Planet of Dreams

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  _The climate was perfect, the sky was always blue, and--best of all--nobody had to work. What more could anyone want?_

  Planet of Dreams

  By James McKimmey, Jr.

  Illustrated by Paul Orban

  It was a small world, a tiny spinning globe, placed in the universe toweather and age by itself until the end of things. But because its airwas good and its earth was fertile, Daniel Loveral had placed a fingerupon a map and said, "This is the planet. This is the Dream Planet."

  That was two years before, back on Earth. And now Loveral with hisselected flock had shot through space, to light like chuckling geeseupon the planet, to feel the effect of their dreams come true.

  Loveral was sitting in his office, drumming his long fingers against hisdesk while the name, Atkinson, ticked through his brain like the soundof a sewing machine.

  Would he be the only one, Loveral asked himself, or was he just thefirst? In either case, it was up to Loveral, as leader and guiding hand,to stop this thing and stop it quickly.

  Loveral stood up and put on his jacket, although there was no need forit, other than the formality it gave his figure.

  He stepped out of his office into a clear bright day, where the air wasclean and fresh in his lungs, at once like frost and fire and sweetperfume. He walked along a winding path, which was bordered byslim-necked flowers and a short hedge whose even clipped lines were keptneat by tireless robot hands.

  Trees pointed to a blue sky, rocking and fluttering their leaves in asoft breeze, and glinting metallic houses lay peacefully beyond inwooded hollows and upon slight hills.

  A whole small world was before his eyes, set there upon his direction,maintained by himself with the help of a dozen complex machines whichlay locked and sealed in the Maintenance Room for only his fingers totouch.

  It was a busy life for Loveral, up at dawn to work until deep night,keeping his flock happy and free from spirit-killing labor. But it was aperfect plan, one which had been tested and turned in his mind foryears. If he had to work hard to keep it running smoothly, that was allright. In fact, he had never been happier.

  Now, however, there was this business about Atkinson. Loveral wasdisturbed about that.

  He walked on, over the quiet path which would lead to the house whereAtkinson and his wife lived. Loveral smiled, in readiness for any happyface that might appear before him, to greet him, to show with thankfuleyes appreciation for his wonderful world. But that, too, broughtthoughts that were a bit disturbing.

  Lately there had been few such faces. Most of his flock no longer seemedto care about walking along the cultivated paths, or smiling, ornodding, or touching a leaf here or a flower there. They preferred, itappeared, to remain deep inside their houses, as though they might havebecome tired of the soft perfection of Dream Planet. As though theymight have become weary of quiet woods and sweet bird-music or a skywhich was always blue.

  Loveral shook his head as he walked, puzzling out his thoughts. It wasstrange, but nothing to worry about certainly.

  Just this business about Atkinson. That was his only worry.

  He came slowly up a hill, the top of which held a low curving house,with a silver roof and wide, sweeping windows. There were yellow andblue and deep red flowers, skirting the sides of the house, and greenivy grew thickly between the glistening windows. The lawn, dotted withsmall leafy trees and round bushes, sloped down from the front of thehouse, looking like a carefully arranged painting.

  Loveral pressed a button beside a shining door and waited, smilingthrough his pale blue kindly eyes.

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Atkinson appeared after several moments and stood blinking at him.She was a thin woman, who seemed to have gotten even thinner, Loveralnoticed. She was working her fingers at the neck of her dress. Shesmiled but her lips wavered.

  "My dear," Loveral greeted her in his soft voice, showing the goodnessin his eyes.

  She nodded her recognition, opening her mouth without speaking.

  "May I?" said Loveral finally, waving his long fingers toward the livingroom.

  "Oh, yes," said the woman. "Of course, Mr. Loveral." And as she spokeLoveral had the impression she might suddenly begin crying.

  Loveral followed the woman into the house, noticing all over again theprecise way everything had been arranged. The rug was soft beneath hisfeet, and the light came in through the windows in such a way that it,too, became soft. The furniture, molded to hold a human body mostcomfortably, rested about the room in perfect efficiency.

  "Your place is so lovely," Loveral said, out of his old habit fromEarth. But his words seemed to ring strangely in the quiet, because itwas his own arrangement, like all the other rooms on the planet. AndMrs. Atkinson, standing thin and nervous before him, had nothing, afterall, to do with it. The cleanliness was the work of his robot machines,the planning his own. It was like complimenting himself.

  He cleared his throat and stood, smiling his most benevolent smile toreassure Mrs. Atkinson.

  "Ah, my dear. Is George about?"

  Again, the woman's hand skittered to her throat.

  "He's not ill, surely?" Loveral asked, although this, too, was silly,because foods, selected and prepared for utmost nutrition, packedand frozen to be doled out in weekly quantities, purified air,disease-killing serums, simply written folders on exercise, and ofcourse Loveral's own philosophies of quiet, peaceful living--all of thisguarded well the health of Dream Planet's flock.

  The woman shook her head. "No, George is fine. He's just--sleeping, Ithink."

  "Rest is nature's finest tonic," said Loveral, and hearing his voicethought suddenly there was hardly anything he could say any more thatmight not sound a bit out of place in this peaceful world. Rest to theman who had nothing to do ceased to be a tonic.

  "Yes, yes," said Loveral. "May we just sit down, my dear?"

  Mrs. Atkinson jerked a hand toward one of the chairs and then wound herfingers.

  Loveral sat down and leaned back, smiling his most charming smile."Perhaps George might awaken after a bit?"

  "Oh, yes," the woman said, her eyes flickering, and she sat upon theedge of one chair, like a bird perched upon a thin wire.

  Loveral waited, legs crossed, leaning his head back against the silkensoftness of the chair. It was so good to relax these days. The businessof watching and of caring for his flock was trying. When you havebrought an entire community of people at great expense through space,guaranteeing to give them a life of constant comfort and ease, so thatthey might dream and think as they wander through the flowers and theleaves, their thoughts cleansed of worry about work and responsibility,then you have a job. Loveral was most busy, busier than his heritage ofwealth ever before had allowed, seeing to all of this.

  But he also was most content--with everything except Atkinson.

  Mrs. Atkinson teetered on the edge of her chair, as though she might atany moment go flying across the room in a crazy gyration. There wassomething about her eyes, Loveral noticed, while he peacefully nodded inthe chair. Fear, perhaps.

  If so, he probably had been right. He tightened himself, listening.There it was again. The sound. Just as he had heard it a day before whenhe had passed near the house. He leaned forward quickly.

  Mrs. Atkinson jumped.

  Loveral smiled. "Didn't I hear a noise of some sort, my dear?"

  "Noise?" the woman said, as though her own voice were the sound of anecho.

  "An odd noise," Loveral said, his eyes searching.

  The woman's hands fluttered about her dress.

  Loveral stood up. "Would you mind if I just glanced about, my dear
?"

  The woman didn't answer, but Loveral was already moving across the roomtoward a door. He opened it and walked down a hall. The noise grewstronger. He threw open another door.

  * * * * *

  He stood watching while George Atkinson spun around, dark eyes flashing,hair tousled. There was a two days' growth of beard darkening Atkinson'sface.

  "Why, George," Loveral said, swiftly examining the litter of metal andwood which was spread over a table behind Atkinson. There was ahome-made hammer in Atkinson's hand. "What have we here, George?"

  "Something for you," Atkinson said, tightening his fingers about thehandle of the hammer.

  Loveral grinned his famous Loveral grin. "That's fine. What could itbe?"

  "None of your damned business."

  "_George_," Loveral said, his smile still white but his eyes narrow andquick.

  The woman was behind them. Her