Again, Dangerous Visions Part 34

Simultaneously I bit my tongue viciously and remembered this voice, the bite in it when vicious.

"Miss, I have no dealings with an Ivar. I don't do business with Quentin Seckley, either, but from time to time, when he holds a gun on me, I point out the shakier lines in his songs, the Parkinsonian ones."

Another pause.

"Mr. Rengs, could I trouble you to describe this Quentin?"

"Yes. Sandy hair down to the eyes. Looks like shredded Naugahyde. Decided stoop, slight list. About five-ten. Mole on right cheekbone. Sneaky air. Writes his lyrics for The Omen. Also-"

"That's Ivar. Well I'll be."

"I'll join you, if there's room. What do you want Quentin for?"

"Well, he was supposed to sleep with me, it was made very clear it had to be promptly at three, and he hasn't shown up, and they're all asking questions."

"All. How many are there?"

"Well, all the regulars, six, at least. They've been waiting for an hour for us to get started, they don't like to just sit around."

"Who does? I'm curious as to where you got my name."

"Well, Ivar, Quentin talks about you and what a help you are in his writing. I knew you teach at Santana, and right now I'm out here at UCLA, of course, so I called UCLA Administration and they had a Santana faculty directory-"

"You're at UCLA? That's where Quentin was supposed to, ah, join you?" I thought about synovial fluid. Flamenco guitar in the background. No sitar.

"Sure, that's where we always do it. It wouldn't work out anyplace else, this is where they've got all the apparatus. So, in short, you don't have any idea where he might be, Mr. Rengs?"

"None. Unless he's found some other place where they have the apparatus."

"Not likely, Mr. Rengs, you don't find machinery like this any old place. Well, case you hear from him, would you tell him call in right away to the Sleep Project? It's very important, he's throwing our whole schedule off."

"Sleep Project. Certainly. I'm sorry about your schedule."

Yet another silence, potently pulsed.

"Mr. Rengs, I know this sounds crazy, but would you do something for me?"

"Miss, of course you'd want to get back on schedule, it's only natural, but I have a very complicated lecture to prepare for tomorrow, it deals with the quant.i.ty and quality of broken bones in the collected works of Hemingway, did you know that in his first 49 stories alone there were 28 cases of physical mangling, 15 involving legs, 5 hands, 4 groins-"

"No, what I want to ask is, would you say some words for me? I'm beginning to remember something about the name Quentin. Would you do me a big favor and just say the words, h.e.l.lo, is Quentin there?"

"First say some things for me. Child molester. Filthy degenerate. Rip your tongue out. Pincus.h.i.+on."

The longest pause yet. Calibrated with emotional exhalations.

"Well I'll be triple flogged. You're the man called me the other night."

"You're the 300-year-old lady."

"When I'm woken up from a deep sleep I sound about 600. See, knocking myself out like I do on cla.s.s a.s.signments and all the hours at the Project in addition, by dinner I'm beat, so some nights I just take a pill after dinner and crawl into bed. Wow, I'm sorry I spoke that rough way to you, Mr. Rengs. I had no idea who it was, you can appreciate that. Also, I'd never heard of any Quentin, I knew the fellow in question as Ivar Nalyd. Oh, oh. Wait a minute. How'd you happen to get my number that night? What gave you the idea of calling me to locate him under any name?"

"I had a message to call him. The number he left was yours."

"Now that's real funny, Mr. Rengs. First, he's never been to my place, second, I never gave him my number, though G.o.d knows he's asked over and over, why I hardly know this guy, just see him at the Project and sometimes talk about rock lyrics and that's all. My number's not listed and my friends don't give it out, they know how I insist on my privacy. This is in the category of weird."

"Yes. Tell me, could you in any way be linked in Quentin's mind with the idea of cracking knuckles, Miss-I'm afraid I don't know your name."

"Victoria Paylow, Mr. Rengs. Vicki. What's this about knuckles?"

"Could Quentin connect you in any way with the matter of cracking knuckles, Vicki? That was the subject on his mind the night he left your number."

"Knuckles. Boy. This is insanity of the top echelons. Wearing a derby. I never got into knuckles with him, not in any deep way, that's the truth. I never discuss much of anything with him, about all we do when we're together is sleep. But awhile back I did have some kind of a dream about cracking knuckles. More than one, maybe. It's mostly gone but I remember the loud sounds like pistols and how they scared me close to bald. But where'd Ivar, Quentin, get any thoughts about knuckles? Not from my dreams, that's for sure, we're under strict rules not to talk about our dreams. Well. Would you have any idea why he has two names, Mr. Rengs?"

"No, but the question might be refined. Why does he go to school at Santana under one name and sleep, partic.i.p.ate in sleep projects at UCLA, under another?"

"It does seem fastidiously demented, Mr. Rengs. You have any theories about it?"

"Hard to say, Vicki. It could have something to do with keeping fluids and bones separate, he has strong feelings about-"

"No. This has got to stop. This is blue-ribbon lunacy. Somebody's ransacking my brains."

"Did I say something to upset you, Vicki?"

"Fluids and bones, I'll be triple napalmed. That's a theme that crops up time after time in my dreams. Offhand I don't remember any particular dream but it keeps turning up. It's against all rules to tell the contents of our dreams so where's he get off slinging around my dream language? If there's stuff like that in my memory banks, how come he can crack them? I swear-"

"If I find out anything I'll certainly let you know, Vicki, I have your number-"

The following day, after lunch, Quentin rang my bell. He had another ream of lyrics with him. I threatened to send all his lyrics to the CIA if he didn't give me a full explanation of the name Ivar Nalyd. The explanation was not what I would call simple, nor, in the last a.n.a.lysis, or any a.n.a.lysis, very explanatory.

Ivar was nothing but Ravi spelled backward, in honor of Ravi Shankar. Nalyd was a reversal of Dylan, in honor of Bob D., not D. Thomas. Quentin wrote all his songs under this name. He was afraid that if his family got wind of his income-producing activities, his father would cut off his allowance. Quentin held the view that any family as loaded as his should make allowances for a son busy in the arts, so any income the son produced would be gravy rather than bread and b.u.t.ter. b.u.t.tered bread is enhanced by gravy.

How, I wanted to know, was he safeguarding his allowance by pa.s.sing himself off as Ivar Nalyd with such as Victoria Paylow?

He gave several starts. He tabulated his fingernails. He hummed for a time, in sitar glides.

"Victoria Paylow, I believe you said."

"That is correct."

"What would you be knowing about this young person, Gordon?"

"That she knows you as Ivar, and sleeps with you at UCLA with six people looking on. There's a fair amount of apparatus involved, I gather."

"Where'd you come across Vicki, Gordon?"

"She called here yesterday. Looking for you. You've got to learn finesse in dealing with the opposite s.e.x, Quentin. When you make a date to sleep with them and don't show up, they worry. So do all the people standing around."

"d.a.m.n it, I called in and left word with the Project secretary that I couldn't make it, she must have forgotten to tell them. The Omen were rehearsing for a record date and I had to be there in case they needed some lyric changes. Listen, how come Vicki was calling you you to track me down?" to track me down?"

"Would it occur to her that you might be at home, when you write lyrics around the clock with your collaborator?"

"Collaborator?"

"She has the distinct impression that that's my function in your life, Quentin."

"I never used that word, Gordon, I swear it, all I said was, you're kind of editor with my stuff. I'm searingly sorry she bothered you, Gordon."

"She has to be set straight, Quentin. She must be made to understand that I'm not your collaborator, you're my contaminator. Now. Two more things need clearing up. First, why you leave this girl's number for me to reach Quentin at, when she knows you as Ivar. Second, regarding this Sleep Project, what, exactly-"

"Who left Vicki's number for anything, Gordon? Are you completely crazed?"

"I direct your attention to the night of the cracking knuckles, Quentin. You left a number for me to call. It was Vicki's number. Vicki said she'd never heard of a Quentin, which was true. What would lead you to do such a rabid-"

"Syllogism serenade sweats.h.i.+rt. This is a b.u.mmer. I was stoned, that was the thing. I must of plain forgot she knew me as Ivar. Oh, so no wonder you thought it was the wrong number. I get it now. Bllb. It was a slip on my part, from being stoned. Leaving that number altogether was a slip, if I did it. Grrz. I had the thought in the back of my head of going over to her place, that much I know. I was cracking my knuckles and getting tensed up and the urge was on me to drop over to Vicki's, I don't know why. The thing with the knuckles just naturally made me think of going to Vicki's. I guess, being stoned, I just translated going there as being there, mixed up the wish and the result, so I left her number without realizing what I was doing. I really meant to drive over there but instead I pa.s.sed out-"

"How did you know her address and phone number? She tells me she wouldn't give them to you and she's not listed-"

"Not in the phone book, no. But she is in the personnel files at the Project. I've had the idea of paying her a visit for some time, Gordon. I've had my eye on her at the Project, been building up some major urges about her. I'll confess something. The urges got so major, I hung around the Project office one day until the secretary got called out, then I sneaked a look in the filing cabinet, located Vicki's personnel record and memorized the salient facts. Look, it's complicated. I'd have to reconstruct the whole situation for you. Where it begins is with the Sleep Project"

"I'd better know about that, too. Just try to spare me the details, such as why they need a secretary."

"You don't know about the Project, Gordon? Ah, then. None of this can make any sense to you, that's obvious. That's where I met Vicki, at the Project. They found out we sleep well together, for some reason, so they schedule us to do it together, for reasons they won't explain. I use the name Ivar Nalyd over there for the same reason I use it on my songs-"

"Let me see if I'm following. You get paid for your activities at the Project?"

"Sure, Gordon, why else would I be putting in all that time? Sure, I get good hourly rates, so does Vicki. So, see, because I make money there, I figured, better do it under the alias, so my old man won't hear about it and stop the allowance. Listen, I've got to take off now. Due at the Project. How about coming out with me and see the setup for yourself, it's wild? Dr. Wolands likes visitors. Gordon, this is a whole new approach to a crucial human function. Look at it this way, here's a thing you do every day of your life, yet you're a blank about it. It's like your knuckles cracking, the most intimate thing and you don't know what's going on. They're studying every aspect at the Project, they go into it real deep, it'll open your eyes..."

I had to go, of course. There were witless laminations between Quentin and Vicki, not as many as he would like, more than she warmed to. They made a leaky sandwich which had insinuated itself into my life, leaking from all sides. I felt a need to trace it to the bughouse short-order kitchen in which it had been put together, called, for some reason, the Sleep Project. To get this picture straight, I would have climbed any Mah Own Tang Quentin led me up. Followed him into any unhinged heaven, even if the temperature was seven. Had his name been Mao, I'd still gao.

As we drove along, Quentin told me something about Victoria Paylow. Graduate student at UCLA in history. Doing master's thesis on the sadom.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic aspects of late medieval sorcery, demonology, witchcraft, black ma.s.ses, and alchemy. Played good guitar. Carried guitar around to play and sing Omen numbers to herself at odd moments. Adored Omen songs, particularly their lyrics, particularly those lyrics written by him, Quentin, Ivar. Her enthusiasm for said lyrics so intense as to suggest she had a big yen for him which she was trying to cover up by refusing to give him her phone number. Very vital presence to have sleeping next to you. Increasingly, the focal point of the increasingly agitated dreams Quentin was having at the Project. More spectacularly stacked than the Queen Mary.

"Quentin," I said cautiously, "about the night of the knuckles. If I recall, you said you started the cracking, then the others joined in?"

"That's the way it went, yes."

"Do you remember why you started it? What train of thought you were in when you began bending your fingers?"

"Oh, I was thinking about Vicki, I guess. These days a major part of my thinking is about Vicki."

"Can you recall what you were thinking about her, exactly?"

"Mmp, well, I guess I was thinking about her skirt. She wears this miniskirt to the Project, see, actually it's more micro than mini, a figleaf stretched just enough to wrap around is what it amounts to. I devote a lot of thought to that flyspeck of a skirt, that iota of a skirt, what you might call that soupcon of a cover, just this side of barea.s.s. I was thinking about that little-as-the-law-allows garment, then about reaching for some scissors, then beginning to snip at the skirt with the scissors. Yep, that's about the sequence. I was cutting away, and humming. And thinking, get this, about the La Brea Tar Pits, thinking they should be called the La Brea Arm Pits, though they're between the legs, and laughing to myself. Then there was this voice. Her voice. I was imagining it, of course, remember I was some miles from my skull from this rich gra.s.s. The voice was loud, deep, and aggressive. Deeper than a ba.s.s. It said, you keep that up and I'll give your hands a whack that'll turn your knuckles to mush. Those are the exact words. The liquid threat first, then it said, fool around like that and I'll crack your knuckles in half, plus each and every other bone in your body. The fracture threat. At that, you can bet, I dropped the imaginary skirt and then the imaginary scissors. All because of this imaginary voice, full of melts and breakages, which rattled my ears. That was when, sure, I began to crack my knuckles. Say, I'm glad you asked this question. It clears some things up. No wonder I got scared from the cracking. Actually I was already scared from the voice's threats against my knuckles."

"So you'd say the nervous cracking stemmed from some prior thoughts, imaginings, about Vicki."

"Gordon, I not only would, I just did."

We rode a while longer.

"Have you ever noticed, Quentin, how often references to fluids and bones come into your conversation?"

"I don't know. Plenty of people talk about fluids and bones, they figure in everybody's life."

"In yours more than in some, I'd say. You like to keep your fluids in one category, your bones in another, and it annoys you when people get the categories mixed. I mention it because just now, when you remembered about this voice, you quoted it as threatening to hammer your knuckles to mush. The concept of reducing your osseous materials to liquid form would seem to disturb you, I think that's a reasonable conclusion. Do you link this concept in any way with Vicki?"

"That's a big batch of silliness, Gordon. True, the threat was in Vicki's voice, but I was hallucinating, the voice was in my head, not coming from the outside."

"True, but it was your head that, after originating the words, put them in Vicki's mouth. You were the author, but it seemed important to put quotes around the words and attribute them to Vicki."

"Gordon, I don't know where you're trying to get with this line of questioning. What's the whole question of solids and liquids got to do with Vicki, anyway?"

"I don't know, Quentin. But I have to ask you to stop cracking your knuckles and put your hands back on the steering wheel before you kill us both."

Scientism is not for me. What are called the laws of Nature I take as gossip. They tell us a balloon filled with hot air rises because of Boyle's Law, specific gravities, etc. I know different. I know that the balloon goes up because the sun sucks it up. How do I come by this information? By empathy, because my own head is often subject to the sun's powerful suction, is heliotropic, so much so that my neck and shoulder muscles are pulled tight a good deal of the time, to keep my head in place. Medical men tell me this is neurotic tension but I know it for a healthy attempt to keep the organism in one piece. The migraine sometimes produced by this muscle strain is healthy, too, the head's rea.s.suring signal, in the only language it has, that it's very much with me against all cosmic sabotage. Again, think about the peculiar behavior of water when the temperature drops below 32 Fahrenheit. This has always struck me as a highly emotional, and sick, reaction to unpleasantness, like the rigidification you see in certain advanced cases of schizophrenia. Well, science puts the stress on matter, art, on manner. This is probably not news to you.

The point is that I understood no part of the laboratory Quentin led me into. The large main room was laced with wires and cables leading to wall panels on which dials jigged and styluses twitched across revolving drums. Off this central room was a row of cubicles visible through wide walls of gla.s.s. Each contained a bed, plus a desk with a typewriter on it. In several of the beds people, men and women, were fast asleep. Electrodes were taped to a.s.sorted parts of the sleepers' bodies, including their skulls. Technicians in white smocks sat in the main room, following the electronic messages being sent out by the sleeping parties. In one cubicle a man in pajamas, apparently just come awake, sat at the desk, typing energetically.

This, Quentin informed me, was the Sleep Center, where that crucial human activity, sleep, was being investigated from every angle, probed to the bottom. It was only in their waking hours, Quentin let me know, that men allowed themselves to be separated by the artificial barriers of color, ethnics, politics, ideology, hunger, territorial imperatives. In their repose all men were one because all slept, and slept alike. Sleep, you might almost say, was humanity's least common denominator, because most common, indeed, universal. Sun makes men aliens to each other and, thus, themselves. Night unites. Mankind could open itself to, and a.s.sert, its true physiological community only with eyes closed. The Sleep Project, by ferreting out the true race-wide nature of sleep, was going to show all men their mutuality. The way to a lasting One World was to be revealed to us by that least likely leader, Morpheus, plus his right-hand men, his buddies, Somnus and Hypnos. In Thanatopsis our eyes would for the first time be opened. We would in the end cast off our false G.o.ds and pay full respect to His Wors.h.i.+p Nod, the Sandman with his ingratiating sands. Something like that. He was very likely going to write a song about it. I couldn't follow the argumentation because I was getting sleepy.

The chief psychologist had joined us during this impromptu lecture. He nodded his approval of the explication by Quentin, now Ivar Nalyd, who, he said, was this lab's champion sleeper, though sometimes carried away in his poeticized claims about the lab's work. Quentin introduced us. The man in the starched smock, truncated, coaly-haired, crisply managerial in manner if pudgy in matter, was Dr. Jerome Wolands. Dr. Wolands greeted my name with the precise opposite of somnolence. He took in so much air so rapidly, I expected all the Pentel pens in his breast pocket to pop.

"Gordon Rengs!" he said. "No! You can't be!"

"I wish they'd told me sooner," I said.

"Gordon Rengs! This is an occasion!"

"For me to leave immediately, unless you calm down."

"No! Fantastic! I've read every word you ever wrote!"

Quentin, Ivar, took this as an occasion, not to leave, not to fall asleep like a champion, simply to put in something obnoxious. He said, "Doc, if those are the only words you've ever read, you're in trouble."

"I'm serious, Mr. Rengs," Wolands said. "In fact, it was a book of yours, Messages, Hints Messages, Hints, that led me to study psychology."

I was not pleased with the undercurrent that he might have been led to psychology to figure out why he read me. Quentin had another interpretation: "I get your meaning, Doc. That book kept putting you to sleep, so you went into the psychology of sleep, to stay awake."

"No, this man's work kept me awake nights," Wolands said. "He raises so many questions about how and why men claw at each other, up to the level of shooting wars, I turned to psychology to find some answers, and get my sleep again. Well. We're certainly honored a man like you should take an interest in our investigations, Mr. Rengs. Believe it or not, through our studies of sleep we're learning a considerable amount about how and why people provoke each other."

"It's a provocative approach," I said. "What's the basic idea, that if you make people sleep a lot you'll cut down on wars?"

"It's not the sleepers who make wars," Wolands reminded me.

"Not while they're sleeping, anyway."