I inspected the hand of the creature, and noted that the silvery filaments trailing from the fingers did not seem to be imbedded very deeply in the flesh. Taking a deep breath I twisted one of the wires between forefinger and thumb, and broke it with ease.
The creature groaned again, and – opened its eyes. "Good morning," I said feebly.
It didn't answer me, but sat up and stared from terribly sunken pits for a full second. It uttered a little wailing cry. The eyes closed again, and the creature rolled from its slab, falling heavily to the floor. I felt for the pulse; there was none. Beyond doubt this sleeper slept no longer – I had killed him.
I walked away from the spot, realizing that my problem was not as simple as it might have been. A faint glow lit up the hall, and the lights above flashed out. The new radiance came through the walls of the building.
It must be morning, I thought. I had had a hard night, and a strange one. I pressed the "Slavies' ring" again, and took the revolving staircase down to the lobby.
The thing to do now was to find some way of awakening the sleepers without killing them. That meant study. Study meant books, books meant library. I walked out into the polished stone plaza and looked for libraries.
There was some fruitless wandering about and stumbling into several structures precisely similar to the one I had visited; finally down the vista of a broad, gleaming street I saw the deep-carven words, "Stape Books Place," on the pediment of a traditionally squat, classic building. I set off for it, and arrived too winded by the brisk walk to do anything more than throw myself into a chair.
A panel in the wall lit up and an effeminate voice began, "Greetings, unknown friend. You have seated yourself in a chair; please be advised —"
"Go to hell," I said shortly, rose, and left the panel to go through a door inscribed "Books of the Day."
It turned out to be a conventional reading room whose farther end was a maze of stacks and shelves. Light poured in through large windows, and I felt homesick for old Housatonic. If the place had been a little more dusty I'd never have known it from the Main Tech Library.
A volume I chose at random proved to be a work on anthropology : "A General Introduction to the Study of Decapilation Among the Tertiates of Gondwana as Contrasted with the Primates of Eurasia." I found one photograph – in color – of a hairless monkey, shuddered, and restored the volume.
The next book was 'the Exagmination into the incamination for the resons of his Works in pregress," which also left me stranded. It appeared to be a critique of the middle work of one James Joyce, reprinted from the original edition of Paris, 1934 A.D.
I chucked the thing into a corner and rummaged among the piles of pamphlets that jammed a dozen shelves. "Rittenhouse's Necrology" – no. 'statistical Isolates Relating to Isolate Statisticals" – likewise no. "The Cognocrat Manifest" – I opened it and found it a description of a super-state which had yet to be created. "Construction and operation of the Biosomniac" – that was it!
I seated myself at one of the polished tables and read through the slim pamphlet rapidly once, then tore out some of its blank pages to take notes on. The arrangement of the regulating dials is optional," I copied on to the paper scraps, and sketched the intricate system of Bowden wires that connected the bodies with the controls. That was as much of a clue as I could get from the little volume, but it indicated in its appendix more exhaustive works. I looked up Tissarion," the first on the list.
"Monarch! may many moiling mockers make my master more malicious marry mate —"
it said. Mankind, artist to the last, had yet found time to compose an epic poem on the inventor of the Biosomniac. I flung the sappy thing away and took down the next work on the list, "Chemistry of the Somniac." It was a sound treatise on the minute yet perceptible functionings of the subject under the influence of the Vissarion device. More notes and diagrams, collated with the information from the other book.
The vitality of the sleeper is most profoundly affected by the operations of the Alphate dial ... It is believed that the Somniac may be awakened by a suitable manipulation of the ego-flow so calculated as to stock the sleeper to survive a severing of the quasi-amniotic wiring system."
I rose and tucked the notes into my belt. That was enough for me! I'd have to experiment, and most likely make a few mistakes, but in a few hours men would be awake to grow hard and strong again after their long sleep, to pluck out their wires themselves, and to take my yttrium and with it build the needed war-machines against the Martians. No more sleep for Earth! And perhaps a new flowering of life when the crisis of the invaders was past?
"The compleat heroine – quite!" I chortled aloud as I passed through the door. I glanced at the glowing panel, but it glowed no longer – the unknown speaker had said his piece and was done. Onward and outward to save the world, I thought.
"Excuse me," said a voice.
I spun around and saw a fishy individual staring at me through what seemed to be a small window.
"What are you doing awake?" I asked excitedly.
He laughed softly. "That, my dear young lady, is just what I was about to ask you."
"Come out from behind that window," I said nervously. "I can hardly see you."
"Don't be silly," he said sharply. "I'm quite a few million miles away. I'm on Mars. In fact, I'm a Martian."
I looked closer. He did seem sort of peculiar, but hardly the bogey-man that his race had been cracked up to be. "Then you will please tell me what you want," I said. "I'm a busy woman with little time to waste on Martians." Brave words. I knew it would take him a while to get from Mars to where I was; by that time I would have everyone awake and stinging.
"Oh," he said casually. "I just thought you might like a little chat. I suppose you're a time-traveller."
"Just that."
"I thought so. You're the fourth – no, the fifth – this week. Funny how they always seem to hit on this year. My name is Alfred, John Alfred."
"How do you do?" I said politely. "And I'm Mabel Evans of Colchester, Vermont. Year, 1940. But why have you got a name like an Earthman?"
"We all have," he answered. "We copied it from you Terrestrials. It's your major contribution to our culture."
"I suppose so," I said bitterly. "Those jellyfish didn't have much to offer anybody except poetry and bad sculpture. I hardly know why I'm reviving them and giving them the yttrium to fight you blokes off."
He looked bored, as nearly as I could see. "Oh, have you some yttrium?"
"Yes."
"Much?"
"Enough for a start. Besides, I expect them to pick up and acquire some independence once they get through their brush-up with Mars. By the way – when will you invade?"
"We plan to colonize," he said, delicately emphasizing the word, "beginning about two years from now. It will take that long to get everything in shape to move."
"That's fine," I said enthusiastically. "We should have plenty of time to get ready, I think. What kind of weapons do you use? Death-rays?"
"Of course," said the Martian. "And heat rays, and molecular collapse rays, and disintegrator rays, and resistance rays – you just call it and we have it in stock, lady.
He was a little boastful. "Well," I said, "you just wait until we get a few factories going – then you'll see what high-speed, high-grade production can be. We'll have everything you've got – double."
"All this, of course," he said with a smug smile, "after you wake the sleepers and give them your yttrium?"
"Of course. Why shouldn't it be?"
"Oh, I was just asking. But I have an idea that you've made a fundamental error."
"Error my neck," I said. "What do you mean?"