The Winds of Change and Other Stories Page 2

  3

  Belief

  'Did you ever dream you were flying?' asked Dr Roger Toomey of his wife.

  Jane Toomey looked up. 'Certainly!'

  Her quick fingers didn't stop their nimble manipulations of the yarn out of which an intricate and quite useless doily was being created. The television set made a muted murmur in the room and the posturings on its screen were, out of long custom, disregarded.

  Roger said, 'Everyone dreams of flying at some time or other. It's universal. I've done it many times. That's what worries me.'

  Jane said, 'I don't know what you're getting at, dear. I hate to say so.' She counted stitches in an undertone.

  'When you think about it, it makes you wonder. It's not really flying that you dream of. You have no wings; at least I never had any. There's no effort involved. You're just floating. That's it. Floating.'

  'When I fly,' said Jane, 'I don't remember any of the details. Except once I landed on top of City Hall and hadn't any clothes on. Somehow no one ever seems to pay any attention to you when you're dream-nude. Ever notice that? You're dying of embarrassment but people just pass by.'

  She pulled at the yarn and the ball tumbled out of the bag and half across the floor. She paid no attention.

  Roger shook his head slowly. At the moment, his face was pale and absorbed in doubt. It seemed all angles with its high cheek-bones, its long straight nose and the widow's-peak hairline that was growing more pronounced with the years. He was thirty-five.

  He said, 'Have you ever wondered what makes you dream you're floating?'

  'No, I haven't.'

  Jane Toomey was blonde and small. Her prettiness was the fragile kind that does not impose itself upon you but rather creeps on you unaware. She had the bright blue eyes and pink cheeks of a porcelain doll. She was thirty.

  Roger said, 'Many dreams are only the mind's interpretation of a stimulus imperfectly understood. The stimuli are forced into a reasonable context in a split second.'

  Jane said, 'What are you talking about, darling?'

  Roger said, 'Look, I once dreamed I was in a hotel, attending a physics convention. I was with old friends. Everything seemed quite normal. Suddenly, there was a confusion of shouting and for no reason at all I grew panicky. I ran to the door but it wouldn't open. One by one, my friends disappeared. They had no trouble leaving the room, but I couldn't see how they managed it. I shouted at them and they ignored me.

  'It was borne in upon me that the hotel was on fire. I didn't smell smoke. I just knew there was a fire. I ran to the window and I could see a fire escape on the outside of the building. I ran to each window in turn but none led to the fire escape. I was quite alone in the room now. I leaned out the window, calling desperately. No one heard me.

  'Then the fire engines were coming, little red smears darting along the streets. I remember that clearly. The alarm bells clanged sharply to clear traffic. I could hear them, louder and louder till the sound was splitting my skull. I awoke and, of course, the alarm clock was ringing.

  'Now I can't have dreamed a long dream designed to arrive at the moment of the alarm-clock ring in a way that builds the alarm neatly into the fabric of the dream. It's much more reasonable to suppose that the dream began at the moment the alarm began and crammed all its sensation of duration into one split second. It was just a hurry-up device of my brain to explain this sudden noise that penetrated the silence.'

  Jane was frowning now. She put down her crocheting.

  'Roger! You've been behaving queerly since you got back (from the college. You didn't eat much and now this ridiculous conversation. I've never heard you so morbid.

  What you need is a dose of bicarbonate.'

  'I need a little more than that,' said Roger in a low voice. 'Now, what starts a floating dream?'

  'If you don't mind, let's change the subject.'

  She rose, and with firm fingers turned up the sound on the television set. A young gentleman with hollow cheeks and a soulful tenor suddenly raised his voice and assured her, dulcetly, of his never-ending love.

  Roger turned it down again and stood with his back to the instrument.

  'Levitation!' he said. 'That's it. There is some way in which human beings can make themselves float. They have the capacity for it. It's just that they don't know how to use that capacity - except when they sleep. Then, sometimes, they lift up just a little bit, a tenth of an inch maybe. It wouldn't be enough for anyone to notice even if they were watching, but it would be enough to deliver the proper sensation for the start of a floating dream."

  'Roger, you're delirious. I wish you'd stop. Honestly.'

  He drove on. 'Sometimes we sink down slowly and the sensation is gone. Then again, sometimes the float control ends suddenly and we drop. Jane, did you ever dream you were falling?'

  'Yes, of c--'

  'You're hanging on the side of a building or you're sitting at the edge of a seat and suddenly you're tumbling.

  There's the awful shock of falling and you snap awake, your breath gasping, your heart palpitating. You did. fall. There's no other explanation.'

  Jane's expression, having passed slowly from bewilderment to concern, dissolved suddenly into sheepish amusement.

  'Roger, you devil. And you fooled me! Oh, you rat!'

  'What?'

  'Oh no. You can't play it out any more. I know exactly what you're doing. You're making up a plot to a story and you're trying it out on me. I should know better than to listen to you.'

  Roger looked startled, even a little confused. He strode to her chair and looked down at her, 'No, Jane.'

  'I don't see why not. You've been talking about writing fiction as long as I've known you. If you've got a plot, you might as well write it down. No use just frightening me with it.' Her fingers flew as her spirits rose.

  'Jane, this is no story.'

  'But what else--'

  'When I woke up this morning, I dropped to the mattress!' He stared at her without blinking. 'I dreamed I was flying,' he said. 'It was clear and distinct. I remember every minute of it. I was lying on my back when I woke up. I was feeling comfortable and quite happy. I just wondered a little why the ceiling looked so queer. I yawned and stretched and touched the ceiling. For a minute, I just stared at my arm reaching upwards and ending hard against the ceiling.

  'Then I turned over. I didn't move a muscle, Jane. I just turned all in one piece because I wanted to. There I was, five feet above the bed. There you were in the bed, sleeping. I was frightened. I didn't know how to get down, but the minute I thought of getting down, I dropped. I dropped slowly. The whole process was under perfect control.

  'I stayed in bed fifteen minutes before I dared move. Then I got up, washed, dressed and went to work.'

  Jane forced a laugh, 'Darling, you had better write it up. But that's all right. You've just been working too hard.'

  'Please! Don't be banal.'

  'People work too hard, even though to say so is banal. After all, you were just dreaming fifteen minutes longer than you thought you were.'

  'It wasn't a dream.'

  'Of course it was. I can't even count the times I've dreamed I awoke and dressed and made breakfast; then really woke up and found it was all to do over again. I've even dreamed I was dreaming, if you see what I mean. It can be awfully confusing.'

  'Look, Jane. I've come to you with a problem because you're the only one I feel I can come to. Please take me seriously.'

  Jane's blue eyes opened wide. 'Darling! I'm taking you as seriously as I can. You're the physics professor, not I. Gravitation is what you know about, not I. Would you take it seriously if I told you I had found myself floating?'

  'No. No! That's the hell of it. I don't want to believe it, only I've got to. It was no dream, Jane. I tried to tell myself it was. You have no idea how I talked myself into that. By the time I got to class, I was sure it was a dream. You didn't notice anything queer about me at breakfast, did you?'

  'Yes, I did, now that I thi
nk about it.'

  'Well, it wasn't very queer or you would have mentioned it. Anyway, I gave my nine o'clock lecture perfectly. By eleven, I had forgotten the whole incident. Then, just after lunch, I needed a book. I needed Page and - well, the book doesn't matter; I just needed it. It was on an upper shelf, but I could reach it. Jane--'

  He stopped.

  'Well, go on, Roger.'

  'Look, did you ever try to pick up something that's just a step away? You bend and automatically take a step towards it as you reach. It's completely involuntary. It's just your body's over-all co-ordination.'

  'All right. What of it?'

  'I reached for the book and automatically took a step upwards. On air, Jane! On empty air!'

  'I'm going to call Jim Sarle, Roger.'

  'I'm not sick, damn it.'

  'I think he ought to talk to you. He's a friend. It won't be a doctor's visit. He'll just talk to you.'

  'And what good will that do?' Roger's face turned red with sudden anger.

  'We'll see. Now sit down, Roger. Please.' She walked to the phone.

  He cut her off, seizing her wrist. 'You don't believe me.'

  'Oh, Roger.'

  'You don't.'

  'I believe you. Of course, I believe you. I just want--'

  'Yes. You just want Jim Sarle to talk to me. That's how much you believe me. I'm telling the truth but you want me to talk to a psychiatrist. Look, you don't have to take my word for anything. I can prove this. I can prove I can float.'

  'I believe you.'

  'Don't be a fool. I know when I'm being humoured. Stand still! Now watch me.'

  He backed away to the middle of the room and without preliminary lifted off the floor. He dangled; with the toes of his shoes six empty inches from the carpet.

  Jane's eyes and mouth were three round O's. She whispered, 'Come down, Roger. Oh, dear heaven, come down.'

  He drifted down, his feet touching the floor without a sound. 'You see?'

  'Oh, my. Oh, my.'

  She stared at him, half-frightened, half-sick.

  On the television set, a chesty female sang mutedly that flying high with some guy in the sky was her idea of nothing at all.

  Roger Toomey stared into the bedroom's darkness. He whispered, 'Jane.'

  'What?'

  'You're not sleeping?'

  'No.'

  'I can't sleep, either. I keep holding the headboard to make sure I'm . . . you know.'

  His hand moved restlessly and touched her face. She flinched, jerking away as though he carried an electric charge.

  She said, 'I'm sorry. I'm a little nervous.'

  'That's all right. I'm getting out of bed anyway.'

  'What are you going to do? You've got to sleep.'

  'Well, I can't, so there's no sense keeping you awake, too.'

  'Maybe nothing will happen. It doesn't have to happen every night. It didn't happen before last night.'

  'How do I know? Maybe I just never went up so high. Maybe I just never woke up and caught myself. Anyway, now it's different.'

  He was sitting up in bed, his legs bent, his arms clasping his knees, his forehead resting on them. He pushed the sheet to one side and rubbed his cheek against the soft flannel of his pyjamas.

  He said, 'It's bound to be different now. My mind's full of it. Once I'm asleep, once I'm not holding myself down consciously, why, up I'll go.'

  'I don't see why. It must be such an effort.'

  'That's the point. It isn't.'

  'But you're fighting gravity, aren't you?'

  'I know, but there's still no effect. Look, Jane, if I only could understand it, I wouldn't mind so much.'

  He dangled his feet out of bed and stood up. 'I don't want to talk about it.'

  His wife muttered, 'I don't want to, either.' She started crying, fighting back the sobs and turning them into strangled moans, which sounded much worse.

  Roger said, 'I'm sorry, Jane. I'm getting you all wrought up.'

  'No, don't touch me. Just. . . just leave me alone.'

  He took a few uncertain steps away from the bed.

  She said, 'Where are you going?'

  'To the studio couch. Will you help me?'

  'How?'

  'I want you to tie me down.'

  'Tie you down?'

  'With a couple of ropes. Just loosely, so I can turn if I want to. Do you mind?'

  Her bare feet were already seeking her mules on the floor at her side of the bed. 'All right,' she sighed.

  Roger Toomey sat in the small cubbyhole that passed for his office and stared at the pile of examination papers before him. At the moment, he didn't see how he was going to mark them.

  He had given five lectures on electricity and magnetism since the first night he had floated. He had gotten through them somehow, though not swimmingly. The students asked ridiculous questions so probably he wasn't making himself as clear as he once did.

  Today he had saved himself a lecture by giving a surprise examination. He didn't bother making one up; just handed out copies of one given several years earlier.

  Now he had the answer papers and would have to mark them. Why? Did it matter what they said? Or anyone? Was it so important to know the laws of physics? If it came to that, what were the laws? Were there any, really?

  Or was it all just a mass of confusion out of which nothing orderly could ever be extracted? Was the universe, for all its appearance, merely the original chaos, still waiting for the Spirit to move upon the face of its deep?

  Insomnia wasn't helping him, either. Even strapped in upon the couch, he slept only fitfully, and then always with dreams.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Roger cried angrily, 'Who's there?'

  A pause, and then the uncertain answer. 'It's Miss Harroway, Dr Toomey. I have the letters you dictated.'

  'Well, come in, come in. Don't just stand there.'

  The department secretary opened the door a minimum distance and squeezed her lean and unprepossessing body into his office. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand. To each was clipped a yellow carbon and a stamped, addressed envelope.

  Roger was anxious to get rid of her. That was his mistake. He stretched forward to reach the letters as she approached and felt himself leave the chair.

  He moved two feet forward, still in sitting position, before he could bring himself down hard, losing his balance and tumbling in the process. It was too late.

  It was entirely too late. Miss Harroway dropped the letters in a fluttering handful. She screamed and turned, hitting the door with her shoulder, caroming out into the hall and dashing down the corridor in a clatter of high heels.

  Roger rose, rubbing an aching hip. 'Damn,' he said forcefully.

  But he couldn't help seeing her point. He pictured the sight as she must have seen it; a full-grown man, lifting smoothly out of his chair and gliding towards her in a maintained squat.

  He picked up the letters and closed his office door. It was quite late in the day; the corridors would be empty; she would probably be quite incoherent. Still - he waited anxiously for the crowd to gather.

  Nothing happened. Perhaps she was lying somewhere in a dead faint. Roger felt it a point of honour to seek her out and do what he could for her, but he told his conscience to go to the devil. Until he found out exactly what was wrong with him, exactly what this wild nightmare of his was all about, he must do nothing to reveal it.

  Nothing, that is, more than he had done already.

  He leafed through the letters; one to every major theoretical physicist in the country. Home talent was insufficient for this sort of thing.

  He wondered if Miss Harroway grasped the contents of the letters. He hoped not. He had couched them deliberately in technical language; more so, perhaps, than was quite necessary. Partly, that was to be discreet; partly, to impress the addressees with the fact that he, Toomey, was a legitimate and capable scientist.

  One by one, he put the letters in the appropriate envelopes
. The best brains in the country, he thought. Could they help?

  He didn't know.

  The library was quiet. Roger Toomey closed the Journal of Theoretical Physics, placed it on end and stared at its backstrap sombrely. The Journal of Theoretical Physics! What did any of the contributors to that learned bit of balderdash understand anyway? The thought tore at him. Until so recently they had been the greatest men in the world to him.

  And still he was doing his best to live up to their code and philosophy. With Jane's increasingly reluctant help, he had made measurements. He had tried to weigh the phenomenon in the balance, extract its relationships, evaluate its quantities. He had tried, in short, to defeat it in the only way he knew how - by making of it just another expression of the eternal modes of behaviour that all the Universe must follow.

  (Must follow. The best minds said so.) Only there was nothing to measure. There was absolutely no sensation of effort to his levitation. Indoors - he dared not test himself outdoors, of course - he could reach the ceiling as easily as he could rise an inch, except that it took more time. Given enough time, he felt, he could continue rising indefinitely; go to the Moon, if necessary.