“One question first, Vincent. Did you actually accomplish the work of many hours?”
“I did. It was done, and done in that time. It did not become undone on the return of time to normal.”
“A second question. Had you been worried about your work, about being behind?”
“Yes. Emphatically.”
“Then here is one explanation. You retired last night. But very shortly afterward you arose in a state of somnambulism. There are facets of sleepwalking which we do not at all understand. The time-out-of-focus interludes were parts of a walking dream of yours. You dressed and went to your office and worked all night. It is possible to do routine tasks in a somnambulistic state rapidly and even feverishly, with an intense concentration—to perform prodigies. You may have fallen into a normal sleep there when you had finished, or you may have been awakened directly from your somnambulistic trance on the arrival of your co-workers. There, that is a plausible and workable explanation. In the case of an apparently bizarre happening, it is always well to have a rational explanation to fall back on. They will usually satisfy a patient and put his mind at rest. But often they do not satisfy me.”
“Your explanation very nearly satisfies me, Dr. Mason, and it does put my mind considerably at rest. I am sure that in a short while I will be able to accept it completely. But why does it not satisfy you?”
“One reason is a man I treated early this morning. He had his face smashed, and he had seen—or almost seen—a ghost: a ghost of incredible swiftness that was more sensed than seen. The ghost opened the door of his car while it was going at full speed, jerked on the brake, and caused him to crack his head. This man was dazed and had a slight concussion. I have convinced him that he did not see any ghost at all, that he must have dozed at the wheel and run into something. As I say, I am harder to convince than my patients. But it may have been coincidence.”
“I hope so. But you also seem to have another reservation.”
“After quite a few years in practice, I seldom see or hear anything new. Twice before I have been told a happening or a dream on the line of what you experienced.”
“Did you convince your patients that it was only a dream?”
“I did. Both of them. That is, I convinced them the first few times it happened to them.”
“Were they satisfied?”
“At first. Later, not entirely. But they both died within a year of their first coming to me.”
“Nothing violent, I hope.”
“Both had the gentlest deaths. That of senility extreme.”
“Oh. Well, I’m too young for that.”
“I would like you to come back in a month or so.”
“I will, if the delusion or the dream returns. Or if I do not feel well.”
After this Charles Vincent began to forget about the incident. He only recalled it with humor sometimes when again he was behind in his work.
“Well, if it gets bad enough I may do another sleepwalking act and catch up. But if there is another aspect of time and I could enter it at will, it might often be handy.”
Charles Vincent never saw his face at all. It is very dark in some of those clubs and the Coq Bleu is like the inside of a tomb. He went to the clubs only about once a month, sometimes after a show when he did not want to go home to bed, sometimes when he was just plain restless.
Citizens of the more fortunate states may not know of the mysteries of the clubs. In Vincent’s the only bars are beer bars, and only in the clubs can a person get a drink, and only members are admitted. It is true that even such a small club as the Coq Bleu had thirty thousand members, and at a dollar a year that is a nice sideline. The little numbered membership cards cost a penny each for the printing, and the member wrote in his own name. But he had to have a card—or a dollar for a card—to gain admittance.
But there could be no entertainments in the clubs. There was nothing there but the little bar room in the near darkness.
The man was there, and then he was not, and then he was there again. And always where he sat
