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.”