: The Catspaw by Smith George O George Oliver Orban Paul Illustrator - Science fiction; Space ships Fiction; Human-alien encounters Fiction; Dreams Fiction; Technology Fiction; Communication Fiction

@FreeBooksThu 08 Jun, 2023

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THE CATSPAW

BY GEORGE O. SMITH

Illustrated by Orban

Thomas Barden slept fitfully. The dream was not nightmare, but it was annoying. It was like the important thought that does not quite struggle up through into consciousness but which remains unformed though the mind is aware of the hidden importance. It was like trying to read small print through a silk screen or to see fine detail through a sheet of florentine glass.

Furthermore it was recurring.

Strangely, Tom Barden seemed to know that there was something strange about the dream, that it was more than just the ramblings of the subconscious mind. He knew that there was something to be gained by permitting the dream to run while he watched, so to speak. But the trouble was that the dream could not run so long as he remained cognizant enough in sleep to make mental notes. When he slept deep enough to permit the strange dream, he was deep enough to lose track of the 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 lying wide awake time and again with strange semi-daydreams in which conscious thought and dream intermingled in a bizarre fantasy of fact and fiction.

He had been asleep or awake for hours. It was nearing four o'clock in the morning when Tom Barden slipped into a prolonged half-sleep and the dream, as it had before, came again.

He slipped into sleep and in dream, he saw himself luxuriously lounging on a broad couch. Above his head was a draped canopy of silk, its draped folds hanging low in a gorgeous pattern of silken folds. It was gently tinted in delicate colors that blended in a complete lack of regular pattern. It seemed more beautiful for lacking pattern than it could have been with any regularity.

It was none-ending, that canopy. From the draped dome above his couch the silken cyclorama fell in a colorful swirl to the floor where it folded over and over somewhere miles below the couch.

He--was isolated. He was protected. No intrusion could come even though Thomas Barden wanted the intrusion. Certainly if he denied entry, nothing could enter.

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