This was _too_ real. This was _unbearably_ real.
A herd of gazelles came bounding out of the background, relieving some
of the tension. The lovely creatures seemed to float along, touching
the ground only at occasional intervals. Behind them marched the
dull-gray bulks of a herd of elephants, shambling with a ponderous gait.
This was Africa. This was the real thing, Hendriks told himself. It
wasn't a show. Through some magic the ULTRARAMA people had actually
sent him here.
He moved away, investigating. A sluggish black stream wound through the
jungle; curious, Hendriks walked toward it. Dark logs lay strewn almost
at random in the shallow muddy water at the sides of the stream. But
as he watched, one of the logs yawned, showing a double row of deadly
teeth, and slid sleepily off into deeper waters.
Crocodiles. Death threatened everywhere in the jungle.
Monkeys chittered overhead; bright-plumaged birds flapped from tree to
tree. Hendriks felt the heat, his nostrils drew in the smell. This was
real. He wondered if it would ever end, if he would ever return to his
neat little city apartment and to his wife and children.
He glanced away from the stream, looked up at the sun blazing in the
bright blue sky. And abruptly black death came roaring at him from a
tree.
Hendriks had just a moment to recognize it. A leopard, black, sleek,
moving with the easy grace of a machine designed for killing. He
toppled backward under the impetus of the beast's furious attack,
smelled the soft musky smell of the killer.
Then claws reached for his throat. Hot barbs of red pain shot through
him. He screamed out, fought, tried to hold the snapping jaws away.
"No! No! It isn't real! Get away from me!"
And in that instant Africa vanished.
* * * * *
"THE SECOND ILLUSION," that soft voice next to his ear said.
He was again alone, in an unfamiliar room. A lady's boudoir, he saw.
A satin-covered spread lay over a wide, inviting bed; dressing-tables
were laden with perfumes and cosmetics.
Behind him the door opened. A woman entered.
He had never seen her before. She was tall, dressed only in a filmy
negligee that barely concealed her long sleek legs, her firm breasts.
She was all he had ever wanted in a woman; she awakened desires that
had been dead in him for twenty years.
"Hello," she said. Her voice was throbbingly throaty. "I've waited a
long time for you, Paul Hendriks."
_How did she know my name? How_--
Then he stopped asking questions. She had glided close to him, stood
there, bosom gently rising and falling, looking into his eyes. She was
nearly as tall as he. He smelled her enticing perfume.
"Come," she said, taking his hand. She led him toward a chaise lounge.
He frowned. "But my wife ..." he murmured, feeling like seventeen
different kinds of idiot as he said the words.
"Your wife is happy where she is. Come to me, Paul."
She drew him down beside her....
What seemed like hours went by. Suddenly he felt a rough hand grab him,
awakening him.
A stranger stood there, fully dressed, menace glinting in his eyes.
"Who is this man, Louise?" he demanded.
Wide-eyed shock was evident on the woman's face. "But--I didn't expect
you until--"
"Of course not." Hendriks watched in horror as the newcomer drew a gun
from his pocket. He lifted it; the barrel seemed to point directly at
Hendriks' eyes. The finger began to tighten on the trigger--
* * * * *
"THE THIRD ILLUSION," said a soft voice.
And he was holding a billowing net and a strange three-pronged weapon.
The sound of a roaring multitude reached his ears. He blinked,
orientating himself to the new illusion, and saw that he was in an
immense stadium. Curiously-garbed people were staring down at him.
_My God_, he thought. _The Coliseum!_
And even as the thought of recognition burst upon him, he saw
his opponent advancing over the bloody sand. It was a swarthy,
broad-shouldered man in a leather tunic, wielding a thick, short sword.
Swordsman against netman. It was deadly, deadly.
Hendriks knew enough history to be aware of what was expected of
him. He had to ensnare the swordsman in the net and kill him with
the trident before that fierce sword could pierce his heart. It was
anything but an equal contest, but with proper agility--
The sword flashed on high. Desperately Hendriks parried it with the
hilt of his trident and whirled the net through the air. The swordsman
laughed and leaped back.
Hendriks advanced, looking for an opening. The roars of the crowd were
deafening. He swung the net tentatively, readying himself for the cast.
Tired muscles throbbed in his arms and thighs.
The swordsman retreated deftly, smiling. He looked confident. Hendriks
began the cast.
Suddenly the sword flashed again. It was a lightning-fast attack.
Hendriks managed to get the trident up to protect himself; the
impact sent pain coursing up his arm, and, numbed, he dropped the
three-pronged weapon. Laughing jovially, his opponent kicked the
trident far across the stadium and advanced with the sword.
Hendriks knew what he had to do. He dropped to his knees before the
advancing swordsman and gestured toward the audience.
The swordsman nodded. He lifted the sword, held it over Hendriks' head,
and looked up at the grand dais. Hendriks looked up as well.
The thumbs were down. Emphatically so.