during his long existence, he had slept through air raids, artillery bombardments, and the sack and pillage of cities. He had slumbered in cellars while buildings burned above him and had shared desert caves with a multitude of bats and the keening of the wind across the dunes.
He wondered if this unaccustomed insomnia could somehow be caused by the long flight from California. Human travelers talked of a disorientation they glibly called jet lag, and he had once read a scientific paper on how the time-sense of even rudimentary creatures like bivalves could be confused by fast, long-distance journeys. A batch of oysters from Long Island Sound had been moved by transport plane to Lawrence, Kansas. Once relocated and settled in the laboratory tank that was their new home, they commenced, after a short period of adjustment, to open and close as though the Atlantic Ocean extended all the way to the Midwest and the tides behaved accordingly. Why such a bizarre study should be conducted in the first place had been something of a mystery to Renquist, but he had long since
ceased to be surprised at the directions humans might be steered by their insatiable curiosity. Unfortunately, so few nosferatu practiced intercontinental air travel that little data was available to tell him whether he was suffering from some kindred reaction or this jet lag, and he resolved to keep mental notes on his sleeplessness. Sooner or later, the undead would have to come to grips with the jet age.
After about an hour, however, he discovered these spells of drifting were not without their own unique value. He found himself experiencing a new and, as far as he could recall, unique form of perception. For a being of Renquist’s age to experience anything curious and original was such a singular novelty that he made no effort to control or thrust it from him. It also helped, of course, that the experience was far from unpleasant. The word cozy sprang to mind, and Renquist allowed himself to glide effortlessly with it. He might not be sleeping, but he was sufficiently relaxed to derive some recuperative benefit. Although the drifting perception was widespread and generalized, and lacked much in the way of precision, it delivered a fairly coherent, hypnovirtual view of the world in which he was now immersed. As during his earlier stroll down the Strand, he was again aware of both the psychic and material density of the Old World as close-packed modernity was layered on millennia of history. Although New York and some of the other cities on the Eastern Seaboard might come close, the United States as a whole seemed positively empty in comparison. Renquist wasn’t sure which he actually preferred. Both had their attractions. As the strange demidreaming continued, he found a measure of specificity was possible, and he could exert a certain gentle direction without breaking the condition and returning to full waking. The odd perception also tended toward the two-dimensional. Humanity seemed spread around him like an ethereal and somewhat threadbare billiard table, except it had a distinct curve, perhaps conforming
in its insubstantial way to the curve of the earth, or maybe to that of space-time itself.
His first tentative notion was to cast around for traces of other nosferatu, and no sooner had he entertained the idea than he began to notice tiny orange flecks amid the verdance of humans. Some were relatively close. The city of London apparently had its compliment of loners, but no concentration that might tell of a clan or colony. As soon as he could judge distance and direction, he observed a triple trace of tiny stars in the west he knew must be Columbine Dashwood and her two companions, the reason he was in London in the first place. Much farther away, far to the north, he finally spotted the kind of cluster that must represent a substantial community of the undead. Unless much had changed in the British Isles, it could only be the Fenrior of Fenrior who
He wondered if this unaccustomed insomnia could somehow be caused by the long flight from California. Human travelers talked of a disorientation they glibly called jet lag, and he had once read a scientific paper on how the time-sense of even rudimentary creatures like bivalves could be confused by fast, long-distance journeys. A batch of oysters from Long Island Sound had been moved by transport plane to Lawrence, Kansas. Once relocated and settled in the laboratory tank that was their new home, they commenced, after a short period of adjustment, to open and close as though the Atlantic Ocean extended all the way to the Midwest and the tides behaved accordingly. Why such a bizarre study should be conducted in the first place had been something of a mystery to Renquist, but he had long since
ceased to be surprised at the directions humans might be steered by their insatiable curiosity. Unfortunately, so few nosferatu practiced intercontinental air travel that little data was available to tell him whether he was suffering from some kindred reaction or this jet lag, and he resolved to keep mental notes on his sleeplessness. Sooner or later, the undead would have to come to grips with the jet age.
After about an hour, however, he discovered these spells of drifting were not without their own unique value. He found himself experiencing a new and, as far as he could recall, unique form of perception. For a being of Renquist’s age to experience anything curious and original was such a singular novelty that he made no effort to control or thrust it from him. It also helped, of course, that the experience was far from unpleasant. The word cozy sprang to mind, and Renquist allowed himself to glide effortlessly with it. He might not be sleeping, but he was sufficiently relaxed to derive some recuperative benefit. Although the drifting perception was widespread and generalized, and lacked much in the way of precision, it delivered a fairly coherent, hypnovirtual view of the world in which he was now immersed. As during his earlier stroll down the Strand, he was again aware of both the psychic and material density of the Old World as close-packed modernity was layered on millennia of history. Although New York and some of the other cities on the Eastern Seaboard might come close, the United States as a whole seemed positively empty in comparison. Renquist wasn’t sure which he actually preferred. Both had their attractions. As the strange demidreaming continued, he found a measure of specificity was possible, and he could exert a certain gentle direction without breaking the condition and returning to full waking. The odd perception also tended toward the two-dimensional. Humanity seemed spread around him like an ethereal and somewhat threadbare billiard table, except it had a distinct curve, perhaps conforming
in its insubstantial way to the curve of the earth, or maybe to that of space-time itself.
His first tentative notion was to cast around for traces of other nosferatu, and no sooner had he entertained the idea than he began to notice tiny orange flecks amid the verdance of humans. Some were relatively close. The city of London apparently had its compliment of loners, but no concentration that might tell of a clan or colony. As soon as he could judge distance and direction, he observed a triple trace of tiny stars in the west he knew must be Columbine Dashwood and her two companions, the reason he was in London in the first place. Much farther away, far to the north, he finally spotted the kind of cluster that must represent a substantial community of the undead. Unless much had changed in the British Isles, it could only be the Fenrior of Fenrior who
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