John Wade Farrell

The Sleepers

The lush grass of the plains was sparkling with dew in the early windless morning. The grass marched unbroken for hundreds of miles, and then stopped abruptly at the outer edge of the Area.

No grass grew within the Area. In the beginning the earth had been fused to a depth that denied the existence of any living thing — except the Workers and the Sleepers.

The Area was twenty miles on a side, a perfect square: four hundred square miles of Sleep. The thousands of buildings, all of a height, built for eternity, shone in the pale sun of early morning.

It was the twelve hundred and thirty-eighth year of Sleep.

One building in the exact center of the Area was higher than the others. On the top floor Robert, the Director, stood looking out toward the east, the sun vaguely warm against his face. He was a tall man, powerfully built, with crisp gray hair and an air of bland calm. A man of peace.

Off to his right were the barracks of the Workers, almost identical with the Halls of Sleep. To the left were the Birth Stations, Psychofix, Power Pile, Food Generation and Statistical Analysis.

The population of the world was here. One billion, one hundred million of them. Originally the Area had held many more. Now all the buildings along the south border were empty, the control panels disconnected, cables dead.

Eight thousand Workers attended the Sleepers. Each Sleeper needed attention, on the average, once in fifteen years. Thus the one thousand Trouble Squads of four men each, with each man handling an average of fifty cases a day, cared for the multitude. The remaining four thousand worked in the Birth Stations, Psychofix, Power Pile, Food Generation and Statistical Analysis.

There were always two hundred and fifty Trouble Squads on duty, working six-hour shifts around the clock. As Robert looked down the narrow passages between the pale buildings he could frequently catch glimpses of the thousand men on duty. Each one riding a small, fast repair cart, they sped down the narrow aisles, their next assignment flashing on the handlebar dial. The dial showed Building Number, Aisle Number, Sleeper Number and the type of difficulty — D for Death, F for Feeding, T for Temperature.

Robert, the Director, frowned into the growing light of the morning. It was only in the early morning that he felt this vague unrest, this dissatisfaction.

And each morning he had to fight with all his strength against the order that hummed in his mind, planted there by Psychofix. “Any Worker who feels dissatisfaction or unhappiness will report immediately for renewal of Psychofix.”

He did not know why he fought against it. It would be so much easier to submit. Then he would be happy and adjusted. Yes, that was the aim. To be happy, and to be adjusted.

It was only in the mornings that he dreaded having to return to the Sleep from which he had been taken to serve his term as Director. At other times he yearned for it; and he felt an enormous pride in the perfect organization of the Area.

It was the only answer for humanity. The Leaders had decided that more than twelve hundred years ago. Sleep or Oblivion. That had been the choice. With the aid of unlimited atomic power, they had brought about the Sleep.

It had taken over a hundred years for the Area to be constructed, and for all the peoples of the earth to be brought there for Sleep.

And the perfect thing about it was that it wasn’t really sleep. To convince the people of the world back in the early days, they had awakened Sleepers and sent them out to talk to the others. They described how the slow current through the brain gave birth to intensified dreams, dreams more real than life, dreams more beautiful than any man had known before.

Yes, the organization was perfect. Psychofix made that possible. All the Workers were men, husky, healthy men. They were awakened from Sleep, indoctrinated by Psychofix, and allowed to serve as Workers for twenty years each before being returned to Sleep.

The Director’s term was the same. Robert had been Director for over nineteen years. His waking years were nearly over.

Psychofix took care of everything. It released the Workers from all tensions that had nothing to do with their assigned duties. They were men without women, without need of women; without need of any future except the promise of return to Sleep.

Robert looked down and tried to think how beautiful it would be to be returned to the Sleep from which he had come almost twenty years before. Psychofix had wiped out all memory of Sleep. That was necessary. Memory of Sleep was so beautiful that those selected to be awakened would refuse to become Workers if they retained it.

It was time to begin the duties of the day. He sighed, turned away from the window and walked over to his desk. He glanced at the clock; night reports from Statistical Analysis would be ready. He pressed the button, held it down while the tube deposited the familiar report forms in the metal basket on his desk.

Usually he read the reports with interest, but this morning they seemed oddly dull. Birth Stations three under the quota figure of one thousand for the twelve-to-six shift. One thousand and one births transferred to niches during the same period. Trouble Squad Headquarters reports that of 49,821 cases handled during twelve-to-six shift, 1,519 were deaths. Monthly average death-rate per shift, 1,489. Monthly average birth-rate per shift, 1,001.

That was correct. The Plan had originally set up a. death-rate of one point five times the birth rate. That was responsible for the slow, continual decrease of the population of the world. It was part of the Plan.

For the first time during his nineteen years of duty, Robert wondered what would happen countless years in the future when at last, with the Birth Stations being constantly cut down because of decreasing deaths, there would be only one Worker. He smiled wryly. A fantastic thought!

He glanced at the rest of the reports. Average age of Sleepers as calculated by Statistical Control at twenty-four hours — one hundred thirty-one years, — four months, three days, two hours, ten seconds. Workers returned to Sleep during twelve-to-six shift — two. Sleepers selected, awakened and sent to Psychofix for indoctrination — three.

Robert sighed. In another few months he would appear as a figure in the shift report. He was forty-four years old. The twenty years of being a Worker would shorten his potential life. But he would still have over a hundred years of Sleep ahead of him. And at the end of that time, his number would appear on the dial of the nearest repair cart. The Trouble Squad Worker would see the D for death, would hurry in, unhook the feeding and elimination tubes, halt the platform vibration that prevented muscle atrophy, cut off the coils that kept the niche temperature to ten above zero, unhook the head plates, put his naked body on the conveyor to the central furnaces and then push the button in the side of the niche which would record at Statistical Control a confirmation of death and an available niche.

By the time that day arrived, five other Directors would have held his job. Five other men would, for a time, have used the name Robert before reverting to the numerical classification from which they had been awakened.

Robert touched his fingertips to the pulse that beat with solid vigor in his wrist. That pulse, in Sleep, would slow to ten beats an hour. Respiration would become so slow as to be undetectable. He flushed in annoyance. Why should he feel so unhappy about the Sleep that awaited everyone?

Sleep or Oblivion. That had been the choice. The Leaders had been wise. Robert thought of the world, empty and motionless. Psychofix removed all curiosity about the dead cities of the world, about the mountains beyond the plains. There, he thought, was another indication that his own Psychofix was growing faint.

The next report was an unusual one. He glanced at it and then began to read with growing interest. “Psychofix recommended for 7921. Four years duty on Trouble Squad 883. Divergence from orders. Request confirmation of Director.”

It was as though he read a special report on himself. This Worker, 7921, had like himself resisted the impulse for a voluntary return to Psychofix.

On impulse, Robert opened the communication switch to Trouble Squad Headquarters. “Robert speaking. Send 7921 to me immediately.” He closed the switch, seeking to avoid the awkwardness of hearing surprise expressed at his order.

He waited, feeling an odd excitement. He was about to look on the face of one who felt as he did.

At last he heard the sound of the lift and the door slid back. A tall young man in the neat silver-gray uniform of a Worker stepped into Robert’s office and stood at rigid attention. His hair was black, his face clean, his jaw strong. His eyes glowed, somehow reckless in spite of his respectful stance.

“Close the door,” Robert ordered. “Take that chair from against the wall, bring it over to the other side of this desk and sit down.”

The young man did as he was told. He sat very erect, but his eyes were still insolent, unyielding.

Robert said slowly, “You are 7921. Since the beginning of the Sleep, sixty other men have worn that number honorably.”

“What does honorably mean?” the young man asked. His voice was thin and tight.

Robert gave a start of surprise at the unexpected defiance. Psychofix instilled unthinking obedience and courtesy. Stupidly he found himself saying, “Why, honorably means... with honor, of course.”

The young man laughed, without humor. “The machines at Statistical Analysis are honorable; they do what they were built to do. A Worker does what he is directed to do. Nothing more.”

“Your Psychofix, 7921, is—”

“Call it outgrown, Robert.”

“You address me familiarly!”

The young man slumped in the seat. “Why not? I know what will happen. I’m going back for another Psychofix and then I’ll be a machine again, like the others. I’ve got just a few hours left in which to be myself. By the way, I’ve taken a name. I found it in one of the old books. Lazarus.”

The obvious thing to do was to call a squad and have this young man who called himself Lazarus taken away to Psychofix, by force if necessary. “Lazarus,” Robert said, “why are you not like the others?”

Lazarus frowned. “I do not know. Maybe the tubes were weak during my Psychofix. Maybe I have more resistance to posthypnotic influence. At any rate, I have known for a year that I am different from... the others.”

Robert stood up and walked to the windows. The sun was high. The light against the flat roofs was blinding. He said softly, “I am often filled with questions.”

He heard the young man’s gasp of surprise. “But you—”

“I know. I am the Director. I am in charge. I should believe in this.” He made a sweeping gesture that included the entire Area.

He heard a step. Lazarus stood beside him, squinting against the light. He said, “The others. They don’t know how it is. Inside you are filled with unrest. You yearn for things you don’t understand. Those who Sleep become horrible. You shrink from touching them. They are the living dead. And yet all the others believe that Sleep is beautiful.”

“It is beautiful!” Robert said.

“What makes you believe that? I can see that the Psychofix still has more influence with you than with me. I can remember Sleep.”

Robert turned in sudden excitement, grasped Lazarus’ arm. “You can remember! Tell me! Quickly!”

There was a bitter look around Lazarus’ mouth. “Maybe it was beautiful for those who first came here. They had been born of women. They had lived in the world. When they became Sleepers they had their past lives to draw on. Maybe it was beautiful for them. Their dreams had substance. But for hundreds of years, the Sleepers have come directly from the Birth Stations. Look at them all down there. Million upon million. Do you know what they dream of? Eternal blackness, because they have never seen. Soundlessness, because they have never heard. No color. No scent. No texture. No light. They dream of blackness, without form or substance. I know, because I can remember.”

“But that... that isn’t—” Robert faltered.

“I know. It isn’t what you have been taught. But you have seen those who are awakened. The world hits them with a blast of color, sound, texture and form that rocks their senses. They are under Psychofix for a year before they are worth anything. The knowledge they need is jammed into them by the tubes, like bodies jammed into a furnace.”

“You are wrong!” Robert whispered. “It is too horrible to contemplate. They all have beautiful dreams. They sleep in eternal happiness.”

“I am wrong?” Lazarus said. He laughed again. “I remember, I tell you. I fought my way up out of the lies of the Psychofix and now I remember. The only ones down there whose dreams are beautiful are the Workers who have become Sleepers. They have something on which to build their dreams. You will have a dream life of possibly incredible beauty, as the first ones did.”

Robert frowned at Lazarus. “Then why don’t you request Sleep?”

“I have thought of that. I have that right, I know. In an hour, I could be in a niche with nothing ahead but dreams and the furnace at the end.”

“Do you want it?”

Lazarus straightened his shoulders. “No! I want to go out there.” He pointed off toward the horizon.

It was Robert’s turn to gasp. “There is nothing out there! Nothing!”

“No?” Larzarus smiled. “I have read the old books. There are only a few left. No one reads them any more. I had to blow the dust of hundreds of years from them. I know about fire and fuel and axes.”

They were silent for a time. At last Robert asked, “How was this attitude of yours discovered?”

For the first time Lazarus acted ill at ease. He avoided Robert’s glance. “In the old books it talks of men and women. There was a relationship which — which is eliminated from the minds of the Workers by the tubes of Psychofix. That conditioning is also gone from my mind. Several months ago I — found a strange pleasure in looking on the- face and body of a woman, a young woman with yellow hair, who sleeps in 1128-14-51. I gave her a name. Eve. It is also out of the books. Many times when I have worked near 1128, instead of doing the work indicated on the dial, I have gone in to look at her. I was seen.”

Robert frowned. He knew that he should consider Lazarus’ preoccupation with the woman as unnatural and unclean — and yet, deep inside, he felt an odd stirring, a heightening of interest that he had not known before.

To cover his momentary confusion, he said, “It is most odd.”

“But I find from the old books that it is we who are odd. You must remember, Robert, that almost every reaction you have has been artificially induced by Psychofix. Otherwise the Plan would be unworkable.”

Robert nodded. “I imagine that is true. It is odd to — mistrust every thought.” He sat heavily on the big chair behind his desk. “No one has doubted for twelve hundred years.”

“I do not think you are right. I believe many have doubted. But nothing has ever been done.”

Robert shrugged. “What could be done?”

Unconsciously Lazarus lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I could do nothing. With your help, much could be done. How much more time have you before you return to Sleep?”

“Two months.”

Lazarus frowned. “That is very little time. Will people obey your orders?”

“Of course! They are all taught to obey the Director.”

“Buildings 1127 and 1128 were death areas twenty years and more ago. There was a concentration of old ones there. Thus they have been filled from the Birth Stations and the males and females in Sleep there are young. They are potentially the strongest. While we have talked, this plan has come to me...” Lazarus lowered his voice even further and began to speak quickly. Robert listened tensely.

It was in the third hour after midnight. Robert, sleepless in the darkness, heard the small tapping noise that he had been expecting. He padded soundlessly to the door and opened it, recognized the dim shape of Lazarus.

They had grown accustomed to talking and planning in the darkness. Robert closed the door and they sat side by side on the bed. They talked in low tones.

“Any more questions yesterday?” Lazarus asked.

“Three technicians. I had two of them returned to Sleep. The third has no replacement. I cannot send him to Sleep. That is why I was hoping you would come here tonight. In spite of my authority, this grows far too dangerous. I do not know why I permitted it to start. Why I helped you.”

“It’s gone too far to back out now,” Lazarus said. Robert felt the sudden quiver of the bed and knew that Lazarus had shuddered. Lazarus said, “I didn’t tell you about the old ones. There were seven of them left. Very old ones. They couldn’t have been awakened. And the central feeding tube had to be disconnected when I pulled the main switch on the light panel. I dream of them. There was nothing else to do. I put them, still alive, on the conveyor to the furnaces... Has Statistical Control noticed that there has been no call from either building for the last two months?”

“No. I don’t see why it would be noticed. Often it is not necessary to go near a building for years.”

Lazarus nodded. “And both buildings were mostly young ones. Except for the seven I told you about.”

“That could not be helped,” Robert said gently.

“Has there been any question about the carts?” Lazarus asked.

“No. The carts were taken from stores. As you know, there used to be many thousand more Workers. There are thousand of carts that will never be used again. Nobody questioned my order to move them near the buildings where you have been — working. Are they suitable?”

“They are simple to operate. We will use them only for supplies. Blankets. Food. Extra clothing. I have ten men who can drive now. I have trained them inside the buildings.”

“You must leave soon. There is unrest among the Workers. They have heard things they do not understand, Lazarus.”

“That is why I came tonight. We leave at dawn.”

“But there is another week before—”

“Before you return to Sleep? It is time that we go. We can do nothing more here, and the longer we wait the greater the danger.”

“Tonight is... the last night. You never told me about... Eve. About awakening her.”

Lazarus was silent for so long that Robert began to think that he would not answer at all.

“Eve was the first one. As you suggested, I cut the master switch and I had to stop the main feeding tube. As you know, they can live for ten days once the feeding tube is cut off. First I had to dispose of the old ones.

“After that, I went to Eve’s niche and turned off the coils so that the temperature would climb within the niche. Gently I disengaged the tubes and took the plates from her head. I set the portable lights around her niche. She was in the third tier so that, by standing, my head was on a level with hers.

“The cold marble pallor began to fade after a half hour and her pulse had climbed to twenty beats a minute. I rubbed her wrists to increase circulation. Slowly the pulse rate climbed and at last, in the neighborhood of seventy beats a minute, when the niche temperature had climbed to sixty degrees, her eyes opened suddenly.

“I called the name I had given her and she turned her face in the direction of the sound. Her eyes were blank and her face twisted with shock. She made small mewling sounds and I lifted her in my arms and tried to stand her up. She was, of course, both weak and untrained. She could not stand. She was shivering violently.

“I placed her on the floor and managed to get a Worker’s uniform on her. It was too big and she could give me no help. She made aimless motions with her hands and continued the small crying noises. At last, when she was warm, she stopped crying. She looked at me and her lips curled in a smile, though her eyes were as blank as the eyes of an infant fresh from the Birth Station. Her mind is quick, and her body is strong. She can stand now, and walk fairly well. She is beginning to say words. Of course, the training is much slower than Psychofix, but she is learning. I taught her a word I learned out of one of the old books. Love. She does not know what it means. But I like to hear her say it.”

The two men were silent. Robert said, “It is four now. At five-thirty I will put our plan into effect. Over the speakers I will ask all Workers to gather in the wide place in front of the Birth Stations. At quarter to six, in the opposite end of the Area, you will lead your little group out of the Area. No one will see you go.”

“We will move slowly. They will tire quickly.”

“I will keep the Workers gathered on some pretext for a sufficient time.” Robert sighed. “I would have liked to have seen them, Lazarus. Just once.”

Lazarus grasped Robert’s wrist tightly. “Then come with me now! It is dark. We can avoid the Workers on duty at this hour. Come with me and see them before we go. You will like what you see.”

Robert hesitated, then gave in. “Quickly, then!” he said, reaching for his uniform on the rack near his bed.

The cart was built for one. Lazarus sat on the saddle and turned the hand-grip which released the surge of power. The Area was blanketed with an electrical field from which the carts and all mechanical equipment drew what power they needed.

“Hang on!” Lazarus said. Robert, crouched on top of the wide box which had once held the spare tubing and devices used by Trouble Squad members, — tightened his grip on the leading edge.

The plastic wheels whined on the vitrified alleyways between the buildings and the cool wind of night stung Robert’s eyes.

The dim beacon on the top of each of the two buildings was out, indicating that those particular Halls of Sleep were empty. Robert knew otherwise.

Lazarus parked in the shadows and Robert climbed stiffly down to walk beside him to the wide doorway. Lazarus waited in the darkness until he was certain that no member of a Trouble Squad was in the neighborhood. Then he opened the door quickly and the two of them edged through the bright shaft of light into the building.

Eleven carts were loaded high with supplies and lined up facing the doorway. Young men and women babbled excitedly and crowded around, then grew shy and silent when they saw the stranger. They all wore discarded Workers’ uniforms that had been patched and altered.

Robert looked curiously at the women. Never before had he seen women who were not in Sleep.

At first glance the men looked like any young Workers. And then he saw the difference. These young men had alert, vital expressions. The faces of Workers expressed apathy and stolid determination. Robert looked into their eyes and was reminded of the glow he had first seen in the eyes of Lazarus.

The young people were awkward. They laughed a great deal. They used the simplest words and phrases.

Losing their shyness, they began to giggle and talk. One young woman stood sucking on her fingers, staring at Robert. He smiled at her and she ducked her head shyly and turned away.

“This is the way children used to act. Back in the days when there were children,” Lazarus said. “It is easy to love them.”

Robert glanced at his watch. “I am glad that I have seen them. I will think of them before I return to Sleep. Maybe I will dream of them. I know that this is something I should not have done, and yet I am proud of it.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” Lazarus said eagerly.

Robert shook his head sadly. “No, my friend. All this is yours. It would be beyond my power to alter as much as you have altered. I have been too conditioned by this life. There is nothing for me but to return to Sleep.”

Robert stood in the high room facing the east. The pale morning sun had not yet dried the dew that sparkled in the motionless grasses of the endless plain. Down to his left was the open space in front of the Birth Stations. Eight thousand Workers stood in orderly, patient rows, waiting for him.

Robert shaded his eyes and looked out across the plain. In the distance he saw the thin, slowly moving line. What had Lazarus called them? A word from the old books. Ah, yes. The pioneers. Beyond the Area, at the edge of the deep grass, were lined up the eleven carts which had become useless as they had passed the edge of the electrical field.

He wondered what he should say to the Workers. It was, after all, not an important problem. In a few more days he would be returned to Sleep. Just a few more days. No more worries. No more uncertainties. Just the endless sleep and the unfelt furnace.

He pressed the button on his desk and spoke into the small microphone. “Workers,” he said, knowing that his voice boomed across the open place in front of the Birth Stations. “Wait patiently. I will come to speak to you in a few moments.”

Maybe it would be better to go directly to the chamber where one is prepared for Sleep. The new Director had already been released from Psychofix.

His mind made up, he gave a glance of parting around the cheerless office.

Sixty-one Directors had used the room. Hundreds more would use it. He stepped into the lift, closed the door and, a moment later, stepped out into the cool air of morning. The cart he had used to return from the buildings of the pioneers still stood near the entrance.

He remembered the bright, clear look in the eyes of the pioneers. He remembered the girl who had turned shyly away from him. He thought of the wide world beyond the horizon.

Blindly he climbed onto the cart. He turned it about and headed at top speed toward the edge of the Area. It stopped at the edge of the grass. He fell from it, stumbled, picked himself up and ran as hard as he could, following the narrow trail where the grass had been trampled.

He gasped and panted as he ran. The damp grasses soaked the cuffs of his trousers, made his shoes sodden.

Once his foot became tangled in the tough grass and he fell. He sat up, dazed, and saw that he was looking back toward the Halls of Sleep. They rose above the plain, glistening in the sun. A sparkle of light from the high windows of his office caught his eyes.

They would still be standing, waiting...

The thick, joyous laughter tore at his throat. He stood up and began to run again. In the distance he saw them. “Wait!” he shouted. “Wait!”

The sun warmed the grass and the smell of it was good.

Content

John Wade Farrell
The Sleepers