Collected Stories Of Arthur C. Clarke (123 page)

‘“Give us a shout,” he said sleepily, “if you feel anything unusual. No point in us staying up any longer.” A moment later Sigmund, still somewhat mystified, was the only conscious person in the room.

‘He read a dozen copies of
Punch
stamped “Not to Be Removed from the Common Room” until it was 2 a.m. He polished off all the
Saturday Evening Posts
by 4. A small bundle of
New Yorkers
kept him busy until 5, when he had a stroke of luck. An exclusive diet of caviar soon grows monotonous, and Sigmund was delighted to discover a limp and much-thumbed volume entitled
The Blonde Was Willing
. This engaged his full attention until dawn, when Uncle Hymie gave a convulsive start, shot out of his chair, woke Irma with a well-directed slap, and then turned his full attention towards Sigmund.

‘“Well, my boy,” he said, with a hearty cheerfulness that at once alerted Sigmund’s suspicions. “I’ve done what you wanted. You passed the night without snoring, didn’t you?”

‘Sigmund put down the Willing Blonde, who was now in a situation where her co-operation or lack of it would make no difference at all.

‘“I didn’t snore,” he admitted. “But I didn’t sleep either.”

‘“You still feel perfectly wide awake?”

‘“Yes – I don’t understand it at all.”

‘Uncle Hymie and Irma exchanged triumphant glances. “You’ve made history, Sigmund,” said the professor. ‘You’re the first man to be able to do without sleep.” And so the news was broken to the astonished and not yet indignant guinea pig.

‘I know,’ continued Harry Purvis, not altogether accurately, ‘that many of you would like the scientific details of Uncle Hymie’s discovery. But I don’t know them, and if I did they would be too technical to give here. I’ll merely point out, since I see some expressions which a less trusting man might describe as sceptical, that there is nothing really startling about such a development. Sleep, after all, is a highly variable factor. Look at Edison, who managed on two or three hours a day right up to the end of his life. It’s true that men can’t go without sleep indefinitely – but some animals can, so it clearly isn’t a fundamental part of metabolism.’

‘
What
animals can go without sleep?’ asked somebody, not so much in disbelief as out of pure curiosity.

‘Well – er – of course! – the fish that live out in deep water beyond the continental shelf. If they ever fall asleep, they’d be snapped up by other fish, or they’d lose their trim and sink to the bottom. So they’ve got to keep awake all of their lives.’

(I am still, by the way, trying to find if this statement of Harry’s is true. I’ve never caught him out yet on a scientific fact, though once or twice I’ve had to give him the benefit of the doubt. But back to Uncle Hymie.)

‘It took some time,’ continued Harry, ‘for Sigmund to realise what an astonishing thing had been done to him. An enthusiastic commentary from his uncle, enlarging upon all the glorious possibilities that had been opened up for him now that he had been freed from the tyranny of sleep, made it difficult to concentrate on the problem. But presently he was able to raise the question that had been worrying him. “How long will this last?” he enquired.

‘The professor and Irma looked at each other. Then Uncle Hymie coughed a little nervously and replied: “We’re not quite sure yet. That’s one thing we’ve got to find out. It’s perfectly possible that the effect will be permanent.”

‘“You mean that I’ll never be able to sleep again?”

‘“Not ‘Never be able to.’ ‘Never
want
to.’ However, I could probably work out some way of reversing the process if you’re really anxious. Cost a lot of money, though.”

‘Sigmund left hastily, promising to keep in touch and to report his progress every day. His brain was still in a turmoil, but first he had to find his wife and to convince her that he would never snore again.

‘She was quite willing to believe him, and they had a touching reunion. But in the small hours of next morning it got very dull lying there with no one to talk to, and presently Sigmund tiptoed away from his sleeping wife. For the first time, the full reality of his position was beginning to dawn upon him; what on earth was he going to do with the extra eight hours a day that had descended upon him as an unwanted gift?

‘You might think that Sigmund had a wonderful – indeed an unprecedented – opportunity for leading a fuller life by acquiring that culture and knowledge which we all felt we’d like – if only we had the time to do something about it. He could read every one of the great classics that are just names to most people; he could study art, music or philosophy, and fill his mind with all the finest treasures of the human intellect. In fact, a good many of you are probably envying him right now.

‘Well, it didn’t work out that way. The fact of the matter is that even the highest-grade mind needs some relaxation, and cannot devote itself to serious pursuits indefinitely. It was true that Sigmund had no further need of sleep, but he needed entertainment to occupy him during the long, empty hours of darkness.

‘Civilisation, he soon discovered, was not designed to fit the requirements of a man who couldn’t sleep. He might have been better off in Paris or New York, but in London practically everything closed down at 11 p.m., only a few coffee bars were still open at midnight, and by 1 a.m. – well, the less said about any establishments still operating, the better.

‘At first, when the weather was good, he occupied his time going for long walks, but after several encounters with inquisitive and sceptical policemen he gave this up. So he took to the car and drove all over London during the small hours, discovering all sorts of odd places he never knew existed. He soon had a nodding acquaintance with many night watchmen, Covent Garden porters and milkmen, as well as Fleet Street journalists and printers who had to work while the rest of the world slept. But as Sigmund was not the sort of person who took a great interest in his fellow human beings, this amusement soon palled and he was thrown back upon his own limited resources.

‘His wife, as might be expected, was not at all happy about his nocturnal wanderings. He had told her the whole story, and though she had found it hard to believe she was forced to accept the evidence of her own eyes. But having done so, it seemed that she would prefer a husband who snored and stayed at home to one who tiptoed away around midnight and was not always back by breakfast.

‘This upset Sigmund greatly. He had spent or promised a good deal of money (as he kept reminding Rachel) and taken a considerable personal risk to cure himself of his malaise. And was she grateful? No; she just wanted an itemised account of the time he spent when he should have been sleeping but wasn’t. It was most unfair and showed a lack of trust which he found very disheartening.

‘Slowly the secret spread through a wider circle, though the Snorings (who were a very close-knit clan) managed to keep it inside the family. Uncle Lorenz, who was in the diamond business, suggested that Sigmund take up a second job as it seemed a pity to waste all that additional working time. He produced a list of one-man occupations, which could be carried on equally easily by day or night, but Sigmund thanked him kindly and said he saw no reason why he should pay two lots of income tax.

‘By the end of six weeks of twenty-four-hour days, Sigmund had had enough. He felt he couldn’t read another book, go to another night club or listen to another gramophone record. His great gift, which many foolish men would have paid a fortune to possess, had become an intolerable burden. There was nothing to do but to go and see Uncle Hymie again.

‘The professor had been expecting him, and there was no need to threaten legal proceedings, to appeal to the solidarity of the Snorings, or to make pointed remarks about breach of contract.

‘“All right, all right,” grumbled the scientist. “I don’t believe in casting pearls before swine. I knew you’d want the antidote sooner or later, and because I’m a generous man it’ll only cost you fifty guineas. But don’t blame me if you snore worse than ever.”

‘“I’ll take that risk,” said Sigmund. As far as he and Rachel were concerned, it had come to separate rooms anyway by this time.

‘He averted his gaze as the professor’s assistant (not Irma this time, but an angular brunette) filled a terrifyingly large hypodermic with Uncle Hymie’s latest brew. Before he had absorbed half of it, he had fallen asleep.

‘For once, Uncle Hymie looked quite disconcerted. “I didn’t expect it to act
that
fast,” he said. “Well, let’s get him to bed – we can’t have him lying around the lab.”

‘By the next morning, Sigmund was still fast asleep and showed no reactions to any stimuli. His breathing was imperceptible; he seemed to be in a trance rather than a slumber, and the professor was getting a little alarmed.

‘His worry did not last for long, however. A few hours later an angry guinea pig bit him on the finger, blood poisoning set in, and the editor of
Nature
was just able to get the obituary notice into the current issue before it went to press.

‘Sigmund slept through all this excitement and was still blissfully unconscious when the family got back from the Golders Green Crematorium and assembled for a council of war.
De mortuis nil nisi bonum
, but it was obvious that the late Professor Hymie had made another unfortunate mistake, and no one knew how to set about unravelling it.

‘Cousin Meyer, who ran a furniture store in the Mile End Road, offered to take charge of Sigmund if he could use him on display in his shop window to demonstrate the luxury of the beds he stocked. However, it was felt that this would be too undignified, and the family vetoed the scheme.

‘But it gave them ideas. By now they were getting a little fed up with Sigmund; this flying from one extreme to another was really too much. So why not take the easy way out and, as one wit expressed it, let sleeping Sigmunds lie?

‘There was no point in calling in another expensive expert who might only make matters worse (though how, no one could quite imagine). It cost nothing to feed Sigmund, he required only a modicum of medical attention, and while he was sleeping there was certainly no danger of him breaking the terms of Granduncle Reuben’s will. When this argument was rather tactfully put to Rachel, she quite saw the strength of it. The policy demanded required a certain amount of patience, but the ultimate reward would be considerable.

‘The more Rachel examined it, the more she liked the idea. The thought of being a wealthy near-widow appealed to her; it had such interesting and novel possibilites. And, to tell the truth, she had had quite enough of Sigmund to last her for the five years until he came into his inheritance.

‘In due course that time arrived and Sigmund became a semi-demi-millionaire. However, he still slept soundly – and in all those five years he had never snored once. He looked so peaceful lying there that it seemed a pity to wake him up, even if anyone knew exactly how to set about it. Rachel felt strongly that ill-advised tampering might have unfortunate consequences, and the family, after assuring itself that she could only get at the interest on Sigmund’s fortune and not at the capital, was inclined to agree with her.

‘And that was several years ago. When I last heard of him, Sigmund was still peacefully sleeping, while Rachel was having a perfectly wonderful time on the Riviera. She is quite a shrewd woman, as you may have guessed, and I think she realises how convenient it might be to have a youthful husband in cold storage for her old age.

‘There are times, I must admit, when I think it’s rather a pity that Uncle Hymie never had a chance of revealing his remarkable discoveries to the world. But Sigmund proved that our civilisation isn’t yet ripe for such changes, and I hope I’m not around when some other physiologist starts the whole thing over again.’

Harry looked at the clock. ‘Good lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d no idea it was so late – I feel half asleep.’ He picked up his briefcase, stifled a yawn, and smiled benignly at us.

‘Happy dreams, everybody,’ he said.

Security Check

First published in
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction
, June 1957

Collected in
The Other Side of the Sky

It is often said that in our age of assembly lines and mass production there’s no room for the individual craftsman, the artist in wood or metal who made so many of the treasures of the past. Like most generalisations, this simply isn’t true. He’s rarer now, of course, but he’s certainly not extinct. He has often had to change his vocation, but in his modest way he still flourishes. Even on the island of Manhattan he may be found, if you know where to look for him. Where rents are low and fire regulations unheard of, his minute, cluttered workshops may be discovered in the basements of apartment houses or in the upper storeys of derelict shops. He may no longer make violins or cuckoo clocks or music boxes, but the skills he uses are the same as they always were, and no two objects he creates are ever identical. He is not contemptuous of mechanisation: you will find several electric hand tools under the debris on his bench. He has moved with the times: he will always be around, the universal odd-job man who is never aware of it when he makes an immortal work of art.