Dream Thief (2 page)

Spence wandered along to the commissary nearby. One was conveniently located on every level of the station since scientists hated to be more than a few steps away from their coffee. He fell into the short line and picked up one of the blue circular trays and a matching plastic mug.

He slid into a booth at the far side of the dining area and dosed his hot black liquid with a liberal amount of sweetener. His mind drifted back to the day he left Earth. He could still see his father beaming at him through the tears and he smelled the soft citrus scent of oranges in the air. They were sitting at a table beneath an orange tree in the courtyard of the visitor's center at the GM ground base.

“Just relax and don't tense up,” his father was saying. “You won't black out that way. Don't forget to…”

“I won't forget. I don't have to
fly
the shuttle, you know. Besides, it isn't like it used to be.”

“I wish your mother could see you. She would be so proud.”

“I know, Dad. I know.”

“Do you think you could write now and then? I know I don't know much about what you're doing—your research and all— but I like to know how you are. You're all I've got now …”

“The effect of long-term space travel on human brain functions and sleep patterns. I'm part of the LTST project. I told you. I'll be fine—it's a small city up there. And you have Kate. She's here.”

“You and Kate. That's all.”

“I'll try to write, but you know how I am.”

“Just a line or two now and then so I'll know how you are.”

A loudspeaker hidden in the branches of the tree crackled out, “GM shuttle Colossus now ready for boarding. Passengers, please take your places in the boarding area.”

The two men looked at each other. It was then Spence saw his father cry. “Hey, I'll miss you, too. Dad,” he said, his voice flat and unnatural. “I'll be back in ten months and I'll tell you all about it.”

“Goodbye, Son,” his father sniffed. Twin tracks of moisture glistened on his face. They hugged each other awkwardly, and Spence walked away.

Spence still saw the tears and his father standing in his shirt sleeves under the orange tree, looking old and shaken and alone.

AN UNBROKEN HORIZON OF
gently rolling hills stretched out as far as Spence could see. They were soft hills of early spring; the air held a raw chill under gray overcast skies. Silhouetted in the distance, Spence could see people moving among the hills with heavy burdens. He walked closer for a better look.

The people were old—men and women working together— peasants dressed in tatters. They wore no shoes, though some of them had wrapped rags stuffed with straw around their feet to keep out the cold. In their long bony hands the peasants held wattle baskets filled with stones. Those with full baskets were walking stoically toward a dirt road, single file, with their burdens on their shoulders. The baskets were obviously heavy; some of the peasants strained under the weight.

Spence was overcome with pity for these unfortunate people. He turned to those working around him, pulling stones from the soil. The stones were white as mushrooms, and big as loaves of bread. Spence bent down to help a struggling old woman lift her heavy load. He pleaded with her to rest, but his words were unheeded. The woman neither looked at him nor made any sign that she had heard him.

He ran from one to another trying to help them, but always with the same result—no one seemed to notice him in any way.

Spence sat down, brooding over his ineffectiveness. He noticed the air was deathly silent, and when he looked up all the peasants were gone. They had left the field and were moving along the road. He was all alone. Suddenly, he felt a tremble in the earth and at his feet a white stone slowly surfaced from beneath the ground. As he looked around other stones erupted from the soil like miniature volcanoes. Spence became frightened and began running across the field to catch up with the last of the retreating figures.

When he caught up with the peasants they were standing atop the high bank of a river, its dark, muddy water swirling below. The workers were dumping the rocks into the water. He rushed up, breathless, just in time to see the last few peasants empty their baskets. To his horror, he saw that the baskets contained not stones now, but heads. He stepped closer as the last heads tumbled into the water. In grim fascination he recognized Hocking, and Tickler, and then with a shock he saw his own.

“ARE YOU DREAMING. SPENCER?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the
same
dream? The same as before?”

“It is. But it's over now.”

“You may sleep a little longer and then awaken when you hear the tone.”

A HIGH-PITCHED ELECTRONIC TONE
awakened Spence from a deep sleep. He spun around in the chair and glanced at the digiton above the console. He had been asleep only twenty minutes. Tickler was still nowhere in sight. He rubbed his face with his hands and wondered idly where his assistant managed to hide whenever he needed him. He rose from the chair and stretched.

Soon Tickler came bustling into the room. He was all apologies. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting. Dr. Reston. Have you been here long?”

“Oh, about an hour, I guess …” Spence yawned.

“I was, uh, detained.” Tickler's sharp features gleamed with a slight perspiration. It was clear that he was worked up over something. Spence decided it was too late to start another session that day.

“I think we'll try it again tonight. I won't need you 'til then. I suppose you have something to do elsewhere?”

Tickler looked at him, his head cocked to one side as if examining some new variety of mushroom spore. “I suppose.” He scratched his chin. “Yes, no problem. Tonight, then.”

Spence handed him a sheaf of folded printouts which he required to be deciphered and charted in a thick logbook—a purely meaningless task, since the same computer that spit out the information could chart it as well. But Spence preferred the personal touch.

“Thanks,” he said without meaning it. Tickler took the printouts to an adjacent room and set to work. Spence watched the back of his head as he weaved over the printouts and then left the lab.

Spence made his way down to Central Park—the vast circular expanse of tropical plants and trees grown to help recycle the carbon dioxide of Gotham's fifteen thousand inhabitants. The park formed a living green belt around the entire station and provided a natural setting for relaxation and recreation. The place was usually crowded, though quiet, with people seeking refuge from the tyranny of duralum-and-plastic interiors. He had nothing else in mind other than to lose himself among the ferns and shrubbery and let the day go.

His first thought upon reaching the garden level was that he had discovered a fine time to come—the section was virtually empty. He saw only a few strolling couples and a handful of administrative types sitting on benches. He took a deep breath. The atmosphere was warm and moist, reeking of soil and roots, vegetation and water: artificially controlled, he knew, but he could not help thinking that this was exactly as it would be back on Earth.

He walked aimlessly along the narrow winding paths looking for a private spot to stretch out and meditate upon the state of his being, to think about the dreams and try to get a hold on himself. He was not afraid of "going mental"—a term they used to describe a person cracking under space fatigue—although that was something everyone eventually had to face; he knew that wasn't it. But he also knew he was not feeling right and that bothered him. Something on the dim edges of his consciousness was gnawing away at the fibers of his mind. If he could figure out what it was, expose it, then he would be able to deal with it.

Presently he came upon a secluded spot. He stood for a moment deciding whether to stay or look further. With a shrug he parted the ferns and stepped into the semi-darkness of the quiet glade.

He sat down on the grass and tipped his head back on his shoulders. High above him the sunlight slanted in through the immense chevrons of the solar shields. He saw the graceful arc of the space station slide away until it bent out of sight. One could tramp the six kilometer circumference of Gotham at the garden level and achieve the illusion of hiking an endless trail.

Ordinarily the green and quiet soothed Spence's troubled mind, but not today. He lay back and tried to close his eyes, but they would not remain closed. He shifted position several times in an effort to get comfortable. Nothing he did seemed to make any difference. He felt ill at ease and jittery—as if someone very close by was watching him.

As he thought about those unseen eyes on him, he grew more certain that he
was
being watched. He got up and left the shaded nook, glancing all around to see if he could catch a glimpse of his spy.

He struck along the path once more and, seeing no one, became more uneasy. He told himself that he was acting silly, that he was becoming a prime candidate for that room with the rubber wallpaper. As he scolded himself he quickened his pace so that by the time he reached the garden level concourse he was almost running. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to see if he was being followed; for some reason he half-expected Hocking's egg-shaped chair to come bobbing into view from behind a shrub.

Still looking over his shoulder he dashed through the entrance and tumbled full-force into a body entering the garden. The unlucky bystander was thrown to the floor and lay sprawling at his feet while Spence stood blinking, not quite comprehending what had just happened.

“Sorry!” he burst out finally, as if prodded by electric shock. The green-and-white rumpled jumpsuit of a cadet flailed its arms in an effort to rise. Spence latched onto a swinging arm and hoisted the suit to its feet. Only then did he glimpse the bewildered face which scanned him with quick, apprehensive eyes. “I'm Dr. Reston. BioPsych. Are you hurt?” he volunteered.

“No, sir. I didn't see you coming. It was my fault.”

“No, I'm sorry. Really. I thought…” he turned and looked over his shoulder again. “I thought someone might be following me.”

“Don't see anybody,” the cadet said, peering past Spence into the garden. There was nothing to be seen except the green curtain of vegetation, unbroken but for the careless splashes of white and yellow flowers blooming at random throughout the garden. “I'm Kurt. And I'm BioPsych, first year. I thought I'd met most of the faculty in my department.”

“Well, I'm not an instructor. I'm research.”

“Oh,” Kurt said absently. “Well, I've got to get back to work.” The cadet started off. “Glad to meet you. Dr. Reston. See you around.”

On the overgrown donut of the space station the cadets always said, “See you around.” Spence appreciated the pun.

T
HE UNBROKEN HORIZON OF
gently rolling hills stretched out as far as Spence could see. The same horizon, the same hills as in previous dreams. In the distance he saw people moving among the hills with heavy burdens. Closer, he recognized these as the peasants who labored in rags to rid the arid hills of stones, which they tumbled into their rough twig baskets with their skinny hands. All was familiar, painfully so, to Spence who had lived the dream often.

He watched as the barefoot peasants shifted the weight of the baskets upon their bony shoulders and shuffled single file along the road. Others around him still strained to lift the stones, white as mushrooms and big as loaves of bread, from the soil. He knew he was powerless to help them in any way; his words and actions were ignored. He was invisible to them.

Spence again sat down, brooding over his ineffectiveness. Again the air was deathly silent; the peasants were gone. He felt the earth tremble at his feet as a round, white stone surfaced from beneath the ground. He looked around him and other stones were erupting from the soil like miniature volcanoes.

When he stood he found himself once again atop the high bank of a river. The dark, muddy water swirled in rolling eddies below. The last peasant dumped his basket into the water and Spence heard a voice call his name. He turned and saw a dozen huge, black birds wheeling in the air. He followed them and realized he was standing on an immense plain which stretched limitless into the distance. Rising in front of him on that flat, grass-covered plain stood an ancient, crumbling castle.

He lifted his foot, the landscape blurred, and then he stood within the courtyard of the castle before a scarred wooden door which he tried and found open. An empty marble corridor of stairs spiraled down away from him. He followed it. Deeper it wound, eventually arriving at the entrance to a small chamber, dimly lit.

Spence rubbed his eyes and stepped forward into the room. The light of the room seemed to emanate from a single source—an incredibly large egg floating in the center of the chamber. He watched, horrified, as the egg began bobbing slightly and rose up higher into the air. As it rose it revolved and he then saw what he feared—the egg was the back of Hocking's chair. But it was upside down. As it slowly revolved, he saw Hocking sitting serenely in his chair, laughing. The chair floated closer. Hocking threw him a toothy grimace and became a leering, malevolent death's-head.

Spence turned and fled; the egg-chair-death's-head pursued him. He raced for the door at the end of the corridor and burst through to discover an inky black night scattered with a thousand stars. Over his shoulder Earth, a serene blue globe, rose in the sky as he stumbled bleeding across a rocky, alien landscape…