Free Is That What People Do? by Robert Sheckley Page B

would, figuratively speaking, be stamped across his forehead.
    Not too pleasant an outlook, he decided. It really would be much more comfortable not to be in love. What had done it? A look, a touch, a thought? It didn’t take much, he knew, and stretched his arms for a thorough yawn.
    “Help me!” a voice said.
    His muscles spasmed, cutting off the yawn in mid-moment. He sat upright on the bed, then grinned and lay back again.
    “You must help me!” the voice insisted.
    Anders sat up, reached for a polished shoe and fitted it on, giving his full attention to the tying of the laces.
    “Can you hear me?” the voice asked. “You can, can’t you?”
    That did it “Yes, I can hear you,” Anders said, still in a high good humor. “Don’t tell me you’re my guilty subconscious, attacking me for a childhood trauma I never bothered to resolve. I suppose you want me to join a monastery.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the voice said. “I’m no one’s subconscious. I’m me. Will you help me?”
    Anders believed in voices as much as anyone; that is, he didn’t believe in them at all, until he heard them. Swiftly he cataloged the possibilities. Schizophrenia was the best answer, of course, and one in which his colleagues would concur. But Anders had a lamentable confidence in his own sanity. In which case—
    “Who are you?” he asked.
    “I don’t know,” the voice answered.
    Anders realized that the voice was speaking within his own mind. Very suspicious.
    “You don’t know who you are,” Anders stated. “Very well. Where are you?”
    “I don’t know that, either.” The voice paused, then went on. “Look, I know how ridiculous this must sound. Believe me, I’m in some sort of limbo. I don’t know how I got here or who I am, but I want desperately to get out. Will you help me?”
    Still fighting the idea of a voice speaking within his head, Anders knew that his next decision was vital. He had to accept—or reject—his own sanity.
    “All right,” Anders said, lacing the other shoe. “I’ll grant that you’re a person in trouble, and that you’re in some sort of telepathic contact with me. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
    “I’m afraid not,” the voice said, with infinite sadness. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”
    “Can you contact anyone else?”
    “No.”
    “Then how can you talk with me?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Anders walked to his bureau mirror and adjusted his black bow tie, whistling softly under his breath. Having just discovered that he was in love, he wasn’t going to let a little thing like a voice in his mind disturb him.
    “I really don’t see how I can be of any help,” Anders said, brushing a bit of lint from his jacket. “You don’t know where you are, and there don’t seem to be any distinguishing landmarks. How am I to find you?” He turned and looked around the room to see if he had forgotten anything.
    “I’ll know when you’re close,” the voice said. “You were warm just then.”
    “Just then?” All he had done was look around the room. He did so again, turning his head slowly. Then it happened.
    The room, from one angle, looked different. It was suddenly a mixture of muddled colors, instead of the carefully blended pastel shades he had selected. The lines of wall, floor, and ceiling were strangely off proportion, zigzag, unrelated.
    Then everything went back to normal.
    “You were very warm,” the voice said.
    Anders resisted the urge to scratch his head, for fear of disarranging his carefully combed hair. What he had seen wasn’t so strange. Everyone sees one or two things in his life that make him doubt his normality, doubt sanity, doubt his very existence. For a moment the orderly Universe is disarranged and the fabric of belief is ripped.
    But the moment passes.
    Anders remembered once, as a boy, awakening in his room in the middle of the night. How strange everything had looked! Chairs, table, all out