

She was shifting in her seat. All but wetting herself in anticipation.

“How can you trust this thing, anyway?”

“Would you just get on with it?”

“Now hear me out a minute. Cos there’s something you should know. You see, this APP,” I told her, “it doesn’t like me much. Seems to think I’m some kind of a jerk.”

She went for her drink and shot me a look.

“Oh, come on! This is you and me, Baby! Sat here like it was before this thing was ever invented – two people, a guy and a girl. And I like you, I like the look of you. Forget about the technology.”

“Mister, I’ll give you five seconds.”

“What you tell it? Your favourite colour? Your favourite food? What kind of music you like listening to on a hot summer’s night? What’s your ideal vacation, Baby? Where’d you go? What’d you –”

“It’s more than that,” she cut in, putting down her drink. Her eyes were on my finger, on my phone and hers. “It’s science.”

“Oh, yeah, science,” I scoffed.

“You give it your blood type. And DNA,” she said, enunciating each letter.

“Hey, if it’s DNA you want, Baby, I’ve got plenty of it.”

“Ha, ha.”

She leaned back in her seat.

“You a scientist?” I asked.

“Maybe I am and you’ll never know it.”

She made as if to stand up, made as if to leave, but she had me.

I had to know.

“Wait.”

“Oh, yeah?” She frowned, pursing her lips.

“Okay, Baby. Have it your way.”

Reluctantly, I pressed down on the button.

The application whirled, coming to life in a swirl of orange.

“PLEASE WAIT,” said the message.

She was looking at her phone and I was looking at her body. At her soft pink hair and the soft down on her upper lip.

The application turned to red.

“NO MATCH.”

“Well ain’t that just great,” I said, throwing my phone back onto the table.

She already had her bag around her shoulder. She’d taken a compact and was adjusting the blush on her cheeks. “Don’t take it so hard,” she said. “I’m sure there’s someone here for you.”

She leaned forward and kissed me again, smelling of all things female and it was torture, I tell you. She ruffled at my hair – did I mention I have good hair? I’m a natural blond. The girls, they used to love that.

“This thing, it’s just a fad, you know that, don’t you? A year from now …”

But I was wasting my breath.

She was now waltzing over to a group of guys at the bar. As she got closer, they all pulled out their phones – and I swear they did so in unison.

It was shameful to watch, but one of them got lucky.

“Hey, I hope you’re happy!” I shouted.

But that was it. No need to create a scene.

Lazily I took up my phone and held it high above my head.

The same swirl of orange followed by the same red NO MATCH.

“Not a girl in this entire place …”

Goddamn APP.

The guy she was talking to had an Armani suit – the genuine article; this fellow had money and I wondered for a moment if he were cheating the system.

They say that if you’ve a high enough credit status, there are ways …

“Wanker,” I mumbled.

He had blotched cheeks and a balding hairline.

“Girl like that …”

It was nothing short of a travesty.

Chris Morton is the creator of this blog.

He has released two sci-fi novels,

one collection of short stories

and a few other scribblings.

You can find his amazon page here.

Bookspot - Incursion by Scott Carruba

 

Bookspot - Incursion by Scott Carruba

The lastest hi-tech virtual reality game is on the market, and customers are lining up for the chance to play. But not everyone who enters comes out alive.

An exciting new cyberpunk thriller that offers a gripping read.

The future is here! Look everywhere. You’ve seen the symbol, the sign of things to come. The enigmatic gaming corporation Five Cube sprang from nowhere, promising unparalleled entertainment. This new experience will change your life … forever. Evan and his online friends mistrust the claims, and people are going missing. What is truly promised? Is it worth the risk to dive in so deeply? There’s only one way for them to find out.

Art - Video Game Art

 Video Game Art

Anno 2205

Cyberpunk 2077

Enslaved: Odyssey to the West

Halo 5

No Man's Sky

Snatcher

Warm by Robert Sheckley

 

Warm

by Robert Sheckley

Anders lay on his bed, fully dressed except for his shoes and black bow tie, contemplating, with a certain uneasiness, the evening before him. In twenty minutes he would pick up Judy at her apartment, and that was the uneasy part of it.

He had realized, only seconds ago, that he was in love with her.

Well, he'd tell her. The evening would be memorable. He would propose, there would be kisses, and the seal of acceptance would, figuratively speaking, be stamped across his forehead.

Not too pleasant an outlook, he decided. It really would be much more comfortable not to be in love. What had done it? A look, a touch, a thought? It didn't take much, he knew, and stretched his arms for a thorough yawn.

"Help me!" a voice said.

His muscles spasmed, cutting off the yawn in mid-moment. He sat upright on the bed, then grinned and lay back again.

"You must help me!" the voice insisted.

Anders sat up, reached for a polished shoe and fitted it on, giving his full attention to the tying of the laces.

"Can you hear me?" the voice asked. "You can, can't you?"

That did it. "Yes, I can hear you," Anders said, still in a high good humor. "Don't tell me you're my guilty subconscious, attacking me for a childhood trauma I never bothered to resolve. I suppose you want me to join a monastery."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the voice said. "I'm no one's subconscious. I'm me. Will you help me?"

Anders believed in voices as much as anyone; that is, he didn't believe in them at all, until he heard them. Swiftly he catalogued the possibilities. Schizophrenia was the best answer, of course, and one in which his colleagues would concur. But Anders had a lamentable confidence in his own sanity. In which case –

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I don't know," the voice answered.

Anders realized that the voice was speaking within his own mind. Very suspicious.

"You don't know who you are," Anders stated. "Very well. Where are you?"

"I don't know that, either." The voice paused, and went on. "Look, I know how ridiculous this must sound. Believe me, I'm in some sort of limbo. I don't know how I got here or who I am, but I want desperately to get out. Will you help me?"

* * * * *

Still fighting the idea of a voice speaking within his head, Anders knew that his next decision was vital. He had to accept – or reject – his own sanity.

He accepted it.

"All right," Anders said, lacing the other shoe. "I'll grant that you're a person in trouble, and that you're in some sort of telepathic contact with me. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"I'm afraid not," the voice said, with infinite sadness. "You'll have to find out for yourself."

"Can you contact anyone else?"

"No."

"Then how can you talk with me?"

"I don't know."

Anders walked to his bureau mirror and adjusted his black bow tie, whistling softly under his breath. Having just discovered that he was in love, he wasn't going to let a little thing like a voice in his mind disturb him.

"I really don't see how I can be of any help," Anders said, brushing a bit of lint from his jacket. "You don't know where you are, and there don't seem to be any distinguishing landmarks. How am I to find you?" He turned and looked around the room to see if he had forgotten anything.

"I'll know when you're close," the voice said. "You were warm just then."

"Just then?" All he had done was look around the room. He did so again, turning his head slowly. Then it happened.

The room, from one angle, looked different. It was suddenly a mixture of muddled colors, instead of the carefully blended pastel shades he had selected. The lines of wall, floor and ceiling were strangely off proportion, zigzag, unrelated.

Then everything went back to normal.

"You were very warm," the voice said. "It's a question of seeing things correctly."

Anders resisted the urge to scratch his head, for fear of disarranging his carefully combed hair. What he had seen wasn't so strange. Everyone sees one or two things in his life that make him doubt his normality, doubt sanity, doubt his very existence. For a moment the orderly Universe is disarranged and the fabric of belief is ripped.

But the moment passes.

Anders remembered once, as a boy, awakening in his room in the middle of the night. How strange everything had looked. Chairs, table, all out of proportion, swollen in the dark. The ceiling pressing down, as in a dream.

But that had also passed.

"Well, old man," he said, "if I get warm again, let me know."

"I will," the voice in his head whispered. "I'm sure you'll find me."

"I'm glad you're so sure," Anders said gaily, switched off the lights and left.

* * * * *

Lovely and smiling, Judy greeted him at the door. Looking at her, Anders sensed her knowledge of the moment. Had she felt the change in him, or predicted it? Or was love making him grin like an idiot?

"Would you like a before-party drink?" she asked.

He nodded, and she led him across the room, to the improbable green-and-yellow couch. Sitting down, Anders decided he would tell her when she came back with the drink. No use in putting off the fatal moment. A lemming in love, he told himself.

"You're getting warm again," the voice said.

He had almost forgotten his invisible friend. Or fiend, as the case could well be. What would Judy say if she knew he was hearing voices? Little things like that, he reminded himself, often break up the best of romances.

"Here," she said, handing him a drink.

Still smiling, he noticed. The number two smile – to a prospective suitor, provocative and understanding. It had been preceded, in their relationship, by the number one nice-girl smile, the don't-misunderstand-me smile, to be worn on all occasions, until the correct words have been mumbled.

"That's right," the voice said. "It's in how you look at things."

Look at what? Anders glanced at Judy, annoyed at his thoughts. If he was going to play the lover, let him play it. Even through the astigmatic haze of love, he was able to appreciate her blue-gray eyes, her fine skin (if one overlooked a tiny blemish on the left temple), her lips, slightly reshaped by lipstick.

"How did your classes go today?" she asked.

Well, of course she'd ask that, Anders thought. Love is marking time.

"All right," he said. "Teaching psychology to young apes –"

"Oh, come now!"

"Warmer," the voice said.

What's the matter with me, Anders wondered. She really is a lovely girl. The gestalt that is Judy, a pattern of thoughts, expressions, movements, making up the girl I –

I what?

Love?

Anders shifted his long body uncertainly on the couch. He didn't quite understand how this train of thought had begun. It annoyed him. The analytical young instructor was better off in the classroom. Couldn't science wait until 9:10 in the morning?

"I was thinking about you today," Judy said, and Anders knew that she had sensed the change in his mood.

"Do you see?" the voice asked him. "You're getting much better at it."

"I don't see anything," Anders thought, but the voice was right. It was as though he had a clear line of inspection into Judy's mind. Her feelings were nakedly apparent to him, as meaningless as his room had been in that flash of undistorted thought.

"I really was thinking about you," she repeated.

"Now look," the voice said.

* * * * *

Anders, watching the expressions on Judy's face, felt the strangeness descend on him. He was back in the nightmare perception of that moment in his room. This time it was as though he were watching a machine in a laboratory. The object of this operation was the evocation and preservation of a particular mood. The machine goes through a searching process, invoking trains of ideas to achieve the desired end.

"Oh, were you?" he asked, amazed at his new perspective.

"Yes … I wondered what you were doing at noon," the reactive machine opposite him on the couch said, expanding its shapely chest slightly.

"Good," the voice said, commending him for his perception.

"Dreaming of you, of course," he said to the flesh-clad skeleton behind the total gestalt Judy. The flesh machine rearranged its limbs, widened its mouth to denote pleasure. The mechanism searched through a complex of fears, hopes, worries, through half-remembrances of analogous situations, analogous solutions.

And this was what he loved. Anders saw too clearly and hated himself for seeing. Through his new nightmare perception, the absurdity of the entire room struck him.

"Were you really?" the articulating skeleton asked him.

"You're coming closer," the voice whispered.

To what? The personality? There was no such thing. There was no true cohesion, no depth, nothing except a web of surface reactions, stretched across automatic visceral movements.

He was coming closer to the truth.

"Sure," he said sourly.

The machine stirred, searching for a response.

Anders felt a quick tremor of fear at the sheer alien quality of his viewpoint. His sense of formalism had been sloughed off, his agreed-upon reactions bypassed. What would be revealed next?

He was seeing clearly, he realized, as perhaps no man had ever seen before. It was an oddly exhilarating thought.

But could he still return to normality?

"Can I get you a drink?" the reaction machine asked.

At that moment Anders was as thoroughly out of love as a man could be. Viewing one's intended as a depersonalized, sexless piece of machinery is not especially conducive to love. But it is quite stimulating, intellectually.

Anders didn't want normality. A curtain was being raised and he wanted to see behind it. What was it some Russian scientist – Ouspensky, wasn't it – had said?

"Think in other categories."

That was what he was doing, and would continue to do.

"Good-by," he said suddenly.

The machine watched him, open-mouthed, as he walked out the door. Delayed circuit reactions kept it silent until it heard the elevator door close.

* * * * *

"You were very warm in there," the voice within his head whispered, once he was on the street. "But you still don't understand everything."

"Tell me, then," Anders said, marveling a little at his equanimity. In an hour he had bridged the gap to a completely different viewpoint, yet it seemed perfectly natural.

"I can't," the voice said. "You must find it yourself."

"Well, let's see now," Anders began. He looked around at the masses of masonry, the convention of streets cutting through the architectural piles. "Human life," he said, "is a series of conventions. When you look at a girl, you're supposed to see – a pattern, not the underlying formlessness."

"That's true," the voice agreed, but with a shade of doubt.

"Basically, there is no form. Man produces _gestalts_, and cuts form out of the plethora of nothingness. It's like looking at a set of lines and saying that they represent a figure. We look at a mass of material, extract it from the background and say it's a man. But in truth there is no such thing. There are only the humanizing features that we – myopically – attach to it. Matter is conjoined, a matter of viewpoint."

"You're not seeing it now," said the voice.

"Damn it," Anders said. He was certain that he was on the track of something big, perhaps something ultimate. "Everyone's had the experience. At some time in his life, everyone looks at a familiar object and can't make any sense out of it. Momentarily, the gestalt fails, but the true moment of sight passes. The mind reverts to the superimposed pattern. Normalcy continues."

The voice was silent. Anders walked on, through the gestalt city.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Anders asked.

"Yes."

What could that be, he asked himself. Through clearing eyes, Anders looked at the formality he had called his world.

He wondered momentarily if he would have come to this if the voice hadn't guided him. Yes, he decided after a few moments, it was inevitable.

But who was the voice? And what had he left out?

"Let's see what a party looks like now," he said to the voice.

* * * * *

The party was a masquerade; the guests were all wearing their faces. To Anders, their motives, individually and collectively, were painfully apparent. Then his vision began to clear further.

He saw that the people weren't truly individual. They were discontinuous lumps of flesh sharing a common vocabulary, yet not even truly discontinuous.

The lumps of flesh were a part of the decoration of the room and almost indistinguishable from it. They were one with the lights, which lent their tiny vision. They were joined to the sounds they made, a few feeble tones out of the great possibility of sound. They blended into the walls.

The kaleidoscopic view came so fast that Anders had trouble sorting his new impressions. He knew now that these people existed only as patterns, on the same basis as the sounds they made and the things they thought they saw.

Gestalts, sifted out of the vast, unbearable real world.

"Where's Judy?" a discontinuous lump of flesh asked him. This particular lump possessed enough nervous mannerisms to convince the other lumps of his reality. He wore a loud tie as further evidence.

"She's sick," Anders said. The flesh quivered into an instant sympathy. Lines of formal mirth shifted to formal woe.

"Hope it isn't anything serious," the vocal flesh remarked.

"You're warmer," the voice said to Anders.

Anders looked at the object in front of him.

"She hasn't long to live," he stated.

The flesh quivered. Stomach and intestines contracted in sympathetic fear. Eyes distended, mouth quivered.

The loud tie remained the same.

"My God! You don't mean it!"

"What are you?" Anders asked quietly.

"What do you mean?" the indignant flesh attached to the tie demanded. Serene within its reality, it gaped at Anders. Its mouth twitched, undeniable proof that it was real and sufficient. "You're drunk," it sneered.

Anders laughed and left the party.

* * * * *

"There is still something you don't know," the voice said. "But you were hot! I could feel you near me."

"What are you?" Anders asked again.

"I don't know," the voice admitted. "I am a person. I am I. I am trapped."

"So are we all," Anders said. He walked on asphalt, surrounded by heaps of concrete, silicates, aluminum and iron alloys. Shapeless, meaningless heaps that made up the gestalt city.

And then there were the imaginary lines of demarcation dividing city from city, the artificial boundaries of water and land.

All ridiculous.

"Give me a dime for some coffee, mister?" something asked, a thing indistinguishable from any other thing.

"Old Bishop Berkeley would give a nonexistent dime to your nonexistent presence," Anders said gaily.

"I'm really in a bad way," the voice whined, and Anders perceived that it was no more than a series of modulated vibrations.

"Yes! Go on!" the voice commanded.

"If you could spare me a quarter –" the vibrations said, with a deep pretense at meaning.

No, what was there behind the senseless patterns? Flesh, mass. What was that? All made up of atoms.

"I'm really hungry," the intricately arranged atoms muttered.

All atoms. Conjoined. There were no true separations between atom and atom. Flesh was stone, stone was light. Anders looked at the masses of atoms that were pretending to solidity, meaning and reason.

"Can't you help me?" a clump of atoms asked. But the clump was identical with all the other atoms. Once you ignored the superimposed patterns, you could see the atoms were random, scattered.

"I don't believe in you," Anders said.

The pile of atoms was gone.

"Yes!" the voice cried. "Yes!"

"I don't believe in any of it," Anders said. After all, what was an atom?

"Go on!" the voice shouted. "You're hot! Go on!"

What was an atom? An empty space surrounded by an empty space.

Absurd!

"Then it's all false!" Anders said. And he was alone under the stars.

"That's right!" the voice within his head screamed. "Nothing!"

But stars, Anders thought. How can one believe –

The stars disappeared. Anders was in a gray nothingness, a void. There was nothing around him except shapeless gray.

Where was the voice?

Gone.

Anders perceived the delusion behind the grayness, and then there was nothing at all.

Complete nothingness, and himself within it.

* * * * *

Where was he? What did it mean? Anders' mind tried to add it up.

Impossible. That couldn't be true.

Again the score was tabulated, but Anders' mind couldn't accept the total. In desperation, the overloaded mind erased the figures, eradicated the knowledge, erased itself.

"Where am I?"

In nothingness. Alone.

Trapped.

"Who am I?"

A voice.

The voice of Anders searched the nothingness, shouted, "Is there anyone here?"

No answer.

But there was someone. All directions were the same, yet moving along one he could make contact ... with someone. The voice of Anders reached back to someone who could save him, perhaps.

"Save me," the voice said to Anders, lying fully dressed on his bed, except for his shoes and black bow tie.

Transcriber's Note: This etext was taken from Galaxy Science Fiction, June 1953. .

Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that

the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

This story is taken from Project Gutenberg. For legal reasons the following statement must be included: (This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org).