B E N E D I C T ' S 9
a creative
collaboration

. P A R T . T W O .

Well, it has been a pretty strange day...

Yates saw the woman faint and slump to the floor, and was only then aware of the cacophony. A hysterical man had managed to grab Benedict firmly by the lapels before the startled scientist could dodge away. The two things Yates would later remember about the chaos that ensued Benedict's announcement was how quickly it all began—and how quickly it was over. As if on cue, he saw the door burst open. A dark-haired man of about his own age burst in, drawing his revolver; then Yates recognized Howard Mosby, though the last time he had seen the detective, in his Houston office, he had been in much better condition. Mosby standing in the center of the room, panting, hair uncombed and baggy eyes wide, with his handgun raised in the air—the ridiculous yet alarming sight of it was enough to bring the tumult to a halt. The room was silent.
. . . . . Mosby peered at the scientist and questioned, "What the H... uh... deuce is going on, Dr. Benedict?" The attacker fell in a heap on the nearby sofa as the scientist walked slowly into the group of stunned observers.
. . . . . Benedict drew alongside the detective and stated curtly, "Put the weapon away, Mo. I believe everyone has regained his composure." Yates couldn't help but notice that several people glanced at him, as if to confirm the statement.
. . . . . The Houston entrepreneur recalled only the important parts of the explanatory talk that Benedict then resumed. After the woman was revived, he assured everyone that he was interested only in their welfare and that they needed have no fears, then went on to explain the bizarre mutation in more detail. Apparently, the saliva of the rats (which, he said, contained "resonant energies" which were carried in the organic byproducts of the animal) had entered the bloodstream of each victim, and there had triggered the growth of a minute gland near the posterior hypothalamus. Everyone was already familiar with the first manifestation of this organ. Approximately two months ago, they had all begun to require less and less sleep each night. Yates himself was down to a two-hour night's sleep with no ill effects—in fact, he would awake refreshed and well-rested. He had found this a blessing, in that he could increase his workday and devote more time to his company; if this was the extent of the mutation, it was certainly a welcome change!
. . . . . Jacob Fossett Yates was devoted to his work—Westock Microcomputing, which he had inherited from his maternal grandfather, Joseph Westock. Westock had given the young Yates a tour of his research department on his ninth birthday, and from that day forward the boy had known no other true home. At the age of 25 he had invented the Westock Chip, named in honor of the man who had been his close friend, and as much of a father as he had ever had. The invention did as much for the PC as the PC had done for the mainframe, and had soon catapulted Yates into international recognition. However, the young engineer had chosen to remain inaccessible, diligently devoting his time to his business until it was the largest company of its kind in Texas, and one of the strongest in the world. The gradual decrease in sleeping time had come at a time when he needed it most. He was so busy that he had hesitated in coming to Chicago, but his curiosity concerning the concentration of sleeping periods (or PDS, as Benedict dubbed it) had won out. He could well afford to take a short vacation if this strange riddle might be answered.
. . . . . "Wait just a minute!" fired the mustachioed man again. "Periodic dormant what? If you expect us to understand, why don't you talk in plain English!"
. . . . . "I'm sorry," Benedict replied, "let me go over it again, Mr. ... ah... Stromberg, isn't it?"
. . . . . "That's right, I'm Danton Stromberg from St. Louis, and you aren't about to hear the last of me! You tell me why I shouldn't just get up, walk out of here, call my attorneys and sue the hell out of you!"
. . . . . Benedict's disdainful pause was uncomfortably long, and he seemed on the brink of bursting into laughter, though not a line in his face had changed in the slightest. Then the reply came, in an even, subdued tone that had a visible effect on Stromberg. He listened with a stony expression as the scientist spoke: "If monetary compensation is all that interests you, my good sir, then we have no more to discuss. It is very simple, you see. Mr. Mosby has no doubt informed you that I am a millionaire countless times over, so money is actually rather boring to me anymore." He pulled out a few wadded bills and tossed them in an ashtray. "You must understand that I could meet the wildest damage claims you could legally secure without batting an eye, and that is precisely what I shall do for anyone who chooses that route."
. . . . . "I must warn you, however, that this would be exceedingly unwise. This would lock our relationship into a purely financial matter, and you would never learn the secrets of the mutation each one of us is destined to possess. I am prepared to offer you material security or knowledge—but not both. You must decide, Mr. Stromberg..." Benedict looked around the room. "All of you must decide..." Stromberg took a few steps back, tugging at his mustache and alternating his glance between the scientist and the ashtray.
. . . . . Then Benedict began to walk around the room, smiling and talking softly, touching a woman's wrist here, slapping a man's arm there; a few people even shook his hand. Yates noticed that everyone in the room, Benedict included, began to relax by degrees. Small groups began to buzz to themselves as the apprehension in the atmosphere lessened, though a few pockets of tension remained. Yates surveyed the changing scene, then chuckled to himself as he noticed a young woman examining one of the notes Benedict had left among the cigarette butts with an expression of amazement.
. . . . . "What's the matter, babe, never seen a good ol' C-note before?" Mosby took the note by each end and snapped it before her eyes. "How about it, Toots? You, me, Grover and Rush Street after dark?" She spun on her heel, turning up her nose. "C'mon, Robbie, we'll buy out Gritzbe's..." The woman turned around slowly and tugged the note from his grasp, then flipped it back into his face.
. . . . . "Don't you know three's a crowd, Mo? Why don't you and Mr. Cleveland go buy some eyedrops and an alarm clock?" she replied airily. The detective snorted and stuck out his greyish tongue before moving across the room..
. . . . . Suddenly Benedict's voice rose above the mild hubbub. "My friends! All of you have developed PDS, and I must say that this is quite extraordinary! By now, most of you are finding that only two or three hours of sleep are necessary to sustain yourselves. However, I am certain that with time, your mutation will mature and you will require only two half-hour periods of PDS per day. In other words, roughly twice a day you will sleep for half an hour, and that is all the sleep you will ever need—for the rest of your lives!"
. . . . . A buzz of murmurs could be heard now, and Yates was overjoyed at the revelation. Sleep had always seemed like such a waste of time.
. . . . . "But just what causes this 'PDS'? Why does it happen?"
. . . . . "The hypothalamus, Mr. Stromberg, is a part of the brain that is directly related to sleep control. The location of the mutant gland in this region has produced, as a side effect, an alteration in the sleeping pattern of the individual."
. . . . . "Hold it right there, Doc," the corpulent man seated next to Yates interjected as he rose to his feet. "You said side effect. Do you mean that the decrease in shut-eye is not the main effect of the bean growing in our skulls?"
. . . . . "No... Mr. Mann, it isn't? The primary function of the gland is even more extraordinary."
. . . . . Yates sat in wonder as Benedict explained the mutation that everyone was soon to experience. "Random photographic flashbacks, my friends. Uncontrollable at first, but I have every reason to believe that with time, you will develop the ability to flashback at will, remembering the past events of your life in the most minute detail. You will recall facts, figures, settings, and faces as if they were right before your eyes!"
. . . . . How incredible, thought Yates. Twenty-three hour workdays! Perfect memory! It was some wild gift of fate—all because a careless masters degree candidate had let his rats escape during the youth fair held at UD. His mind drifted back to the day when he, at age 16, had been informed of his project's acceptance into the fair. It had been no surprise—what other teenager had been doing research with microelectronics on the scale of his circuit? He remembered how he had wept while being rushed to the hospital for the rabies shots, convinced that he would miss the awards ceremonies. He remembered his pride and relief, too, when he arrived back just in time to receive the first place award for "Science, 15-16 years." Little did he suspect that the most profound ramification of that event would not be revealed till he was nearly twice that age...
. . . . . "Come back down to Earth, son," Yates heard as someone shook his shoulder. Everyone had risen and was heading toward the door. Yates looked up into the smiling face of the fellow Benedict had called Mann. "Dinner's being served for us in the Mediterranean Room," he was informed, "I'll walk down with you. The name's Mann... Creighton Mann." He shook Yates' hand vigorously.
. . . . . "I'm Yates."
. . . . . "Pleased to meet you, Yates," the big man said heartily, "pleased to meet you."
. . . . . During the dinner, Yates learned that Mann's son had participated in the Fair, but had since died in an automobile accident. The 52-year-old café owner from Indianapolis was finishing his second slice of layer cake when Benedict rose to address the room.
. . . . . "Ladies and gentlemen... friends... You should be experiencing the photographic flashbacks at any time now. The gland will begin to function suddenly, as soon as it is mature; there will be no gradual build-up. You will simply begin to experience the flashbacks several times a day, as soon as the time is right. I would like you all to meet again tomorrow, in my suite, at the same, to discuss the general characteristics of the mutation. I feel certain that a number of you will begin to experience the flashbacks between now and then. Otherwise, all of you—" Benedict suddenly stopped in short, and Yates noticed that he had grown rather pale. He turned to Mosby, uttered a few quick phrases and swiftly exited through a door a few steps behind his chair. Mosby rose and informed everyone that Benedict had suddenly remembered an important engagement which required his immediate attention, then elicited a burst of laughter from the crowd by pulling a small address book from his pocket and suggesting that any bachelors new to the city might wish to stick around.
. . . . . Yates walked toward the door, intending to read the lab reports he had brought with him in time to have dinner at a Japanese restaurant his secretary had suggested to him. Deciding to take the steps for the exercise, he flagged down a busboy, intending to ask him the location of the stairwell. Instead, however, he found himself pointing in the direction of the door Benedict had used and asking, "Where does that door lead?"
. . . . . "Why, that's just a storage closet, sir."
. . . . . Dumbfounded, Yates thanked the young man and walked toward the elevators. What had caused him to substitute that question for the one he had intended to ask? He couldn't explain it; nothing quite like that had ever happened to him before. He shook his head and continued through the lobby.
. . . . . Only then did the boy's words register—a closet?
. . . . . He turned swiftly, only to collide with a young woman a few steps behind him. She dropped the purse she had been holding, but Yates snatched it before it could hit the floor.
. . . . . "Nice catch," the woman remarked.
. . . . . "I'm very sorry, Madam. Please excuse my clumsiness."
. . . . . "That's all right. You're forgiven," she replied, flashing a disarming smile. "Forget something in the dining room?"
. . . . . "Ah, no... not really," Yates answered, offering her the handbag.
. . . . . "Thanks... I know—you decided to take Mr. Mosby up on his offer."
. . . . . Yates couldn't help chuckling. "Why no, not at all! Why should I depend on his taste when I can see a girl I like right in front of me?"
. . . . . He was shocked at having said something he considered out of character, but held his smile when he saw her pretty features brighten, and her vivid green eyes sparkle. "Robin Gallagher."
. . . . . "J. Fossett Yates," he stated as they shook hands. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Gallagher."
. . . . . "An impressive name... What does the J stand for?"
. . . . . "My friends call me Yates."
. . . . . "Jacob, right?"
. . . . . "Why, yes... How did you know?" The smile had vanished from her face, Yates noticed, realizing she was astonished as he. "It is Miss, isn't it?"
. . . . . "Yes..." She said distractedly, then looked straight at him.
. . . . . "How? How did I know, Mr. Yates?"
. . . . . "Have you ever heard of the Westock Chip?"
. . . . . "No... Should I have?"
. . . . . "I suppose not... never mind."
. . . . . "No, please tell me!"
. . . . . "Well, I thought you might have heard of my name because I invented the Westock Chip."
. . . . . "No," she said, eyes narrowing, "It wasn't as though I remembered your name, but almost as if I just suddenly knew it... and I knew I was right... Oh, God, you must think I'm as loony as Benedict."
. . . . . "Not at all! In fact, I just had a strange experience myself; that's why I bumped into you."
. . . . . "Well, it's been a pretty strange day all around, hasn't it... Yates?"
. . . . . He didn't miss the change in address. "It has indeed... Robin. May I escort you to your room?"
. . . . . "Oh, I'm not staying here. I live a few minutes north of the city. I think I'm the only one who didn't have to fly in for the meeting. But you can do me a favor—trade you a dinner for a tour of the sights of the city?"
. . . . . "Well, I had some lab reports to read this afternoon..."
. . . . . "Lab reports?" she wrinkled her nose. "You'd rather read lab reports than take advantage of a pretty girl offering you a free Labor Day tour of the Windy City?"
. . . . . Yates felt his face break into a smile of concession.

Part Three

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