Cascade Point

The Dreamsender

It was always a great day for me when my tiny office was graced by the presence of a paying client, so when I got two jobs in the same day it was cause for a quiet celebration. Riding up the thirty floors between my office and apartment I decided to splurge and cook myself the steak I'd tucked away in the freezer for a special occasion. It was a shame I couldn't have a bottle of wine with it as well, but that was one of the ironies of this job: the only times I could afford to buy good liquor I couldn't afford to drink it. I learned long ago what alcohol did to my performance.

I had just finished changing into more comfortable clothes and was hunting for that steak when the doorbell buzzed. Frowning a bit—I wasn't expecting anyone—I glanced through the peephole. The woman I saw was short, dark, rather plain-looking, and a complete stranger to me. I opened the door.

"Mr. Jefferson Morgan?" she asked without preamble. "The Dreamsender?"

"Yes," I admitted. "What can I do for you, Miss, ah—"

"May I come in?" I stood aside and she brushed past me, moving quickly as if afraid someone would happen by and see her here. I motioned her toward the couch and closed the door.

"My name is Louise Holst," she said as we sat down. "Please forgive me for bothering you at home like this, but I was afraid to come to your office. I didn't want your secretary to hear what I have to tell you."

"As it happens, Miss—ah, Mrs. Holst," I amended, noticing her rings for the first time, "I don't have a secretary. I prefer to meet my clients personally." I didn't add that I couldn't afford a secretary even if I'd wanted one. "What seems to be the trouble?"

She took a deep breath. "Let me start at the begi

"Yes, but Larry isn't a miner. He's in the Signal Corps. But the thing that really worries me is this. I'm afraid I made something of a scene over the phone, ending up threatening to call every hour until he got in. About a half hour later someone else—a lieutenant colonel, I think—called me back. He said he was in charge of Larry's expedition and that they were patching him through from some Farside mining area. He told me that Larry was okay and that I should stop worrying, that they would be back at Krieger in a month or so and Larry could call me then."

"And you don't believe him?" That much was obvious.

"No. He sounded—well, stiff, as if he was watching every word. And he sounded worried and tense. And that was no patch; I've talked over those before, and the reception is terrible. This wasn't like that."

She ran out of words, or breath, or both. I said, "So you think something is wrong with your husband? What?"

"That's what I want you to find out. I'd like to hire you to—to contact him tonight."

Much as I wanted another job, I knew I had to be honest with her. "Mrs. Holst, I'm afraid you have a slight misconception of just what a Dreamsender can do. Basically, dreamsending is—"

"I know all that," she interrupted my standard lecture. "Dreamsending is a limited form of telepathy where the sender appears in a dream of the recipient and delivers a short message. But surely the communication is two-way, isn't it?"

"Of course, but how do I know whether what I'm seeing is truth or fiction?" She looked rather blank, so I went on, "Look, from all I've ever been able to tell, dreams are largely made up of random bits from the memory, perhaps focusing on some current problem or wish. People aren't trained to—well, to think in a dream. Sure, I can tell whether a person I've contacted has gotten the message, and usually whether he really believes that I wasn't just a normal dream. But that's more of an emotional response than a rational one. If I asked a specific question I wouldn't have any idea how much of the answer I could believe. If any of it."

She was silent for a long minute. "I'd like you to try anyway," she said at last. "If you will."

I shrugged. "I'd be happy to."

She reached into her purse and withdrew a photo and an envelope. "Here's your hundred-dollar fee, and this is a picture of Larry."

Captain Holst was young and serious-looking, with wavy hair and large ears. "May I keep this for tonight? I may have to refer to it again later."

"Certainly." She stood up, looking maybe a shade less worried. "When can I find out the results?"

"Come in any time tomorrow or phone. You know where my office is?"

"Yes. But so soon? What if you can't catch Larry in one of his dreaming stages tonight?"

"I don't have to. As long as he's asleep he'll start dreaming when I contact him."

"Oh. Then I'll be in tomorrow, Mr. Morgan. Good night, and thank you."

She left, and I tossed my steak into the micro to cook. Then I sprawled on the couch and mulled over my new job. I myself doubted that there was anything seriously wrong with Hoist, though it might be a problem convincing his wife of that. But at least this job made a change from my usual missing persons or runaway assignments. I picked up Hoists picture and studied it. The unique advantage of dreamsending over other communications was that the Dreamsender didn't need anything but the recipient's name and a fairly recent picture of him. Approximate location was useful, but by no means necessary, and even a wrong location didn't seem to hurt too much. No one knew why; but then again, no one had the slightest idea how any aspect of dreamsending worked. Even though I was having trouble making a living with my talent, it gave me a certain kick to know how thoroughly a score of Dreamsenders were confounding the entire scientific community.

In the kitchen the micro pinged. Tossing the photo onto the couch, I headed for the kitchen, feeling better than I had in weeks. Three clients in one day! Maybe this business was finally going to start paying off.

—

Joa

"Yes?"

"My name is Jefferson Morgan. I'm a Dreamsender in New York. I have a message for you from your parents."

There's always an emotional tremor as the recipient realizes this isn't the way dreams normally go. Joa

"Your uncle Gle

She was wavering now, unsure whether to believe me or to defend herself against emotional shock by declaring this dream to be an ordinary nightmare. Images, emotional bursts, and random words were starting to pop up all over the place. "Please believe me," I said quickly. "Your uncle very much wants to see you. Call your parents to confirm this message or, if you prefer, call the toll-free Dreamsenders number in the phone book. I won't even be offended if you want to consider this some sort of occult clairvoyance—which it isn't—and me some figment of your imagination—which I'm not. But do believe my message. Your parents paid a great deal of money for it and I would hate to see that money wasted."