Дэймон Найт: Orbit 5

One of the others laughs. “It’s Roger’s original idea,” he says. “And mine.” I try to remember which one he is and I think he is Sid. Mediterranean type. I glance over the other faces, and none shows surprise. So Staunton has taken over openly, and they accept it as natural. It tells me more than they can know about Staunton.

“You see, I had this idea that the whole pattern of dream content might switch depending on the location of the dreamer. In the city we know pretty much what each of us dreams, we’ve been subjects and experimenters all year now, and we decided to hunt up a place where there were none of the same things at all and then run a comparison.”

“And you’ll check that against what you can find out from the people here, to see if there’s a correlation?”

“We don’t expect one,” Sid said. “What we do expect is that our own dreams will change, but that the patterns of the dreams of the people already here will remain relatively stable.”

“And what do you expect to prove?”

“I don’t know that we’ll prove anything, but assuming that dreams reflect the emotional states of the person, by examining them in varying circumstances we might get a clue about how to help people relax more than they do, what kind of vacation to plan for, how long to stay, things like that. If my reasoning is right, then we’ll be able to predict from personality sketches whether a three-week vacation is desirable, or shorter periods more frequently. You see?”

I nod and can find no fault with the experiment. It does seem a legitimate line of research, and a useful one, perhaps. “I suppose you will have a computer run the analysis of dream content?”

Sid nods, and Roger says, “Would you like to see one of the cards we fill out? We’ve broken down dream content into categories . . . Like sexual with subheadings of hetero, homo, socially accepted, socially unaccepted, and so on, and a further breakdown of overt, covert; participatory, observed; satisfying, frustrating, and so on. I think we’ve hit everything.”

“I would like to see one,” I say, and he nods.

“I’ll bring one out to your place with us tomorrow. Have you seen any of the sleep lab equipment?”

“Not in this context, not used in these experiments.”

“Great. The first afternoon, after three or four, that you can get up here, I’ll show you around.”

“Perhaps tomorrow?” I say. “Will Dr. Staunton object?”

Roger and Sid exchange a hurried glance and Roger shrugs. “It’s my research,” he says.

“Is he setting up equipment, testing it out now?”

“No. In fact, he came home with indigestion, I think, and conked out right away.”

I can’t still the sudden laugh that I feel. I finish my coffee and stand up. “The storm is over, I think. At least it’s catching its breath now. I’m glad I was forced to stop,” I say, and hold out my hand to Roger and then Sid. “I must say, however, that I’m afraid Somerset isn’t quite what you expected. I hope you won’t be too disappointed in us.”

“Will you help?” Roger asks.

I hesitate and then nod. “I used to keep a record for my own psychology classes. I’ll start again.”

“Thanks.”

“If anyone in town asks my opinion,” I say, standing in the open doorway now, feeling the cool wind that the storm has brought in, “I’ll tell them that I’m cooperating, nothing more. They may or may not pay any attention to what I say.”

“See you tomorrow afternoon,” Roger says and I leave them and walk home. It is very dark now, and the rain smells fresh, the air is cool and clean. I am thinking of the two halves that make up the whole me. In the city I am brisk and efficient. I know the nurses talk about me, wondering if I am a lesbian (I’m not), if I have any sexlife at all (not now). They are afraid of me because I will not permit any sloppiness in surgery, and I am quick to report them. They don’t understand that my instruments are to me what the surgeon’s scalpel is to him, and they think I worship dials and stainless steel gods. I once heard myself described as more machine-like than any of the exotic equipment that I have mastered. I know that the thought of those boys staring at the charts of their alpha and beta rhythms has brought this retrospective mood but I can’t break out of it. I continue to inspect my life as if from the outside. What no one understands is that it is not the machines that are deified, but the processes that the machines record, the fluctuations and the rhythms, the cyclic patterns that are beautiful when they are normal, and as hideous as a physical deformity when they are wrong. The covered mound on the hard table is meaningless when I observe it. Less than human, inert, it might be a corpse already, or a covered log, or a cache of potatoes. But the dials that I read tell me all I can know about it: male, steady heart, respiration normal . . . Body processes that add up to life, or non-life. What more is there?

My house is cool now, and rain has blown in the kitchen and dining-room windows. I mop it up and wipe the sills carefully, and inspect the rest of the house. I can’t see anything in the yard, but I stand on the back porch and feel the coolness and the mistiness of the air until I start to shiver.

I have read that dreams follow a pattern of their own. The first dreams of the night are of events nearby in time and space, and as sleep progresses and the night goes by the dreams wander farther afield, into the past, or into future fantasy, and toward morning, they return to the here and now of the dreamer. During the night i wake up three times and jot down the dreams I can recall.

Dream number one is a simple-minded wish fulfillment. I am at a party where I sparkle and dazzle everyone in the house. It is an unfair ¡liar house, not unlike the Sagamore House, except more elegant, simpler, with cool white marble statues replacing the clutter. I am the belle of the party and I dance with everyone there, and in the center of the room is a champagne glass that must hold gallons. Looking through the bubbling wine I see the statues shimmer and appear to come alive, but I know that it is only because of the rising bubbles, that it is an illusion. I am swept back to the dance floor and I swirl around in a delirium of joy.

Dream number two puzzles me. I am following Father, who is very small. It is not quite dark, but I don’t know where the light is coming from. It is like moonlight, but without the moon, which I suspect is behind me somewhere. I am very frightened. Father starts to climb the ash tree and I retreat and watch him, growing more and more afraid but not doing anything at all, simply standing and watching as he vanishes among the leaves. I wake up in a cold sweat.

Dream number three takes place in my apartment. I am remodeling and doing the work myself. I am installing temporary wall boards, decorating them with childish pictures and pinups. I am weeping as I work. Suddenly there is a change and I am above Somerset, or in town, and I can’t be certain which it is. I am calm and happy, although I see no one and hear nothing. Somerset is bathed in moonlight that is too golden to be real and the town is as I remember it from my earliest days, with striped green-and-white umbrellas in yards, and silent children playing happily in Cobb’s Run.

I wake up and don’t want to lose the feeling of peace and contentment. I smile as I write the dream down and when I read it over I don’t know quite why it should have filled me with happiness. As I think of it more. I am saddened by it, and finally I get up wishing I had let it escape altogether. It is very early, not seven yet, but I don’t want to return to bed. The morning is cool and refreshing. I decide to weed the patio out back and set up the grill before the sun heats up the valley again.