Escape with the Dream Maker (5 page)

“I don't see that was all that bad.”

Wash scratched his nose, then added slowly, “And it wasn't just that. I got into collecting baseball cards, and then comic books, and I'll tell you, Josh, I just seemed to get lost in it. When I was into baseball cards, I couldn't think of anything except gettin' that next card. The same thing with comic books. I'd go to all the shows. And study books about the prices and the rare ones. Even almost got a copy of the first
Superman.
Boy, that would have made me rich! I didn't, though.”

“All of us collect things at times when we're kids.”

Wash seemed even more embarrassed. “I guess you just don't understand, Josh. You see, somebody told me once that I had an ‘addictive personality.' I didn't know what that meant, and he said it meant that I just had to keep on doing whatever I was doing with everything I had.”

Josh could not grasp this. “But that's what Olympic athletes do all the time.”

“And I'm not even sure
that's
good. It's a real lopsided life. Some of those people work every hour of every day that they can for four years. Maybe they win a gold medal, but what about that four years?”

The two boys talked late into the night. Finally, Josh threw up his hands. “I don't think you're right about this, Wash. I think you need to have some R & R—rest and recreation. All of us do.”

Wash smiled. “I guess you're right, Josh. I just don't want to get hooked on that thing like I did on some other things in my life.”

“You won't.” Josh slapped the younger boy on the shoulder affectionately. “We'll look after each other. If I get hooked, just take a stick and hit me with it, and I'll do the same for you.”

“All
righhht!”
Wash made the high-five sign and took Josh's slap.

Then Josh headed for the door.

“Sure been nice talking to you,” Wash said. “I'll be glad when this hiding out is over, and we can all be together again.”

“It won't be long, I hope. Good night, Wash.”

 

The door closed, and Wash stood there for a long time. He was lonesome in this room. He was a young man who liked company. The isolation had been more difficult for him perhaps than for some of the other Sleepers. Besides, he was the youngest and depended upon the others, especially Reb. The two of them had spent almost no time together recently.

He went to bed, thinking about what Josh had said, and sleepily he muttered, “I'll talk to Reb about it in the morning. I'd like to know how he feels about the Dream Maker.”

 

Reb stared at Wash and shook his head, his lips pursed suddenly. “I think you're all wet, Wash. There's nothing wrong with Dream Maker. Why, I been having the time of my life.” His eyes glistened, and he said enthusiastically, “Know what I did? I went back and became a knight in King Arthur's Court! There's some good books about that. Boy, have I ever had fun!”

“I'm glad for that,” Wash said. “I just guess maybe I'm the one that needs to watch out.”

“Why, you're all right. You're no different from the rest of us.”

“Yea, I think I am,” Wash said. He tried hard to explain to Reb about what he felt was his character flaw, and finally ended up saying, “I just get hooked on
things and go crazy, it seems like. I can't think about anything else.”

Reb had become very fond of Wash over the months since they had come to Nuworld. The two had learned to trust one another through long, hard, and dangerous adventures. Now Reb was concerned about his younger friend. He sat listening as Wash tried to explain his problem. Then he said, “That's all right, Wash. I can understand a little about that. I was the same way about cigarettes. I was afraid I'd get hooked on 'em and wouldn't be able to quit.”

“That's exactly what I mean,” Wash said eagerly. “I know lots of people that started smoking just for fun. They said they could quit anytime they wanted to—but when they tried, they found out somehow they couldn't.”

“That's true enough, but I think this is a little bit different. Moderation, that's what you need. Just enough Dream Maker to have a little fun. A fellow needs a break every now and then, you know.”

“All right,” Wash said. “I'll try it a little bit more.” He smiled and said with some embarrassment, “Sorry to be such a wet blanket.”

“Aw, you ain't no wet blanket. You'll do to ride with.” Reb slapped Wash on the shoulder, and the two turned to talking about earlier times.

 

As Wash went back to his small room that night, he said, “I guess I'm the one who's out of step. Everybody else thinks this thing's all right. So I guess I'll just have to go along with it.”

W
ash and Reb drifted down the street. It was almost dark, and the shadows were long at their feet. All day long they had been busy, for Wash thought he had turned up a lead on one of the missing persons on their list. They had spent all afternoon trying to talk to citizens, but absolutely nothing had come of it.

Wash kicked at a can that lay in his path and sent it winging through the air. It fell to the earth and rattled, then stopped. “We sure wasted a day. I don't know what's wrong with these people,” he muttered.

Reb seemed preoccupied. “Huh? What did you say, Wash?”

Wash shot him a quick look. He had noticed that Reb's mind seemed to be elsewhere all through their pursuit of clues. He thought,
Reb's not as quick-minded as he usually is. I wonder if something's bothering him.
Aloud he said, “I just said the people in this town seem like they're all out of it.”

“I guess so,” Reb said in an offhanded fashion. Then he seemed to forget the conversation and said, “I guess I better get going.”

“You going home?”

“No, I'm going by Oliver's. Thought I'd try something a little bit different tonight.”

“What's that?” Wash asked.

“Oh, I saw a documentary one time about a gunfight at the OK Corral—back in Dodge City, I think it was. I thought I'd go see what that was like.”

“I remember that. It's pretty violent—you might get shot.”

“Yeah, but it's just a dream,” Reb quickly answered. “Come along with me. You know there's a way for two people to dream the same dream?”

Wash looked up with some surprise. “I didn't know that. How does Oliver do it?”

“Oh, he puts on twin headsets. Then both of us would be at the OK Corral.”

“No, thanks. Include me out,” Wash said. “I don't want to be around no gun fighting.”

Reb seemed irritated. “Have you ever been back to try the Dream Maker machine out?”

“Well, I been meaning to, but I've just been busy.” This was not wholly the truth. Wash had started to go several times but always found some excuse. Now he said defensively, “Maybe I'll go tomorrow.”

“What would you like to live through again? Some television movie, maybe, or a book?”

Wash had not thought about it at all, but now he said, “I read a book called
Huckleberry Finn
once.”

“Sure, everybody's read that book. You gonna try it?”

“It might be fun. My favorite part was when Jim and Huck were on the raft, just floating down the river.” Wash's eyes grew dreamy as they walked along. “Remember old Huck said, ‘There ain't so much fun or so peaceful as floatin' down the river.' I'd sure like to try floating on that raft.”

“Why, sure. That's what you ought to do. Maybe I'll come along with you.”

“Hey, that'd be good!” Wash said quickly.

“Or, better still, you come along with me tonight, Wash, and I'll come with you tomorrow.”

Wash still found the idea of reliving a gunfight
unappealing. “I'm pretty tired. I think I'll go home and go to bed.”

“OK,” Reb agreed amiably. “I'll see you tomorrow, and we'll float down that river raft with Jim and Huck. Good night, Wash.”

“Good night, Reb.”

 

Reb left his friend and made his way to Oliver's house. He knocked, and instantly Oliver's voice called out cheerfully, “Come in!”

“It's good to see you, Reb,” the inventor said. “Here, sit down. Tell me what you've been doing.”

“Aw, nothing really. Wasting time mostly.”

“Oh, I'm not sure about that.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. Me and Wash, we hunted all over this town for some trace of a fellow named Bant. Didn't find him though, not even a smell of him. Have no idea where he is, and nobody will talk about it.”

“We'll just have to keep on trying. You had supper?”

“Oh, I had a bite.” Reb looked anxiously at the Dream Maker. “I got an idea about something I'd like to do.”

“What's that?”

“There used to be a TV documentary all about Wyatt Earp facin' down a bunch of mean guys called the Clantons. Doc Holliday was in it too.”

“Yes, I have that. Lots of pretty serious action in there. Are you sure you'd like to try it?”

“Sure,” Reb said quickly. “If you don't mind going to all that trouble.”

“Why, it's no trouble at all. Here, sit down, and we'll get you hooked up.”

Reb almost ran to the dream machine. His days were boring, and he lived now for these exciting adventures
at night. Secretly he wished he could stay in the Dream Maker chair all the time and dream, but he was afraid to say so. He hid his impatience while Oliver gave him a glass with the colorless liquid in it. He drank it down.

Oliver smiled as he took a seat across from him. “Think about the OK Corral.” He moved his dials and then turned and began speaking softly in a singsong voice. “You're going to sleep now, and you're going to wake up in the OK Corral . . .”

 

The sun was hot, and the gun belt pulled at his thigh. Far ahead to his right, a tall man wearing a raincoat and carrying a shotgun moved steadily ahead. That was Wyatt Earp, Reb knew. To his left walked another man, smaller, carrying a pistol loosely in his left hand. This was Doc Holliday. Morgan, Wyatt's brother, was on the other side.

Suddenly, down the street, Reb caught the flash of movement.

“There they are, boys,” Wyatt Earp said. “Be sure you let them start it.”

“They'll start it all right,” Doc Holliday said grimly. “They're out to get you, Wyatt. Ike Clanton said he'd kill you.” He turned to Reb. “You sure that gun's loaded?”

Reb said deep in his throat, “Don't worry about me, Doc. You won't find me behind when the shootin' starts.”

“I like a young fella that feels his oats,” Doc Holliday said. “Good thing this boy joined us, Wyatt.”

Wyatt Earp was a serious-looking man. His reputation as a gunfighter was legendary, and Reb felt a thrill as he looked into the sheriff's gray-blue eyes.

“Glad to have you, Reb, but it's dangerous, you understand.”

“I reckon I understand that,” Reb said. Then he looked down the street again. “Look, there's Billy Clanton.”

Reb advanced with the lawmen, his nerves growing tense. He knew that soon the air would be filled with flying lead, that men would lie wounded and some dying. He did not know why it was, but danger made him more aware of life. It had always been like this. He'd always had to dive off the highest bridge and risk breaking his neck. He'd always been the one to tackle the most dangerous task with his buddies. Now he was in the most dangerous game of all.

“Look out—Clanton's shootin'!” Morgan Earp yelled.

A shot rang out, breaking the stillness of the afternoon.

Reb pulled his Colt .44 Peacemaker smoothly from its holster. It came out easily. In one motion he pulled the hammer back and put the sight on the figure of Billy Clanton, who was shooting as fast as he could. Reb's finger tightened on the Colt's trigger—and then the gun exploded, and he felt the revolver kick back in his hand . . .

 

“Wake up! Wake up, Reb. Well, how was it?”

Reb shook his head. It was an abrupt jolt coming back from the dust and gunfire and excitement of the OK Corral to find himself in the dream machine chair with Oliver sitting across from him. He shook his head. “It was great, Oliver. I just hated to quit.”

“You can go back anytime you want.”

“Can I do it right now?” Reb said quickly.

“I don't see why not. I don't have anything else to do. You pick your time, and I'll put you right there. You
need relaxation like this, Reb. After all, a fellow needs a break from all the strain.”

“Yeah, he does at that.” Reb took the glass and quickly drank down the liquid. When he felt the headpiece tighten on his temples, he could hardly wait to go back into the excitement that was so lacking right now in his life in Nuworld.

 

Dave Cooper sat behind the wheel of the Ferrari, waiting for the starting signal. When it came, he jammed his foot on the pedal. The powerful engine roared, the wheels screamed, and he felt himself thrown back against the seat of the powerful racer as the Indianapolis 500 began. The wheel felt small in his hands. He was practically lying on his back in the low car that had been custom-made for him.

To one side, Dave saw his arch rival, Jack Starr, pulling ahead. Gritting his teeth, he downshifted to get more traction. The Ferrari hurtled forward as if shot from a gun, and he roared past Starr. But on his right a flash of light caught his eye, and then he heard the crash of a racer striking his car. Desperately he pulled away, which threw him into Starr's path. Their wheels interlocked, and he spun around. His mind whirled, and when he came out of the spin, facing the right direction, he saw Starr's car rolling over and over in flames.

Poor Jack,
he thought.
He didn't make it.
He smelled the burning gasoline through the mask that he wore but could hear only the roar of the high-powered race cars that surrounded him.