"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 beginning. My husband, Captain Lawrence Holst, is in the middle of a six-month tour of duty at the army's base in Krieger Crater, on the moon. The day before yesterday was our anniversary, and he had promised he would call me then. He's never broken a promise like that before, so I waited until this morning and then called him. Or, rather, I tried to. The operator at Krieger said he couldn't put me through to Larry, that he was off the base for a few weeks on special duty. When I asked what kind of duty, he got vague and mumbled something about surface mining operations." I shrugged. "They do a lot of that at Krieger, or so I hear. Lots of heavy metals up there."
"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.
—
Joanna Smith was dreaming about an apartment that was somehow attached to—and a part of—an elevator. Only one of the other people in the elevator had a distinct face; probably one of her real-life friends, I decided. Stepping up to Joanna, I said, "Miss Smith?"
"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. Joanna decided to be scared, and she started running. But people don't really go anywhere in dreams and I had no trouble staying alongside her as the scenery flew past us. "Don't be afraid, Miss Smith. I won't hurt you, but I have a very important message to give you." Curiosity was beginning to overcome her fear. I waited, knowing better than to try and deliver my message before she was ready to hear it. Finally she gave in. "What is it?"
"Your uncle Glenn has had a stroke. The doctors aren't sure whether he'll live or not. Your parents knew you would want to see him, but you didn't leave an itinerary for your camping trip and they couldn't find you."
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."
It was a long speech for a dreaming person to hear, but it did the trick. She was finally convinced. I said good-bye and broke the contact, knowing that as I did so she would wake up.
I awoke myself with the slightly disoriented feeling that I always get after sending a dream. Turning on my bedside light, I blinked at the ceiling for a minute, and then reached to the nightstand for Larry Holst's picture. Two down, one to go. As I marshaled my thoughts concerning this message, it occurred to me that I was about to make Dreamsender history: to the best of my knowledge no one had ever before tried dreamsending to the moon. Maybe I would rate a footnote in a history book someday. Snapping off the light, I rolled over and went back to sleep.
Sometime—probably about an hour later—I was in the half-conscious, half- dreaming state that I need to make contact. With a slight effort I formed an image of Captain Holst in my mind. Slowly, an unfamiliar scene appeared around me, and from a mist at the edge of my vision a figure emerged. It was Larry Holst.