New Writings in SF 5 - [Anthology]

by Edited By John Carnell

  Maxwell thanked him. “I’m off them.”

  Dix smiled and produced an old pipe.

  “No, it isn’t,” Maxwell answered Dix’s statement. “I came down in connection with Gerry McLean-”

  Dix puffed hard on his pipe and raised weary eyebrows. “Still in trouble?” There was no cynicism in his words, merely pity and sorrow.

  “You’re the second person who’s jumped to that conclusion within the last hour,” Maxwell told him. “McLean’s not in any trouble that I know of. I’m not a head shrinker, by the way. I’m the Director of the Dream Research Establishment.”

  A wide grin split Dix’s face. “I’ve read all the popular articles. It must be very interesting work and I’m sure the articles don’t do its importance justice.”

  Maxwell warmed even more to the man. “It’s pleasant not to be laughed or sneered at, Mr. Dix.”

  The headmaster prodded his pipe-bowl and philosophically began to relight it. “How does McLean fit into the picture, Doctor Maxwell ? A research establishment is the last place I’d expect to find him.” The statement carried no malicious undercurrent.

  Maxwell shrugged slightly. “As far as McLean is concerned, he’s doing it for money and to save himself from working.”

  “That fits,” Dix interjected knowingly.

  Maxwell agreed and went on: “We aren’t selective in the people we take, for obvious reasons, so we get ones like McLean. Not, I might add, that I am in the least interested in my subjects’ morals, or lack of them. It would surprise you the types of people who have the erotic and twisted dreams. But that’s something else again. I’m interested in McLean for his mathematical abilities, and that’s why I’ve come down here.”

  Briefly, he related the object of the latest experiments.

  Dix contemplated his pipe, his eyes hooded. “Would it surprise you if I told you that McLean had—maybe still has—the makings of a mathematical genius?”

  Maxwell contented himself with a shake of the head.

  Dix continued, “He spent the whole of his school career here and he could do fantastic feats with figures from his first days. But even when he was of an age enough to realize the nature of the gift he had, he didn’t treat it seriously. He used it for petty ends.”

  “So I’ve heard!” Maxwell couldn’t refrain from grinning a little. There was something likable about a boy who dissipated talent in a talent-conscious world. Parental pressure was missing—his family had been lost at sea—but that didn’t account for it all. Perhaps McLean wasn’t so flippant as it would appear. Who knew what went on in any mind, let alone his ? And yet, for all he knew, the answer to that question might be within his grasp. Whether he would like that answer was another matter and, suddenly, Maxwell felt curiously depressed and not a little afraid. Dissecting a mind was much more dangerous than dissecting an appendix.

  He yawned and excused himself. “It’s long past my bedtime. I hope you won’t think me rude if I leave now. You’ve been a great help to me, sketching in a bit of McLean’s background. It gives him depth for me.”

  Dix said as they shook hands. “I’m very interested in your work, especially now that an old pupil of mine is involved. Would it be too much if I asked you to let me know how your experiments are progressing?”

  “I’ll be very happy to keep you in the picture, Mr. Dix,” Maxwell replied warmly, as they left the headmaster’s little room and walked to the school door. “If you’re in London any time, call me and I’ll arrange a visit for you. This card has my number on it.”

  Playtime was just finishing and the children were reluctant to leave the autumn sunshine and the freedom from discipline and restriction.

  “Playtimes are all too much like life, Doctor Maxwell,” Dix observed, watching the children with stern affection, “frantic, fleeting and over too soon.”

  Maxwell wished him goodbye and when he looked back from the school gate, the headmaster was still gazing out at the now-deserted playground, populated only with the many memories of his past pupils. Maxwell waved to him.

  As he reached his car and got in, a prominently curved young girl passed him with a saucy stare and entered the tea-shop. Another recruit to the oldest profession, Maxwell thought cynically, taking the car away smoothly. Bed, here I come!

  Once home, he phoned the nursing home again, got a negative reply, took a quick shower and kept his date with dreams into which no one pried.

  * * * *

  Four

  Maxwell awakened at eight in the evening, just as the phone rang. He was the father of a healthy son, at seven-thirty. He could see his wife for a very brief visit. After a brisk toilet and an even brisker cup of coffee, he exceeded the speed limit in reaching the home.

  Jill, sitting up and looking radiant, laughed when she saw his haggard appearance and said, “Edward! You look like a major disaster area!”

  He kissed her fondly, let his hand linger on her plump breast, then said, “No one has any sympathy for expectant fathers.”

  “You keep your distance,” she warned him. “That’s how it all started.”

  He sat by the bedside, examining her face minutely, noticing the lines of strain that skilful make-up couldn’t conceal, and the tiredness in her eyes. “You look wonderful,” he said, and meant it. Whether they admit it or not, new mothers had a deep inner beauty all of their own. Physical appearance had nothing to do with it.

  A Sister knocked and came in. “I think that’s enough for the first visit, Doctor Maxwell. You can come and see the baby, now.”

  He kissed Jill again and went to see his son and heir. A feeling of great tenderness swept over him as he gazed down at the tiny puckered face and the mop of black hair. “A wrinkled prune wired for sound,” someone had described a baby.

  “A fine, healthy boy,” the Sister said, with a smugness that suggested that she had had something to do-with it. She accompanied him to the door.

  “He is indeed,” Maxwell agreed, thinking that she probably said that to all the fathers. “My wife—did she have a bad time?”

  “Not particularly. Labour was prolonged, but some women are like that.”

  Maxwell felt better. “Thank you for your kindness, Sister.”

  “I’ll do the same for you next time,” she said, with the ghost of a smile, closing the door.

  Maxwell stood speechless, then started chuckling. He drew one or two odd looks on the way to the car.

  Sammy, the night-maintenance engineer, was waiting for him when he arrived at the establishment. “He’s back,” he announced in a tone he might have used to describe a rattlesnake. “Slouched in half an hour ago, that same distrustful light in his eye. Wanted a cup of tea. I told him we weren’t running a canteen. Layabout.”

  “A layabout with a difference, Sammy,” Maxwell said soberly, handing over the nightly fish suppers that had become a firm habit since Jill had gone into the nursing home a fortnight previously.

  “Oh, how’s that?” Sammy brought the kettle to the boil, sloshed water into the pot, swirled it round, tipped it out, spooned in tea-leaves, poured in the water and left it to infuse. There were no shortcuts for Sammy. Even if the Last Trumpet were to sound, he would have to make his tea the right way.

  “He’s a budding mathematical genius,” Maxwell told him, passing the tomato sauce across the small table.

  “And I’m Bertrand Russell!” the wiry engineer scoffed, dousing the steaming fish and chips liberally. “The only genius he’s got is for doing nothing.”

  “It happens to be true, Sammy,” Maxwell contradicted, crunching through batter and tearing at the succulent white flesh of his fish.

  “You look as if you haven’t eaten for a week,” Sammy said parenthetically, then answered the main point with: “If you say so, it must be right. He’s a queer bird, all the same. More bread?”

  “They say you never overhear good about yourself,” a cool sarcastic voice came from the doorway of the kitchen.

  Both men stopped chewin
g and turned their heads to stare at the indolent figure lounging against the wall.

  Before Maxwell could say anything, Sammy said harshly, “I bloody well despise people who listen in to private conversations.”

  That had its effect. McLean left abruptly. Maxwell eyed Sammy. He’d never heard the little man swear before. And he could see from the engineer’s jerky actions that he was seething with anger. They finished their meal in silence and Sammy cleared the dishes away, while Maxwell went off to supervise the night’s activities.

  Nurse Wilson came forward, clip-board at the ready, while three other nurses efficiently went about the job of taping up the subjects.

  “Good evening, Jan,” Maxwell greeted the slim brunette.

  She returned his greeting and reported: “Eighteen people in, doctor, ten males and eight females. They should be ready for your inspection in”—she consulted her watch— “ten minutes’ time. The two people who haven’t turned up phoned in.” She smiled faintly as she said, “Golds,” and Maxwell found it both charming and not a little disturbing. He’d always been susceptible to girls, especially ones of such high voltage as Jan. Or did he have his ohms and his watts mixed up ? No matter; the effect was the same.

  He thanked her, admiring her precise ways. Brains and beauty. She’d been a great help to him since Jill had left.

  She excused herself and went to assist the other nurses, while Maxwell returned to the control-room, to find there his companion for the night, Dr. Duncan Livingstone, universally known as “Dune the Head Shrinker”. The psychologist, a cheery-faced character (not beery-faced, as some malicious people were wont to think) who’d never quite lost his student sense of the ridiculous, grinned and said, “Welcome to Erotica, most Noble Doctor!”

  “Hullo, you dirty old man,” Maxwell replied, smiling.

  “Hey!” Livingstone protested. “Less of the ‘old’, if you don’t mind. How’s Jill?”

  Maxwell caught Nurse Wilson’s signal on the monitor. “Her’s was the greatest labour since that of Hercules! but we now have a son.” After the congratulations, Maxwell said, “Come on, Dune, inspection time. Don’t ask any leading questions or put ideas into their heads, especially the ladies.”

  “They’ve got ‘em already,” he said slyly. “Or didn’t you know?”

  Shaking his head in mild exasperation, Maxwell led the way. He’d listened to Livingstone conducting patients through interviews and there was none shrewder. His sense of humour went a long way to relaxing them.

  Nurse Wilson accompanied them on what were jokingly referred to as “the rounds”.

  Maxwell, with Nurse Wilson as very efficient and subtle prompter, had a word for everyone. Where there were signs of tension, the psychologist said his words of comfort. They paused at McLean’s cot. The hostility in his face was evident. “All right, Mr. McLean?” He nodded rather curtly and didn’t speak. A strange smile hovered around his mouth.

  “Who’s laughing boy?” Livingstone asked, when they’d settled down in the control-room.

  Maxwell filled him in on the details and Livingstone was very quiet when he’d finished.

  “No wise-cracks, Dune?”

  “There’s a time for everything, Edward, and this isn’t the time for jokes.”

  “It’s got you intrigued, then?” Maxwell watched the night-maintenance electrician testing out some equipment.

  “Yes, I am. I think it’ll be very worth while listening in on his dreams as they occur.”

  Maxwell stretched. “That means we’ll be listening rather often—if he wakens to tell us what’s been happening. You’ll remember I said earlier that I couldn’t get him to waken last night, and yet he dreamed a number of times.”

  His companion was thoughtful. “It wouldn’t do to waken him forcibly-”

  Maxwell shook his head. “It wouldn’t work, Duncan. He might refuse to tell us anything. I think we’d better let things take their course.”

  “Uum. There’s something strange going on here, and I’d like to find out what.”

  “So would I!” Maxwell noted that everyone had lain down, prepared for sleep. It was 10.28 p.m.

  “I wonder...” Livingstone mused. “Yes!”

  The sharp ejaculation caused Maxwell to look round quickly, jerking his neck.

  “Ouch!” he groaned, massaging the tender spot. “Don’t bark like that, Duncan. This is one more crick than I need. What’s up, anyway?”

  “I was thinking that it would be interesting to tell McLean—if he does refuse to divulge his dreams to us— that he would have to be considered of no further use to the experiment. That should make him jump one way or the other.”

  Maxwell agreed, saying, “We’ll wait and see what happens.” He thought to himself that McLean wouldn’t be difficult. Somehow, he sensed, McLean needed the dreams. He was puzzled with himself for thinking that, but he had no opportunity to pursue it, as Nurse Wilson brought them coffee.

  “Aren’t you having any yourself?” Maxwell was surprised; and, if he’d dared admit it, even to himself, a little disappointed.

  “Not just now, thanks. I’ve a few things to do.” She left them to it.

  “Rather ... starchy, that one,” Livingstone commented and added, a trifle lasciviously, to Maxwell’s mind, “but very nice.”

  “No doubt you’d like to get her on that couch of yours and analyse her,” he remarked, finding the coffee too hot and putting the cup down.

  “Analyse her!” Livingstone’s voice was somewhere between a laugh and squeak. “Good God! Is this what happens to married men? There’s a—”

  “ ‘—time for everything, and this isn’t the time’,” Maxwell quoted.

  “That’s copyright.” Livingstone grinned over the lip of his cup.

  “Sue me,” Maxwell riposted, glancing expertly along the banks of screens.

  Livingstone’s reply was still-born as a buzzer sounded and the light winked warningly on Screen 177. Both men were instantly alert, and reading the time off the clock, exchanged raised-eyebrow looks. 10.43.

  “This one likes his dreaming,” Livingstone said, leaning forward, as if to improve his vantage point. “He’s got no natural right to be dreaming as soon as this.”

  Maybe that was the key word: natural. Perhaps he had an unnatural right. Maxwell told himself he’d be on Dune’s couch if he didn’t watch out.

  Livingstone said, at the same time as he noticed the fact, “Look, Ed, there’s practically no eye movement.”

  Maxwell examined the roll. The pen was going berserk again. He drew Livingstone’s attention to it. “If that’s any guide, he should be involved in frantic physical activity.”

  “Don’t be misled,” the other cautioned soberly. “Mental activity can be much more exhaustive and exciting than purely physical stimulation.”

  “You’re right!” Maxwell took a quick drink of coffee. “I think we’re on to something, here. You said a minute ago that he’d no natural right to be dreaming so soon. But need it be natural? Then there’s your remark about mental activity. And I was thinking a short time ago that, somehow, McLean needs these dreams-”

  “Like some sort of aphrodisiac ... yes, you could be right. But why?”

  “I’ve a feeling if we hold on long enough, we’ll find out. This should be a fragmentary dream, but let’s wait and see.”

  Both men crouched forward silently, their eyes fixed on the dreaming figure. Maxwell had his finger poised above the button that would activate the bell in the cubicle and cut in the tape-recorder. After what seemed an age, McLean stopped dreaming and Maxwell thrust stiffly at the button.

  McLean awakened and started to dictate his dream. There was a fierce light in his eyes.

  “Reminds me of someone adoring a saint,” Livingstone whispered.

  “He doesn’t look as if he’s actually wakened up, or aware of what he’s saying.”

  McLean was reciting a long list of mathematical equations. This went on for three minutes, with the two
listeners getting more puzzled with every obscure term. Then McLean said, “The equations can be rewritten if you-”

  “Here we go again!” Livingstone grunted feelingly.

  There was another string of equations. A brief silence followed by yet more equations, and McLean said, “I’ll have to think about that set.”

  He lay down and went back to sleep. Shakily, Maxwell pointed to the roll of inked traces. Livingstone’s gaze followed the direction. The traces were right off the paper at both sides. Fear of the unknown was in both of them.

  Maxwell voiced both their opinions when he said, “Something tells me we’re superfluous, here. Does it mean anything to you?”