Sleep and His Brother Read Online Free PDF Page A

addressing an ex-detective­ superintendent as “copper”?
    â€œYes, you, Mr. Pibble. What paranormal experiences have you had, sir?”
    â€œNone that I know of.”
    â€œAh, cock! No hunches in your job? No intuitions? How long were you a bluebottle?”
    â€œThirty-four years. I wouldn’t call that sort of thing a paranormal experience, though. Of course I’ve sometimes felt a pull about a case without tangible evidence to back my instincts up; but I was probably wrong half the time, and the other half I’d noticed things subconsciously which would have been evidence if I’d noticed them consciously. I never liked hunches; if they work once, you start to look for them after that, and then the wildest fancy becomes an article of faith. That type of policeman doesn’t last long. What’s up, beyond my having figured by accident in the episode at the door?”
    Dr. Silver picked up the little globe from the desk and held it between finger and thumb, like a conjuror about to perform some legerdemain with an egg. His fingers were very short and stubby.
    â€œSee,” he said softly, “my right hand sends a signal.” He tossed the toy spinning toward the ceiling.
    â€œAnd my left hand receives it!” he cried. The globe fell with a slap into the olive palm. The shock of its fall must have released the catch, for the lid shot up, loosing the spark that set the small wick flaming.
    â€œBravo!” called Mrs. Dixon-Jones. “I can’t even get it to light.”
    Dr. Silver stared at the flame in a smiling trance. Pibble could see the light of it glisten off his spectacles: they were as eccentric an affectation as his language, for the glass was quite flat.
    â€œDo it again, Ram,” said Mrs. Dixon-Jones.
    â€œHave you figured the odds, Posey?” said Dr. Silver in an accent of awe. “This surely is my day, when things go right for me. So let’s get on. My hand cannot catch this little jigger, Mr. Pibble, unless my other hand has thrown it. Same with a signal. You need a transmitter, one; and a receiver, two. Now we believe our kids here to be highly sensitive receivers. They also transmit, but we can’t control their transmissions. They won’t receive freely from adults—”
    â€œThey always know when I’m tired or sad or angry,” said Mrs. Dixon-Jones.
    â€œSo do I, Posey. So do I. But when have you seen them work a trick like this—a copper who’s lost his hat? When?”
    â€œI don’t think I have.”
    â€œAnd you’ve been here how long?”
    â€œSeventeen years.”
    â€œHallelujah! Mr. Pibble, there’s a rational chance that you’re the transmitter we’ve been looking for.”
    â€œWell, of course I’d be glad to help, but …” Pibble let his doubt hang in the air. He foresaw desert days of sitting behind cheat-proof screens, under the eyes of independent witnesses of the highest probity, while he tried to transmit a mental image of a teddy bear to a child with an IQ of sixty-five. Dr. Silver slapped him jauntily on the shoulder.
    â€œHell, man,” he boomed. “Mr. T. will make it worth your while. On, on! What mood were you in when you approached the door?”
    â€œNo particular mood. What do you mean?”
    â€œExcited, man! Stimulated! Happy! Angry! Depressed!”
    â€œNone of those, really. My wife had asked me to come and talk to Mrs. Dixon-Jones about an idea that had come up at one of these fund-raising affairs. I suppose I was a little reluctant to meet the children, because I expected them to be much less, well, fetching than they are. Otherwise I was rather low-keyed—almost apathetic. I wanted to spray my roses.”
    â€œStupendous!” sighed Dr. Silver in three long syllables of ecstasy. “Apathy! Boredom! They’re the key. How often have I said so, Posey?”
    â€œOften enough for me to know