Lawhead, Stephen - Dream Thief

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stephen R. Lawhead

. . .

for Harold

. . .

"The center of every man's existence is a dream."

G.K. Chesterton

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . DREAM THIEF . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . .

. GOTHAM. .

. . . . . .

. . .

THE MAN IS SLEEPING. The huddled mass of nerves and sinews rests easily on the bed; outwardly

there is no move-ment. Inwardly, the brain hums with random activity. A mainte-nance force

continually monitors the man's internal activity by way of a vast trunkline of nerves.

At rest the network is dark. Momentary sparks of electrical impulses shunt their messages to and

fro along the axons. At the outer fringes, the individual beads of light link up and begin their

journey up the spinal column like midnight trains heading for the city. Eventually they arrive and

send their impulses off into the tangled circuitry of the brain where each flash, briefly noted,

dies out. Except for these momentary pinpoint flares, the system is dark and quiet.

Gradually, the sparks increase their activity; more messages are coming in, flooding the circuits.

The lines begin to hum, glowing with energy. Impulses of light speed to their destination deep

within the labyrinth, illuminating their passage. Soon the darkened webwork is alive with light-

arcing, tingling, pulsing, throbbing with electricity. The man is waking.

. . .

THE DREAMS HAD BEEN at Spence again. He could feel their lingering presence like a dimly

remembered whisper. They were unsettling in a vague sort of way. Nothing he could put a fin-ger on-

haunting. There was a word that seemed to fit. He felt haunted.

Now, nine weeks into the project, he was not so sure he wanted to finish. That was a strange

thought. For almost three years he had worked for nothing else but the chance to test his theories

in the most highly respected advancement center: the orbiting space lab GM. It had taken him a

year to write the grant proposal alone. And he was here; against considerable odds his project had

been chosen. To back out now would be professional suicide.

Spence raised his head carefully from his pillow. He removed the scanning cap-a thin, plastic

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helmet lined with neural sensors-and placed it on its hook over the couch. He wondered how the

night's scan had gone, but realized he was feeling less and less interested than before. When he

had started the project, his first thought was to run to the control room to see his scan as soon

as he awoke. Now he seldom bothered, although he still occasionally wondered. He shrugged and

stumbled into the tiny sanibooth to begin his morning routine.

He emerged from his quarters and hurried off to the commissary without stopping by the control

room. I'll check in later, he thought, not really caring if he did. He headed down the axial and

joined the flow of traffic. The space station, even one the immense size of GM--or Gotham as it

was called by those who considered it home-teas beginning to wear on him. He glanced around at his

colleagues, and at the well-scrubbed faces of the student cadets, and knew that he was in the

presence of the brightest minds on any planet. But he watched as the cadets followed one another

dumbly into Von Braun Hall and thought, There must be something more. Knowledge was supposed to

set one free, wasn't it? Spence did not feel very free.

He suddenly felt an urge to lose himself among the eager stu-dents, and so allowed. himself to be

pushed into the lecture hall. When the line stopped moving he flopped into a cushioned chair. The

overhead lights dimmed and the automatic transcriber poked its hood up from the, seat directly in

front of him. He absent-mindedly flicked a switch at the arm of his chair which sent the hood

sliding back into its receptacle. Unlike everyone else

around him, Spence had no intention of taking notes.

He swiveled his lead to his left and was shocked to find him-self sitting next to a skeleton. The

skeleton's sunken eyes blinked brightly back at him acid the thin skin of its face tightened in a

gri-mace. On anyone else it would have been a hearty grin.

"My name is Hocking," said the apparition.

"I'm Reston." Spence's mouth was dry and he licked his lips,

trying not to stare.

Hocking's body was painfully thin. Bones jutted out at sharp angles, and his head Wobbled

uncertainly on his too-slender neck. Why isn't the man in a hospital bed somewhere? wondered

Spence. He looked too weak to endure even sitting through the lecture.

Hocking rested in the hi-tech comfort of a pneumochair; his body, which could riot have weighed

more than eighty pounds, sank into the supporting cushions. He looked like a mummy in a

sarcophagus. A thin tangle of wires made it's way out of the base of Hocking's skull and

disappeared into the headplate of the chair. Obviously mind-controlled, Spence considered; the

chair probably monitored its occupant's vital sins as well.

"What level are you?" Spence heard his voice asking. It was an automatic question, one that opened

every conversation between Gotham's inhabitants.

"A-level. Sector 1." Hocking blinked. Spence was immediately impressed. He had never heard of

anyone reaching that des-ignation. To most people it way, merely a theoretical possibility. "How

about you?" Hocking nodded slightly in his direction. Spence hesitated. Ordinarily he would have

been proud to share his designation, but it was embarrassing to him now.

"Oh, I'm C-level," he said, and let it go at that. Spence knew that most of his countrymen never

progressed beyond the lower sectors of E-level. Even those allowed aboard advancement centers were

mostly D-level-although none were ever below Sector 2.

Spence realized he was staring again, Hocking shifted his weight awkwardly in the chair. It was

clear that he suffered from some neuromuscular ailment-lie had no muscle control at all, or at

least very little. "I'm sorry," Spence said at: last. "It's just that I've never met an A-level

before. You must be very proud of yourself." He knew it sounded foolish, but the words were

already out.

"It has its advantages," Hocking replied. He flashed his gri-mace again. "I've not met many Cs."

It was impossible for Spence to determine if the skeleton was joking or not. True, Cs were a

rarity, and Bs were almost nonex-istent, but on Gotham there were plenty of both. Before he had

time to wonder further, Hocking spoke again.

"What is your specialty, Reston?"

"I sleep," said Spence sarcastically.

"And do you dream?"

Spence prickled at the notion that thin specter might know something about his special problem. He

also noticed that Hock-ing's voice came not from his throat but from a source at either side of

his head. The chair amplified his voice as he spoke. This colored Hocking's speech with an eerie

cast, as it overlapped his natural voice somewhat and have Spence the impression that Hocking was

speaking a duet with himself. Hocking noticed his glance, and his voice automatically lowered a

tone. Hocking had only to think and some need was accomplished. Having never actually seen one of

the rare and expensive biorobotic devices, Spence(, wondered what else the chair could do.

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. . .

THE LECTURE BEGAN AND ended much as lectures do.

Spence, remembered nothing of it, except the feeling all through that the person sitting next to

him was watching him, appraising him, sizing him up for some unknown purpose. Spence squirmed in

his seat uncomfortably.

When at last the lecture was over, he stood up, turning to tell Hocking that he would see him

again. On an orbiting university, no matter how huge, one always ran into the same people. But as

he turned, he realized Hocking was already gone. He thought he glimpsed the back of the white

ovoid chair in the flood that moved nut the doors of the lecture hall, but he was not sure.

Spence wandered along to the commissary nearby. One was conveniently located on every level of the

station since scientists hated to be more than a few steps away from their coffee. He fell into

the short line and picked up one of the blue circular trays and a matching plastic mug.

He slid into a booth at the far side of the dining area and dosed his hot black liquid with a

liberal amount of sweetener. His mind drifted back to the day he left Earth. He could still see

his father beaming at him through the tears and he smelled the soft citrus scent of oranges in the

air. They were sitting at a table beneath an orange tree in the courtyard of the visitor's center

at the G M ground base.

"Just relax and don't tense up," his father was saying. 'You won't black out that way. Don't

forget to . . . "

"I Won't forget. I don't have to fly the shuttle, you know. Besides, it isn't like it used to be."

"I wish your mother could see you. She would be so proud." "I know, Dad. I know."

"Do you think you could write now and then? I know I don't know much about what you're doing-your

research and all-but I like to know how you are. You're all I've got now...."

"The effect of long-term space travel on human brain functions and sleep patterns. I'm part of the

LTST project. I told you. 1,11 be fine:-it's a small city up there. And you have Kate. She's

here."

"You and Kate. That's all."

"I'll try to write, but you know how I am."

"Just a line or two now and then so I'll know how you are."

A loudspeaker hidden in the branches of the tree crackled out, "GM shuttle Colossus now ready for

hoarding. Passengers, please take your places in the boarding arse."

The two men looked at each other. It was then Spence saw his father cry. "Hey, I'll miss you, too,

Dad,', he said, his voice flat and unnatural. "I'll be back in ten months and I'll tell you all

about it."

"Good-bye, Son," his father sniffed. Twin tracks of moisture glistened on Iris face. They hugged

each other awkwardly, and SPence walked away.

Spence still saw the tears and his father standing in his shirt sleeves under the orange tree,

looking old Gird shaken and alone.

' ' '

AN UNBROKEN HORIZON OF gently rolling hills stretched

out as far as Spence could see. They were soft hills of early spring; the air held a raw chill

under gray overcast skies. Silhou-etted in the distance, Spence could see people moving among the

hill¢ with heavy burdens. He walked closer for a better look.

The people were old-men and women working together-peasants dressed in tatters. They wore no

shoes, though some of them had wrapped rags stuffed with straw around their feet to keep out the

cold. In their long bony hands the peasants held wattle baskets filled with stones. Those with

full baskets were walking stoically toward a dirt road, single, file, with their burdens on their

shoulders. The baskets were obviously heavy; some of the peasants strained under the weight.

Spence was overcome with pity for these unfortunate people. He turned to those working around him,

pulling stones from the soil. The stones were white as mushrooms, and big as loaves of bread.

Spence bent down to help a struggling old woman lift her heavy load. He pleaded with her to rest,

but his words were unheeded. The woman neither looked at him nor made any sign, that she had heard

him.

He ran from one to another trying to help them, but always with the same result-no one seemed to

notice him in any way.

,Spence sat down, brooding over his ineffectiveness. He noticed the air was deathly silent, and

when he looked up all the peasants were gone. They had left the field and were moving along the

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road. He was all alone. Suddenly; he felt a tremble in the earth and at his feet a white stone

slowly surfaced from beneath the ground. As he looked around other stones erupted from the soil

like miniature volcanoes. Spence became frightened and began running across the field to catch up

with the last of the retreating figures.

When he caught up with the peasants they were standing atop the high bank of a river, its dark,

muddy water swirling below. The workers were dumping the rocks into the water. He rushed up,

breathless, just in time to see the last few peasants empty their baskets. To his horror, he saw

that the baskets con-tained not stones now, but heads. He stepped closer as the last heads tumbled

into the water. In grim fascination he recognized Hocking, and Tickler, and then with a shock he

saw his own.

"ARE YOU DREAMING, SPENCER?"

"Yes."

"Is it the same dream? The same as before?" "It is. But it's over now."

"You may sleep a little longer and then awaken when you hear the tone."

. . .

A HIGH-PITCHED ELECTRONIC TONE awakened Spence from a deep sleep. He spun around in the chair and

glanced at the digiton above the console. He had been asleep only twenty minutes. Tickler was

still nowhere in sight. He rubbed his face with his hands and wondered idly where his assistant

man-aged to hide whenever he needed him. He rose from the chair and stretched.

Soon Tickler came bustling into the room. He was all apolo-gies. "I am sorry to have kept you

waiting, Dr. Reston. Have you been here long?"

"Oh, about an hour, I guess..." Spence yawned.

"I was, uh, detained." Tickler's sharp features gleamed with a slight perspiration. It was clear

that he was worked up over something. Spence decided it was too late to start another session that

day.

"I think we'll try it again tonight. I won't need you 'til then. I suppose you have something to

do elsewhere?"

Tickler looked at him, his head cocked to one side as if examining some new variety of mushroom

spore. "I suppose." He scratched his chin. "Yes, no problem. Tonight, then."

Spence handed him a sheaf of folded printouts which he required to be deciphered and charted in a

thick logbook-a purely meaningless task, since the same computer that spit out the information

could chart it as well. But Spence preferred the personal touch.

"Thanks," he said without meaning it. Tickler took the print-outs to an adjacent room and set to

work. Spence watched the back of his head as he weaved over the printouts and then left the lab.

Spence made his way down to Central Park-the vast circular expanse of tropical plants and trees

grown to help recycle the carbon dioxide of Gotham's fifteen thousand inhabitants. The park formed

a living green belt around the entire station and pro-vided a natural setting for relaxation and

recreation. The place was usually crowded, though quiet, with people seeking refuge from the

tyranny of duralum-and-plastic interiors. He had noth-ing else in mind other than to lose himself

among the ferns and shrubbery and let the day go.

His first thought upon reaching the garden level was that he had discovered a fine time to come-

the section was virtually empty. He saw only a few strolling couples and a handful of

administrative types sitting on benches. He took a deep breath. The atmosphere was warm and moist,

reeking of soil and roots, vegetation and water: artificially controlled, he knew, but he could

not help thinking that this was exactly as it would be back on Earth.

He walked aimlessly along the narrow winding paths look-ing for a private spot to stretch out and

meditate upon the state of his being, to think about the dreams and try to get a hold on himself.

He was not afraid of "going mental"-a term they used to describe a person cracking under space

fatigue-although that was something everyone eventually had to face; he knew that wasn't it. But

he also knew he was not feeling right and that both-ered him. Something on the dim edges of his

consciousness was gnawing away at the fibers of his mind. If he could figure out what it was,

expose it, then he would be able to deal with it.

Presently he came upon a secluded spot. He stood for a moment deciding whether to stay or look

further. With a shrug he parted the ferns and stepped into the semi-darkness of the quiet glade.

He sat down on the grass and tipped his head back on his shoulders. High above him the sunlight

slanted in through the immense chevrons of the solar shields. He saw the graceful arc of the space

station slide away until it bent out of sight. One could tramp the six kilometer circumference of

Gotham at the garden level and achieve the illusion of hiking an endless trail.

Ordinarily the green and quiet soothed Spence's troubled mind, but not today. He lay back and

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tried to close his eyes, but they would not remain closed. He shifted position several times in an

effort to get comfortable. Nothing he did seemed to make any difference. He felt ill at ease and

jittery - as if someone very close by was watching him.

As he thought about those unseen eyes on him, he grew more certain that he was being watched. He

got up and left the shaded nook, glancing all around to see if he could catch a glimpse of his

spy.

He struck along the path once more and, seeing no one, became more uneasy. He told himself that he

was acting silly, that he was becoming a prime candidate for that room with the rubber wallpaper.

As he scolded himself he quickened his pace so that by the time he reached the garden level

concourse he was almost running. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to see if he was being

followed; for some reason he half-expected Hocking's egg-shaped chair to come bobbing into view

from behind a shrub.

Still looking over his shoulder he dashed through the entrance and tumbled full-force into a body

entering the garden. The unlucky bystander was thrown to the floor and lay sprawling at his feet

while Spence stood blinking, not quite compre-hending what had just happened.

"Sorry!" he burst out finally, as if prodded by electric shock. The green-and-white rumpled

jumpsuit of a cadet flailed its arms in an effort to rise. Spence latched onto a swinging arm and

hoisted the suit to its feet. Only then did he glimpse the bewildered face which scanned him with

quick, apprehensive eyes. "I'm Dr. Reston. BioPsych. Are you hurt?" he volunteered.

"No, sir. I didn't see you coming. It was my fault."

"No, I'm sorry. Really. I thought ..." he turned and looked over his shoulder again. "I thought

someone might be following me."

"Don't see anybody," the cadet said, peering past Spence into the garden. There was nothing to be

seen except the green curtain of vegetation, unbroken but for the careless splashes of white and

yellow flowers blooming at random throughout the garden. "I'm Kurt. And I'm BioPsych, first year.

I thought I'd met most of the faculty in my department."

"Well, I'm not an instructor. I'm research."

"Oh," Kurt said absently. "Well, I've got to get back to work." The cadet started off. "Glad to

meet you, Dr. Reston. See you around."

On the overgrown donut of the space station the cadets always said, "See you around." Spence

appreciated the pun.

. . .

THE UNBROKEN HORIZON OF gently rolling hills stretched out as far as Spence could see. The same

horizon, the same hills as in previous dreams. In the distance he saw people moving among the

hills with heavy burdens. Closer, he recognized these as the peasants who labored in rags to rid

the arid hills of stones, which they tumbled into their rough twig bas-kets with their skinny

hands. All was familiar, painfully so, to Spence who had lived the dream often.

He watched as the barefoot peasants shifted the weight of the baskets upon their bony shoulders

and shuffled single file along the road. Others around him still strained to lift the stones,

white as mushrooms and big as loaves of bread, from the soil. He knew he was powerless to help

them in any way; his words and actions were ignored. He was invisible to them.

Spence again sat down, brooding over his ineffectiveness. Again the air was deathly silent; the

peasants were gone. He felt the earth tremble at his feet as a round, white stone surfaced from

beneath the ground. He looked around him and other stones were erupting from the soil like

miniature volcanoes.

When he stood he found himself once again atop the high bank of a river. The dark, muddy water

swirled in rolling eddies below. The last peasant dumped his basket into the water and Spence

heard a voice call his name. He turned and saw a dozen huge, black birds wheeling in the air. He

followed them and real-ized he was standing on an immense plain which stretched lim-itless into

the distance. Rising in front of him on that flat, grass-covered plain stood an ancient, crumbling

castle.

He lifted his foot, the landscape blurred, and then he stood within the courtyard of the castle

before a scarred wooden door which he tried and found open. An empty marble corridor of stairs

spiraled down away from him. He followed it. Deeper it wound, eventually arriving at the entrance

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to a small chamber, dimly lit.

Spence rubbed his eyes and stepped forward into the room. The light of the room seemed to emanate

from a single source-an incredibly large egg floating in the center of the chamber. He

to watched, horrified, as the egg began bobbing slightly and rose up higher into the air. As it

rose it revolved and he then saw what he feared-the egg was the back of Hocking's chair. But it

was upside down. As it slowly revolved, he saw Hocking sitting serenely in his chair, laughing.

The chair floated closer. Hocking threw him a toothy grimace and became a leering, malevolent

death's-head.

Spence turned and fled; the egg-chair-death's-head pursued him. He raced for the door at the end

of the corridor and burst through to discover an inky black night scattered with a thousand stars.

Over his shoulder Earth, a serene blue globe, rose in the sky as he stumbled bleeding across a

rocky, alien landscape....

. . .

SPENCE WATCHED THE SHUTTLE pull away from the huge arcing flank of the space station. He stood on

a small obser-vation platform overlooking the staging area watching the rou-tine arrival of

supplies and the departure of personnel going down, or rather back, to Earth on furlough. He

wished he was going with them.

He had never felt more like giving up than he did right now. His life had settled into a dull

aching throb between depression and loneliness. He did not know which was worse: the black haze

through which he seemed to view life around him, or the sharp pangs which arrowed through his

chest whenever he immersed himself in the stream of people moving along the trafficways and

realized that he did not really know a single other soul.

But underlying both of these unpleasant realities was, he knew, the very thing which he dreaded

most: the dreams.

Since that afternoon in Central Park nearly two weeks before, he had begun to feel those invisible

eyes on him every waking moment. He fancied they watched him while he slept. He felt his sanity

slowly slipping away.

He gazed up through the giant observation bubble into the velvet black void of space burning with

a billion pinpoint flares of nameless stars. He was gazing at the rim of the Milky Way but

remained oblivious to the sight. "What am I going to do?" he whispered aloud to himself.

He turned away as the shuttle's white bulk dropped slowly from view below him. There was a whir as

the docking net was withdrawn and a faint whispered hiss as the inner airlocks equal-ized. Spence

yawned and thought again, for the billionth time,how tired he was. He had not closed his eyes to

speak of in the last three days-quick catnaps, a few minutes here and there was all.

He had been avoiding sleep like a youngster avoids the den-tist when the tooth throbs and pain

numbs the jaw. He hoped that by some miracle the pain, the dreams, would just go away. At the same

time, he knew that hope was futile.

He would have to have some real sleep soon if he was to remain even partially upright and

coherent. He had the odd appre-hension that he was turning into a zombie, one of those pathetic

creatures of myth destined to roam the twilight regions neither completely dead nor fully alive.

No thoughts, no feelings. Just an ambulatory carcass directed by some demon will beyond itself.

But the idea of sleep had become repugnant to him. Becoming a zombie was less frightening than the

thought of the night-mare which waited for him to drift into blissful peace before unfolding him

in its awful insanity.

Spence shook his head to clear it; he was beginning to ramble. He looked around and realized that

his unattended steps had brought him to Broadway.

Turning to the left he started to make his way back to the BioPsych section and the sleep lab, to

his own quarters-there again to wrestle with the question, "to sleep, or not to sleep"-but

something caught his eye and he stopped and looked again. All he saw was a brightly illuminated

sign, the same as any other which identified the trafficways of Gotham. Spence stood staring at

the sign for several seconds before he realized what had arrested his flagging attention. The

words "OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR" and the red arrow pointing the opposite way seemed to hold a

special fascination for him in his befuddled state.

Without thinking about it, or making a decision at all, he dis-covered his feet moving him

mechanically along toward the director's office. And, without surprise, he knew why he was going

there. Perhaps subconsciously he had intended to request a psych leave for some time. Now, in his

sleep-deprived condi-tion his body was taking him where he had wanted to go all along but had not

dared, for lack of nerve.

Spence moved blindly along, somehow managing to avoid the others hurrying to and fro along the

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trafficway. Twice he caught strange looks from passersby, but their glances of ques-tioning

concern failed to register. It was as if he had withdrawn to an inner mental cell and only peered

out curiously from behind the bars. The reactions of others meant nothing to him.

After much turning, and several level changes-Spence was oblivious to it all-he arrived at AdSec.

As he stood contemplat-ing the partition which separated him from the receptionist inside he came

to himself.

"I can't go in there like this," he muttered. He spun around, spied a convenience station, and

took himself inside. He peered into the mirror as he leaned over the duralum basin and marveled at

the sight he presented. Red-rimmed eyes burned out of a pal-lid, expressionless face; unwashed

hair started from his head as if afright; deep lines drew a pliant mouth into a frowning scowl.

It was the very visual representation of how he felt: the outer man imitating the inner.

Spence shook his head in disbelief and filled the basin with cold water. He let the water run

until it threatened to overflow and then plunged his hands in, scooped up a double handful and

splashed it on his face.

The sting of the water cleared his senses somewhat and he felt better at once. He repeated the

procedure several times and then made an attempt to flatten his hair. He dried his hands at a

nearby blower and then stepped from the vestibule once more into the trafficway.

With some hesitation he pushed the access plate and the translucent partition slid open slightly.

He stepped woodenly in and forced a grin at the tight-lipped receptionist who greeted him with the

flash of a professional smile and the standard, "Good afternoon. Whom do you wish to see, please?"

"I'm-I've come to see the director," said Spence as he looked around for his office among the

several which opened off of the central reception area. He saw it and started toward it.

"I'm sorry," called the receptionist, "do you have an appoint-ment?"

"Yes," Spence lied, and kept on going. He approached the door, pushed the access plate, and walked

in.

He was not expecting anything in particular, but the room which opened before him startled him

with its size and regal appointments. Compared to his own crabbed cube of a room, and all the

other totally space-efficient quarters, chambers, and labs he had been in on the station, this one

was palatial in its utter disregard for constraint.

He could not help gawking as he stared at the beautiful expanse of open space which met his eyes.

The room was a huge

octagonal chamber with a high curving dome above a broad area, part of which was given to a sort

of loft which was reached by a spiraled rank of broad steps. The princely spaciousness of the

quarters was further enhanced by a huge observation bubble which formed part of a convex wall over

the loft. The effect to an observer like Spence was one of entering a great hall with a win-dow

opening onto the universe beyond.

His feet were sunk into several centimeters of thick, buff-col-ored carpet. Green plants of

several types and miniature flowering trees splashed color against pale, slate-gray walls and

tawny fur-nishings. Notably absent was any hint of aluminum or other metal-lic surfaces. It was an

office such as one would find in one of the great bastions of corporate power back on Earth, but

rarely on a space station. Rank, thought Spence, did indeed have its privileges.

"Yes?" said a voice close by. Spence jerked around quickly, immediately embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't see you when I came in."

The bright, china blue eyes which met his sparkled. "That's all right. I'm often overlooked."

"No, I didn't mean..." He broke off. The young lady, several years his junior, was laughing at

him. He colored at that, feeling ridiculous and completely out of place. He did not know what to

say and for a few moments stared unabashedly at the girl sitting casu-ally at a low desk just

inside the entrance to the mammoth office.

She wore a jumpsuit like everyone else on GM, but hers was a light powder-blue-definitely not

regulation. Her long blonde hair hung down in loose ringlets, swept back from her temples and

secured somehow at the back of her head to fall in curls along her slender, well-formed neck.

"Was there something?" she asked. The smile this time was accompanied by just the barest hint of a

flutter of her long, dark lashes.

"Oh, yes." Spence brought himself forcibly back to his mis-sion. "I have come to see the

director."

"Why, may I ask?"

Spence started. How impertinent. "I'd rather discuss that with the director himself, thank you,"

he said stuffily, and hoped it had put her back in her proper place. The nerve.

"Certainly," she smiled again. "Only if I knew what it was about it might help you to get in to

see him sooner, that's all."

"I had hoped to be able to see him at once."

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"I'm afraid not."

"But it's very important. I must see him today. I won't take but a few minutes of his time.

Couldn't you just tell him it's pri-vate and urgent?"

"No."

Again that impertinence. Spence, in his exhaustion, felt a hot current of anger rising to his

head. He willed himself to remain calm. "May I wait?" he asked, nodding to a chair set in among a

grove of miniature palms.

"If you like," said the girl coolly, and as Spence moved to take his seat she added, "Only it will

most likely be a rather long wait. He..."

"I don't mind," interrupted Spence firmly. He plopped him-self down in the soft fabric cushions of

the chair with a demon-stration of defiant resolve.

The young woman went back to her work without another glance at him. For a while he ignored her

and busied himself with studying the dimensions of the director's official lair. Tiring of that he

moved his attention by degrees to the woman at the desk opposite him. She had begun entering data

into a terminal at the side of her desk. He marveled at her quickness and dexter-ity. That was

obviously why she had been hired for the job of assistant to the director, observed Spence; it was

not for her tact.

As he watched, he formed several other opinions about her. She was, he determined, of the giddy

sort, given to suppressed giggles and flouncy sentiments. Undoubtedly frivolous. Very likely not a

brain in her head. At the barest hint of anything intel-lectual she would probably flutter her

eyelashes and simper, "I'm afraid that's too deep for little of me."

She was pretty, there was no denying that. But, Spence told himself, it was a superficial beauty

which had no lasting quality. For someone unparticular, she would make a suitable mate. But for

one like himself she would never do. Never in a billion chronemes.

It did not occur to Spence that he had just painted her with exactly the same unflattering strokes

he painted nearly every other woman. That, for him, was easier than just admitting that he had no

time for women, that romance would interfere with his research and career, that he was afraid of

women because he did not trust himself to be faithful to both an intimate relationship with

another human being and to his work.

He had a certain right to be afraid; he had seen too many gifted men burdened by cares for a wife

and family succumb to second-rate research centers and teaching jobs. The young Dr. Reston

intended to fly as high as he could, and no woman was going to hold him down.

The young lady squirmed under his unrelenting gaze. She tilted her head and peered back at him.

Their eyes met and Spence looked quickly away. But soon he was staring at her again. She smiled

and then laughed as she turned to confront him.

"Is this your way of getting a girl's attention?"

"Excuse me?" He was unprepared.

"Staring. Is there something you want?"

"Was I staring? I'm sorry. I didn't mean ... Look, I only want

to see the director. When will he be available?"

The girl glanced at her watch and said, "Oh, next week some

time. Maybe Thursday."

"What?" Spence leaped from his seat and bounded over to the desk. "I thought you said I could

wait!"

"You may wait as long as you like, but he won't be back until next Thursday."

"You said..." Spence sputtered. His hands clenched them-selves in angry fists at his side.

"I said it would likely be a rather long wait. You interrupted me before I could finish."

"Is this the way you treat everyone on important business?" She flashed him a defiant smirk. "No,

only those who waltz

in demanding to see the director without an appointment."

She had him; he was defeated and disgraced. It was true, he

had behaved like an idiot. A wave of cool shame instantly quenched

the anger just as the flames threatened to touch off his temper.

The young secretary smiled at him again and he did not feel

so bad. "So, we're even," she said. "Now, would you like to start

again at the beginning?"

Spence only nodded.

"Fine. Is this personal business or official?" "Well, personal."

"See? That wasn't hard. I'll put you down for an appoint-ment Friday morning first thing. His

assistant will call you."

"You mean you're not his assistant? I thought-"

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"You thought I was, I know. No, I'm only filling in while they are away. Mr. Wermeyer is his

assistant."

Now Spence felt doubly the fool. He wished only to be allowed to melt into the carpet and slink

away. "Thank you," he muttered and backed away slowly. The partition slid closed, ter-minating the

episode in the director's office. He sighed and made his way back to his quarters more hopelessly

tired than ever.

. . .

THE OLD HEAD CAME up slowly. Lizard-like. The large oval yellow eyes gazed outward from under half-

closed lids. Yellowed skin, the color and texture of ancient parchment, stretched tautly over a

smooth, flat skull and hung in folds around the sagging neck. Not a hair remained in the scalp;

not a whisker, not an eyelash.

A thin, slightly rounded band stretched across the smooth brow. This circlet pulsed with a

purplish light of its own, throb-bing as waves of energy flashed and dimmed.

Hocking could see him as if wreathed in smoke-clearly in the center of his field of vision, but

shimmering and indistinct on the periphery. The face regarded him with a steady glare, the

expression beyond contempt or malice though traces of both were there, beyond weariness or simple

age. Cold. Reptilian. It was an expression utterly alien to any assignable human emotion.

In a lesser being the face and its mysterious scowl would have created at least a sense of dread,

if not outright fear, but Hocking was used to it.

"Ortu." He said the name softly, distinctly. "We are ready to proceed with the final experiment. I

have found a subject espe-cially receptive to the stimulus." Hocking licked his lips and waited

for a reply.

For a moment he doubted whether the image before him had heard, but he knew it had. The reply

would come in time.

"Proceed, then, as I have instructed." The words were spo-ken evenly, but with an unusual coloring-

the faintest suggestion of a foreign accent, but indecipherable.

"I thought you would be pleased, Ortu. We can begin at last." Hocking's upper lip twitched

enthusiastically. "At long last..."

"Pleased? For what reason should I be pleased? Oh, there are so many." There was no mistaking the

venom in the voice. "Pleased that it has taken so long? That even my inexhaustible patience has

been tried time and time again to no result? That my plans should rest on the feeble efforts of a

creature too stupid to comprehend the smallest fraction of the work?" The circlet on his forehead

flashed brightly.

Hocking endured the sarcasm bravely. "I have been particularly careful in my choice of a subject

this time. He is a sleep sci-entist named Reston, and he's quite malleable. We will not be

disappointed again, I assure you."

"Very well, begin at once." Ortu closed his eyes and his ancient head sank once more.

"It shall be done." Hocking, too, closed his eyes and when he opened them again the glimmering

image had vanished. He sat in his chair in the center of his darkened quarters. The whisper of a

smile flitted across his skeletal features. Now, at last, all was ready. The final test could

begin.

. . .

SPENCE STEPPED FROM HIS sanibooth actually whistling. He felt better than he had in weeks. Rested,

alert, and happy. He had slept the whole night long, the sleep of the dead. And not one dream had

intruded upon his slumber-at least not the dreams he had learned to fear of late: those without

color, without form, which seemed born of some alien, sterile intelli-gence, which came into his

mind and left him shaking and drained, but without memory.

Whatever had been bothering him was now gone, or so he hoped. Perhaps it had only been the strain

of adapting to the con-fines of the station. GM was the largest of the orbiting advance-ment

centers; it was also the highest. Actually, it was the world's first self-sustaining space colony,

maintaining an orbit three hun-dred and twenty thousand kilometers above the earth around a point

astrophysicists called libration five. That distance, or rather the thought of that distance,

sometimes had a strange effect on newcomers. Some experienced symptoms of claustrophobia; oth-ers

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became nervous and irritable and had difficulty sleeping, or had bad dreams. Often these problems

were not immediately apparent; they developed slowly over the first weeks and months of the rookie

jumpyear and had very little in common with the allied problem of space fatigue, which only

seasoned veterans-those in their fifth or sixth jumpyear-seemed to contract. That was something

else entirely.

So Spence, feeling very pleased with himself that he had weathered the worst and had come through,

rubbed his body with a hot, moist towel to remove the fine, blue powder of the

personal sanitizer and then tossed the towel into the laundry port. He dressed in a fresh blue and

gold jumpsuit and made his way into the lab to reweave the dangling threads of his project.

He slipped into the lab quietly and found Dr. Tickler hunched over a worktable with an array of

electronic gear and testing equipment spread out around him.

"Good morning," said Spence amiably. There was no real day or night, but the Gothamites maintained

the illusion, and the station flipped slowly over on its axis on a twelve-hour cycle to help in

the deception.

"Oh, there you are! Yes, good morning." Tickler bent his head around to observe Spence closely. He

wore a magnifying hood which made his eyes bug out absurdly, like two glassy door-knobs splotched

with paint.

"Anything serious?"

"One of the scanners is fritzing. Nothing serious. I thought I would take the opportunity to set

it in order."

Spence detected a slight rebuff in Tickler's clipped tone. Then he remembered he had missed the

work assignment he made for last night.

"I'm sorry. I-I wasn't feeling very well yesterday." That was true enough. "I fell asleep. I

should have let you know."

"And the days before that?" Tickler tilted his head forward and raised the hood to look at him

sharply. Before Spence could think of a suitable reply, his assistant shrugged and said, "It makes

no difference to me, Dr. Reston. I can always get another assignment-not with so prestigious a

colleague, perhaps, but one where my services will be taken seriously.

"You, on the other hand, I suspect, would find it somewhat difficult to secure an assistant at

this late date. You would be forced to postpone your project, would you not?"

Spence nodded mutely.

"Yes, I thought so. Well, the choice is yours, but I will put up with no more of this. I respect

your work, Dr. Reston, and I will have mine so respected. Now"-he smiled a stiff little smile

devoid of any warmth-"now that we understand one another I am sure there will be no further

problems."

"You are correct," returned Spence woodenly. He felt like a schoolboy who had been tardy once too

often and now had been properly scolded. That was bad enough, but he hated being reminded that he

was only on GM by way of a generous grant and could not chart his own course beyond the narrowly

defined limits of the grant. He had no money of his own, at least not the kind needed to pay for a

berth aboard even the smallest space lab, let alone GM. By sheer brainpower alone he was here;

that and the goodwill of the GM Advancement Board.

"I can assure you that there will be no further misunderstand-ings. Now, we will begin where we

should have last evening."

As they worked together, readying the lab for the next battery of experiments, the happy inner

glow rekindled Spence's spirits. He did feel better than he had in weeks. And, after all, it could

have been worse for him: Tickler could have requested reassign-ment. That would have really

bollixed up the works and made him look bad before the Board.

In the end he came around to feeling fairly grateful to Tick-ler for the reprimand. He had it

coming, maybe even needed it to settle his mind on his work once more. And he felt a little sorry

for Tickler-an older man, himself a C-level Ph.D., reduced to playing lab assistant and watching

younger men advance in his place. One had to feel sorry.

As he passed by the control booth with its huge reading board he caught a glimpse of himself in

the reflection of the half-silvered window. He saw a young man leaving his twenties, lean,

slightly above average in height, straight of limb and steady of hand. Large dark eyes looked out

from under a brown thatch of hair which, no matter how it was combed, always appeared rebel-lious.

The face showed a quick intelligence and by the thrust of a firm jaw a decisive resolve almost

bordering on stubbornness. It was a face which did not easily show emotion, but one which was

saved from being completely cold and aloof by a full, sensi-tive mouth perched above a deeply

cleft chin.

. . .

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Lawhead, Stephen - Dream Thief

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