The Long Sleep

XIX

“Allison!"____

She mumbled, stirred.

“Allison, wake up!”

Wrestling sleepily with the covers, she finally rolled over and blinked at him. She yawned. “Oh, hello, darling…” As she got a good look at him, some of the sleepiness faded from her face. “You're dressed.”

“You've got to get dressed too.”

“Where are you going?”

“I've been there,” he said.

She closed her eyes and yawned again, stretched her slender arms. “You're not getting through.”

“I've been to the street where we had the accident,” he said impatiently. “And farther.”

Suddenly concerned, she sat up and threw back the sheets. Her bare breasts were cast in shadow but for a single swatch of pale moonlight that emphasized their fullness: one dark nipple rose in snowy light. “What accident?” she asked.

“The fan shuttle, of course.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. Her knees were round, smooth, icy looking in the moonlight. “You were in an accident?”

“We both were.”

“I don't understand.”

“For God's sake—” Then he realized that the shuttle accident had taken place in another reality, another time-place. If she were not a part of the deception, how could she remember it?

“Joel?” Her voice had a tremor in it.

“It's okay,” he said.

“You better lie down,” she said. She stood up and tried to guide him to the bed. “This is probably some after-effect of the sybocylacose.”

“There's no such drug,” he said.

“I wish there weren't,” she said.

He gripped his shoulders. “Allison, the sybocylacose is a lie, though you can't be expected to know that yet. This whole thing is a lie: your Uncle Henry, this house…”

She raised one hand and smoothed down his hair. “Joel, let me get Uncle Henry. And Dr. Harttle. We won't let anything happen to you. We'll take good care—”

Grasping her again, he shook her gently. “Listen to me! Look… I want you to see something.” Before she could object, he hurried her over to the window, held onto her as he threw the bolt and pushed the halves of the window outward.

“What are you doing?” she asked, crossing her arms protectively over her breasts.

He stared at the sky: stars of every magnitude, a soft moon looming like a piece of bad fruit that had been tossed into the air, a scattering of clouds that looked as thin as tissue paper. It was a nice summer night. It seemed very real. He was either going to make a fool of himself — or he was going to give her incontrovertible proof that nothing was as it seemed to be.

Although he was fairly sure he had a shock in store for her, he wouldn't have bet his life on it. He'd learned that nothing was absolutely certain in this place.

“Wait right here,” he said. He got a straight-backed chair and carried it to the window.

“I'm cold,” she said.

“One more minute.”

“Can't you tell me what’s going on?”

“In a minute.”

He stood on the chair and leaned out of the window.

“Joel! You'll fall!”

“I won't,” he said.

He stepped from the chair to the window sill and leaned out even farther, through the upper half of the window, bracing himself with only one hand against the window frame. He reached toward the sky and touched a cloud. Then a star. Another star. He could not touch the moon, for it was too far away, more than forty feet out on the cement ceiling.

He stepped from the sill to the chair, from the chair to the floor. “Your turn,” he said.

“What?”

“Up on the chair.”

“Why?” She stared at him as if he were stark raving mad.

“You'll see in a minute,” he said.

“Joel, I'm nude.”

“No one will see you.”

“I am not going to—”

He encircled her waist with his big hands and lifted her onto the chair. “Up you go,” he said.

“Joel—”

“Quickly, now.”

Reluctantly, she balanced on the window sill.

He climbed onto the chair and held her as she leaned out and raised a hand toward the sky. “Now what?” she asked.

“Stretch a bit.”

She did, and squealed. “I can touch the stars,” she said. “Joel, look!”

When she held her hand against the ceiling, a star was projected on the back of it.

He helped her back inside. “Now do you see?”

“The sky isn't real!”

“Neither is much else.”

“But it isn't possible—”

“Believe me, love, it is possible. Anything's possible in the Henry Gating Theater.”

“The what?”

“We haven't time to talk about it now.” He turned her around, put one hand against her sleek back, and gently propelled her toward the closet. “Gating might be back at any moment.”

She stopped in front of the closet and hugged herself. “You make him sound like a desperado or something.”

“Something,” Joel said.

“He's just my uncle.”

“He's not your uncle,” Joel said. He closed the window. “That's just another part of his act. Now, you better get dressed. We've got to be going. Time's running out.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Out of the pyramid.”

“None of this is making sense.”

“You felt the sky,” he said. “You know I'm not mad.”

She nodded. “I'll be just a second.”

He stood at the side of the window and watched the lawn as she dressed. There was no movement on it — nor any down by the dark trees. Maybe they'd make it. Just maybe…

“I'm ready,” she said.

He turned around.

She was wearing white slacks, a black blouse, and one leather glove. She raised her right hand and showed him the palm full of tiny hypodermic needles which glittered in the moonlight. “I'm so sorry, darling. I really am.”

“Allison—”

She reached for him.

He backed into the wall.

She touched him firmly on the neck.

“Not you!” he said.

But it was too late. He slid down the wall and rolled on his back at her feet.