The Star (18 page)
‘Yet I don’t want you to think that nothing more will ever come of the whole project; you ought to know American publicity men better than that. Freda may be in suspended animation, but one day she’ll be revived. All the plans are ready, down to such little details as the accidental presence of a Hollywood film unit on Miami Beach when Freda comes sailing in from the Atlantic.
‘So this is one of those stories I can’t round off to a nice, neat ending. The preliminary skirmishes have taken place, but the main engagement is still to come. And this is the thing I often wonder about—
what will Florida do to the Californians when it discovers what’s going on
? Any suggestions, anybody?’
First published in
Infinity Science Fiction
, April 1957
Collected in
Tales from the White Hart
It was one of those halfhearted discussions that is liable to get going in the ‘White Hart’ when no one can think of anything better to argue about. We were trying to recall the most extraordinary names we’d ever encountered, and I had just contributed ‘Obediah Polkinghorn’ when—inevitably—Harry Purvis got into the act.
‘It’s easy enough to dig up odd names,’ he said, reprimanding us for our levity, ‘but have you ever stopped to consider a much more fundamental point—the
effects
of those names on their owners? Sometimes, you know, such a thing can warp a man’s entire life. That is what happened to young Sigmund Snoring.’
‘Oh, no!’ groaned Charles Willis, one of Harry’s most implacable critics. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Do you imagine,’ said Harry indignantly, ‘that I’d
invent
a name like that? As a matter of fact, Sigmund’s family name was something Jewish from Central Europe: it began with SCH and went on for quite a while in that vein. “Snoring” was just an anglicised précis of it. However, all this is by the way: I wish people wouldn’t make me waste time on such details.’
Charlie, who is the most promising author I know (he has been promising for more than twenty-five years) started to make vaguely protesting noises, but someone public spiritedly diverted him with a glass of beer.
‘Sigmund,’ continued Harry, ‘bore his burden bravely enough until he reached manhood. There is little doubt, however, that his name preyed upon his mind, and finally produced what you might call a psychosomatic result. If Sigmund had been born of any other parents, I am sure that he would not have become a stertorous and incessant snorer in fact as well as—almost—in name.
‘Well, there are worse tragedies in life. Sigmund’s family had a fair amount of money, and a soundproofed bedroom protected the remainder of the household from sleepless nights. As is usually the case, Sigmund was quite unaware of his own nocturnal symphonies, and could never really understand what all the fuss was about.
‘It was not until he got married that he was compelled to take his affliction—if you can call it that, for it only inflicted itself on other people—as seriously as it deserved. There is nothing unusual in a young bride returning from her honeymoon in a somewhat distracted condition, but poor Rachel Snoring had been through a uniquely shattering experience. She was red-eyed with lack of sleep, and any attempt to get sympathy from her friends only made them dissolve into peals of laughter. So it was not surprising that she gave Sigmund an ultimatum; unless he did something about his snoring, the marriage was off.
‘Now this was a very serious matter for both Sigmund and his family. They were fairly well-to-do, but by no means rich—unlike Granduncle Reuben, who had died last year leaving a rather complicated will. He had taken quite a fancy to Sigmund, and had left a considerable sum of money in trust for him, which he would receive when he was thirty. Unfortunately, Granduncle Reuben was very old-fashioned and straitlaced, and did not altogether trust the modern generation. One of the conditions of the bequest was that Sigmund should not be divorced or separated before the designated date. If he was, the money would go to found an orphanage in Tel Aviv.
‘It was a difficult situation, and there is no way of guessing how it would have resolved itself had not someone suggested that Sigmund ought to go and see Uncle Hymie. Sigmund was not at all keen on this, but desperate predicaments demanded desperate remedies; so he went.
‘Uncle Hymie, I should explain, was a very distinguished professor of physiology, and a Fellow of the Royal Society with a whole string of papers to his credit. He was also, at the moment, somewhat short of money, owing to a quarrel with the trustees of his college, and had been compelled to stop work on some of his pet research projects. To add to his annoyance, the Physics Department had just been given half a million pounds for a new synchrotron, so he was in no pleasant mood when his unhappy nephew called upon him.
‘Trying to ignore the all-pervading smell of disinfectant and livestock, Sigmund followed the lab steward along rows of incomprehensible equipment, and past cages of mice and guinea pigs, frequently averting his eyes from the revolting coloured diagrams which occupied so much wall space. He found his uncle sitting at a bench, drinking tea from a beaker and absentmindedly nibbling sandwiches.
‘“Help yourself,” he said ungraciously. “Roast hamster—delicious. One of the litter we used for some cancer tests. What’s the trouble?”
‘Pleading lack of appetite, Sigmund told his distinguished uncle his tale of woe. The professor listened without much sympathy.
‘“Don’t know what you got married for,” he said at last. “Complete waste of time.” Uncle Hymie was known to possess strong views on this subject, having had five children but no wives. “Still, we might be able to do something. How much money have you got?”
‘“Why?” asked Sigmund, somewhat taken aback. The professor waved his arms around the lab.
‘“Costs a lot to run all this,” he said.
‘“But I thought the university—”
‘“Oh yes—but any special work will have to be under the counter, as it were. I can’t use college funds for it.”
‘“Well, how much will you need to get started?”
‘Uncle Hymie mentioned a sum which was rather smaller than Sigmund had feared, but his satisfaction did not last for long. The scientist, it soon transpired, was fully acquainted with Granduncle Reuben’s will; Sigmund would have to draw up a contract promising him a share of the loot when, in five years’ time, the money became his. The present payment was merely an advance.
‘“Even so, I don’t promise anything, but I’ll see what can be done,” said Uncle Hymie, examining the cheque carefully. “Come and see me in a month.”
‘That was all that Sigmund could get out of him, for the professor was then distracted by a highly decorative research student in a sweater which appeared to have been sprayed on her. They started discussing the domestic affairs of the lab’s rats in such terms that Sigmund, who was easily embarrassed, had to beat a hasty retreat.
‘Now, I don’t really think that Uncle Hymie would have taken Sigmund’s money unless he was fairly sure he could deliver the goods. He must, therefore, have been quite near the completion of his work when the university had slashed his funds; certainly he could never have produced, in a mere four weeks, whatever complex mixture of chemicals it was that he injected into his hopeful nephew’s arm a month after receiving the cash. The experiment was carried out at the professor’s own home, late one evening; Sigmund was not too surprised to find the lady research student in attendance.
‘“What will this stuff
do
?” he asked.
‘“It will stop you snoring—I hope,” answered Uncle Hymie. “Now, here’s a nice comfortable seat, and a pile of magazines to read. Irma and I will take turns keeping an eye on you in case there are any side reactions.”
‘“Side reactions?” said Sigmund anxiously, rubbing his arm.
‘“Don’t worry—just take it easy. In a couple of hours we’ll know if it works.”
‘So Sigmund waited for sleep to come, while the two scientists fussed about him (not to mention around each other) taking readings of blood pressure, pulse, temperature and generally making Sigmund feel like a chronic invalid. When midnight arrived, he was not at all sleepy, but the professor and his assistant were almost dead on their feet. Sigmund realised that they had been working long hours on his behalf, and felt a gratitude which was quite touching during the short period while it lasted.
‘Midnight came and passed. Irma folded up and the professor laid her, none too gently, on the couch. “You’re quite sure you don’t feel tired yet?” he yawned at Sigmund.
‘“Not a bit. It’s very odd; I’m usually fast asleep by this time.”
‘“You feel perfectly all right?”
‘“Never felt better.”
‘There was another vast yawn from the professor. He muttered something like, “Should have taken some of it myself,” then subsided into an armchair.
‘“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. And 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.
