Beyond the Barriers of Space and Time

by Judith Merril (ed. )

  “We understand,” Danton said, his fingers clenching into fists.

  “Sure, it’s all right,” Arriglio said.

  “You all hate me,” Walker said, and floated out.

  “Haven’t you guys any control over yourselves?” Powell asked when Walker was gone. “Rule 3, remember? Understanding and sympathy must he used at all times—”

  “I was understanding,” Arriglio said angrily. Danton nodded.

  “Understanding! The way you looked at him!”

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” Arriglio said formally. “I’m no actor. If I don’t like a guy, I don’t like him.” He glared at Danton. Danton glared back.

  “I told you to think of him as a machine,” Powell said. “Arriglio, I’ve seen you pamper those engines of yours outrageously.”

  “Sure,” Arriglio said, “but I can swear at them, too, and kick ’em if I want to.”

  That was the trouble, Powell thought, with working with a sentient machine. You couldn’t take out your frustrations on it. “Well, don’t start anything, you two,” Powell said.

  Arriglio pushed himself to the opposite side of the room, found the cards and started to deal himself a hand of solitaire.

  Powell went to the control room to think things out.

  Outside the port the stars glittered. Dead space lay, a grave five hundred million miles long.

  There had to be a solution. Start from there.

  A way out, Powell thought. Their psi dynamo had functioned on the way out. Why wasn’t he functioning now?

  He took out the instructions Waverley had given him and studied them.

  These empirically derived operating rules are given—

  Those rules were a long way from the truth, Powell thought. Waverley still had a long way to go.

  Certain maintenance and operating rules must he observed—

  They had observed them, to the best of their ability. Theoretically, there should be nothing wrong with the psi. But still, the delicate intricate dynamo in Walker’s mind refused to function.

  Powell slapped a hand against his thigh. It was so frustrating to have all that power bottled there. Enough to take them home with ease—enough, probably, to take them to Alpha Centauri, or the galactic center. And they couldn’t tap it.

  Because they didn’t know how to operate the machinery.

  Operating instructions. He was no psychiatrist. He couldn’t hope to cure Walker of his neuroticisms. All he could do was relieve them enough to get him to work.

  What had he left out?

  He read back over the instructions, and an idea began forming in his mind. There was something else. He almost had it now—

  “Captain!”

  “What do you want?” Powell asked, angry for the first time on the trip. He had been so close! He glared at Danton.

  “It’s Walker, Sam. He’s locked himself in one of the rooms. I think he’s going to kill himself!”

  Powell pushed himself against a wall and shot down a corridor, Danton following. Arriglio was at the door, hammering on it and shouting. Powell pushed him aside and floated up.

  “Walker. Can you hear me?”

  Silence.

  “Bring something to get this open,” Powell whispered, “Walker!” he shouted again. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “I’m doing it,” Walker’s voice came through.

  “Don’t! As captain of this ship I order you—”

  Walker’s gurgle cut him short.

  Arriglio hurried back with a blowtorch. They melted the lock, and Powell swore he would never ride another ship with as much as a door in it. If he ever rode another ship.

  They burst the door open and floated in. Then Arriglio burst into laughter.

  Their unhappy, overloaded dynamo was floating in mid air, his arms and legs jerking grotesquely. Around his neck was a rope, the other end attached to a stanchion in the ceiling. The amazing fool had tried to hang himself—in weightless free fall.

  But then, suddenly, it wasn’t so funny. Walker was strangling, and they were unable to loosen the rope. Frantically they worked on it, trying to get some purchase in the weightless air. Finally, Danton had the foresight to burn the rope loose with the torch.

  Walker had knotted the rope to the ceiling, tying the other end around his neck. But to make it really effective, he had tied a constrictor knot in it. This knot would tighten easily, and stay tight. It could be loosened only by yanking both ends in a certain way.

  Walker had tied the ends around the back of his neck in a square knot, out of reach. He had braced himself against the ceiling, and kicked off hard. The knot had tightened—

  It was a close thing, and an adequate measure of Walker’s desperation.

  “Pull him up,” Powell said. He glared at the gasping, red-faced Walker, and tried to think.

  He had coaxed him and kidded him, followed the rules and added the oil of sympathy and the fuel of praise. And what had he gotten?

  His precious machine had almost ruined itself.

  That’s no way to run anything, he told himself. If I want an engine to turn over, I turn it over. I don’t stand around patting its case. To hell with the rules!

  “We’re through playing games,” Powell said, and he was addressing all of them now. “Take your positions. We’re blasting off.”

  He silenced their questions with a glare, and pushed himself off.

  In the control room he said a silent prayer. Then he snapped on the intercom.

  “Danton. Set?”

  “Set, Captain.”

  “Arriglio?”

  “All set.”

  “Walker?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ten seconds. Main drive on.” The engines thundered into life.

  “Get it up there,” Powell said. “I want max plus.”

  “Right, Captain.”

  “Danton, get set on auxiliary.”

  “Set, Captain.”

  “Six seconds. Walker, stand by.”

  “Yes, sir,” the frightened voice of Walker said.

  “Four seconds,” Powell said, hoping that Walker wouldn’t have time to tell himself he couldn’t do it.

  “Two seconds.” Come on, he told himself. This had better be it. Let it be it.

  One second.

  “Blast! Come in, Walker!”

  The ship surged forward, but he could feel no response from Walker. The ship was operating on her engines alone.

  “Fine, Walker,” Powell said coolly. “Give her some more.”

  Still there was no response.

  “Excellent work,” Powell said. “Arriglio, cut the main drive. Take over. Walker.”

  For an agonizing second there was nothing. And then the ship surged forward.

  There was a wrench, milder than on the take-off, and the stars began to blur.

  “Get your course from Danton,” he said to Walker. “Fine work, Mr. Walker.”

  So that was it, Powell thought. Those rules Waverley had given him might work on Earth. But in a stress situation—well, he had some interesting information to bring back.

  Walker’s self-induced paralysis had passed in the swift, taken-for-granted orders. Naturally.

  Cancel all other instructions. The cardinal rule for operating the psi:

  A psi is a human being, and must he treated as one. A psis abilities must be accepted—and used—as accomplished skills, not freak talents.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?” Powell said, recognizing Walker’s voice.

  “Shall I boost her up a little faster?” the psi asked.

  “Do so, Mr. Walker,” Powell said in a fine, serious, commanding voice.

  The dramatic personnel of this book contains an abnormally high percentage of psychiatrists, psychologists and medical men of one sort or another. That’s natural enough, all things considered. The content of this hook is disproportionately weighted in the direction of precognition and its problems. That’s natural enough, too, if you consider the f
ascination the subject holds for the editor.

  It seems reasonable, however, to inquire as to why a story should he added at this juncture which concerns a precognitive dream and takes place in a psychiatrist’s office.

  The answer is simple: John Collier wrote it, and it is therefore completely unlike anything else you have read, in or out of this book.

  Interpretation of a Dream by John Collier

  A young man entered the office of a well-known psychiatrist, whom he addressed as follows: “Doctor, save me!”

  “By all means,” responded the mind specialist suavely. “After all, that is what I am here for.”

  “But you can’t,” cried the young man distractedly. “You can’t! You can’t! Nothing can save me!”

  “At all events,” said the psychiatrist soothingly, “it will do no harm to talk it over.”

  With that he waved his hands a little, smiled with a rather soapy and ingratiating expression, and before he knew it the young man was seated in a deep armchair, with his face to the light, pouring out his story.

  “My name,” said he, “is Charles Rotifer. I am employed in the office of an accountant, who occupies the top story of this skyscraper. I am twenty-eight years of age, single, engaged to be married. My fiancée is the best and dearest girl in the world, beautiful as an angel, and with lovely golden hair. I mention this because it is relevant to my story.”

  “It is indeed,” said the psychiatrist. “Gold is the symbol of money. Have you a retentive attitude toward money? For example, you say you are employed in an office. Have you saved anything considerable out of your salary?”

  “Yes, I have,” replied the young man. “I’ve saved quite a bit.”

  “Please continue, Mr. Rotifer,” said the psychiatrist, benevolently. “You were speaking of your fiancée. Later on I shall have to ask you one or two rather intimate questions on that subject.”

  “And I will answer them,” returned the young man. “There is nothing in our relationship that needs to be concealed—at all events from a psychologist. All is complete harmony between us, and there is nothing about her that I could wish altered, except perhaps her little habit of gesturing rather too freely as she speaks.”

  “I will make a note of that,” said the other, scribbling on his pad.

  “It is not of the least importance,” said the young man. “I hardly know why I mentioned it, except to indicate how perfect she is. But, Doctor, thirty-eight nights ago I dreamed a dream.”

  “Thirty-eight, indeed!” observed the mind doctor, jotting down the figure. “Tell me frankly, when you were an infant, did you by any chance have a nurse, a teacher or a female relative, on whom perhaps you might have had a little fixation, who happened to be thirty-eight years of age?”

  “No, Doctor,” said the young man, “but there are thirty-nine floors to this skyscraper.”

  The psychiatrist gave him a penetrating glance. “And does the form and height of this building suggest anything to you?”

  “All I know,” said the young man obstinately, “is that I dreamed I was outside the window of our office at the top, in the air, falling.”

  “Falling!” said the psychiatrist, raising his eyebrows. “And what were your sensations at that moment?”

  “I was calm,” replied the young man. “I imagine I was falling at the normal rate, but my mind seemed to work very fast. I had leisure to reflect, to look around me. The view was superb. In a moment I had reached the ornamental stonework which separates our windows from those immediately below. Then I woke up.”

  “And that simple, harmless, perfectly ordinary little dream has been preying on your mind?” asked the psychiatrist in a jocular tone. “Well, my dear sir…”

  “Wait a moment,” said his visitor. “On the following night I dreamed the same dream, or rather, a continuation of it. There I was, spread-eagled in mid air—like this—passing the ornamental stonework, looking into the window of the floor below, which is also occupied by our firm. I saw my friend, Don Straker, of our tax department, bending over his desk. He looked up. He saw me. His face took on an expression of the utmost astonishment. He made a movement as if to rise from his seat, no doubt to rush to the window. But compared with mine, his movements were indescribably slow. I remember thinking, ‘He will be too late.’ Then I dropped below his window, and down to the dividing line between that floor and the next. As I did so, I woke.”

  “Well,” said the brain doctor. “What have we here? The dream of one night is resumed on the night following. That is a very ordinary occurrence.”

  “Possibly,” said the young man. “However, on the next night, there I was, having just passed the dividing line between that floor and the floor below. I had slipped into a recumbent posture, with one leg slightly raised, like this.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the psychiatrist, “I see. It is not necessary to demonstrate. You nearly knocked over my ash tray.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the young man. “I’m afraid I have picked up the habit from Maisie. Maisie is my fiancée. When she wants to say how she did a thing, she just shows you. She acts it out. It was the night she told me how she slipped and fell on the icy pavement on Seventy-second Street, that we became engaged. Well, as I say, there I was, falling past another floor, looking about me in all directions. The hills of New Jersey looked magnificent. A high-flying pigeon coasted in my direction, and regarded me with a round eye, devoid of any expression whatsoever. Then he banked and sheered off. I could see the people in the street below, or rather their hats, jammed as closely as black pebbles on a beach. Even as I looked, one or two of these black pebbles suddenly turned white. I realized I was attracting attention.”

  “Tell me this,” said the psychiatrist. “You seem to have had a good deal of time for thought. Did you recollect why you were falling; whether you had thrown yourself, or slipped, or what?”

  “Doctor, I really don’t know,” said the young man. “Not unless my last dream, which I had last night, sheds any light on the matter. Most of the time I was just looking around, falling faster all the time, of course, but thinking faster to make up for it. Naturally I tried to think of subjects of importance, seeing it was my last opportunity. Between the seventeenth and the sixteenth floors, for example, I thought a lot about democracy and the world crisis. It seemed to me that where most people are making a big mistake is…”

  “Perhaps, for the moment, we had better keep to the experience itself,” said the brain doctor.

  “Well,” said the young man, “at the fifteenth floor I looked in at the window, and, really, I never believed such things happened! Not in offices, anyway. And, Doctor, next day I paid a visit to the fifteenth floor here, just out of curiosity. And those offices are occupied by a theatrical agent. Doctor, don’t you think that confirms my dream?”

  “Calm yourself,” said the psychiatrist. “The names of all the firms in this building are listed on the wall directory on the main floor. You no doubt retained an unconscious memory which you adroitly fitted into your dream.”

  “Well, after that,” said the young man, “I began to look down a good deal more. I’d take just a quick glance into each window as I passed, but mostly I was looking downwards. By this time there were big patches of white among the dark, pebblelike hats below. In fact, pretty soon they were clearly distinguishable as hats and faces. I saw two taxicabs swerve toward one another and collide. A woman’s scream drifted up out of the confused murmur below. I felt I agreed with her. I was in a reclining posture, and already I felt an anticipatory pain in the parts that would touch the ground first. So I turned face downwards—like this—but that was horrible. So I put my feet down, but then they hurt. I tried to fall head first, to end it sooner, but that didn’t satisfy me. I kept on twisting and turning—like this.”

  “Please relax,” said the psychiatrist. “There is no need to demonstrate.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the young man. “I picked up the habit from Maisie.”

  �
��Sit down,” said the psychiatrist, “and continue.”

  “Last night,” said the young man despairingly, “was the thirty-eighth night.”

  “Then,” said the psychiatrist, “you must have got down to this level, for this office is on the mezzanine floor.”

  “I was,” cried the young man. “And I was outside this very window, descending at terrific speed. I looked in. Doctor, I saw you! As clearly as I see you now!”

  “Mr. Rotifer,” replied the psychiatrist with a modest smile, “I very frequently figure in my patients’ dreams.”

  “But I wasn’t your patient then,” said the young man. “I didn’t even know you existed. I didn’t know till this morning, when I came to see who occupied this office. Oh, Doctor, I was so relieved to find you were not a theatrical agent!”

  “And why were you relieved?” asked the specialist blandly.

  “Because you were not alone. In my dream, I mean. A young woman was with you. A young woman with beautiful golden hair. And she was sitting on your knee. Doctor, and her arms were around your neck. I felt certain it was another theatrical agency. And then I thought, ‘That is very beautiful golden hair. It is like my Maisie’s hair.’ At that moment you both looked toward the window. It was she! Maisie! My own Maisie!”

  The psychiatrist laughed very heartily. “My dear sir,” said he, “you may set your mind entirely at rest.”

  “All the same,” said the young man, “this morning, in the office, I have been a prey to an unbearable curiosity, an almost irresistible urge to jump, just to see what I should see.”

  “You would have had the mortification,” said the psychiatrist, “of seeing that there were no grounds whatever for your rash act. Your fiancée is not a patient of mine; therefore she could not have had one of those harmless little transferences, as we call them, which have been known to lead to ardent behavior on the part of the subject. Besides, our profession has its ethics, and nothing ever happens in the office. No, my dear sir, what you have described to me is a relatively simple condition, a recurrent dream, a little neurotic compulsion—nothing that cannot be cured in time. If you can visit me three or four times a week, I am confident that a very few years will show a decided improvement.”