Read The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert for Free Online Page A

notebook and ran after her. He caught up, matched his steps to hers, still staring, unthinking. She looked at him, flushed, looked away.
    â€œGo away or I’ll call a cop!”
    â€œPlease, I have to talk to you.”
    â€œI said go away.” She increased her pace; he matched it.
    â€œPlease forgive me, but I dreamed about you last night. You see—”
    She stared straight ahead.
    â€œI’ve been told that one before! Go away!”
    â€œBut you don’t understand.”
    She stopped, turned and faced him, shaking with anger. “But I do understand! You saw my show last night! You’ve dreamed about me!” She wagged her head. “Miss Lanai, I must get to know you!”
    Eric shook his head. “But I’ve never even heard of you or seen you before.”
    â€œWell! I’m not accustomed to being insulted either!” She whirled, walked away briskly, the red cape flowing out behind her. Again he caught up with her.
    â€œPlease—”
    â€œI’ll scream!”
    â€œI’m a psychoanalyst.”
    She hesitated, slowed, stopped. A puzzled expression flowed over her face. “Well, that’s a new approach.”
    He took advantage of her interest. “I really did dream about you. It was most disturbing. I couldn’t shut it off.”
    Something in his voice, his manner— She laughed. “A real dream was bound to show up some day.”
    â€œI’m Dr. Eric Ladde.”
    She glanced at the caduceus over his breast pocket. “I’m Colleen Lanai; I sing.”
    He winced. “I know.”
    â€œI thought you’d never heard of me.”
    â€œYou sang in my dream.”
    â€œOh.” A pause. “Are you really a psychoanalyst?”
    He slipped a card from his breast pocket; handed it to her. She looked at it.
    â€œWhat does ‘Teleprobe Diagnosis’ mean?”
    â€œThat’s an instrument I use.”
    She returned the card, linked an arm through his, set an easy, strolling pace. “All right, doctor. You tell me about your dream and I’ll tell you about my headaches. Fair exchange?” She peered up at him from under thick eyelashes.
    â€œDo you have headaches?”
    â€œTerrible headaches.” She shook her head.
    Eric looked down at her. Some of the nightmare unreality returned. He thought, “What am I doing here? One doesn’t dream about a strange face and then meet her in the flesh the next day. The next thing I know the whole world of my unconscious will come alive.”
    â€œCould it be this Syndrome thing?” she asked. “Ever since we were in Los Angeles I’ve—” She chewed at her lip.
    He stared at her. “You were in Los Angeles?”
    â€œWe got out just a few hours before that … before—” She shuddered. “Doctor, what’s it like to be crazy?”
    He hesitated. “It’s no different from being sane—for the person involved.” He looked out at the mist lifting from the bay. “The Syndrome appears similar to other forms of insanity. It’s as though something pushed people over their lunacy thresholds. It’s strange; there’s a rather well defined radius of about sixty miles which it saturated. Atlanta and Los Angeles, for instance, and Lawton, had quite sharp lines of demarcation: people on one side of a street got it; people on the other side didn’t. We suspect there’s a contamination period during which—” He paused, looked down at her, smiled. “And all you asked was a simple question. This is my lecture personality. I wouldn’t worry too much about those headaches; probably diet, change of climate, maybe your eyes. Why don’t you get a complete physical?”
    She shook her head. “I’ve had six physicals since we left Karachi: same thing—four new diets.” She shrugged. “Still I have headaches.”
    Eric jerked to a stop,