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Read Ebook: Reality Unlimited by Silverberg Robert
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Ebook has 125 lines and 6142 words, and 3 pages
REALITY UNLIMITED
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!
It was going to be the show of the century--absolutely the tops.
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.
He turned to the man next to him. "Got the time?"
"Five to nine."
"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."
"They say the theater holds five thousand."
"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."
The other man nodded. "That goes for all of us."
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."
"Damned public-spirited," the other agreed.
Suddenly the line began to edge forward.
"They're selling tickets!"
"The booth is open!"
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.
"These my tickets?"
"That's right, sir."
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:
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.
His wife was waiting for him with an expectant look on her face.
"Did you get them?"
"I sure did! Two engraved invitations, at ten bucks a throw."
"They'd better be worth it," she said anxiously.
"That doesn't mean a thing," she said. "After all, no one's ever seen the complete movie--"
"It's not a movie," he corrected.
"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?"
"Believe me, honey, this is going to be the greatest ever!"
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.
"What are all these people doing here?" Mrs. Hendriks asked.
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.
"Don't they tear up the tickets?"
"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!"
His wife nudged him. "Look--isn't that shocking!"
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.
"Good evening," she said. "I'm your usher. May I show you to your seats?"
"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.
Hendriks gasped.
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.
"I'm glad we wore our formal clothes, dear."
"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.
And suddenly a voice said, "Welcome to ULTRARAMA."
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