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.]

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.

"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."

"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."

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."

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.

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.

"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—"

"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?"

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.

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.

"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!"

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.

"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.

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.

"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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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

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—

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

"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?"