saying”–with a sidelong glance–“that it first showed on the tactile level.”
Ruth pulled a face at him, which broke down into a grin.
“Hearing and smell followed concurrently, and sight was affected last. I seem to be able to adjust far faster than before to low light-levels; the rod-cone change-over is almost under voluntary control. As for the senses we don’t normally call, senses … Ruth, that can of fruit-juice I wouldn’t drink.”
She nodded. “I opened it this morning. It tasted okay to me. But when Malcolm looked at the fine print on the label he found it declared some unpronounceable preservative, and this afternoon we looked it up at the library.”
“It’s a suspected carcinogen,” Malcolm said. “Banned in Spain, Israel, and the States, but apparently not in South Africa, where the juice came from.” He made a helpless gesture. “It’s supposed to be tasteless. How I knew it was in there, I can’t say. I just knew. ”
“Not because he’d seen the label,” Ruth supplied. “I’d decanted the contents and thrown the can away.”
Kneller and Randolph exchanged stares. “By the sound of it,” Kneller said slowly, “Maurice’s wildest hopes are being overfulfilled!”
Randolph leaned forward. “How did you come to meet Maurice, Mr Fry?”
“Pure chance. I passed by here and came in for a drink. It was five-forty by the clock over the bar.” He pointed, but when the others glanced around all they could see was paper streamers and dangling strips of tinsel. “He asked if I was Malcolm Fry, the ex-teacher, and we started talking. And went on for a good three hours. Making me, I may say, very late for a date with Ruth.”
“And he actually gave you some VC?” Hector snapped.
“Yes, in a little yellow capsule.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Very. I think I know why. I suspect I also know why he got killed.”
Kneller pursed his lips. “Explain!” he commanded.
“Well, the next afternoon I decided to get drunk, too. While I didn’t realise it at the time, there was a valid reason. I was feeling the full impact of the VC. It was as though my senses had been whetted to intolerable keenness. I had to damp down the inrush of data, and alcohol did help. In fact a friend of mine who was manic-depressive before he was stabilised on lithium salts once said alcohol was the best emergency prophylactic against his manic phase. Of course, though, assuming that Dr Post had dosed himself with VC, what he should have done was go to bed and sleep the clock around four or five times.”
“Did it make you sleep for a long time?” Hector demanded.
“I slept clear through Christmas Day, Boxing Day, over five hours into the morning of the twenty-seventh.”
“Evans and Newman!” Hector said with a snap of his fingers.
Kneller looked a question at him. He amplified. “The Evans-Newman theory of sleep states that we don’t sleep to recover from fatigue, only in order to dream. The idea is that the brain needs the chance to review the sense-data accumulated during the previous period of wakefulness and use them to update its programming, so to speak. If you go without sleep for too long, you become irritable, your short-term memory breaks down, and eventually you hallucinate.”
“Precisely,” Malcolm said. “I’m convinced the main reason why I’m here, and tolerably rational, after this fantastic experience, is that Ruth and another friend of ours decided not to have me hospitalised, but leave me to wake up in my own time. But for that …!” He gave–Ruth’s arm an affectionate squeeze.
“When I met Maurice, on the other hand, I imagine he was well past the point at which he should have collapsed into bed. He was already rather aggressive when I insisted at last that I must go away, and since he was drunk as well he could all too easily have got involved in a quarrel … That is pure guesswork, though. I gather the police are making no progress in the case, and I may be
Ruth pulled a face at him, which broke down into a grin.
“Hearing and smell followed concurrently, and sight was affected last. I seem to be able to adjust far faster than before to low light-levels; the rod-cone change-over is almost under voluntary control. As for the senses we don’t normally call, senses … Ruth, that can of fruit-juice I wouldn’t drink.”
She nodded. “I opened it this morning. It tasted okay to me. But when Malcolm looked at the fine print on the label he found it declared some unpronounceable preservative, and this afternoon we looked it up at the library.”
“It’s a suspected carcinogen,” Malcolm said. “Banned in Spain, Israel, and the States, but apparently not in South Africa, where the juice came from.” He made a helpless gesture. “It’s supposed to be tasteless. How I knew it was in there, I can’t say. I just knew. ”
“Not because he’d seen the label,” Ruth supplied. “I’d decanted the contents and thrown the can away.”
Kneller and Randolph exchanged stares. “By the sound of it,” Kneller said slowly, “Maurice’s wildest hopes are being overfulfilled!”
Randolph leaned forward. “How did you come to meet Maurice, Mr Fry?”
“Pure chance. I passed by here and came in for a drink. It was five-forty by the clock over the bar.” He pointed, but when the others glanced around all they could see was paper streamers and dangling strips of tinsel. “He asked if I was Malcolm Fry, the ex-teacher, and we started talking. And went on for a good three hours. Making me, I may say, very late for a date with Ruth.”
“And he actually gave you some VC?” Hector snapped.
“Yes, in a little yellow capsule.”
“Was he drunk?”
“Very. I think I know why. I suspect I also know why he got killed.”
Kneller pursed his lips. “Explain!” he commanded.
“Well, the next afternoon I decided to get drunk, too. While I didn’t realise it at the time, there was a valid reason. I was feeling the full impact of the VC. It was as though my senses had been whetted to intolerable keenness. I had to damp down the inrush of data, and alcohol did help. In fact a friend of mine who was manic-depressive before he was stabilised on lithium salts once said alcohol was the best emergency prophylactic against his manic phase. Of course, though, assuming that Dr Post had dosed himself with VC, what he should have done was go to bed and sleep the clock around four or five times.”
“Did it make you sleep for a long time?” Hector demanded.
“I slept clear through Christmas Day, Boxing Day, over five hours into the morning of the twenty-seventh.”
“Evans and Newman!” Hector said with a snap of his fingers.
Kneller looked a question at him. He amplified. “The Evans-Newman theory of sleep states that we don’t sleep to recover from fatigue, only in order to dream. The idea is that the brain needs the chance to review the sense-data accumulated during the previous period of wakefulness and use them to update its programming, so to speak. If you go without sleep for too long, you become irritable, your short-term memory breaks down, and eventually you hallucinate.”
“Precisely,” Malcolm said. “I’m convinced the main reason why I’m here, and tolerably rational, after this fantastic experience, is that Ruth and another friend of ours decided not to have me hospitalised, but leave me to wake up in my own time. But for that …!” He gave–Ruth’s arm an affectionate squeeze.
“When I met Maurice, on the other hand, I imagine he was well past the point at which he should have collapsed into bed. He was already rather aggressive when I insisted at last that I must go away, and since he was drunk as well he could all too easily have got involved in a quarrel … That is pure guesswork, though. I gather the police are making no progress in the case, and I may be
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