Drug of Choice Read online

  The dock was thronged with porters and passengers and baggage, but looking up from the dock he could see a smooth white beach, with the water lapping gently against the land. Farther back was a structure which appeared to be the hotel. He could not see the tennis courts and swimming pools which he had seen in the photograph in the ad, and he assumed they were farther back inland.

  Though newly constructed, the hotel had a quaint appearance; it had been built in a rather Spanish manner, with graceful arches leading into small gardens and terraces. There were flowers everywhere, lending smell as well as color to the scene. Sharon clapped her hands. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Clark had to agree that it was, but as he looked around, it seemed to him that something was wrong. He could not define it for several minutes, but then, as he walked up the dock with Sharon, it struck him.

  “Kind of deserted,” he said. “Nobody on the beach. Nobody much around the hotel. It’s almost as if—”

  “Probably,” Sharon said, “everybody is inside changing for dinner. A day in this sun can be exhausting, you know.”

  “But the beach is smooth. There isn’t a footprint or—

  “Silly. They brush it down.”

  “They what?”

  “Every night. They brush it down. Men come along with big brushes and sort of comb it. Like a horse.”

  “Oh.”

  As he came up to the hotel, he decided that his impression was incorrect. While registering at the desk, he could faintly hear the thwock! of tennis balls, a game being played on some distant court; and he could hear splashing and laughter from a pool.

  At the desk, he left Sharon, following his own porter to his room. It was a pleasant single room overlooking the beach and the dock; directly beneath his balcony was a courtyard with a bar and a polished wooden floor. Undoubtedly it was used for dancing in the evening.

  The room was comfortably furnished with a bed, a desk, and a television….

  He paused. A television?

  This island must be hundreds of miles from the nearest television station. They could not possibly hope to receive—

  Abruptly, the screen glowed to life. It was a color set; he found himself staring at a pleasant, white-haired man in formal attire.

  “Good evening, Dr. Clark,” the man said. “I am your manager, Mr. Lefevre. Allow me to take this opportunity to welcome you personally to Eden Island. I hope that in the next few days we can make your stay with us truly memorable. If there is anything which is not to your utmost satisfaction, please do not hesitate to report it to me. The television, by the way, is closed-circuit; feature films are shown twice a day at seven and ten. The waiter will be arriving at your room shortly with a drink and a bowl of fruit. Please accept it with our compliments, and our best wishes for a pleasant stay here.”

  The screen went blank.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, and there was a knock at the door. A boy in a red jacket with gold buttons came in with a drink on a silver tray in one hand, and a bowl of fruit in the other.

  “Compliments of the management, Dr. Clark,” he said. “If you need anything further, please call us.”

  Clark reached into his pocket for a tip.

  “No sir, thank you anyway,” the boy said, and closed the door as he left.

  Clark looked at the fruit basket, and then at the drink. It was a rather peculiar drink, foamy and orange with cherries in the bottom. There was a small card alongside it, on the tray.

  “Mango punch is a specialty of the island. It has been a native favorite for centuries. Enjoy it with our compliments.”

  He sipped it cautiously: it was tangy, bittersweet, and very strong. He took a second sip, and decided he liked it.

  He took the drink onto the balcony and sat down in a comfortable deck chair, and propped his legs up on the railing. From here, he could look down over the bar and the dance floor, and out to the dock, where the sailboats rocked gently in the soft wind as night fell. It was peaceful and quiet, though he could still hear the distant sound of a tennis game, and an occasional whoop of laughter from the pool.

  It was, he decided, going to be an extremely pleasant vacation.

  The telephone rang, and he was about to go inside to answer it when he saw there was an extension on the balcony.

  “They think of everything,” he said, and picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Roger? Sharon. Listen, isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it the most wonderful place you’ve ever been? Have you tasted the mango punch?”

  He agreed that it was all very wonderful, and they arranged to meet in an hour for drinks before dinner. He went back inside to unpack and take a shower. While he was unpacking, he heard an odd humming sound. At first he could not locate the source of the noise; it was very soft, almost a droning. He walked around the room, listening.

  And then he realized it was coming from the television set. Funny, he thought. He made a mental note to tell the management about it. He slapped the set once, with the flat of his hand. The sound stopped.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s that.” Life for Roger Clark became a kind of idyll. After the first day, he stopped wearing his watch, and when, after three days, he chanced to pick it up, he saw that it had stopped. He didn’t care. It seemed almost fitting, that time should stop on this island. He was having a superb time.

  The first night, he had had dinner with Sharon in the hotel, and had been pleasantly surprised at the excellence of the food. Afterward, they had gone to a discotheque, one of three on the new resort island. It had been a smashing, vibrant place; he had gotten drunk and enjoyed himself thoroughly.

  The next day he had played tennis with Sharon, and discovered that she was a blood player, a true fighter. She wore a very short white skirt and a very tight white blouse, and used her wiles to distract him whenever she could; he was beaten miserably in the first set. On the next two sets he fought back, winning the third 22–20. Then, exhausted, hot and laughing, they had swum in the Olympic pool, before lying in the sun to dry. They had dinner at a native restaurant where they were served squid and other strange things, but it was all excellent. They made passionate love and he slept soundly afterward.

  The next day was more of the same; the day after, they took a sailboat out and sailed around the north tip of the island, passing a coastline of rugged beauty. They went skin-diving in a warm sea alive with fish, brightly-colored, darting about.

  He felt marvelous.

  The next day, he played tennis so vigorously that he broke his stringing; Sharon laughed, he bought her a drink, and they went back to his room in the middle of the afternoon.

  And so it went, day after day. Every once in a while, one of the other guests—and the guests were an unusually congenial and interesting group of people, it seemed to Clark—would come up and say, “Isn’t this fantastic? Isn’t this ideal?”

  And Clark would have to agree. It was absolutely, completely, totally ideal.

  He awoke in the middle of the night with a strange kind of abruptness; one moment he was asleep, the next moment he was wide awake, staring at the ceiling of his room.

  Something was wrong.

  He knew it with frightening certainty. Something was wrong. He could not say what it was, but he was quite sure.

  He lay in his bed and listened.

  He heard the sound of the ocean, carried on the wind through the open doors to the balcony. He heard the chattering of some nocturnal bird, hidden in the trees around the hotel.

  Otherwise, nothing.

  He sat up. The room was familiar, his room, his bed, his desk in the corner, with the letter to Ron Harmon at Aero that he had begun to write, but had never managed to finish. Propped up against one wall was his tennis racket with the broken string.

  It was all perfectly normal. He sat up slowly, trying to decide what disturbed him. He got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom, and as he did so, he kicked something on the floor.

  He turned on the light and looked.


  A tray.

  It was a simple iron tray, scratched and battered, the tray of a cheap all-night cafeteria. There was a bowl of soup on the tray, thin yellow gruel, now cold. Next to the bowl was a plate of unappetizing hash, and a glass of water.

  He stared at the tray for a long time. It seemed absurd, this cheap tray and this awful food, sitting in his room. How had it gotten there?

  He looked closely. The hash had been partially eaten; a fork lay on the plate. He scooped up a bite of the hash and tasted it.

  Awful. Revolting. He went to the bathroom to spit it out, turning on the light, and—

  He stared at his image in the mirror. His eyes were pink and haggard; he had a heavy growth of beard, at least several days’ worth; his skin was pale.

  And then, as he stood in the bathroom, he heard the growl of thunder, and the wind blew more strongly. He frowned, spit out the hash, and walked onto the balcony.

  He could hardly believe his eyes.

  The dock was bare; the boats had all been taken in and lashed to the trees on shore. The beach was wet and ugly-looking. Beneath him, the polished wood dance floor was soaked, puddles standing about everywhere; the bar was closed down, and covered with a canvas tarpaulin. He looked at the flowers on the balcony, which had climbed snaking through the railing. They were closed, beaten down by rain, battered-looking.

  As he stood there, the first drops of rain began to fall from leaden skies, and the thunder rolled again.

  My God, he thought. It’s been raining here for days.

  How long had it been?

  He went back to the bathroom and urinated, shivering with a new and chilling fear. It was so terrifying, he was not really surprised when he looked down and saw that his urine was a bright, fluorescent blue.

  14. GAINFUL EMPLOYMENT

  HE DRESSED QUICKLY, SLIPPING into a pair of slacks, sneakers, and a sweater. He had brought only one sweater, and now he was glad; it was cold.

  When he had dressed, he looked again at the tray and the gruel set out by his bed.

  Then he left the room. The hallway was quiet, he moved slowly down toward the stairs at the far end, avoiding the elevator. Around him, the hotel was silent except for the rising sound of the storm.

  He reached the head of the stairs and paused. On the ground floor below, he could hear quiet voices, and shuffling sounds. As he waited, he heard footsteps approaching, and then coming up the stairs.

  He had a moment of panic, backing away. Then he saw a closet marked “Utility”; the door was not locked, and he slipped in among mops and buckets. He left the door slightly ajar and waited.

  After several moments, two people appeared at the top of the stairs. One was a lovely young woman in a bikini; the other was a red-jacketed waiter. They walked slowly, arm in arm, down the hallway. The girl seemed a little unsteady, and often leaned against her companion for support. Once or twice, she giggled.

  Eventually, they came to her room, and stopped. The waiter unlocked the girl’s door, choosing the key from a large ring at his belt. The girl put her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening, darling,” she said. And then, “Shall we…”

  “By all means,” the waiter said. He held the door open, and the girl went into her room.

  “You make such thrilling love,” the girl said.

  “Yes, my dear,” the waiter said, and closed the door. After a few moments, he reappeared in the hallway, walked down two doors, and unlocked another door. He disappeared inside, and came out with a stocky middle-aged man at his side.

  “Ah,” said the man. “Charming morning, eh, Linda?”

  “Oh yes,” the waiter said.

  “All this sunlight… makes a man feel marvelous!”

  “It certainly does,” the waiter said.

  “After breakfast, we’ll play a little tennis, shall we?”

  “That would be nice,” the waiter said.

  “Good girl, Linda,” the man said.

  They passed Clark, and headed down the stairs. He waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps, then came out of the closet.

  Slowly, he made his way downstairs.

  When he reached the bottom, he could peer around the corner and look at the lobby. He remembered it as a charming place with a simple desk and polished marble floors; lots of flowers everywhere. But now it was completely transformed. A broad, thick plastic mat of silver foil had been set out on the floor. It was very large, perhaps twenty yards square, and on it a dozen guests sprawled in bathing suits. Overhead was a bank of sunlamps, blazing down on the mat and the guests.

  Five or six waiters were in attendance. At intervals an alarm would buzz softly, and the waiter would go up to the guests, and gently help them to turn over. The guests followed instructions with happy, complacent smiles on their faces. They all seemed quite awake, and would exchange a few words with the waiters at each turning.

  Among themselves, the waiters spoke in low, disgruntled tones.

  “Pain in the ass,” one said.

  “It’ll blow over soon, then we can work it as usual. An hour on the balcony each day.”

  “I hate this. Whenever there’s a storm, this damned schedule.”

  Another waiter laughed. “Can’t have our guests going home without a tan, can we?”

  “Oh no, that would never do.”

  Clark waited several minutes until he understood what was happening. Then, he slipped around the corner, moving from the stair toward the registration desk. No one saw him. The waiters were not attentive—and why should they be? Every guest here was drugged to the ears.

  At the desk he paused, ducking down into shadow. To his left was the terrace, and beyond that the swimming pool and the tennis courts. He moved off, outside, into the rainy darkness.

  His sneakers squished softly on the dance floor. It was then that he noticed, with surprise, that it was not really wood but a kind of plastic. Very realistic plastic.

  From the dance floor, he headed off into the gardens. Down a narrow, damp path to the swimming pool, which was located—

  He stopped.

  There was no swimming pool. None at all. There was a high diving board; he had seen that when he had first arrived, sticking up over the trees. But the diving board was sunk in concrete, surrounded by dirt

  No pool.

  He frowned. He remembered it so clearly: a beautiful sparkling Olympic pool, with a high board at one end, and a bar at the other end where you could stand waist-deep in water and drink mango punches until you were sleepy; then you could crawl out and lie on one of the deck chairs, located on the broad concrete deck around the pool.

  What the hell?

  He padded across the dirt beneath the board; it was now rather muddy with rain. He went on, toward the tennis courts, all twelve of them, beautifully maintained, the white lines carefully laid out each day.

  Once again, he paused.

  No tennis courts.

  Instead there was only a small metal shack, standing in the midst of scrubby vegetation. He opened the door to the shack and found some electronic equipment, including a tape recorder.

  He flicked it on.

  Thwock!… Thwock!

  A woman’s laugh, and a man’s deeper chuckle.

  Thwock!

  He flicked it off. The sounds died.

  “Very neat,” he said aloud.

  “We think so,” a voice replied. He turned and saw the smiling, white-haired man whom he recognized as Mr. Lefevre, the manager.

  “I see you’re ready for work,” Lefevre said.

  “Work?”

  “Yes, of course. Come this way, please.” He looked up at the sky. “Ugly night. It’ll pour, any minute. We’d best get inside, don’t you think?”

  Dazed, he followed Lefevre back through the underbrush to the hotel. They walked into the lobby where the waiters were still turning the guests beneath the sunlamps; the waiters nodded politely to Clark. They did not se
em surprised to see him.

  “This way, Dr. Clark,” Lefevre said. He led him into a private office, comfortably furnished, and closed the door.

  “You’re soaked through,” Lefevre said. “There’s a towel in the bathroom—” he nodded to a door “—that you might want to use. Wouldn’t do to catch a cold, you know. Matter of fact, that’s one of the problems you’re going to face very shortly.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Colds, Dr. Clark. We try to guard against them, but…”

  He shrugged.

  Clark went into the bathroom, took a towel, and rubbed his hair. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but there’s some kind of mistake—”

  “No mistake,” Lefevre said, smiling.

  “But I don’t understand. You people are—”

  “On the contrary, Dr. Clark. You understand perfectly. We people are operating a resort which does not exist. As you demonstrated to your own satisfaction just a few moments ago. We have a facade—this building, the rooms upstairs—but behind that, there is nothing. Everything else that is needed, we supply by means of the drug.”

  Clark nodded. “The drug that turns urine blue.”

  “Precisely. A most useful drug. You see, doctor, we are engaged in a kind of experiment here, an experiment in perception. We know, indeed everybody knows, that perception is altered by mental state. You may dine in the finest restaurant in the world, and eat the most superb food, but if you are in a bad mood, if your business has just gone bankrupt, if your wife has just left you, then this delicious, excellent food will taste like sawdust. And conversely: a ghastly meal in a tawdry restaurant may seem like a king’s banquet if your mental state is disposed to make it so.”

  “I don’t see what all this—”

  “All this,” Lefevre said, waving his hand around, “all this is a kind of extreme experiment. We assume that mental state colors our experience irrespective of objective reality. Normally, one must control experience in an attempt to produce the correct mental state—to be happy, healthy, and carefree, one must spend vast sums to go to some resort where your whims are realized. But suppose that the mental state could be controlled independent of experience? Eh? What then?”