Astounding British Edition, Vol. 6, No. 8 — page 35: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

DREAMS ARE SACRED yez out of a bit of a hole, and when it was all over, you said, in gratitude it may have been, that yez might have a couple of spare tickets fthe fight this very night, and I was wondering whether it could have been a sort of tellypathy like, and—” I grabbed the corner of the bar doorway to steady myself. Mike was still jabbering on when I fumbled for my own tickets and said: “I’m not feeling too well, Mike. You go. Til pick my stuff up from the other sheets. Don’t think about it, Mike. Just put it down to the luck of the Irish.” I went back to the bar and thought hard into a large whiskey, which is the next best thing to a crystal ball for providing a focus of concentration. ‘“Telly-pathy” huh? No, said the whiskey. Coincidence. For- get it. Yet there’s something in telepathy. Sub- conscious telepathy—two dreaming minds in rapport. But I wasn’t dreaming. I was just: tagging alongin—semeone else’s dream. Minds are particularly receptive in sleep. Premonitions and what-have-you. But I wasn’t sleeping either. Six and four makes minus ten, strike three—you’re out. You’re nuts, said the whiskey. I decided to find myseif a better-quality crystal ball. A scotch in a crystal glass at Cevali’s club. So I hailed a Purple Cab. There was something reminiscent about the back of the driver’s head, I refused to think about it. Until the pay-off. “Dollar-fifty,” he growled, then leaned out. “Say—ain’t I seen you some place?” “[’'m around,” I said, in a voice that ag with reluctance past my larynx. “Didn’t you drive me out to Pentagon yesterday?” ~ “Yeah, that’s it,” he said. Square un- shaven jaw, low forehead, dirty red hair straggling under his cap. “Yeah—but there's something else about your pan. I took a sleep between cruises last night and had a daffy dream. You seemed to come into it. And I got the screwiest idea you already owe me a dollar-fifty.” For a moment, I toyed with the idea of telling him to go to hell But the roadway wasn’t green sand. It looked too solid to open up. So I said “Here’s five,” and stag- gered into Cevali’s. I looked into a whiskey glass until my brain began to clear, then I phoned Steve Blakiston and talked. “It’s the implications,” I said finally. “I’m driving myself bats try- ing to figure out what would have happened if I'd conjured up a few score of my ac- uaintances. Would they ali have dreamed the same dream if they'd been asleep?” “Too diffuse,” said Steve, qprarently through a mouthful of sandwich. “That would be like trying to broadcast on dozens of a melas simultaneously with the 33 same transmitter. Your brain was an in- tegral part of that machine, occupying the same position in the circuit as a complexus of recording instruments, keyed in phase with Craswell’s brain—until the pick-up’ fre- quency was raised. What happened then I imagined purely as an induction process. It was—as far as the Craswell hook-up was concerned, but—” I couldn’t stand the juicy champing noises any longer, and said: “Swallow it before you choke.” The guy lives on sandwiches. His voice cleared. “Don’t you see what we've got? During the amplification of the cerebral currents, there was a _backsurge through the tubes and the machine became a transmitter. These two guys were sleep- ing, their unconscious minds wide open and the day, envisaged them vividly—and got tuned in, disturbing their minds and giving them dreams. Ever heard of sympathetic dreams? Ever dreamed of someone you haven’t seen for years, and the next day he looks you up? Now we can do it deliber- ately — mechanically-assisted dream tele- pathy, the waves reinforced and transmitted electronically! Come on over. We've got to experiment some more.” “Sometimes,” I said, “I sleep. That’s what I intend to do now—without mechanical assistance. So long.” A nightcap was indicated. I wandered back to the club bar. I should have gone home. She hipped her way to the microphone in front of the band, five-foot ten of dream wrapped up in a white, glove-tight gown. An oval-faced, green-eyed brunette with a tiny, delightful mole on her left cheek. The gown was a little exiguous about the upper regions, perhaps, but not as whistle-worthy as the outfit Craswell had dreamed on her. Backstage, I got a double shot of ice from those green eyes. Yes, she knew Mr. Cras- well slightly. No, she wasn’t asleep around midnight last night. And would I be so good as to inform her what business it was of mine? College type, ultra. How they do drift into the entertainment business. Not that I mind. When I asked about the refrigeration, she said: “It’s merely that I have no desire ba know you, Mr. Parnell.” “I’m hardly accountable to you for my preferences.” She frowned as if trying to recall something, added: “In any case—I don’t know. I just don’t like you. Now if you'll pardon me, I have another number to sing—” “But, please . . “Explain what?” She had me there. I stumble-tongued, and got a back view of the gown. Continued on page 48 CoOpnieooolkSs seo . let me explain—” -acting as receivers; you'd seen them during — particular i