"Neither do I," Roderick confessed.
"Nor I," Auntie Diluvian said, "yet I do know that we must waken."
"Good point." Roderick held up a finger, then used it to point to L'Age's mouth, frozen open. "Maestro, if you please?"
"Glad to." Sucar turned to sprinkle a little salt into L'Age's mouth. Instantly, she faded away, and they found themselves staring at a very dusty oaken floor.
"Success!" Roderick said, elated. "Now for the hard job. You grab him, Auntie, and I'll grab her."
"I mislike the sound of that, somehow," Auntie Dil said, but she took hold of McChurch's biceps while Roderick caught Petty's shoulder. "Now," he said, "Sucar, you stand ready to sprinkle. All right, now, on the count of three— One! Two! Three!"
He and Auntie Dil heaved. With a smacking like a huge suction cup coming unglued. Petty and McChurch peeled apart and stared in total bewilderment, mouths still wide open.
"Gotcha!" Sucar cried, sprinkling salt in each one's mouth.
Startled, they closed their mouths and swallowed with twin gulps, then stared at each other, appalled, as they faded.
Petty gave a mew of distress, reaching out toward the vanishing McChurch, but she faded too, and was gone.
"Success!" Sucar crowed. "Okay, you three—line up! Shoulders back! Stomachs in! Mouths open!"
Roderick and Auntie Dil snapped to attention, side by side, and Deviz sat up on his hind legs next to Auntie Dil. Sucar walked down the line, sprinkling salt on each tongue, and, one by one, they faded. Sucar halted, appalled, as he looked around at the bare, empty room and, for the first time, became aware of the wind's muted moaning around the corners of the huge old house. Left to himself, Sucar sniffed, wiped away a tear of loneliness, and said, "I miss you very much."
Then he tilted his head back, opened his mouth, sprinkled salt on his own tongue, and disappeared.
One by one, the dreamers wakened. They opened their eyes, frowning, squinting against the light, and began to struggle up from their couches.
The hostess stared at them, horrified, then turned and ran from the room, crying, "Get the manager! These patrons just woke up—before the dream ended!"
Rod groaned, and swung his legs over the side of the couch. "I feel as though I've just been hit by a meteor!"
Mirane slid off her sofa blinking, and tried to stand up. Her knees gave way, and she caught at the cushions. Stroganoff leaped off his couch with a cry, but she called, "No, I'm all right. But… but thanks, Dave." And she blushed.
Rod frowned, wondering what the red face was about. Then he hauled his mind back to the immediate problem. "Hold on, everybody! Remember, take the helmets off carefully! I don't think they could do any harm if we yanked 'em off, but I'd rather not find out the hard way."
Brother Joey lifted his helmet off with caution, then held it out, staring at it and blinking, then pushed it away with revulsion.
Chornoi took hers off with regret. "Well, it was fun while it lasted."
Rod looked up in surprise. "You must have been L'Age d'Or."
A short, stocky man in a business coverall bustled into the room. "All right, what's going on here?"
Rod felt his hackles rise. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'm Roksa, the manager. How the hell did you wake up before the dream was over?"
"Oh, that's easy enough to answer," Brother Joey said. "According to the traditional superstitions, you see, you can break the spell that holds a zombie, by filling his mouth with salt. Of course, you have to sew his lips shut so he can't spit it out, and when he comes out of the spell, he may try to kill you. But after that, he'll go back to where he came from—his grave—as fast as he can."
Roksa frowned. "What's that got to do with you waking up from the dream?"
Brother Joey shrugged. "Dreams are fantasies, so the symbols of superstition work, within the structure of the dream-universe. When our dream selves realized we'd been fed zombie drugs, they sprinkled salt on each other's tongues—and the symbol worked; we went back to where we'd come from—here."
"Zombie drugs?" The manager darted glances from one face to another. "Who said anything about zombie drugs?"
"I did."
They all turned, astonished. The tinny voice was coming from Mirane's couch, where her computer-notepad lay. "I am a Notem-Modem 409, and I have wireless capabilities for connection to larger computers—and for interfacing with the human brain. I have become symbiotic with my operator."
Mirane paled. Her eyes were huge.
Stroganoff clasped her around the shoulders. "Take it easy, kid. I know it's hard to take, but any artist has to develop a feel for her tools."
Mirane snatched up the notepad and clutched it to her.
"Consequently, when my operator entered into the dream-state, I participated in it with her," the notepad went on. "However, being electronic, I was immune to the drug, and was able to realize that the dream was not the safe and pleasant refuge these patrons had anticipated."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Chornoi muttered.
Stroganoff shook his head. "Lousy plot. Not to mention the characterization."
Roksa's head lifted, eyes narrowing. "You don't like my dreams, citizen, you can make your own."
"I just might."
"The zombie drug isn't terribly legal," Rod pointed out. "And there are supposed to be certain guarantees of safety, for patrons experiencing a dream."
Roksa shrugged impatiently. "All right, so I bent a few rules."
"Bent!" Yorick snorted. "How about 'mangled'?"
But Whitey held up a hand. "Hold on, you two. The laws he broke don't really matter."
"Don't matter?"
"Not compared to what that dream was doing, all by itself." Whitey faced Roksa squarely, head lowered a little, glowering. "That plot just took it for granted that people should take orders and not think about them. If we'd stayed in it long enough, we'd have waked up conditioned to just accept whatever Authority said, without question, without even a notion of resisting!" Yorick whistled. "Wow! The ideal brainwashing system—with the victims footing the bill!"
Roksa paled and took a step back. "You can't prove that."
"Oh, I think I could," Whitey said with a shark's grin. "A semiotic analysis of the plot, and a neurological analysis of the choice-alternatives… yes, I think I could prove it very thoroughly." very thoi
"So what?" Roksa's jaw thrust out a little. "There's nothing illegal about it."
"Only because nobody's thought of it yet. Tell me—do all your dreams do that?"
"I don't have to answer that question!"
Yorick grinned and stepped forward, massaging his fist. "Why not?"
"Because of them!" Roksa stepped back and yanked the door open. A dozen big, muscular men slouched into the room. Only eight of them carried clubs. The other four carried blasters.
Rod stabbed a finger at the leader. "You're the peasant! The one with the pitchfork!"
The leader gave a mock bow. "Wirlin Eaves, at your service."
"He's too modest," Roksa chuckled. "That's Wirlin Eaves, Ph.D."
"Ph.D.?" Rod frowned. "What're you doing leading a bunch of assassins?"
"I couldn't get a job teaching. Besides, this pays better."
"What's your area," Rod snorted, "political science?"
"Naw." Eaves grinned wickedly. "I'm the real thing—a Ph.D. in philosophy."
Rod stared. "You're a certified philosopher?"
"What's so strange about that?"
"But—you kill people!"
"You noticed."
"How can a philosopher justify doing such horrible things?"
"What else is philosophy for, these days?"
"But what kind of reasons could philosophy give you for killing people!"
"The best." Eaves grinned. "It's profitable."