Illustrated by Orban
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astounding Science-Fiction, September 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Thomas Barden slept fitfully. The dream was not nightmare, but itwas annoying. It was like the important thought that does not quitestruggle up through into consciousness but which remains unformedthough the mind is aware of the hidden importance. It was like tryingto read small print through a silk screen or to see fine detail througha sheet of florentine glass.
Furthermore it was recurring.
Strangely, Tom Barden seemed to know that there was something strangeabout the dream, that it was more than just the ramblings of thesubconscious mind. He knew that there was something to be gainedby permitting the dream to run while he watched, so to speak. Butthe trouble was that the dream could not run so long as he remainedcognizant enough in sleep to make mental notes. When he slept deepenough to permit the strange dream, he was deep enough to lose track ofthe delicate, and so very alien, train of thought.
The fitful sleep itself was a contributing factor to ultimate success.Since he slept not, he became drowsily tired and found himself lyingwide awake time and again with strange semi-daydreams in whichconscious thought and dream intermingled in a bizarre fantasy of factand fiction.
He had been asleep or awake for hours. It was nearing four o'clock inthe morning when Tom Barden slipped into a prolonged half-sleep and thedream, as it had before, came again.
He slipped into sleep and in dream, he saw himself luxuriously loungingon a broad couch. Above his head was a draped canopy of silk, itsdraped folds hanging low in a gorgeous pattern of silken folds. It wasgently tinted in delicate colors that blended in a complete lack ofregular pattern. It seemed more beautiful for lacking pattern than itcould have been with any regularity.
It was none-ending, that canopy. From the draped dome above his couchthe silken cyclorama fell in a colorful swirl to the floor where itfolded over and over somewhere miles below the couch.
He—was isolated. He was protected. No intrusion could come even thoughThomas Barden wanted the intrusion. Certainly if he denied entry,nothing could enter.
And yet he knew that beyond the many layers of flowing silk there wassomething demanding entry. He could not see nor hear the would-beintruder. He could not even see motion of the silk to show that therewas such a being. Yet he seemed to sense it.
And when, finally, the intruder breached the outer layers of shroudingsilk, Tom Barden knew it and was glad. Course after course of silkenscreen was opened by the intruder until finally the silk parted beforehis eyes and there entered—
Sentience!
It was without form and void.
But it was sentience and it was there for a definite purpose. It cameand it hovered over Thomas Barden's broad couch and its thoughts wereapparent. It was in communication with another sentience outside—
"I am in."
"Good," was the mental reply, also clear to Thomas Barden. It wasnot a direct communication from the other. It came relayed throughthe sentience above his bed, and since he was in direct mentalcommunication with the other, thought and reply were clear also toBarden. "Good," replied the other. "Be quick and be thorough. We maynever return!"
"You, sentience, listen for we have too little time. Those of yoursystem are numbered in the billions, and, of them all, you are the onlyone we have been able to contact though we have tr