Between the Strokes of Night

Her mind went back to the first lab. Everything had been designed for less moisture. No wonder the air coolers were snowing on Jinx, the humidity outside must be close to a hundred percent. Maybe they should add a dehumidifier to the system, what they had now was working like a damned snow machine. Should she request that equipment at today’s meeting?

The meeting.

Charlene jerked her attention away from the lab experiments. Time to worry about them later. She hurried on. Up a short flight of stairs, a left turn, and she was at C-53, the conference room where the weekly reviews were held. And, thank God, there before JN.

She slipped into her place at the long table, nodding at the others who were already seated: “Catkiller” Cannon from Physiology, de Vries from External Subjects, Beppo Cameron from Pharmacology (daffodil in his buttonhole — where did he get that in this wild weather?). The others ignored her and examined their open folders.

Five minutes to eleven. She had a few minutes to review her own statement and to stare for the hundredth time at the embroidery on the wall opposite. It had been there as long as she had, and she could close her eyes and recite it by heart.

“Do but consider what an excellent thing sleep is: it is so inestimable a jewel that, if a tyrant would give his crown for an hour’s slumber, it cannot be bought: of so beautiful a shape is it, that though a man lie with an Empress, his heart cannot be quiet till he leaves her embracements to be at rest with the other: yea, so greatly indebted are we to this kinsman of death that we owe the better tributary, half of our life to him: and there is good cause why we should do so: for sleep is the golden chain that ties health and our bodies together.” — Thomas Dekker.

And underneath the beautifully needle-worked quotation, in Judith Niles’ clear, bold cursive, was the recent addition:

Nuts. In this Institute, sleep is the enemy.

Charlene Bloom opened her own folder, leaned back, and eased off her black shoes, one foot tugging at the heel of the other. Eleven o’clock, and no Director. Something was wrong.

At four minutes past eleven, the other door of the conference room opened and Judith Niles entered followed by her secretary. Late — and she looked angry. Peering past her into the adjoining office, Charlene Bloom saw a tall man standing by the desk. He was curly haired and in his early thirties, pleasant-faced but frowning now at something over on one of the walls. A stranger. But those wide-set gray eyes seemed vaguely familiar; perhaps from an Institute Newsletter picture?

Judith Niles had remained standing for a moment instead of taking her usual place. Her glance went around the table, checking that all the department chiefs were already in position, then she nodded her greeting.

“Good morning. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Her lips pouted on the final word and held that expression. “We have an unexpected visitor, and I have to meet with him again as soon as this meeting is over.” She at last sat down. “Let’s begin. Dr. de Vries, would you start? I’m sure everyone is as interested as I am in hearing of the results of your trip. When did you get back?”

Jan de Vries, short and placid, shrugged his shoulders and smiled at the Director. Judith Niles and he saw the world from the same place, half a head lower than most of the staff. Perhaps that was what allowed him to relax with her, in a way that Charlene Bloom found totally impossible.

“Late last night.” His voice was soothing, slow and easy as warm syrup. “If you will permit me one moment of tangential comment, the treatment for jet lag that we pioneered here at the Institute is less than a total success.” Judith Niles never took notes. Her secretary would record every word, and she wanted all her own mind concentrated on the pulse of the meeting. She leaned forward and looked closely at de Vries’ face. “I assume you speak from experience?”

He nodded. “I used it on the trip to Pakistan. Today I feel lousy, and the blood tests confirm it. My circadian rhythms are still somewhere between here and Rawalpindi.”

The Director looked across at Beppo Cameron and raised her dark eyebrows. “We’d better take another look at the treatment, eh? But what about the main business, Jan? Ahmed Ameer — is he fact or fiction?”

“Regrettably, he is fiction.” De Vries opened his notebook. “According to the report we received, Ahmed Ameer never slept more than an hour a night. From the time he was sixteen years old — that’s nine years, he’s twenty-five now — he swore that he hadn’t closed his eyes.”

“And the truth?”

He grimaced and rubbed at his thin moustache. “I’ve got our complete notes here, and they’ll go in the file. But I can summarize in one word: exaggeration. In the six days and nights that we were with him, he went two nights with no sleep. One night he slept for four and a quarter hours. For the other three nights he averaged a little more than two and a half hours each.”

“Normal health?”