Charles Beaumont

“ The clock bonged the quarter hour. Fifteen to twelve. Max Kaplan wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"And besides," Ritchie said, somewhat too loudly, "it's plain ridiculous. He says—what? We're a dream he's having, right? Okay—then what about our parents, and their parents, everybody who never heard of the kid?"
"First thing I thought of. And you know his answer."
Ritchie snorted.
"Well, think it over, for God's sake. He says every dream is a complete unit in itself. You—haven't you ever had nightmares about people you'd never seen before?" ”

“ Ritchie was silent.
"Where were they going, what were they doing? See? The kid says every dream, even ours, builds its own whole world—complete, with a past and—as long as you stay asleep—a future."
"Nonsense! What about us, when we sleep and dream? Or is the period when we're unconscious the time he's up and around? And keep in mind that everybody doesn't sleep at the same time—"
"You're missing the point, Hank. I said it was complete, didn't I? And isn't sleeping part of the pattern?"
"Have another drink, Max. You're slipping." ”

“ Ritchie shrugged. "They're hungry, Max. You forget, there hasn't been an execution in this state for over two years. They're hungry."
"So a poor dumb kid's got to fry alive in order for them to get their kicks...." ”