The Long Sleep

“He thinks I'm a gigolo for having married you.”

“Then your memory's returning?”

“I'm afraid not,” he said. “I just know what he told me.”

She was wearing another pair of shorts. These were the color of summer grass, green-yellow, as brief as she ought to dare. She also wore a loose black gypsy blouse with rows of pink buttons down the sleeves. When she moved, the buttons shone: she looked sequined.

She slid closer to him and took his hand. “What he told you is nonsense.”

“I'm not a gigolo.”

“Of course you're not.”

“He seemed convinced.”

She grimaced. Her pug nose wrinkled prettily. “He was against our marriage from the start, and you know — but I guess you don't know. It's hard to believe you've forgotten everything,” she said. “Me included.”

“That's the part I find most impossible to believe myself.” he said.

She laughed prettily. She had perfect teeth. “Anyway, when you took over my estate and began managing my stock on Galing Research, you soon made an even more bitter enemy of Uncle Henry.”

“How'd I manage that?” He felt as if all of this were not real but merely the bare lines of a stage play, an act, a dangerous charade.

“You and several other minority stockholders had the voting potential to go up against Uncle Henry's forty- four per cent, and you did.”

“I see.”

“Several times, in fact.”

He thought about that for a while, but he could not get anywhere with it. Galing Research, voting stock, Henry Galing, even Allison — all these were, if not unreal, certainly unlikely. The real things were the faceless man, the pods, the corpses rotting in the pods…

“Where are you?” she asked.

“What?”

“You were drifting a thousand miles away,” she said. Worry lines creased her brow. Her eyes moved quickly across his face, and she used one hand to test his forehead for signs of a fever. “You looked lost.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinking… Tell me, what does Galing Research research?”

“Maybe we shouldn't go on with this right now,” she said. “It might be better to see what Dr. Harttle recommends. You're tired, and you should—”

“I want to go into it,” he said. He smiled and took her hand, squeezed it. “I want to remember. Now, what does Galing Research do?”

“It investigates all facets of parapsychology: telepathy, teleportation, clairvoyance… You name it and Galing has the lead in its development and application.” She was clearly pleased by the family's position of leadership in the industry.

But it was crazy. Teleportation? Telepathy?

Joel closed his eyes and pretended he had not heard what he certainly had heard. He suspected, yet again, that he was losing his mind and that all of this was an illusion. But when he opened his eyes he saw she was still sitting on the edge of the bed, her fine long legs tucked under her.

“Allison, telepathy and clairvoyance — those sort of things aren't sciences. You can't research and apply them.”

“Whyever not?” She was genuinely perplexed.

He hesitated, closed his eyes once more. He considered all the holes in his own memory and, doubting himself, he said, “You mean it's been done?”

“Galing Research did it,” she said. “This is going to be very trying if I've got to convince you of basic truths as well as specific facts. I really think we should wait for the doctor.”

“No.”

She sighed and said, “Galing Research markets seventeen drugs that are ESP-talent inducers. You see, we all have extra-sensory abilities, but most of us require drugs to stimulate us into using those powers. I sound like a company brochure.”

“You've used these drugs?” he asked. “You have telepathic abilities?”

She was concerned about him, but she was also amused by the question. She laughed, showing lots of white teeth, her throat slim and taut. He wanted to nibble at her throat, kiss it gently — and at the same time he could not understand his instant, animal need for her. There were so many other things on his mind, so many more vital things to think about… Besides, he hardly even knew her, no matter that she was his wife.

She said: “My telepathic ability is minimal even when it's amplified with drugs. I hear whispers but can't really tell what's being projected. I have two strong abilities, though. One is teleportation on a non-personal level.” She saw his confusion. “That means I can teleport objects from one place to another, but I can't teleport myself. It's handy, but it'd be handier if I had the personal touch. I'd save a lot of travel bills. Anyway, my second talent is in making illusions.”

“Illusions?” he asked. He felt inordinately stupid.

“I make pictures in the air.” She waved one slender arm to encompass all the ether. “It's a branch of the telepathic talent — something we don't know too much about just yet.”

“What kind of pictures?” he asked.

“Sometimes, familiar landscapes. Other times, weird places that no one has ever seen. Often the pictures are only colors and patterns.”

He sat up straighter in bed. The silver pieces rattled on the tray as he set the encumbrance aside. “Can you make these illusions for me now?”

“I'd have to have the drug first,” she explained.

“Get some.”

“Drugs are usually restricted to industrial and espionage use, though the government will soon be opening the way for general merchandising. I can get what I want — and so can you — because I'm a member of the Galing family. But not tonight, darling. You can't take too much at once. Since every bit of this is really news to you, you must be overwhelmed right now.”

“Quite,” he said. “But I'd like to hear more.”

“We'll see what the doctor thinks,” she said.

As if on cue, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Someone knocked sharply and briskly on the closed door. Joel knew it was not Henry Galing, for that old man wasn't accustomed to knocking; he was the type who went where he wanted when he wanted unless there was a lock to stop him.

“Come in,” Allison said.

A wiry little man in his forties entered the room. He was a foot shorter than Joel, thin as sticks. His broad face seemed out of place on that spare body. His hair was full, combed low on his wide forehead and over his ears. His eyes were quick, his mouth pursed into an endless smile. He was carrying a black satchel, and he took quick little steps like a windup toy. His manner was far too energetic to be pleasant.

“So, you're sitting up, eh? Good! That's very good!” The doctor's voice was mellow. It would have been easy to listen to if it'd had been racing in top gear. “And having yourself a full meal! Marvelous! That is simply marvelous, young man! We'll have you up and around and back on the job before you know it. Not as bad as I thought! Not as bad at all!”

“It's the amnesia,” Allison said.

“Nothing to it!” Harttle said. He winked at Joel, then at Allison, opened his satchel. “Soon you'll be recognizing everyone and not just guessing their names. I'm Harttle. I know you guessed. Now you can be sure. He chuckled. He took an old-fashioned stethescope out of the bag and listened carefully at Joel's chest, groin, and shoulderblades.

As the doctor listened to his heart a second time, Joel stared at the man's head. He was aware that something was wrong, terribly wrong, but he couldn't immediately grasp what it was. Then it registered with a bang. Harttle's hair was full of dust. A fine, gray powder lay across his brown locks, distributed as evenly as the dust in those corridors through which he'd walked in his dream…