The Year's Best Science Fiction 11

J IS FOR JEANNE E. C. TUBB

The dream was always the same. There were lights and a hard, white brightness and a soft, constant humming which seemed more vibration than actual sound. There was a sense of physical helplessness and the presence of inimical shapes. But, above all, was the ghastly immobility.

She told Paul about it.

“It’s as if I know that something terrible is going to happen to me and I want to escape it but I simply can’t move. It goes on and on and then, suddenly, I’m awake and everything’s all right again.” She shuddered. “It’s horrible!”

“It’s only a dream,” soothed Paul. “Just a nightmare. They are quite common.”

“Maybe.” She wasn’t comforted. “But why should I have nightmares? And why always the same one?”

“Are you certain that it is the same one?”

“Positive. Paul, you must help me!”

He smiled and leaned back and looked at her over the desk. Paul—Slavic Caucasian, intermediate type, male, blood group O. He would live to be seventy-three point six years of age, father two point three children, have one major and two minor operations and ran a nine-percent risk of cancer.

“Of course I’ll help you, Jeanne,” he said. “Now let’s tackle this thing logically. What is the one point which bothers you most?”

“About the dream?”

He nodded.

“The immobility,” she said quickly. “I want to escape and I can’t. It’s as if I’m-”

“Paralyzed?”

“I suppose so,” she said, and frowned, thinking about it. “I just seem solid, like a building, without any ability to move at all. I—I can’t describe it.”

“You don’t have to,” he said easily. “The sense of paralysis is a common feature of most nightmares. You are threatened by some danger and want to escape it. You can’t and this increases the horror. There is a school of thought which claims that this sensation is a facet of the guilt-complex. You can’t escape because you don’t really want to. You want to be punished.” He looked down at something on the desk. “Do you want to be punished, Jeanne?”

“No.”

“A pity, it would help if you did.” He looked up at her and resumed his smile. He had a nice smile. He was a nice man. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s tackle it from another angle. You know what a nightmare is?”

She knew. Nightmare—oppressive or paralyzing or terrifying or fantastically horrible dream. Also—a haunting fear or thing vaguely dreaded.

“Then you know that, mixed up with the apparent inconsistencies and seemingly illogical events there is a thread of truth and logic. Freud—”

“I am not sexually maladjusted,” she said firmly. He shrugged.

“Of course not but, ignoring Freud, there are certain pressures which betray themselves in sleep. Perhaps a traumatic scar received when a child then makes its presence known. Or an unresolved problem disguises itself to plague our rest. Or we enter a private world of escape-fantasy there to do battle with monstrous creatures of our psyche. But everyone has dreams. They are essential.”

“Paradoxical sleep,” she said. “I know about that.”

“You know a lot about everything, Jeanne.”

“That is true.”

“So you must know why you have dreams.”

“And nightmares?”

“A nightmare is just a bad dream.”

“A recurrent nightmare?”

“That,” he said slowly, “is the thing which bothers me, I think that we should both see Carl.”

Carl—East-European/ Caucasian, abdominal type, male, blood group A. He would live to be sixty-eight point three years of age. He had fathered one point nine children, had had one major surgical operation, had suffered from three mildly contagious diseases. He ran a fifteen point seven risk of cancer, a twenty-three-percent risk of angina. He was almost totally bald.

“This dream which troubles you,” he said to Jeanne. “Tell me about it again.”

“But I’ve told it a dozen times already.”

“Once again, if you please.” He was very firm, very intent on getting his own way. He listened as she retold her nightmare.

“Do you ever have other kinds of dream? No? Only this special one? I see.” He sat, eyes introspective, his hand absently massaging the tip of his chin. “Odd,” he mused. “Very odd.”

“The nightmare?”

“No, Paul. The fact that she has never had any other kind of dream.”

“Perhaps she has but hasn’t remembered them on waking,” suggested Paul. His eyes sought hers for confirmation, dropped as she gave none. “Many people dream without ever knowing it.”

“True.” Carl released his chin, his eyes becoming alive again. “This place,” he said. “The place where you dream that you are being held. Describe it.” He checked her protest. “Yes, again, if you please. In detail.” He smiled a little at her hesitation. “Take your time and don’t be afraid. We are here to help you.”

She did not have to take her time.

“Somewhere underground,” said Paul. “No windows. No doors. Just bare, white-painted walls.”

“Underground or totally enclosed.” Carl was more precise. “There are lights and we can assume that they are artificial.” He looked at her. “Have you ever been inside such a place?”

“In real life, you mean? No.”

“You are certain as to that?”

“I’m certain.” His insistence was beginning to annoy her. “If I say a thing then that thing is so. I cannot lie.”

“There is more than one way of avoiding the truth,” said Carl. He didn’t press the point. “The sound which you say is more like a vibration than actual noise. Have you any idea of what it could be?”

“Machinery,” she said.

“Of what kind?”

“It could be almost anything. Pumps or a motor or—”

“Or anything that makes a repetitive, unobtrusive noise,” interrupted Carl. “A heartbeat, even. You agree?”

She nodded.

“Your own heartbeat, perhaps?”

She hesitated before nodding agreement. Paul moved quietly to her side.

“What are you getting at, Carl?”

“Perhaps nothing, but there is a theory that, during times of sleep, the psyche has the ability to traverse time. Dunne wrote a book—”

“I know the theory,” she said quickly. “Dreams are supposed to foretell the future.”

“Is that what you think?” Paul looked at the older man. “That Jeanne, while asleep, is somehow transposed into a future time?”

“I mention it as a possibility only,” said Carl. “But the evidence seems to fit such a supposition. A bare, enclosed place.. Artificial light. A constant vibration which could be the pulse of a machine or the beat of a heart. Jeanne’s heart Does that not sound to you like a prison cell?”

“Or a laboratory cage for experimental animals?” Paul frowned then shook his head. “The shapes—”

“Yes,” said Carl. “The shapes. The inimical shapes which are never wholly seen. They represent a threat from which it is impossible to escape. They—”

“No,” said Paul.

“It is a tenable theory,” said Carl. He looked at Jeanne. “The shapes are important,” he said. “You said that they were inimical. Did you feel any actual fear for your physical well-being?”

“I must have done,” she said slowly. “Why else would I want to escape?”

“I can answer that,” said Paul. “The shapes represent truth. You are afraid of the truth and yet you need to recognize it both at the same time. That is why you wanted to escape but could not.”

“Truth,” she said wonderingly. “What is truth?”

“Truth is fact,” said Paul.

“Of course. Could there be anything else?”

“Perhaps.” He did not meet her eyes. “A distortion of the truth is always possible. A juggling of basically true data could give a true, but distorted picture. Or there could be deliberate invention.”

“A lie?”

“A subconscious denial. I think that somehow, somewhere, you have lied to yourself and—”

“No!” The concept was monstrous. “You are wrong! Wrong!”

It was a relief to find that she could escape.

The sun—a yellow, G-type star powered by the phoenix reaction, one astronomical unit from the third planet called Earth—was golden in the azure sky. It should be something else and she thought about it. Warm. The sun should be warm.

She faced it and wondered.

“Unfiltered radiation can cause great and permanent damage to optical units,” said Paul. He rested beside her on the soft—soft?—grass. She had not known that he was there. She was not surprised to find that he was.

“You ran,” he said. “Why?”

She turned from the sun and saw nothing but flaring images. She wondered if she was blind.

Blind—deprive of sight; rob of judgement—deceive.

Deceive?

“I asked you why you ran,” said Paul. “Was it because of what I said?”

“I cannot lie.”

“Truth can be a variable depending on its correlation to the information at hand. From one fact it is theoretically possible to imagine the universe—but the universe so imagined need have no relation to reality. Did you run because of fear?”

“I do not know the meaning of the word.”

“The emotional meaning? Perhaps not. But fear is the reaction felt by any thinking entity at an attack on its survival in the broadest sense.” He looked at her, his eyes oddly penetrating. “Jeanne! Why can’t you be honest with me?”

“I am!” She fought the desire to run. He would only follow. “Paul! That dream-”

“Yes?”

“I’ve solved the problem. I am never going to sleep again. If I don’t sleep then I can’t dream. You agree?”

“Your logic is unassailable.”

Naturally—it could be nothing else. She looked at him and felt an overwhelming desire never to be parted from him again. She wondered if she was in love.

“As your logic is unassailable,” he said. “You must agree that your dream cannot be ignored.”

“I’ve told you—that problem is solved.”

“By pretending that it does not exist?” He looked up at her, his eyes narrowed against the sun. She felt a sudden concern for his sight and wished that he would shield them against the direct radiation. Obediently he moved so that his face was in shadow. “I was talking to Carl after you left. He is convinced that your recurrent dream is symbolic of an attack—”

“Nonsense!”

“—or of a warning. Jeanne, you must realize how important it is that you know yourself. You cannot escape the truth by flight.”

Or by fanciful theories?

Why had she thought of that?

It was Paul’s fault. He was talking too much and she wished that he would stop and let the peace and silence of the place enfold them and soothe away all fear.

Fear—apprehend; have uneasy anticipation—

What had she to fear?

The silence became unbearable—she wished that he would talk.

“There is so much that we could do together, Jeanne,” he said instantly. “So much to explore and share—an infinity of learning and growth with an entire universe to explore . ..”

He looked so appealing.

“...so come on, darling, don’t let me down this time. Please don’t let me down. Please, Jeanne!”

Jeanne—Latin/ Caucasian, mammalian female, blood group—

She would live to be seventy-nine point six years of age. She would mother two point three children, run a seven-teen-percent risk of having at least one child by caesarian section, a forty-one point eight risk of divorce. She would have one serious illness, two minor motoring accidents, run a ten point three percent risk of developing cancer of the breast or womb.

A one hundred percent certainty of having her likeness pinned to a wall.

“No!” she rose and looked at the sun.

“Come on, Jeanne. For me, baby. Please!”

“No!” She began to run, faster, faster . . .

“Jeanne!”

“No!”

Around her the ground heaved, the sun winked in the sky, grass showered like emerald rain.

The world changed.

The lights were the same and the hard, bright whiteness and the soft, constant humming which was more vibration than actual sound. The beat of a heart, Carl had suggested, and he should have known. The beat of her heart—the pumps within her body circulating the coolant through the massed bulk of her memory banks.

The vibration was as familiar as the ghastly immobility.

As the picture on the wall—Latin/ Caucasian, mammalian female, blood group—

As were the inimical shapes.

“That about wraps it up,” said Paul. He looked tired yet happy as if having just solved a difficult problem. “I thought for a minute she was going to be a stubborn bitch but she came through like a thoroughbred. I tell you, Carl, I should have been a ladies’ man. I can talk them into anything—well, almost.”

Carl made a sound like a disgusted snort.

“All right,” said Paul. “So you’ve got no romantic imagination. To you this is just a hunk of machinery.”

“And to you it’s a woman.” Carl repeated his snort. “It must be the spring. Are you sure there will be no more shutdowns?”

“I’m sure. The overheating problem is licked and will stay that way.”

“Good,” said Carl. He sounded relieved. “I’m glad we got it finished in time for the inspection. You know how they are, everything on schedule and no excuses. They think that adjusting a thing like this is as simple as fixing a tank.”

“They should try it sometime,” said Paul. Carl shrugged.

“Well, they pay the money so I guess they have the right to call the tune.” He looked at the picture on the wall. “You’d better get rid of that—they might not share your taste in art.”

“Jeanne?” Paul grinned and twitched down the picture. “Who could possibly object to a girl like that? Old ironsides?” His grin grew wider as he slapped the metal on her flank.

“Well, old girl, this is it. No more bye-byes. From now on you stay switched to full operation twenty-four hours a day. Have fun.”

A computer can’t cry.

That was the worst of it.