warm By ROBERT SHECKLEY _It was a joyous journey Anders set out on . . . To reach his goal . . . But look where he wound up!_ Illustrated by EMSH Anders lay on his bed, fully dressed except for his shoes and black bowtie, contemplating, with a certain uneasiness, the evening before him. In twenty minutes he would pick up Judy at her apartment, and that wasthe uneasy part of it. He had realized, only seconds ago, that he was in love with her. Well, he'd tell her. The evening would be memorable. He would propose, there would be kisses, and the seal of acceptance would, figurativelyspeaking, be stamped across his forehead. Not too pleasant an outlook, he decided. It really would be much morecomfortable not to be in love. What had done it? A look, a touch, athought? It didn't take much, he knew, and stretched his arms for athorough yawn. "Help me!" a voice said. His muscles spasmed, cutting off the yawn in mid-moment. He sat uprighton 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 hisfull 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 goodhumor. "Don't tell me you're my guilty subconscious, attacking me for achildhood trauma I never bothered to resolve. I suppose you want me tojoin a monastery. " "I don't know what you're talking about, " the voice said. "I'm no one'ssubconscious. I'm _me_. Will you help me?" Anders believed in voices as much as anyone; that is, he didn't believein them at all, until he heard them. Swiftly he catalogued thepossibilities. Schizophrenia was the best answer, of course, and one inwhich his colleagues would concur. But Anders had a lamentableconfidence 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. Verysuspicious. "You don't know who you are, " Anders stated. "Very well. _Where_ areyou?" "I don't know that, either. " The voice paused, and went on. "Look, Iknow how ridiculous this must sound. Believe me, I'm in some sort oflimbo. I don't know how I got here or who I am, but I want desperatelyto get out. Will you help me?" * * * * * Still fighting the idea of a voice speaking within his head, Anders knewthat his next decision was vital. He had to accept--or reject--his ownsanity. He accepted it. "All right, " Anders said, lacing the other shoe. "I'll grant that you'rea person in trouble, and that you're in some sort of telepathic contactwith me. Is there anything else you can tell me?" "I'm afraid not, " the voice said, with infinite sadness. "You'll have tofind 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 inlove, he wasn't going to let a little thing like a voice in his minddisturb him. "I really don't see how I can be of any help, " Anders said, brushing abit of lint from his jacket. "You don't know where you are, and theredon't seem to be any distinguishing landmarks. How am I to find you?" Heturned 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 justthen. " "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 ofmuddled colors, instead of the carefully blended pastel shades he hadselected. The lines of wall, floor and ceiling were strangely offproportion, zigzag, unrelated. Then everything went back to normal. "You were _very_ warm, " the voice said. "It's a question of seeingthings correctly. " Anders resisted the urge to scratch his head, for fear of disarranginghis carefully combed hair. What he had seen wasn't so strange. Everyonesees one or two things in his life that make him doubt his normality, doubt sanity, doubt his very existence. For a moment the orderlyUniverse 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 ofthe night. How strange everything had looked. Chairs, table, all out ofproportion, swollen in the dark. The ceiling pressing down, as in adream. But that had also passed. "Well, old man, " he said, "if I get warm again, let me know. " "I will, " the voice in his head whispered. "I'm sure you'll find me. " "I'm glad you're so sure, " Anders said gaily, switched off the lightsand left. * * * * * Lovely and smiling, Judy greeted him at the door. Looking at her, Anderssensed her knowledge of the moment. Had she felt the change in him, orpredicted it? Or was love making him grin like an idiot? "Would you like a before-party drink?" she asked. He nodded, and she led him across the room, to the improbablegreen-and-yellow couch. Sitting down, Anders decided he would tell herwhen she came back with the drink. No use in putting off the fatalmoment. A lemming in love, he told himself. "You're getting warm again, " the voice said. He had almost forgotten his invisible friend. Or fiend, as the casecould well be. What would Judy say if she knew he was hearing voices?Little things like that, he reminded himself, often break up the best ofromances. "Here, " she said, handing him a drink. Still smiling, he noticed. The number two smile--to a prospectivesuitor, provocative and understanding. It had been preceded, intheir relationship, by the number one nice-girl smile, thedon't-misunderstand-me smile, to be worn on all occasions, untilthe correct words have been mumbled. "That's right, " the voice said. "It's in how you look at things. " Look at what? Anders glanced at Judy, annoyed at his thoughts. If he wasgoing to play the lover, let him play it. Even through the astigmatichaze of love, he was able to appreciate her blue-gray eyes, her fineskin (if one overlooked a tiny blemish on the left temple), her lips, slightly reshaped by lipstick. "How did your classes go today?" she asked. Well, of course she'd ask that, Anders thought. Love is marking time. "All right, " he said. "Teaching psychology to young apes--" "Oh, come now!" "Warmer, " the voice said. What's the matter with me, Anders wondered. She really is a lovely girl. The _gestalt_ that is Judy, a pattern of thoughts, expressions, movements, making up the girl I-- I what? Love? Anders shifted his long body uncertainly on the couch. He didn't quiteunderstand how this train of thought had begun. It annoyed him. Theanalytical young instructor was better off in the classroom. Couldn'tscience wait until 9:10 in the morning? "I was thinking about you today, " Judy said, and Anders knew that shehad sensed the change in his mood. "Do you see?" the voice asked him. "You're getting much better at it. " "I don't see anything, " Anders thought, but the voice was right. It wasas though he had a clear line of inspection into Judy's mind. Herfeelings were nakedly apparent to him, as meaningless as his room hadbeen in that flash of undistorted thought. "I really was thinking about you, " she repeated. "Now look, " the voice said. [Illustration] * * * * * Anders, watching the expressions on Judy's face, felt the strangenessdescend on him. He was back in the nightmare perception of that momentin his room. This time it was as though he were watching a machine in alaboratory. The object of this operation was the evocation andpreservation of a particular mood. The machine goes through a searchingprocess, invoking trains of ideas to achieve the desired end. "Oh, were you?" he asked, amazed at his new perspective. "Yes . . . I wondered what you were doing at noon, " the reactive machineopposite him on the couch said, expanding its shapely chest slightly. "Good, " the voice said, commending him for his perception. "Dreaming of you, of course, " he said to the flesh-clad skeleton behindthe total _gestalt_ Judy. The flesh machine rearranged its limbs, widened its mouth to denote pleasure. The mechanism searched through acomplex of fears, hopes, worries, through half-remembrances of analogoussituations, analogous solutions. And this was what he loved. Anders saw too clearly and hated himself forseeing. Through his new nightmare perception, the absurdity of theentire room struck him. "Were you really?" the articulating skeleton asked him. "You're coming closer, " the voice whispered. To what? The personality? There was no such thing. There was no truecohesion, no depth, nothing except a web of surface reactions, stretchedacross automatic visceral movements. He was coming closer to the truth. "Sure, " he said sourly. The machine stirred, searching for a response. Anders felt a quick tremor of fear at the sheer alien quality of hisviewpoint. His sense of formalism had been sloughed off, his agreed-uponreactions bypassed. What would be revealed next? He was seeing clearly, he realized, as perhaps no man had ever seenbefore. It was an oddly exhilarating thought. But could he still return to normality? "Can I get you a drink?" the reaction machine asked. At that moment Anders was as thoroughly out of love as a man could be. Viewing one's intended as a depersonalized, sexless piece of machineryis not especially conducive to love. But it is quite stimulating, intellectually. Anders didn't want normality. A curtain was being raised and he wantedto see behind it. What was it some Russian scientist--Ouspensky, wasn'tit--had said? "_Think in other categories. _" That was what he was doing, and would continue to do. "Good-by, " he said suddenly. The machine watched him, open-mouthed, as he walked out the door. Delayed circuit reactions kept it silent until it heard the elevatordoor close. * * * * * "You were very warm in there, " the voice within his head whispered, oncehe was on the street. "But you still don't understand everything. " "Tell me, then, " Anders said, marveling a little at his equanimity. Inan hour he had bridged the gap to a completely different viewpoint, yetit seemed perfectly natural. "I can't, " the voice said. "You must find it yourself. " "Well, let's see now, " Anders began. He looked around at the masses ofmasonry, the convention of streets cutting through the architecturalpiles. "Human life, " he said, "is a series of conventions. When you lookat a girl, you're supposed to see--a pattern, not the underlyingformlessness. " "That's true, " the voice agreed, but with a shade of doubt. "Basically, there is no form. Man produces _gestalts_, and cuts form outof the plethora of nothingness. It's like looking at a set of lines andsaying that they represent a figure. We look at a mass of material, extract it from the background and say it's a man. But in truth there isno such thing. There are only the humanizing features thatwe--myopically--attach to it. Matter is conjoined, a matter ofviewpoint. " "You're not seeing it now, " said the voice. "Damn it, " Anders said. He was certain that he was on the track ofsomething big, perhaps something ultimate. "Everyone's had theexperience. At some time in his life, everyone looks at a familiarobject and can't make any sense out of it. Momentarily, the _gestalt_fails, but the true moment of sight passes. The mind reverts to thesuperimposed pattern. Normalcy continues. " The voice was silent. Anders walked on, through the _gestalt_ city. "There's something else, isn't there?" Anders asked. "Yes. " What could that be, he asked himself. Through clearing eyes, Anderslooked at the formality he had called his world. He wondered momentarily if he would have come to this if the voicehadn't guided him. Yes, he decided after a few moments, it wasinevitable. But who was the voice? And what had he left out? "Let's see what a party looks like now, " he said to the voice. * * * * * The party was a masquerade; the guests were all wearing their faces. ToAnders, their motives, individually and collectively, were painfullyapparent. Then his vision began to clear further. He saw that the people weren't truly individual. They were discontinuouslumps of flesh sharing a common vocabulary, yet not even trulydiscontinuous. The lumps of flesh were a part of the decoration of the room and almostindistinguishable from it. They were one with the lights, which lenttheir tiny vision. They were joined to the sounds they made, a fewfeeble tones out of the great possibility of sound. They blended intothe walls. The kaleidoscopic view came so fast that Anders had trouble sorting hisnew impressions. He knew now that these people existed only as patterns, on the same basis as the sounds they made and the things they thoughtthey saw. _Gestalts_, sifted out of the vast, unbearable real world. "Where's Judy?" a discontinuous lump of flesh asked him. This particularlump possessed enough nervous mannerisms to convince the other lumps ofhis reality. He wore a loud tie as further evidence. "She's sick, " Anders said. The flesh quivered into an instant sympathy. Lines of formal mirth shifted to formal woe. "Hope it isn't anything serious, " the vocal flesh remarked. "You're warmer, " the voice said to Anders. Anders looked at the object in front of him. "She hasn't long to live, " he stated. The flesh quivered. Stomach and intestines contracted in sympatheticfear. Eyes distended, mouth quivered. The loud tie remained the same. "My God! You don't mean it!" "What are you?" Anders asked quietly. "What do you mean?" the indignant flesh attached to the tie demanded. Serene within its reality, it gaped at Anders. Its mouth twitched, undeniable proof that it was real and sufficient. "You're drunk, " itsneered. Anders laughed and left the party. * * * * * "There is still something you don't know, " the voice said. "But you werehot! I could feel you near me. " "What are you?" Anders asked again. "I don't know, " the voice admitted. "I am a person. I am I. I amtrapped. " "So are we all, " Anders said. He walked on asphalt, surrounded by heapsof concrete, silicates, aluminum and iron alloys. Shapeless, meaninglessheaps that made up the _gestalt_ city. And then there were the imaginary lines of demarcation dividing cityfrom city, the artificial boundaries of water and land. All ridiculous. "Give me a dime for some coffee, mister?" something asked, a thingindistinguishable from any other thing. "Old Bishop Berkeley would give a nonexistent dime to your nonexistentpresence, " Anders said gaily. "I'm really in a bad way, " the voice whined, and Anders perceived thatit was no more than a series of modulated vibrations. "Yes! Go on!" the voice commanded. "If you could spare me a quarter--" the vibrations said, with a deeppretense at meaning. No, what was there behind the senseless patterns? Flesh, mass. What wasthat? All made up of atoms. "I'm really hungry, " the intricately arranged atoms muttered. All atoms. Conjoined. There were no true separations between atom andatom. Flesh was stone, stone was light. Anders looked at the masses ofatoms that were pretending to solidity, meaning and reason. "Can't you help me?" a clump of atoms asked. But the clump was identicalwith all the other atoms. Once you ignored the superimposed patterns, you could see the atoms were random, scattered. "I don't believe in you, " Anders said. The pile of atoms was gone. "Yes!" the voice cried. "Yes!" "I don't believe in any of it, " Anders said. After all, what was anatom? "Go on!" the voice shouted. "You're hot! Go on!" What was an atom? An empty space surrounded by an empty space. Absurd! "Then it's all false!" Anders said. And he was alone under the stars. "That's right!" the voice within his head screamed. "Nothing!" But stars, Anders thought. How can one believe-- The stars disappeared. Anders was in a gray nothingness, a void. Therewas nothing around him except shapeless gray. Where was the voice? Gone. Anders perceived the delusion behind the grayness, and then there wasnothing at all. Complete nothingness, and himself within it. * * * * * Where was he? What did it mean? Anders' mind tried to add it up. Impossible. _That_ couldn't be true. Again the score was tabulated, but Anders' mind couldn't accept thetotal. In desperation, the overloaded mind erased the figures, eradicated the knowledge, erased itself. "Where am I?" In nothingness. Alone. Trapped. "Who am I?" A voice. The voice of Anders searched the nothingness, shouted, "Is there anyonehere?" No answer. But there was someone. All directions were the same, yet moving alongone he could make contact . . . With someone. The voice of Anders reachedback to someone who could save him, perhaps. "Save me, " the voice said to Anders, lying fully dressed on his bed, except for his shoes and black bow tie. --ROBERT SHECKLEY Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ June 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.