The Reincarnation of Peter Proud by Max Ehrlich Read Free Book Online Page A

scalp, and ear lobe, and just over the eyes.
    “How does this stuff feel?”
    “Pretty sticky.”
    “It’s colloidal glue. Used to patch up professional boxers. We’ve found it works better than adhesive tape.”
    He patched other electrodes which measured heartbeat to Peter’s chest, and still others to his arms. These, he explained, were part of the electromyograph setup used to measure micromuscle activity. He connected a photocell device attached to the bedsprings which would record those periods in which Peter would toss and turn in his sleep.
    Then Goodman turned off the lights. “Goodnight, Pete. Happy alpha and delta rhythms.”
    The door closed and Peter was alone. He lay there feeling ridiculous, like some mechanical man wired for sight and sound. Wires sprouting out of his head like the Medusa.
    After a long time, he fell asleep.
    He checked in at the Sleep Lab every night for the next ten days.
    First Charlie Townsend would wire him up. Then sleep. Then the raucous bell would sound, and he would wake up abruptly. Then Townsend’s voice, over the speaker in his cubbyhole:
    “Tell us about your dream, Seven.”
    And always the same answer. “I don’t remember any dream.”
    Each night, they woke him three or four times. Each time he could remember nothing about any dreams. Not at that point. Not at the time they woke him up. He never remembered any dream when he was
supposed
to.
    Yet, at the times he wasn’t supposed to be dreaming, when his eyes showed no rapid movement and the valley patterns on the EEG showed all quiet, he experienced them all.
    By actual count, he had the Lake Dream three times, the Automobile Dream, the House Dream, the Tree Dream, and the Tennis Dream twice, and the rest of them once. Throughout, as always, they were his constant companions.
    Whenever he checked in at the lab, he sensed that he was an object of some curiosity on the part of the staff. They stared at him, then turned away. He became increasingly aware that there was something special about his case. He tried to pump Charlie Townsend about it. But Townsend said, simply, “Sorry. I’m not supposed to discuss anything with you. Not until the data’s all in and I get clearance from Doctor Goodman.”
    It was “Doctor Goodman” now, instead of “Sam.” Peter found this a little too professional, a little too serious. It made him uneasy. They were all acting too damned mysterious. There was altogether too much hush-hush where he was concerned.
    He noted that ever since the first night, Goodman had not appeared at the lab. It was as though he were avoiding some personal confrontation with Peter. Peter called him three times at his office before he finally answered.
    “Sam, what’s my diagnosis?”
    It seemed to him that Goodman’s voice was guarded.
    “Can’t give any results till all the horses are in, Pete.”
    “When will that be?”
    “In a couple of days.”
    “Look, isn’t there
something
you could tell me?”
    “Take it easy, Pete. I told you, I’ll need a few more days.”
    He hung up. Something told him Sam Goodman was stalling. There was a certain tautness in his voice, a strain, an evasiveness. Or so it seemed. But then he thought, maybe I’m just imagining all this, looking for some kind of bogeyman.
    He slept in the lab ten nights in a row. On the eleventh day he called Goodman again.
    “Sam, it’s been a few more days. Now, let’s talk about it, okay?”
    There was a long pause at the other end. Then he heard a sigh.
    “Okay, Pete. My office. Four o’clock this afternoon.”
    Sam Goodman put a match to his pipe. It went out. He tried another.
    “Pete, we’ve come to some conclusions. Or, rather, conjectures.”
    “Yes?”
    “At first we thought you were simply an extreme case of dream amnesia. But after a few arousals, it’s clear to us that you’re suffering from what we can dream deprivation. A certain amount of this isn’t unusual. But yours is total. You’re a man who