Gateway - Frederik Pohl Page 0,33

PV screen. Full of beer and weed, we cut cards for first pick and I won.

Something happened inside my head. I didn't sober up, really. That wasn't it. I was still feeling cheerful and sort of warm all over and open to all personality signals that were coming in. But a part of my mind opened up and a pair of clear-seeing eyes peered out at the future and made a judgment. "Well," I said, "I guess I'll pass my chance right now. Sess, you're number two; you take your pick."

"Thirty-one-oh-nine," he said promptly; all the Forehands had made up their minds in family meeting, long since. "Thanks, Rob."

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I gave him a carefree, drunken wave. He didn't really owe me anything. That was a One, and I wouldn't have taken a One for any price. For that matter, there wasn't anything on the board I liked. I grinned at Klara and winked; she looked serious for a minute, then winked back, but still looked serious. I knew she realized what I had come to understand: all these launches were rejects. The best ones had been snapped up as soon as they were announced by returnees and permanent-party.

Sheri had drawn fifth pick, and when it came her turn she looked directly at me. "I'm going to take that Three if I can fill it up. What about it, Rob? Are you going to come or not?"

I chuckled. "Sheri," I said, sweetly reasonable, "there's not a returnee that wants it. It's an armored job. You don't know where the hell it might be going. And there's far too much green in the guidance panel to suit me." (Nobody really knew what the colors meant, of course, but there was a superstition in the school that a lot of green meant a superdangerous mission.)

"It's the only open Three, and there's a bonus."

"Not me, honey. Ask Klara; she's been around a long time and I respect her judgment."

"I'm asking you, Rob."

"No. I'll wait for something better."

"I'm not waiting, Rob. I already talked to Willa Forehand, and she's agreeable. If worse comes to worst we'll fill it out with— anybody at all," she said, looking at the Finnish kid, smiling drunkenly to himself as he stared at the launch board. "But — you and I did say we were going out together."

I shook my head.

"So stay here and rot," she flared. "Your girlfriend's just as scared as you are!"

Those sober eyes inside my skull looked at Klara, and the frozen, unmoving expression on her face; and, wonderingly, I realized Sheri was right. Klara was like me. We were both afraid to go.

Chapter 11

I say to Sigfrid, "This isn't going to be a very productive session, I'm afraid. I'm just plain exhausted. Sexually, if you know what I mean."

"I certainly do know what you mean, Rob."

"So I don't have much to talk about."

"Do you remember any dreams?"

I squirm on the couch. As it happens, I do remember one or two. I say, "No." Sigfrid is always after me to tell him my dreams. I don't like it.

When he first suggested it I told him I didn't dream very often. He said patiently, "I think you know, Rob, that everyone dreams. You may not remember the dreams in the waking state. But you can, if you try."

"No, I can't. You can. You're a machine."

"I know I'm a machine, Rob, but we're talking about you. Will you try an experiment?"

"Maybe."

"It isn't hard. Keep a pencil and a piece of paper beside your bed. As soon as you wake up, write down what you remember."

"But I don't ever remember anything at all about my dreams."

"I think it's worth a try, Rob."

Well, I did. And, you know, I actually did begin to remember my dreams. Little tiny fragments, at first. And I'd write them down, and sometimes I would tell them to Sigfrid and they would make him as happy as anything. He just loved dreams.

Me, I didn't see much use in it… Well, not at first. But then something happened that made a Christian out of me.

One morning I woke up out of a dream that