Donald Malcolm
A great deal of research has been done on the subject of dreams in recent years, but experts are still not too sure what does happen down in the subconscious when the conscious mind is at rest. Four-fifths of the brain mechanism is still a big mystery —within it there could be a latent power stronger than anything we know.
* * * *
One
Dr. Edward Maxwell, Director of D.R.E.A.M., became conscious that he had been staring at the same passage in Hamlet for at least a minute: “To die; to sleep; to sleep: perchance to dream ...” His mind was on his wife, Jill, a former assistant at the Dream Research Establishment. Their first baby was due any time. Why did they always seem to enter the battle-ground that was life in the early hours, he asked himself, absently noting that it was 1.46 a.m., when the slender thread of existence was at its thinnest. The sound of a soft but insistent buzzer impinged on his drifting thoughts as he sat in the control-room, which was lit only by the harsh light of the few close-circuit television screens in use.
Had he been paying attention, he would have noticed that the electro-oculogram recording pen of research subject 177-6-65 had settled down after almost nine minutes of hectic activity. Maxwell thumbed Screen 177’s button and in the cubicle, an all but inaudible bell, keyed to the subject’s alpha rhythms so that only he would respond, rang.
177 roused himself from the cot, looking like a monster out of a third-rate horror film. Electrodes were pasted to his scalp, the bony ridges of his eye sockets, his back and chest. Wires sprouted like spiky grass from his head.
Behind the screens, a cardiotachometer and an electroencephalograph converted his heartbeats and brain rhythms into inked traces on calibrated rolls situated in transparent windows under the larger, close-circuit screens.
Maxwell activated a tape-recorder and the twenty-year-old Gerry McLean began to dictate his dream. The Director decided to listen. McLean was spending his first night in the research establishment and had dreamed once already that night, in a fragmentary way, at 11.21. While there had been nothing obviously unusual about the dream, intuition born of experience told him that volatile undercurrents surged in the subject’s mind. It could be nothing more than frustrated sexual urges:- or it could be something important. He sensed a familiar dryness on the roof of his mouth. He leaned his square, blue chin on the backs of clasped, hirsute hands as the tousle-haired young man began hesitantly:
“Clouds ... or maybe swirling mists. Pale pink and yellow, with patches of grey. They didn’t seem to fill the whole area of the dream, only the centre, leaving the edges murky. Lots of sharp, bright sparks are darting about at random, some rushing into the dark portions, but most of them seem to be pouring out of the pink and yellow mass.” He paused and passed his hand across his brow in a curiously odd gesture. ‘There’s a pattern forming, now. The sparks are beginning to line up into definite shapes. I can’t understand them. They mean nothing to me. Some of the shapes are moving slowly, others are still, but pulsing, like small frightened mice. Now and again, some of the still ones, usually in a group, move to another place in the pattern, then stop. Wait! There’s someone there!” Maxwell jerked himself to full awareness. “I can see only the back of a head—no, the top. Dark hair, big, protruding ears ... It’s gone, now. Some words... ‘...where firing commences...’ and ‘...shift and it must be emphasized that it occurs...’ and ‘tends to be lowered until it fires for ...’ That was the end of the dream.”
Maxwell, nonplussed, lounged back with his hands behind his head as McLean lay down and went back to sleep. There were only two subjects at the establishment that night and, as the other one had dreamed shortly before, there would be no more activity for at least an hour. That would give him time to think. The body of the dream itself—the mists and the sparks—wasn’t all that unusual; but those infuriatingly unfinished sentences were something else again. What could they mean?
He activated the tape-recorder again so that it would play back through a microphone in the control-room and not disturb the sleeper, although from the looks of him, that was unlikely. Already, his body, twitching and jerking, was sunk deep in the well of sleep. When the general movement of the limbs ceased, it would be a sign that the subject had a dream coming on.
Maxwell listened again to the strange, incomplete sentences and noted that two references were made to variations of the word “fire”. Was that significant, he wondered? Finding a clean page on his pad, he began to put his thoughts on paper.
Fire fires
Boss fires (ha ha)
gun fires (and weapons in general)
neuron fires
enthusiasm/imagination is fired
A motley list, he considered. There was a hiatus in his thinking and he wished, briefly, that he hadn’t been quite so precipitate in giving up smoking. He’d even set his face against the subterfuge of “planting” a packet in a convenient place for emergencies such as this. However, he was off the habit and that was that. He’d take up chewing nails, or something similar.
He sat tapping the pencil on the list. It was too soon to start jumping to clever conclusions that would probably be all wrong anyway. In any case, the words might not necessarily be connected with the other aspects of the dream, or even with the dream itself. Many people had dreams which were always a hotch-potch, showing no discernible pattern or form. Even the weird logic applicable to dreams was missing.
He let his mind drift off the immediate problem and fell to thinking about the work being done on the fascinating questions posed by dreams and dreaming. The initial research programme had started at the University of Chicago in 1953. Now, in 1979, there were nineteen centres throughout the world, all attached to universities or hospitals. Maxwell’s centre in London was the third largest. The official designation was Dream Research Establishment, but some wag had added the letters “a.m.” because most of the work took place in the wee small hours of the morning. The tag had stuck, and the men in the research group were known to the regular nurses as the Dream Boys.
Many of the popular fallacies attributed to dreams had been shown the door. Almost without exception, everyone dreams, every night. People who claim that they don’t dream have simply failed to recollect their dreams, which occupy about twenty per cent of their sleeping time. Their dreams may have been subconsciously suppressed.
Dreaming was as natural as breathing, and the latest research revealed that a person deprived of sleep, and therefore of the opportunity to dream, soon suffered a decline in both physical and mental health. Day-dreaming, some authorities considered, was one of nature’s ways of making up such a deficiency. And it had also been shown that dream actions took the same time to perform as they did in waking hours.
The sequence and times of occurrence and duration of dreams had been thoroughly investigated and reduced to a line on a graph. Dreaming occurs several times in a night, but only at one particular stage of sleep. The times of dreaming were matched against a master graph, kept current with data from all nineteen centres, to derive more information on the mystery of dreaming and why people dream.
When a person drifts into sleep, his first dream is fragmentary, transitory and disconnected, as if takes on a moving film were blocked off at random.
The plunge into the deepest sleep is sudden, like stepping over a precipice. This period lasts about thirty minutes. The sleeper then approaches the lightest phase of sleep, reaching it just over an hour after falling asleep. On the average, the sleeper remains in this stage for nine minutes and has his first organized dream during this time. A sleep not quite as deep as the first thirty-minute period again claims the person. Dream passages of nineteen, twenty-four and twenty-eight minutes occur at intervals until the final dream which lasts until awakening.
All the establishments were at present participating in research initiated at the University of Tokyo. A group of students whose examination results had been consistently poor had been divided into two sections. One section had been allowed the normal quota of sleep and their results had not shown any significant increase for the better. The second section had been allocated more sleeping, and therefore more dreaming, time. Their results had shown an amazing upward trend, the corollary being that additional dreaming increased the potential for their work. This hypothesis was now being subjected to a rigorous investigation.
Maxwell’s part in the experiment didn’t, properly speaking, begin until the following night, when twenty volunteers would take up residence for two weeks, including week-ends. This would yield an average of seventy dreams per subject, and an approximate total of one thousand four hundred dreams. The total for all the establishments would be in the region of twenty-six thousand dreams. Application of exhaustive analytical techniques would produce data proving or disproving Tokyo’s claims.
He glanced again at the list he’d written down, then went into the small adjoining kitchen to brew himself a cup of tea. He boiled up some water, gave a tea-bag the fateful drop into the cup, poured in the water and let it infuse. He decided to have it without milk and added an extra spoonful of sugar to his usual two. He was about to sip this nectar when the buzzer summoned him. He almost dropped his cup in surprise. Taking his drink with him, he returned to the control-room. Screen 177! Routine took over and Maxwell awakened McLean and set the tape-recorder going. Only then did he have time to check his watch: 2.27. But that couldn’t be! Two dreams within forty-one minutes. He remonstrated with himself for not paying more attention to the screens. That way he would have been at least partially prepared. The tea forgotten, he settled to listen to what the boy had to say.
If McLean realized that his sleep period between the dreams had been abnormally short, he gave no sign of it.
“There are no clouds, now, only a uniform blue-grey background that seems to extend everywhere. There are no random sparks, either. All are in some pattern or other. There’s much more activity ... looks purposeful, as if a stimulus were being applied ... or—or supplied.”
Maxwell was really puzzled and not a little apprehensive, now. McLean’s language was too concise and information-loaded to be true. He’d have to talk to the boy and find out more about him. There was much more to this than was apparent, and Maxwell was beginning to feel worried.
“The pattern moves ... it’s as if the mechanical action of a typewriter were being translated into terms of light... I see the head again; the hair is wavy and parted on the left. I also see something else, but I can’t make out any details. It’s like—well—a roll of white paper. It seems to be running in the background, coming from nowhere and going nowhere. When the sparks stop moving, the paper does also. There’s something else not actually depicted in the dream: a long, rounded mass with thin extrusions at various plarces.” That’s you! Maxwell knew with certainty. His forehead was covered in sweat. “And there are more words. ‘...lengths 1,2,3... n-I, n, n...’ and ‘...practice, a language such as English is highly redundant so that its information content is less than a ...’ and ‘...gaps do not occur so that we can consider average conditions in the store...’ There’s also a bit that looks as if it might be a chapter heading or something similar; ‘...level in the store’. There’s a lot of mathematics on the roll of paper—” A loud intake of breath was followed by an exclamatory, “Of course, I see—” Abruptly McLean stopped speaking, an ecstatic expression in his eyes. He lay down and resumed his sleep.
* * * *
Two
It took Maxwell some time to regain control of his breathing. He’d been holding it in. With great noisy gulps, he drank the tea, although it was practically cold. The physical activity seemed to calm him.
Once again, he played back the partial sentences, Seeking what might possibly be key words. Two phrases struck him. “Conditions in the store” and “level in the store”. He wrote them down and underlined them as he wondered about their meaning. What kind of store was meant? And what connection, if any, was there with the previous lot of words?
He gave his attention back to the screens and the electro-oculogram record. It was practically going crazy. A quick scrutiny of McLean revealed that his body was perfectly still and relaxed. Occasionally, his eyeballs flickered, although the comparative inaction suggested that not much dream activity was taking place. There was nothing physically exhausting going on, of that much he could be certain. There was, rather, an implication of almost manic concentration.
Maxwell tapped his large white teeth with the pencil. McLean shouldn’t be dreaming at all. He’d just finished dreaming. That made three dreams in under an hour, something unheard of in all the years of dream research.
He waited until the subject’s limbs began to show signs of movement again, then tried to waken him. But he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—be roused.
Maxwell ran out of the control-room and down to the cubicle. McLean looked peaceful. Maxwell checked his pulse and made a couple of other tests. Everything was normal. McLean simply couldn’t be wakened from his deep slumber.
Pensively, Maxwell returned to the control-room and resumed his seat. 165 started to dream again and Maxwell was thankful for the return to routine. Keeping an eye on Screen 177, he decided to listen in on 165. The dream was fairly predictable, except for a phrase that almost eluded the Director. “...synthetic language made up of letters of the English...” the old man said, apparently unaware of the incongruous statement.
Maxwell thought back. Could that phrase be connected to any of those spoken by McLean? He thought it could and played the tape back to refresh his memory. He wrote down: “... a language such as English is highly redundant so that its information content is less than a synthetic language made up of letters of the English (alphabet?) ...” It fitted; although it probably wasn’t complete at the end.
There was definitely something very odd going on, here.
But what ?
The old man’s “intervention” in McLean’s dream was seemingly impossible and inexplicable. But it had happened.
And except that he now had a more or less complete sentence, he was no farther forward in his search for a solution to the puzzle. Fire—store—English. There was a fire in the English store ? The pen of my aunt—Maxwell gave a mirthless laugh at the trend of his thoughts.
He continued to watch 177 and the slowly unrolling chart. (Question: could that be the roll the boy was referring to?) McLean’s nondescript features were in repose. If the evidence could be believed, he was obviously dreaming again, when he had no natural right to be. Maxwell discarded that negative line of thought and accepted the fact that the subject was dreaming. And with something to spare, unless the mechanism working the recording pen had gone haywire. He studied the ink traces more closely and compared the various groups. Erratic though they seemed, there was order—powerful order—evident under careful analysis. However, as Maxwell didn’t know what particular dreams were allied to most of the traces, he could draw no valid conclusions.
The night-maintenance engineer poked his head round the door and asked if he wanted a cup of tea.
Maxwell yawned. “Make it coffee, Sammy, will you? Thanks.”
He listened absently to Sammy’s idle chatter as the coffee was prepared.
Sammy brought in the cups and some ginger-nuts. The engineer looked casually at the screens, then seated himself in a chair beside Maxwell’s and started to drink his coffee.
“Any word of Mrs. Maxwell, yet, Doctor?”
Maxwell dunked a biscuit and pushed it into his mouth in one piece, and followed it with a long sip of hot liquid. “Not yet. The little perisher’s had nine months to scheme and plan and no doubt it’s going to make a grandstand entrance.”
Sammy was about to reply when their attention was drawn to Screen 177. McLean was laughing in his sleep, quietly. It wasn’t an expression of amusement or gaiety. It was the type of laughter used by an aristocrat to a peasant before he has him killed; frighteningly, supremely superior.
Maxwell felt as if the temperature of his spine had plummeted to zero. That laughter, for all its softness, was the most horrible sound he’d ever heard. Sammy sensed it, too. There was terror in his eyes, and his cup rattled against the saucer as he set it down.
Maxwell’s eyes had flashed to the inked roll as the laughter started. The traces were fused solid.
“I—I think I’ll be getting back, Doctor.” Sammy’s voice was quavering, and he carefully avoided looking at the screen.
“Yes, of course, Sammy/’ Maxwell responded, striving to keep his words calm. “Thanks for making the coffee. And I’ll let you know when the baby arrives.”
But Sammy had already gone.
Although he dreamed almost continuously for the remainder of the time until morning, McLean didn’t waken until around 8 a.m.
Maxwell was feeling edgy and some of the frustration must have revealed itself in his voice, for McLean was withdrawn.
“Can you come into the office for a few minutes, Gerry?”
McLean’s glance wandered to the box of tapes under Maxwell’s arm and he nodded briefly.
In the office, Maxwell played the two tapes, all the while watching the subject’s face. There was no change of expression throughout the play-backs. And yet Maxwell sensed that there was something behind the too-close muddy blue eyes returning his scrutiny.
“Does any of that mean anything to you, Gerry?” Maxwell failed miserably in his attempt to be casual and the boy knew it. More than ever, Maxwell wished he had a cigarette. “Does it trigger off any scene, any memory ... ?” He let the question hang about in the silence.
“Not a thing, Doctor.” McLean had a flat, monotonous way of speaking, and yet he managed to convey nuances of sarcasm that inwardly riled the Director. He changed his tack and leafed through a file that happened to be lying handy.
“What kind of work do you do, Gerry?” He knew perfectly well, but he wanted to try and draw the reticent youth out.
“Labouring, mostly.” As if he had divined Maxwell’s sudden craving for a smoke, he produced a crumpled stub and lit it. Maxwell’s dark chin tightened. McLean was a most unlikable young man.
“Building sites, anything that comes along.” He hooked Maxwell’s waste-bin with a pointed toe and made a great pretence of tapping non-existent ash into it. That one has a malicious empathy, Maxwell told himself. It was an interesting point to keep in mind and might be significant in some, as yet, unknown way.
“Why did you take this particular job on ?”
“The money’s good. And it saved me being out in the rain.” He gave an exaggerated shrug and pulled heavily on the stub.
Maxwell was puzzled briefly, then he saw what McLean meant. He probably hadn’t worked yesterday—and it had been raining—but had lazed around instead. And he’d probably do the same today.
“What kind of things are you interested in?” Maxwell dropped the “Gerry”. “Hobbies, things like that.”
The muddy eyes were wary. But when he spoke, he was casual enough. “Darts, snooker, billiards, the horses, puzzles—”
“Puzzles? Crosswords, you mean?”
Scornfully: “No. Mathematical puzzles.”
Maxwell rode that one out. “You liked maths at school, then?” He put the tapes away carefully in a box.
“Top of the class every time until I left.” The voice was boastful. And not without good reason, apparently!
“Good for you,” Maxwell complimented him, standing up. “What school was that?”
“Earlton,” McLean responded, dropping the still-burning stub into the bin. “Little village outside of Shoeburyness.”
“I think you’d better put that out, Gerry, or neither of us will have any place to come to, tonight.” He walked out, not stopping to see if McLean complied with his order.
He waited at the door, the box of tapes under his arm. McLean came out hesitantly. “I—wasn’t thinking of coming, tonight.”
“Oh?” Maxwell made himself sound as if he didn’t care. ‘That’ll be all right. Plenty of other people on the list for free cash and bed. If you change your mind, come along at the same time.”
He left McLean standing there.
He’d be along, Maxwell was certain. Those tapes had intrigued him and if, as Maxwell suspected, he had some inkling of what was going on—consciously or subconsciously—he’d be back. Fervently, Maxwell hoped so.
Maxwell had a quick wash and shave and left the establishment and, taking his car, drove by the back roads to the nursing home to see how Jill was. The Matron, a small, friendly person, met him and explained that Jill had just started labour, that she was perfectly well and that he’d be informed as soon as the baby was born. He’d left his phone number, of course?
Of course.
Thanking the Matron, he went outside and sat in the car for a few minutes, gathering his wits. Pregnancy was hell for fathers! He remembered that he had data to collect from the University of London Computing Centre. As he was fairly near, he might as well pick it up. He could look at the latest results and conclusions over breakfast before he took a sleep.
He was, by now, a familiar figure to the receptionist and she greeted him brightly as he entered the spacious foyer, with its murals with themes centred around mathematical symbols.
They reminded him of McLean’s dreams.
“Any word of your son and heir yet, Doctor?” she teased him.
“My legs are worn up to the knees with pacing up and down,” he grinned. “Seriously, it could be any time now. Labour’s started. Ah, worry! Ah, care!” Hand on brow, he left her laughing.
He made his way to the office of Dr. Jason Brown—”my parents had to atone for that surname, somehow!”—uncrowned king of the computers, knocked on the door and was called in.
“Daddy!” Brown exclaimed, on seeing who his visitor was, but inserting enough of an inflection to let him know if he were wrong.
Maxwell shook his head, smiling.
“Damn! I was bursting for a cigar. Have a seat.”
Maxwell removed a pile of files off a chair and seated himself.
Commenting that Maxwell was upsetting his filing system, Brown added, “Everything is all right, I take it?” He stopped threshing around in mountains of paper long enough to catch Maxwell’s answer, then dived in again with gusto.
Maxwell shook his head in wonder. This great bull of a man—a modern Falstaff with brains, as someone had described him—seemed more like a circus strong-man than the brilliant mathematician and computer expert that he was. He had more degrees than a heat wave of thermometers, and he could converse intelligently on most subjects at the drop of a capacitor. Brown gave a snort of disgust through hairy nostrils and abandoned the search. He sat back and stroked his voluminous eyebrows. “Just in case you’re worried, I haven’t misplaced your papers. They’re right here.” Lifting them out of a drawer, he passed them over.
Maxwell thanked him. “Jason—perhaps you can help me.” After sketching in the background, he played over the two tapes, then said, “I’m stabbing at random, Jason: is there anything that strikes a chord to you in either or both of these tapes? I’m sure that what he described in the dreams was, in some way, significant and progressive. The partial sentences obviously have some meaning. But what? Any ideas?”
Brown took a cigarette. He didn’t offer the box to his friend. He said, “I’d have to think about it, of course, but at first sight, it’s all Greek to me. The two lots of key words could have any of a wide number of meanings, and to guess at any particular one without having the sentences complete and in their context-” His meaning was clear.
“I can’t help looking downcast,” Maxwell replied, “although I realized that, at this stage, there isn’t enough to go on. I was hoping that your wide and varied experience of computer programmes might have enabled you to come up with something.” He returned the tapes to the box.
“I don’t have direct supervision over the programmes. By that I mean that I don’t see them at every stage. I get called in if something goes wrong and see that everything runs smoothly. What’s your next move?” Jason was sympathetic.
“I’m going along to McLean’s school, to have a chat with his old teacher. It might help. McLean said he might not come back to the establishment, but I think he will. He’s as intrigued as I am. He knows that something strange is afoot, and he wants to find out what.”
Rising, he concluded, “Thanks for listening, Jason. If you do think of anything, you know where to find me.” They shook hands.
* * * *
Three
By the time he’d driven to Earlton he’d worked up quite an appetite. He stopped the car in a small, cobbled square, neat and clean, and went into a tea-shop and found a window that gave him a view of the sea. He was the only customer—three women had just left—and the owner was inclined to talk. After he’d demolished a generous plateful of crisp bacon and eggs and exchanged a few pleasantries, Maxwell asked, “Do you know a young man called Gerry McLean ? I believe he went to school hereabouts.”
A distinctly guarded expression replaced the previous one of open good cheer on the proprietor’s round healthy features. “I know him.” He clicked his yellowed dentures thoughtfully. “Been in trouble again, I suppose?”
Maxwell helped himself to a piece of toasted brown bread and spread it with the butter and marmalade so liberally supplied. He didn’t show that this little revelation surprised him. “As a matter of fact, no, he isn’t.”
“I didn’t think you looked like a policeman,” the man remarked candidly, relaxing.
“I’m a doctor,” Maxwell explained.
“Oh, he’s ill, then? I always thought he was a bit—you know.” He made circular motions with a finger at his forehead.
Maxwell detected a slight trace of malicious glee in the man’s comment. He didn’t bother to alter the impression. “He’s been attending me,” he went on ambiguously, crunching noisily on the crisp toast. “It was something that came up during consultation that brings me down here.”
The proprietor’s small shrewd eyes lit up at this. Maxwell let him think what he was thinking. McLean wouldn’t care, anyway. Obviously, he hadn’t been liked here and the feeling had probably been mutual.
“I hear he was very good at figures...” He let the man take this up, if it meant anything to him. It did, but not in the way Maxwell expected.
“Oh, yes!” the man said with relish. “He liked figures all right ... both kinds.”
Maxwell maintained an interested silence and poured himself some more strong tea. He wasn’t one to stem the tide when it was running for him.
The proprietor sat down astride a chair and winked broadly. “Cherchez la femme, you know.” Maxwell said he did, and waited for the rest. The atrocious accent did nothing for Anglo-French relations. It was surprising, he reflected, what people picked up on day-trips across the Channel.
“I know,” Maxwell repeated, encouraging him and lending the impression that they were both men of the world.
This made the proprietor expansive. “McLean worked here for a time. He was so good at figures that he managed to get at my books and he helped himself to a considerable amount of money. Then there was the girl I employed as a temporary waitress during the summer seasons—she used to come here from Southend, curvy piece, she was—well, he got her into bother-”
“About the embezzlement,” Maxwell interrupted, upending the large tea-pot, only to find that it contained barely half a cup, “you called in the police, I suppose?”
Lifting the pot, the man said evasively, “Why, no. But that’s another story.” He went off to fetch more tea.
Well, well, well, Maxwell thought to himself while he waited. Mr. McLean must have been quite a boy! And he thought he had a good idea as to why the police hadn’t been called in. The look in the man’s eye when he’d mentioned the waitress meant, unless he missed his guess, that the proprietor had been paying her attention, and McLean had probably caught him at it. Nice people. At least he had a little more evidence for McLean’s mathematical ability.
The man returned, the determined set of his jaw warning Maxwell that the subject was closed. He put the pot down on the mat, asked perfunctorily if Maxwell wanted any more toast and, getting a negative answer, disappeared into the kitchen. Some of the locals came in, seated themselves and scrutinized the stranger.
Maxwell nodded to them civilly, finished his tea and while he was paying his check, found out the whereabouts of the village school. It wasn’t hard to find. The day was pleasant and he decided to walk.
He could tell before he reached the school that it was playtime. The noise was an excellent clue. When he rounded the corner, he noted that there were many more children running about than there ought to be, but some of them were probably under school age and had gone into the playground to join in the fun. He fielded a ball and slung it back at a thin little boy, then asked him who the headmaster was.
“That’s me,” a warm voice said from the school doorway. “I knew by the sudden silence that a stranger was here. Can I help you in any way? Please come in.”
Maxwell followed the headmaster, a man of around sixty, who wore a crumpled grey suit and a patched, but clean shirt—probably a widower, Maxwell judged—and found himself in the dominie’s room. The chair he was given was very old and shiny, as if it had been used by generations of anxious parents. Or were anxious parents a symptom of modern times? Maxwell didn’t know.
“The name’s Dix. Headmaster here for twenty-nine years.”
“I’m Edward Maxwell. Doctor,” he added.
Dix already had him weighed up, Maxwell felt sure. Headmasters were such omnipotent persons! At least his had always known when he had been doing something he shouldn’t; which was often. He grinned slightly.
“Old memories, Doctor?” the headmaster said with sly gentleness.
Maxwell laughed openly and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Dix. Schooldays really were the happiest days.”
“But that’s not what brought you here. Smoke if you want, by the way.”
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 chewing 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?”
“The very thought of mathematics sends me paralytic,” Livingstone confessed, pulling at an ear lobe.
“Me, too. Anyway, that isn’t the problem; the Department of Mathematics at the University will soon recognize the equations. It’s the implication of the whole thing that has me worried. It’s as if he were in contact with someone —or something. I’d better shut up before I frighten myself to death.”
“Don’t leave me here by myself, will you?”
The tension eased a little, but both men apprehensively watched the still-disappearing inked traces, and wondered what it all meant.
Eight more times during the course of the night, McLean treated them to spates of extremely befuddling mathematics. By morning, they were like wrung-out washing-cloths.
McLean went away as if nothing had happened.
Watching him leave, Maxwell hazarded, “I don’t think he’s any the wiser as to what’s happening than we are—at least, not consciously.”
“But something will bring him back, won’t it?”
“Yes.” He glanced down at the large box of tapes on the control-room table. “I’ll take these to the University. If there’s anything significant in them, I’ll call you.”
He made a quick call to the nursing home and was assured that all was well. Then he headed for the University.
* * * *
Five
The Senior Lecturer in Mathematics was very apologetic and even more unhelpful. “Really, Doctor Maxwell, the faith of the lay public in mathematicians is touching,” the undernourished little man, who was as thin as a piano wire, expounded, puffing on a foul-smelling pipe. “But we can’t do the impossible.” He sounded quite cheerful about being such an intellectual drag. “Without a clue as to what the symbols themselves stand for, the equations are meaningless to me. Your tapes don’t give much information.”
Maxwell felt as if he were being held personally responsible for the contents of the mysterious tapes. Wearily he thanked the man, and went outside, glad to get some fresh air.
He didn’t feel tired. The previous night’s activities seemed to have squeezed the physical tiredness out of him. He made a call at the nursing home, then decided he might as well give Jason the good news in person.
Proudly, he told the pretty receptionist at the Computing Centre about his son.
“What are you going to call him?” she asked, practically.
Maxwell stopped short. “Do you know,” he admitted blankly, “I haven’t given it a thought!”
She shook her head, smiling. “You men! Anyway, now I know what colour of wool to get. By the way, tread warily with Doctor Brown. He was routed out at six this morning and he’s not exactly pleased about it. Apparently, there’s something wrong with the computer.”
“Thanks. It’s good to have a spy in the organization.” He wondered if he’d bring her flowers or chocolates the next time he came. She was very helpful and bright.
Jason wasn’t in his office and he was directed to Computer Control. I’ll be counting dials and gauges in my sleep, he promised himself. Jason greeted him civilly enough, but Maxwell could see that he had things on his mind. “I won’t keep you-” Maxwell began.
“Not at all, Edward,” Brown overruled him, taking his arm, “I’m being very rude. A break will do me good.”
They went into a small office. Outside, the place was in turmoil, people rushing hither and thither. Maxwell could see a group of men and women, in white coats, gathered round a table, like surgeons at an operation, checking stacks of papers and calling off things to an operator at a punched-card machine. Only the banked faces of the computer looked imperturbable.
“Any news of the baby yet?” Brown kept glancing agitatedly at the group.
“A boy, seven-thirty last night.”
“Congratulations! Is your wife well?”
Maxwell nodded and handed over a cigar. “You and Joan will come round to our place, once the flurry settles down. We’ll arrange it later.” He gestured out to the commotion. “What’s your problem here? My spies told me you were called out at an unearthly hour this morning.”
“The computer is quietly going nuts and so am I.”
Maxwell looked suitably puzzled and interested.
“To put it in a nutshell, Ed, the blasted thing’s giving out more than it’s taking in! It’s like pouring a pint of beer into a pot and drinking out two. I can’t understand it. They’re checking the programme now.”
Just then, a long-haired girl detached herself from the mêlée and swayed towards them and came into the office. “There’s nothing wrong with the programme, Doctor Brown,” she said, examining Maxwell closely till he blushed, and liking what she saw. He felt like a slave at an auction.
“Okay, Moira,” he said resignedly, “thanks. I’ll be with you shortly.”
Moira flashed Maxwell an inviting smile, tossed her long, shining chestnut hair and went out.
“Nymphomaniac,” Jason said matter-of-factly. “Do you happen to have a gun handy, Ed ?”
“I’m trying to give them up,” Maxwell said and was rewarded with a smile from Jason.
The computer chief paced around a bit. “This is an absolute dead-end! When we compile a programme for the computer, we know the limitations and can calculate how much information will be returned. When this thing came up, we automatically checked the programme running at the time for error, as that was the only thing that could produce the results we got. But there is no error. And that leaves us exactly no place to go.”
He knotted his fingers vexedly.
Maxwell, who had been listening closely, said suddenly, “Let’s get to the nearest tape-recorder. I’ve something I want you to hear. We might have the answer to both our problems.”
Without further explanation, Maxwell dragged Jason back to the latter’s office and began to play back the tapes for him. As they progressed, Jason’s excitement grew and grew. When the tapes were finished, all he could say was, “That’s the stuff we’ve been getting back. But how, but how—?” He was thumping his fist into his palm. “You see what this means, don’t you, Ed ? My computer and your subject, McLean, are in telepathic communication! How it started is anyone’s guess, but the computer must broadcast on a special frequency that can be picked up only by a special receiver: and that receiver is McLean’s mind. They’ve been swapping information, and McLean has been helping the computer to do its sums. In turn, the computer, being basically stupid anyway, prints the information on the output tape. We’re getting our answers before we ask our questions.” He put his head in his hands. “When I try to explain this one, I’ll really need that gun.”
Maxwell’s face resembled putty in colour. “It doesn’t stop there, Jason.” Brown didn’t look up. “If your computer is broadcasting, does it mean that all computers broadcast, all the time they are in operation? Think of it: every computer, everywhere in the world.”
“I don’t want to, not yet, anyway.”
Maxwell went on as if he hadn’t heard the interruption.
“And here’s another thing: do computers communicate with each other?”
This elicited a groan.
“As for McLean? Is he unique, or are there more like him, with special types of brain, just waiting to be tapped ? The possibilities are endless!”
They sat in silence, contemplating those possibilities-
Brown straightened up and said, “Tell me all you know about McLean.”
He sat back as Maxwell told him about the visit to Earlton and his meetings with the shop-keeper and the headmaster, and concluded, “So he’s always had an inclination towards figures.”
“He and Moira would get along famously,” Brown couldn’t help remarking. Then he asked, “Is McLean coming back to the establishment tonight?”
“I think he will. There seems to be a compulsion in his mind, as if, as I said, he needs the dreams.”
“I’ll bet he does!” Brown answered. “Look at it this way, Ed. McLean has had an exceptionally high-level area of his brain tapped by my computer—and the blasted thing has bitten off much more than it can chew, and it serves it right, too—and the interchange with another high-level ‘brain’ is like food to him.”
“Or an aphrodisiac” Maxwell interjected.
“Yes, yes, that’s it exactly! It’s not a staple diet. It’s only for kicks, if I’ve got my slang right. He’s hooked and he can’t do without the shots.”
“The addiction,” Maxwell said, “if I may carry on your analogy, is getting worse. He dreamed almost continuously last night—the point of the pen wore out—and he’ll need more. Tell me, Jason, is the computer ever closed down?”
Jason said no. “Only in the case of a power failure, when there’s nothing we can do about it, or when there’s a really major fault developed. This type of computer can, for the most part, repair itself. Why?”
“I want to try something, and I’ll need your cooperation. Here’s what I want to do.”
* * * *
His phone was ringing when he reached home. Lifting the receiver, he identified himself. “Dr. Maxwell! Establishment here. There’s a young chap kicking up an awful fuss, demanding to get in. Says he has to get in. Name’s McLean.”
“Is Nurse Wilson still there? She said she might be until about ten.”
“She’s just leaving now-”
“Get her to the phone.”
He heard the man calling and then Nurse Wilson’s cool voice was there.
Quickly he explained the situation. “Let him in and tape him up, as he asks. Can you do that and wait till I get there?”
“But you haven’t had any sleep-”
“I’ll manage for once, Jan. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”
Replacing the receiver, he push-buttoned Jason’s number.
“Jason! Our addict’s back. He almost tore the place down trying to get in. One of my nurses is taping him up and I’m going over there now.”
“Do you think there’s some sort of crisis?”
“Probably. We’ll be forced to bring my plan forward, Jason. Will you let me know the most suitable time?”
Jason agreed. “We’ll need to keep in constant touch.”
“This might not last as long as we think, if it is a crisis. I’m going away now and I’ll call again from the establishment.”
Jan Wilson was waiting for him. Even her usual facade of calm was cracked a little.
“He wouldn’t let me tape him up, Doctor Maxwell,” she began to explain, as they hurried towards the cubicle. “He was in a terrible state when he came, but after I let him in, he changed completely. He said he had no need of machines now. He just needed to be here.”
They reached the cubicle where McLean lay sleeping, his face composed, his limbs at rest. There was no indication of eye movement.
Maxwell led the way to the control-room and they found seats. “That fits, Jan. This is where it started for him and he associates this place with his experiences.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you-”
“Sorry, Jan,” Maxwell was apologetic. “Of course you wouldn’t. I saw Dr. Brown, of the Computing Centre, this morning. His computer and McLean are in some sort of telepathic communication.”
She stared at him for a moment. “But how—?”
Maxwell took his eyes away from the still figure of McLean. “I don’t know how it’s being done, but it is. We have conclusive proof of that. The computer is running ahead of itself, giving out more information than it should according to the programme.”
She sat shaking her head, unable to comprehend it all.
“That makes two of us,” he said, reading her thoughts.
He rose and lifted the phone and put Jason in the picture.
“Methinks our little experiment is going to be dangerous,” Jason predicted gloomily, “and I wouldn’t like the cost of a computer to be stopped out of my pay.”
“I think there’s tremendous power, here, Jason, but I have a feeling that it isn’t basically destructive. If anything happens, it will not be deliberate.”
“You tell that to the Inquisition.”
“Stop trying to see into the future. You’ve been around computers too long, that’s your trouble. Unless anything really unusual happens, I’ll await your call to put the experiment into action.”
He rejoined Jan, who, having found her composure, went off to make tea. Good old Britain, he thought, awash on an ocean of tea, answer to every ill!
McLean still slept peacefully and, if the signs were to be believed, he was dreaming continuously. Oh! to know what those dreams were.
The phone rang and he bounded to the table.
“This computer’s going crazy!” Jason’s agitated voice almost bawled in his ear. ‘The stuff’s churning out so fast we can hardly clear a space for it. And you should see it! I have a nodding acquaintance with mathematics, but I don’t recognize a fraction of what the infernal thing’s spewing out. I wish I knew what they were cooking up together.”
“McLean’s the senior partner,” Maxwell said, “I’m sure of that. Even if your computer has become intelligent, as seems likely, McLean is forcing it to function as a computer and not as a thinking entity.”
There was silence for a brief spell. “It’s funny you should say that. I’ve been watching closely and I’d swear that, once or twice, there was a slight hesitation in the production, as if the computer were fighting back. What a situation!”
Maxwell had been thinking hard while Jason was talking. “There’s going to be no suitable time for our plan now. Your programmes are shot to bits. So try it now and we’ll see what happens. I’ll hang on here. I can see McLean’s screen.” He covered the mouthpiece and called Jan. “We’re going to try something. Come and watch.”
“Doing it now,” Jason said.
McLean started to scream at the pitch of his voice, his face contorted. But he hadn’t wakened up.
“I can hear the racket from here,” Jason told him.
“Doctor”—Jan was by his side—”do you notice anything peculiar about that scream?”
Maxwell said he didn’t.
“It’s exactly the same as that of a child deprived of something it wants. It isn’t pain. It’s bad temper!”
Maxwell rubbed his shin, staring at the screen. “You’re right, Jan.” To Jason: “Better turn the juice on again, Jason. Our boy’s having tantrums.”
Jason sounded ill as he answered, “I hate to tell you this, but the computer has just this minute started working again, of its own accord.”
“And McLean’s stopped screaming!” Maxwell was almost speechless with excitement. “This means that he reached out with his mind, located the power switch and turned it on. I’m beginning to wonder what we have here.”
“I’m beginning to wish we’d never found him, or he us, which ever way you like—almighty heaven! The computer’s overloading! There’s smoke pouring out of a dozen places-”
The conversation ended abruptly and Maxwell heard the receiver being dropped on the table. Vague noises came to him, mostly shouting, unintelligible. The tea, delayed, came in a large mug.
“What’s happening?”
Maxwell lifted the mug. “I think McLean’s burned out the computer with an overload.”
“Oh, dear. Is that serious?”
Maxwell did a double-take. “About a few hundred thousand pounds worth serious.”
Just then, Jason came back on the line. He sounded more puzzled than ever, but relief was evident in his voice. “Everything’s all right, the computer’s working again,” he kept repeating in wonderment. “I can’t understand it. The computer was on fire—excuse me, Eddie, I’ll have to go and get something very strong to drink. I’ll call you back.”
Maxwell walked slowly over to the screen. “I’d give anything to know what happened, what is happening now. There, Jan, you see someone with a fantastic mind. Maybe there are others like him. Perhaps, if they ever manage to find out what’s on those computer rolls and get McLean to talk—who knows what might be revealed?”
He fell silent. Together, they gazed at the dreaming youth whose mind might be the greatest the world had ever known.
* * * *
Now that the computer was saved—although he no longer needed it—he could go ahead with his plans. The computer had helped him to find the way. Slowly, at first, he let a small portion of the power of his mind filter out into space in the direction the computer had shown him.
Gradually, he stepped up the output until he was broadcasting at peak strength. He couldn’t maintain his effort for long and he began to weaken. But with practice and experience, he would learn.
Then, as his signal began to fade, on a planet of a star four and a third light years away, a mind became aware, fleetingly, of an alien presence.
He smiled and was content.