*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65378 ***

                           REALITY UNLIMITED

                         By Robert Silverberg

              It was to be the last word in theatre fun;
           you experienced the action as if you were there.
            The trouble was--the fun could become too real!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                              August 1957
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


It was going to be the show of the century--absolutely the tops.

There was a line eight blocks long outside the theater--the theater
that had been specially built to contain _Ultrarama_.

Paul Hendriks had been in line since early the morning before, and so
he was only a block or so from the still-unopened ticket-booth. His
wife had come by from time to time, bringing sandwiches and coffee.
Hendriks was determined to get a pair of tickets.

He turned to the man next to him. "Got the time?"

"Five to nine."

"That's what I thought. That means the ticket-office opens in five
minutes." Hendriks rose on tiptoe and squinted ahead. "There must be
five hundred people ahead of us."

"They say the theater holds five thousand."

"I know. And that you get the same effect no matter where you sit. But
still, I'd like to be right down there in the front."

The other man nodded. "That goes for all of us."

Hendriks grinned. "You know, this is the first time I ever heard of an
opening performance being managed right. I mean, thrown open for public
sale instead of being reserved for bigwigs."

"Damned public-spirited," the other agreed.

Suddenly the line began to edge forward.

"They're selling tickets!"

"The booth is open!"

About an hour later, Hendriks plunked down his twenty dollars before
the efficient-looking girl in the ticket-cage and was handed a bulky
envelope.

"These my tickets?"

"That's right, sir."

A little puzzled, but happy, he turned away and dug in the envelope.
He pulled out, not the familiar pasteboards, but two costly-looking
sumptuous engraved invitations on thick stiff paper. They said:

                           _You are invited_
             _To the first showing anywhere in the world._
                                  of
                               ULTRARAMA
                   the sensational new film process
                           realer than life!
                       Wednesday, April 25, 1973
                              at 8:00 PM

Clutching the invitations as if they were his leases on life, Hendriks
stepped into the quiktrans and moments later stepped out again just
outside the door.

His wife was waiting for him with an expectant look on her face.

"Did you get them?"

"I sure did! Two engraved invitations, at ten bucks a throw."

"They'd better be worth it," she said anxiously.

"Didn't you see that line when you brought me breakfast? _Eight
blocks!_ Hundreds and hundreds of people all trying to get to see the
first performance."

"That doesn't mean a thing," she said. "After all, no one's ever seen
the complete movie--"

"It's not a movie," he corrected.

"All right, the complete whatchamacallit. No one's ever seen the
complete thing--not even the people who made it. So how do you know
it's good?"

"Believe me, honey, this is going to be the greatest ever!"

       *       *       *       *       *

On Wednesday, April 25, 1973, at 7:30 in the evening, the Hendriks
stood in the midst of a vast crowd that thronged the open plaza before
the Ultrarama Theater. The theater itself was a towering edifice that
had been built just for this production; it was one of the world's most
impressive buildings.

"All right, all right," a policeman shouted. "Ticket-holders come this
way. The rest of you stay back."

They cleared a channel through the mob and the Hendriks, along with
several hundred other early arrivees, followed along to the door of the
vast theater.

"What are all these people doing here?" Mrs. Hendriks asked.

Her husband shrugged. "Maybe they plan on crashing the gate--or
possibly they think there may be some tickets left. I tell you, we're
awfully lucky to be where we are right now."

He extended the invitations to a tall, haughty-looking doorman in a
resplendent uniform. The doorman merely nodded and gestured them inside.

"Don't they tear up the tickets?"

"Not on opening night," Hendriks said. "They're letting us keep them as
souvenirs."

They stepped inside and found themselves in a vast, almost boundless
vestibule carpeted with deep pile synthofoam of a lush purple color.
Vaulting arches of gleaming metal swept upward to the barely visible
ceiling.

"If this is just the foyer," Paul Hendriks said, "imagine what it must
be inside!"

His wife nudged him. "Look--isn't that shocking!"

A girl of about seventeen was coming toward them, smiling cheerfully.
Hendriks blinked. She wore only two nearly-transparent strips of
shimmering cloth, one over her breasts and the other wrapped round her
hips.

"Good evening," she said. "I'm your usher. May I show you to your
seats?"

"They really put on a show here," Hendriks muttered. The girl glanced
at the invitations he was clutching and beckoned them to follow her.
She led the way, twitching her hips invitingly.

A bright aluminoid door loomed before them. The girl touched a switch
and the door slid back, revealing the actual interior of the theater.

Hendriks gasped.

It was nearly the size of a football stadium. Where the playing field
should be were seats, elaborate plush pneumatic affairs. And ringing
the seats was the Screen.

The Screen covered the entire walls, floor, ceiling. It hemmed the
audience in completely. As Hendriks took his seat, he felt totally
surrounded by it.

They waited impatiently for the half hour to pass. The theater filled
up rapidly, with first-nighters in all their finery.

"I'm glad we wore our formal clothes, dear."

"Yes," Hendriks said, looking at the others. "This is quite an event.
Quite an event."

       *       *       *       *       *

The theater was totally filled by 8 P. M. sharp; the corps of near-nude
usherettes performed their job swiftly and efficiently.

And suddenly a voice said, "Welcome to ULTRARAMA."

It was a cultured, soft female voice--and it came from so close to him
that he glanced in surprise at his wife. But she was looking at him.
She had heard the voice too.

It continued: "You are about to witness the most spectacular form
of entertainment ever conceived by the mind of man. Twelve years of
concentrated work went into producing what you are about to see--and
no one but you will experience it. Each of you will be _taking part_;
each of you will, as the series of scenes we have assembled unfolds,
be caught up in the reality of ULTRARAMA--the _realer_-than-reality
Ultra-reality of ULTRARAMA. Shall we begin?"

The lights in the theater dimmed--and the vast screen came to life.

It was incredible.

And they were in Africa.

The huge plains of South Africa opened out before them. Hendriks
turned his head, looking around in astonishment. The audience seemed
to have disappeared. He was alone--alone in a world of yellowing grass
and strange thick trees, a flat world where death could strike at any
moment.

In the distance he saw four grotesque shapes--giraffes, moving along
in their ungainly but yet tremendously rapid way, their long necks
projecting stiffly from their bodies. He repressed a chuckle.

And then a low growl made him jump. He backed against a rough-barked
tree and felt sweat cascade down his body as a tawny shape sprang from
behind a twisted shrub, pounced on one of the giraffes, smashed the
fragile neck with a fierce swipe of a paw.

The lioness. Sudden death springing from nowhere, a bright streak that
brought violence. Hendriks looked around uneasily. The giraffes had
fled; the lioness was dragging her kill into the underbrush. The warm
smell of death was in the air--that, and the buzzing of green-eyed
flies an inch long. Perched on a scrawny, almost leafless tree were
hooded ugly shapes.

Vultures. _Are they waiting for me?_

This was _too_ real. This was _unbearably_ real.

A herd of gazelles came bounding out of the background, relieving some
of the tension. The lovely creatures seemed to float along, touching
the ground only at occasional intervals. Behind them marched the
dull-gray bulks of a herd of elephants, shambling with a ponderous gait.

This was Africa. This was the real thing, Hendriks told himself. It
wasn't a show. Through some magic the ULTRARAMA people had actually
sent him here.

He moved away, investigating. A sluggish black stream wound through the
jungle; curious, Hendriks walked toward it. Dark logs lay strewn almost
at random in the shallow muddy water at the sides of the stream. But
as he watched, one of the logs yawned, showing a double row of deadly
teeth, and slid sleepily off into deeper waters.

Crocodiles. Death threatened everywhere in the jungle.

Monkeys chittered overhead; bright-plumaged birds flapped from tree to
tree. Hendriks felt the heat, his nostrils drew in the smell. This was
real. He wondered if it would ever end, if he would ever return to his
neat little city apartment and to his wife and children.

He glanced away from the stream, looked up at the sun blazing in the
bright blue sky. And abruptly black death came roaring at him from a
tree.

Hendriks had just a moment to recognize it. A leopard, black, sleek,
moving with the easy grace of a machine designed for killing. He
toppled backward under the impetus of the beast's furious attack,
smelled the soft musky smell of the killer.

Then claws reached for his throat. Hot barbs of red pain shot through
him. He screamed out, fought, tried to hold the snapping jaws away.

"No! No! It isn't real! Get away from me!"

And in that instant Africa vanished.

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE SECOND ILLUSION," that soft voice next to his ear said.

He was again alone, in an unfamiliar room. A lady's boudoir, he saw.
A satin-covered spread lay over a wide, inviting bed; dressing-tables
were laden with perfumes and cosmetics.

Behind him the door opened. A woman entered.

He had never seen her before. She was tall, dressed only in a filmy
negligee that barely concealed her long sleek legs, her firm breasts.
She was all he had ever wanted in a woman; she awakened desires that
had been dead in him for twenty years.

"Hello," she said. Her voice was throbbingly throaty. "I've waited a
long time for you, Paul Hendriks."

_How did she know my name? How_--

Then he stopped asking questions. She had glided close to him, stood
there, bosom gently rising and falling, looking into his eyes. She was
nearly as tall as he. He smelled her enticing perfume.

"Come," she said, taking his hand. She led him toward a chaise lounge.

He frowned. "But my wife ..." he murmured, feeling like seventeen
different kinds of idiot as he said the words.

"Your wife is happy where she is. Come to me, Paul."

She drew him down beside her....

What seemed like hours went by. Suddenly he felt a rough hand grab him,
awakening him.

A stranger stood there, fully dressed, menace glinting in his eyes.
"Who is this man, Louise?" he demanded.

Wide-eyed shock was evident on the woman's face. "But--I didn't expect
you until--"

"Of course not." Hendriks watched in horror as the newcomer drew a gun
from his pocket. He lifted it; the barrel seemed to point directly at
Hendriks' eyes. The finger began to tighten on the trigger--

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE THIRD ILLUSION," said a soft voice.

And he was holding a billowing net and a strange three-pronged weapon.
The sound of a roaring multitude reached his ears. He blinked,
orientating himself to the new illusion, and saw that he was in an
immense stadium. Curiously-garbed people were staring down at him.

_My God_, he thought. _The Coliseum!_

And even as the thought of recognition burst upon him, he saw
his opponent advancing over the bloody sand. It was a swarthy,
broad-shouldered man in a leather tunic, wielding a thick, short sword.

Swordsman against netman. It was deadly, deadly.

Hendriks knew enough history to be aware of what was expected of
him. He had to ensnare the swordsman in the net and kill him with
the trident before that fierce sword could pierce his heart. It was
anything but an equal contest, but with proper agility--

The sword flashed on high. Desperately Hendriks parried it with the
hilt of his trident and whirled the net through the air. The swordsman
laughed and leaped back.

Hendriks advanced, looking for an opening. The roars of the crowd were
deafening. He swung the net tentatively, readying himself for the cast.
Tired muscles throbbed in his arms and thighs.

The swordsman retreated deftly, smiling. He looked confident. Hendriks
began the cast.

Suddenly the sword flashed again. It was a lightning-fast attack.
Hendriks managed to get the trident up to protect himself; the
impact sent pain coursing up his arm, and, numbed, he dropped the
three-pronged weapon. Laughing jovially, his opponent kicked the
trident far across the stadium and advanced with the sword.

Hendriks knew what he had to do. He dropped to his knees before the
advancing swordsman and gestured toward the audience.

The swordsman nodded. He lifted the sword, held it over Hendriks' head,
and looked up at the grand dais. Hendriks looked up as well.

The thumbs were down. Emphatically so.

The sword began to descend--

       *       *       *       *       *

"THE FOURTH ILLUSION," said the voice.

He was racing madly down the Indianapolis Speedway, bobbing along at
nearly 150 miles an hour in a flimsy-looking little racing auto. Blurs
whizzed by on all sides.

Ahead of him he saw a car suddenly swerve into the embankment and burst
into a mass of flames. With desperate urgency he yanked on the wheel,
tried to avoid the pileup--

And failed. He felt his car going end over end into the air, and shut
his eyes, waiting for the explosion that would follow.

"THE FIFTH ILLUSION," the voice said.

He was in a prehistoric jungle; strange stumpy trees were all around,
lush vegetation. A slow-moving beast of immense size was thundering
away from him, its tiny head close to the ground snapping up vegetation
without cease. Overhead a leather-winged flying reptile moved through
the air in jerky swoops.

There was sudden thunder behind him. He turned.

Through a haze of giant mosquitoes he saw a mountain of a beast
advancing toward him, tiny forepaws clutching the air, vast head
opening to reveal foot-long teeth.

He started to run, but even as he did so he knew it was fruitless.
In the steamy jungle sweat poured down him like summer rain. The hot
breath of the tyrannosaur was only feet behind him.

Hendriks turned, looked up. The mighty jaws were opening; the
knife-like teeth beckoned.

"No!" he screamed "No!"

Suddenly all went blank.

       *       *       *       *       *

He sat in numbed silence for an instant, realizing he was back in the
theater.

The voice in his ear said, "There will be a brief intermission before
proceeding with the remaining half of the program. Please remain in
your seats to avoid confusion. Thank you."

Hendriks shook his head wearily; he was dizzy, utterly exhausted. His
stiff white shirt had lost all its starch. He was bathed in sweat.
His hands shook. His fingernails, he noticed, had been chewed to the
quick. He felt as if he had been to hell and back.

He finally mustered enough strength to look over at his wife. She was
sitting back in her plush chair, utterly beaten. He glanced around the
theater. The other first-nighters were sitting in attitudes ranging
from glassy-eyed exhaustion to complete nervous breakdown.

"The second part of the program will begin in three minutes," the
pleasant voice said.

"Oh, no it won't!" Hendriks muttered out loud. His voice sounded like a
harsh croak in his ears. He seized his wife by the hand; she felt cold,
clammy.

"Let's go, Dot. Let's get out of here."

She came to life and nodded in silent agreement. Weakly they tottered
down the vast aisle, past the pretty near-nude usherettes, through the
huge vestibule, out into the coolness of the night air and the relative
peace of the city.

There were still some people gathered outside.

"How is it? Real nice?"

"Is it over?"

"Hey, you leavin' so soon?"

Hendriks ignored them. He hailed a jetcab, helped his wife in,
staggered in himself. He gave the driver his address.

"You comin' from the Ultrarama show?" the driver asked.

Hendriks nodded.

"Swell thing, ain't it? It's supposed to be _real_, and I mean real!"

"It sure is," Hendriks agreed. He leaned back and tried to relax. His
nerves were still quivering like overtaut harp strings.

"It's quite a thing," he said. "But not for me. I'm going home. I'm
going to take a nice calming shower, a sedative, and get in bed. Then
I'm going to read a nice quiet book. How about you, Dot?"

She nodded. "_That's_ real enough for me," she said.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65378 ***