renegade Nomads.
The Dreamer waited in his library. Rather than spend the afternoon exchanging inanities with the Agent on the patio, he sent the serving-cart out with a tray of food and drink and retired to the sanctity of his books, leaving the guardian of his security gorging with both trotters in the trough. Reading was of no help; too much was at stake. Sondak sat, listlessly turning the pages of a folio edition of Hogarth’s Marriage à la Mode, while the computer played Scarlatti.
When the announcement came that Omar Tarquille had awakened, the Dreamer asked the computer to direct him to the library. Prepared to be stoic in the face of bad news, Sondak was taken off guard by the Executive’s enthusiastic entrance: “Par, it’s incredible! Why, it’s every bit as fantastic as one of your Dreams, with the immediacy of a D.E.M. You’re a genius, Par. How did you ever think of it? I’ll give you a Syndicate pledge for five years of credit … no, make it ten; ten years of credit for the market rights on this.”
Sondak attempted to conceal his elation with a show of indifference. “Well ...I hadn’t thought. It’s hard to set a price …”
“Nonsense! If I were dealt four aces, I’d play the hand, not sit back and admire my cards.”
“All right. In that case, make it fifty years and it’s yours.”
“A little steep, Par, considering you’ll still get your usual percentages; but, I’m willing to gamble. In fact, have your computer get the modes ready for an agreement.”
“How about a drink to seal the bargain? I have some brandy here of which I’m quite proud.”
Two glasses were filled; Omar Tarquille lifted his in salute. “To the incredible Buick,” he said. The chime of touching crystal was echoed by the pealing clock. “I must be off, Par, the trajectory to the City takes at least an hour. To speed things up, why don’t you transfer the Nomad’s signal to the machines in my office. That would leave your studio free for dreaming, if the urge should strike you. In fact, it might be a good idea if you put all the modemat you’ve got on the waves to me right away; the sooner I get it, the sooner we can begin serialization.”
“Don’t you trust me with the mixing?”
“Par, why trouble yourself with technicalities? Leave the busy work to those without imagination. Take some time off and conjure up a good dream. After all, you’ve got fifty years to spare.”
That night, Par Sondak was in no mood for the library. Reading was impossible. He couldn’t concentrate. His mind skipped from line to line until he was skimming pages like a child pretending to be literate. The ticking of the clock drove him from the room. He started on a restless walk through the flower beds only to turn back abruptly to the house before he was gone ten minutes. By giving up his modes, the Dreamer could no longer regard the interlude with Buick in the light of scholarship. It ceased being an experiment the moment he transferred the signal to the City. He could still monitor the Nomad in his studio but he hesitated to admit, even to himself, that the boy had become such an obsession. Only when he began considering the projection-booth as an alternative (holograms, the last refuge of the lonely) did he quit cursing Omar Tarquille for leaving him without an excuse and hurry to his studio.
This time, he made sure to record a message with the computer stating that he was on a two-month dream-holiday and would be unavailable for conferences. The intravenous feeding schedule was programmed and instructions were left with the clinic for his daily inoculations. A man with fifty years’ credit could afford a little self-indulgence. In a few months, he would have to share Buick with a host of paying customers; but, for the time being, the public was uninvited. Par Sondak adjusted elastic straps and electrodes, slipping the crown of probe-receptors tightly onto his bald head before he climbed into the padded
The Dreamer waited in his library. Rather than spend the afternoon exchanging inanities with the Agent on the patio, he sent the serving-cart out with a tray of food and drink and retired to the sanctity of his books, leaving the guardian of his security gorging with both trotters in the trough. Reading was of no help; too much was at stake. Sondak sat, listlessly turning the pages of a folio edition of Hogarth’s Marriage à la Mode, while the computer played Scarlatti.
When the announcement came that Omar Tarquille had awakened, the Dreamer asked the computer to direct him to the library. Prepared to be stoic in the face of bad news, Sondak was taken off guard by the Executive’s enthusiastic entrance: “Par, it’s incredible! Why, it’s every bit as fantastic as one of your Dreams, with the immediacy of a D.E.M. You’re a genius, Par. How did you ever think of it? I’ll give you a Syndicate pledge for five years of credit … no, make it ten; ten years of credit for the market rights on this.”
Sondak attempted to conceal his elation with a show of indifference. “Well ...I hadn’t thought. It’s hard to set a price …”
“Nonsense! If I were dealt four aces, I’d play the hand, not sit back and admire my cards.”
“All right. In that case, make it fifty years and it’s yours.”
“A little steep, Par, considering you’ll still get your usual percentages; but, I’m willing to gamble. In fact, have your computer get the modes ready for an agreement.”
“How about a drink to seal the bargain? I have some brandy here of which I’m quite proud.”
Two glasses were filled; Omar Tarquille lifted his in salute. “To the incredible Buick,” he said. The chime of touching crystal was echoed by the pealing clock. “I must be off, Par, the trajectory to the City takes at least an hour. To speed things up, why don’t you transfer the Nomad’s signal to the machines in my office. That would leave your studio free for dreaming, if the urge should strike you. In fact, it might be a good idea if you put all the modemat you’ve got on the waves to me right away; the sooner I get it, the sooner we can begin serialization.”
“Don’t you trust me with the mixing?”
“Par, why trouble yourself with technicalities? Leave the busy work to those without imagination. Take some time off and conjure up a good dream. After all, you’ve got fifty years to spare.”
That night, Par Sondak was in no mood for the library. Reading was impossible. He couldn’t concentrate. His mind skipped from line to line until he was skimming pages like a child pretending to be literate. The ticking of the clock drove him from the room. He started on a restless walk through the flower beds only to turn back abruptly to the house before he was gone ten minutes. By giving up his modes, the Dreamer could no longer regard the interlude with Buick in the light of scholarship. It ceased being an experiment the moment he transferred the signal to the City. He could still monitor the Nomad in his studio but he hesitated to admit, even to himself, that the boy had become such an obsession. Only when he began considering the projection-booth as an alternative (holograms, the last refuge of the lonely) did he quit cursing Omar Tarquille for leaving him without an excuse and hurry to his studio.
This time, he made sure to record a message with the computer stating that he was on a two-month dream-holiday and would be unavailable for conferences. The intravenous feeding schedule was programmed and instructions were left with the clinic for his daily inoculations. A man with fifty years’ credit could afford a little self-indulgence. In a few months, he would have to share Buick with a host of paying customers; but, for the time being, the public was uninvited. Par Sondak adjusted elastic straps and electrodes, slipping the crown of probe-receptors tightly onto his bald head before he climbed into the padded
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