_Had any bad nightmares lately? That's nothing; you'll be afraid to dream at all after you read ..._ Traumerei By CHARLES BEAUMONT Illustrated by REMINGTON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Infinity Science Fiction, February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] At the sound, Henry Ritchie's hand jerked. Most of the martini sloshed out over his robe. He jumped up, swabbing furiously at the spots. "Goddam it!" "Hank!" His wife slammed her book together. "Well, what do you expect? That confounded buzzer--" "--is a perfectly natural normal buzzer. You're just terribly upset, dear." "No," Mr. Ritchie said, "I am _not_ 'just terribly upset, dear'--for seven years I've been listening to that banshee's wail every time somebody wants in. Well, I'm through. Either it goes--" "All right, all _right_," Mrs. Ritchie said. "You don't have to make a production out of it." "Well?" "Well what?" Mr. Ritchie sighed ponderously, glared at his wife, set what was left of the martini down on a table and went to the door. He slipped the chain. "Be this the marster of 'arfway 'ouse?" Mr. Ritchie opened the door. "Max--what the devil are you doing up at this hour?" A large man, well built, in his forties, walked in, smiling. "I could ask you the same question," he said, flinging his hat and scarf in the direction of a chair, "but I'm far too thoughtful." They went back into the living room. Mrs. Ritchie looked up, frowned. "Oh, swell," she said. "Dandy. All we need now is a bridge four." "Ruth's just terribly upset," Mr. Ritchie said. "Well," the large man said, "it's nice to see unanimity in this house for once anyway. Hi, Ruth." He walked over to the bar and found the martini mix and drained the jar's contents into a glass. Then he drained the glass. "Hey, take it easy!" Max Kaplan turned to face his hosts. He looked quite a bit older than usual: the grin wasn't boyish now. "Dear folkses," he said, "when I die, I don't want to see any full bottles around." "Oh, ha-ha, that's just so very deliriously funny," Mrs. Ritchie said. She was massaging her temples. "I am glad to see her ladyship amused." Kaplan followed Mr. Ritchie's gaze. "Hickory dickory dock, the mice looked at the clock...." "Oh, shut up." "Oop, sorry." The big man mixed up a new batch silently, then refilled the three glasses. He sat down. The clock's tick, a deep sharp bass sound, got louder and louder in the room. Kaplan rested his head on the couch arm. "Less than an hour," he said. "Not even an hour--" "I knew it." Mrs. Ritchie stood up. "I knew it the minute you walked in. We're not nervous enough, oh, no, now we've got to listen to the great city editor and his news behind the news."