This was the real thing. Barfield was gloriously sure of that. Not just a dream, like it had been a thousand times before. This time he was really astride a powerful white stallion, drawing looks of admiration, fear, and respect from hundreds of upturned faces as he rode through Central Park. It couldn't be a dream, because he never thought to wonder about that when he was dreaming. And a dream wasn't this real.
Just to make sure, he studied the reins gripped lightly in his right hand. Genuine leather, all right, with blood-red rubies attached in little square silver mountings that were pointy at the corners. Certainly no dream contained detailed stuff like that.
Was he going to fall off? Not in a hundred years! The dream intensifier had finally worked, and simply by dreaming of riding, he had learned to ride.
A family of picnickers scattered in all directions as he galloped his horse over their spread cloth. He roared with laughter to see them jump, their faces pale with terror. He towered over them for a moment, then rode on...
... Into a swarm of high-society chicks having a lawn party. He picked a choice one and swept her up in front of him.
"Barfield!" she exclaimed, recognizing him.
"Yeah." He knew who she was, tooJacqueline Onassis' granddaughterbut he wasn't going to give her the pleasure of letting her know he knew.
He stood in the stirrups and quickly had his satisfaction with her. Then he let her slide from the horse to sprawl panting and indecent on the grass.
His horse was now climbing a hill, going up fast in powerful hinges. All the world lay below him, below the magnificent Barfield.
They topped the hill crest. The down slope on the other side was dizzyingly steep. Barfield gasped and cringed back. His left foot lost the stirrup and ...
... He was falling!
"Ugh!" he grunted as his body gave a jerk. He opened his eyes and gazed dully at the captive across the room for a moment.
"Something wrong?" the man asked in that annoyingly confident voice of his.
"I must've dozed off," said Barfield.
He stood up, feeling as short, dumpy, and ineffectual as he knew he looked, and walked over to check the captive's cuffs and blindfold.
"We haven't been properly introduced," the man said pleasantly. "My name's Paxton... G. Donald Paxton."
"Never mind the chitchat, Body," Barfield growled. Usually a captive would show fear when addressed as "Body," but this guy didn't turn a hair.
He saw the cuffs were still tight on wrists and ankles, and returned to his chair, his mind returning to his dream. Funny how real it had seemed, and how sure he had been of it. Looks like that high-society party would have been a dead giveaway. Everybody knew upper-crust chicks didn't fool around in places like Central Park. Besides, there'd been something on the tube about that girl dreaming herself up a judo black belt. Nobody was going to grab her up on a horse and get away with it. But it had been a good dreamall but the last part.
"I hate to be a nuisance," said Paxton, "but I need to go to the bathroom." Barfield got up. "No sweat, Body." He got out his keys and removed the cuffs from Paxton's ankles.
"Stand up." Paxton stood, and Barfield guided him into the bathroom, where he refastened his ankles and freed his wrists.
"I'm gonna close the door, and then you can take off the blindfold," he instructed. "When you're through, put the blindfold back on and call me. Try something funny, and there ain't enough ransom in the bank to keep you alive. Got it?"
"Yes. Thanks very much, Friend," said Paxton.
Barfield thought a few cuss words. What kind of nut was this guy, Paxton? Acting like he didn't have a care in the world, which was no way for a kidnap victim to act.
Presently Paxton called him, and Barfield opened the door and returned the man to his seat. When they were settled down Barfield said, "You don't catch on, do you, Body? You stand a good chance of getting conked. You dig that?"
"Of course," Paxton nodded, cheerful as ever. "As an attorney, I'm quite familiar with the kidnap racket and its practices. I believe the general rule is to kill one out of four victims, to keep the public aware you mean business."
"One out of three," Barfield corrected, grimly. If Paxton had said one out of three, he would have replied one out of two. But again the victim showed no sign of intimidation. "You figure the odds are in your favor, huh, Body?"
Paxton shrugged. "If not, everybody's got to die some time, Friend," he replied with a mild chuckle.
"Well, if I don't hear soon that the payoff's bein' made, your time's comin' pretty damn soon," Barfield glowered. He looked at his watch and blinked. Five hours had passed since Stony Stan and the other guys had brought Paxton in. He ought to have heard from Stony long before now. Paxton seemed to realize that. "I'm afraid I have enemies as well as friends," he said. "That could delay the payoff."
"Friends?" grunted Barfield. "What about your family?"
"No family. The ransom will be collected from my friends, or business associates might be more accurate."
Barfield frowned. Stony Stan never told him more than he had to know about a job, which was damn near nothing. Barfield's job was to baby-sit the victims, and then drive them to the release or conk-out point. So maybe this wasn't an unusual job, so far as he knew. But it seemed risky to expect a payoff from a guy's buddies instead of his relatives.
"What kind of line you in?" he asked.
"I'm an attorney, as I think I mentioned. Actually, my position is general secretary of a union."
"Big operator, huh?" glowered Barfield. "I got a hunch you're goin' to be the one out of three, Body." He stared at the blindfolded man in resentful silence for a while. A damned union boss, and Barfield couldn't even get into a union as a member!
"Which union?" he finally asked.
"American Bar Association."
That didn't win any sympathy from Barfield. He knew several barkeeps, and thought most of them were jerks.
"Your friends better come through pretty damn quick," he said.
After a silence Paxton asked, "Do you know you talk in your sleep?"
"Huh?" Barfield sat up. "What did I say?"
"It sounded as if you were talking to a horse. Were you having a dream about riding?"
"Yeah." Barfield's thoughts returned to the dream.
"It sounded like a good one, except perhaps at the end," Paxton said.
"I fell off the damn gluepot," Barfield said in injured tones. "I always do."
"I do a little riding," Paxton said modestly. "It's very pleasant exercise, don't you agree?"
"Me, I couldn't say, Body," Barfield retorted. "I can't stay on top of a damn pony."
"Oh? That's too bad. Why don't you get an intensifier and let your dreams teach you how to ride?"
"Look, I already told you," Barfield snapped, "I keep fallin' off at the end of the dream!"
"Oh, yes. That would invalidate the dream-learning procedure, wouldn't it?" Paxton said. Barfield grunted.
"That's said to be why there are so few levitators," Paxton went on thoughtfully. "Many people have dreams of floating through the air, but the overwhelming majority of those dreams end in crash landings." He chuckled. "Of course when someone has that dream under an intensifier, the technique of levitation becomes clear to them, but the crash at the end becomes equally realistic, and traumatic. As a result, they actually have the waking skill of levitation, but the trauma is a total block that keeps them from ever using the skill. It never occurred to me that the same condition would apply to dream-learning how to ride a horse, but I can see now why it might. Effortless motion is involved in bothsuddenly becoming very effortful."
"How come a mouthpiece knows so much about dream-learnin'?" Barfield demanded.
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