Дэймон Найт: Orbit 5

Edgar? I nod, and sip the drink.

“I really was asking Blair for his assistance,” Edgar Staunton says, smiling, but not on the inside. I wonder if he ever smiles on the inside.

Blair. I glance at Dr. Warren, who will forever be Dr. Warren to me, and wonder at the easy familiarity. Has he been so lonesome that he succumbed to the first outsider who came in and treated him like a doctor and asked for help?

“What is your research, Dr. Staunton?” I ask.

He doesn’t tell me to use his first name. He says, “I brought some of my graduate students who are interested in the study of dreams, and we are using your town as a more or less controlled environment. I was wondering if some of the local people might like to participate, also.”

Vampire, I thought. Sleeping by day, manning the electroencephalograph by night, guarding the electrodes, reading the pen tracings, sucking out the inner life of the volunteers, feeding on the wishes and fears . . .

“How exactly does one go about doing dream research?” I ask.

“What we would like from your townspeople is a simple record of the dreams they recall on awakening. Before they even get up, or stir much at all, we’d like for them to jot down what they remember of the dreams they’ve had during the night. We don’t want them to sign them, or indicate in any way whose dreams they are, you understand. We aren’t trying to analyze anyone, just sample the dreams.”

I nod, and turn my attention to the splashing water in the fountain. “I thought they used machines, or something. . . .”

I can hear the slight edge in his voice again as he says, “On the student volunteers only, or others who volunteer for that kind of experimentation. Would you be interested in participating, Miss Matthews?”

“I don’t know. I might be. Just what do you mean by controlled environment?”

“The stimuli are extremely limited by the conditions of the town, its lack of sensory variety, the absence of television or movies, its isolation from any of the influences of a metropolitan cultural center. The stimuli presented to the volunteers will be almost exactly the same as those experienced by the inhabitants of the town. . .

“Why, Dr. Staunton, we have television here, and there are movie houses in Hawley, and even summer concerts.” Norma stands in the doorway holding a tray of thumb-nail-sized biscuits filled with savory sausage, and her blue eyes snap indignantly as she turns from the psychologist to her husband who is quietly regarding the Harvard doctor.

“Yes, but I understand that the reception is very poor and you are limited to two channels, which few bother to watch.”

“When there’s something on worthwhile to watch, we tune in, but we haven’t allowed ourselves to become addicted to it,” Norma says.

I wish Norma could have waited another minute or two before stopping him, but there will be time, through dinner, after dinner. We will return to his research. I take one of the pastries and watch Staunton and Dr. Warren, and listen to the talk that has now turned to the value of the dam on the river, and the growth in tourism at the far end of the valley, and the stagnation at this end. Staunton knows about it all. I wonder if he has had a computer search out just the right spot for his studies, find just the right-sized town, with the correct number of people, and the appropriate kind of eliciting stimuli. There are only twenty-two families in the town now, a total population of forty-one, counting me. Probably he can get five or six of them to help him, and with eight students, that would be a fair sample. For what, I don’t know.

I listen again to the Harvard doctor. “I wasn’t certain that your townspeople would even speak to us, from what I’d heard about the suspicions of rural villages and the like.”

“How ridiculous,” Norma says.

“Yes, so I am learning. I must say the reception we have received has heartened me tremendously.”

I smile into my drink, and I know that he will find everyone very friendly, ready to say good morning, good afternoon, how’re things, nice weather. Wait until he tries to draw them into reporting dreams, I tell myself. I know Dr. Warren is thinking this too, but neither of us says anything.

“I would like your help in particular, Blair,” Edgar says, smiling very openly now. “And yours, Norma.” I swallow some of the ice and watch Norma over the rim of the glass. She is terribly polite now, with such a sweet smile on her pretty face, and her eyes so calm and friendly.

“Really, Doctor Staunton? I can’t imagine why? I mean, I never seem to recall anything I dream no matter how hard I try.” Norma realizes that the tray is not being passed around, and she picks it up and invites Staunton to help himself.

“That’s the beauty of this project,” Staunton says, holding one of the tiny biscuits almost to his lips. “Most people say the same thing, and then they find out that they really do dream, quite a lot in fact, and that if they try to remember before they get out of bed, why, they can recapture most of it.” He pops the biscuit into his mouth and touches his fingertips to the napkin spread on his knees.

“But, Doctor Staunton. I don’t dream,” Norma says, even more friendly than before, urging another of the biscuits on him, smiling at him. He really shouldn’t have called her Norma.

“But everybody dreams. . . .”

“Oh, is that what your books teach? How strange of them.” Norma notices that our glasses are almost empty, and excuses herself, to return in a moment with the pitcher.

Dr. Warren has said nothing during the exchange between Norma and Staunton. I can see the crinkle-lines that come and go about his eyes, but that is because I know where to look. He remains very serious when Staunton turns to him.

“You would be willing to cooperate, wouldn’t you, Blair? I mean, you understand the necessity of this sort of research.”

“Yes, of course, except that I’m a real ogre when I wake up. Takes an hour, two hours for me to get charged up for the day. My metabolism is so low in the hours just before and after dawn, I’m certain that I would be a washout for your purposes, and by the time I’m human again, the night has become as if it never existed for me.”

Dr. Staunton is not sipping any longer. He takes a long swallow and then another. He is not scowling, but I feel that if he doesn’t let it show, he will have an attack of ulcers, or at least indigestion, before the night is over. He has no more liking for me than I have for him, but he forces the smile back into place and it is my turn.

“Miss Matthews?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say. “I’m curious about it, and I do dream. I read an article somewhere, in Life, or Newsweek, or someplace, and it sounds very mysterious, but I don’t like the idea of the wires in the brain, and the earphones and all.”

Very patiently he explains again that only his student volunteers use the equipment, and others who specifically volunteer for that phase. I ask if I might see how they use it sometime, and he is forced to say yes. He tries to get my yes in return, but I am coy and say only that I have to think about it first. He tries to get Dr. Warren to promise to approach other people in the town, try to get their cooperation for him, and Dr. Warren sidesteps adroitly. I know the thought will occur to him to use me for that purpose, but it doesn’t that evening. I decide that he isn’t terribly bright. I wonder about his students, and I invite him to bring them, all of them, to my house for an outdoor barbecue the following night. That is all he gets from any of us, and dinner seems very slow, although, as usual, very good. Staunton excuses himself quickly after dinner, saying, with his off-again, on-again smile, that he must return to work, that only the fortunate are allowed their nights of rest.