Slaves of Sleep & the Masters of Sleep

by L. Ron Hubbard

  The fishermen brailed their sail and the boat drifted in to the landing stage. Jan took a hoop out of his ear and handed it to the captain who stared at it in amazement, changing his opinion about espionage instantly.

  Tiger took up the girl again and trotted up the ladder to the deck where a jinni officer stood with threatening mien.

  “I wish to be taken to Admiral Tyronin immediately,” said Tiger.

  The officer scowled.

  “My name is Tiger.”

  It was as though he had stuck a pin in the lieutenant. The ifrit whirled to his lounging guard. “Take this man into custody immediately.”

  “I demand to see the admiral!” cried Jan.

  A voice from the quarterdeck of the seventy-four smote them. “What is this?” And boots thumped on a ladder and over the planks and so into the light of the guard lanthorn.

  With relief Jan recognized Commander Hakon who had stopped him before the palace.

  “Tiger!” cried the commander. “Good God, man, what are you doing here? Get back ashore. Lieutenant, call that boat . . .”

  “I’m here to see Admiral Tyronin,” said Tiger. “And see him I shall.”

  “But what is this you have here?” And Hakon saw the yellow robe. “The cloak of . . . of a priest!” And he saw the girl’s flashing jewels. “And . . . and a temple dancer! Tiger, have you gone mad? Was it you who caused that commotion up at the temple which we have been hearing and watching for half an hour?”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” said Tiger. “I asked a favor.”

  “On your head be it,” said the commander. “His Lordship is just about out of his head, what with expecting to meet forty ships with four and then all that uproar over on the beach. What was it about?”

  “Rani fell over on her face,” said Jan.

  “What?”

  “Because she lied,” said the dancing girl swiftly. “She said that Zongri would win and a greater god smote her.”

  Hakon blanched.

  “The admiral,” reminded Tiger.

  “Well, remember that you asked for it,” said Hakon dispiritedly. He led the way aft and to the quarterdeck. They descended a short ladder and found themselves in the admiral’s quarters. The door of the inner room was open and Tiger could see the ugly and now worried Tyronin bent over a chart, pencil poised. The light of the lanthorn increased the lines on his hairy face.

  “Your Lordship,” said Hakon, bowing slightly.

  “Yes? Yes, what is it now?”

  “You perhaps recall a sailor called Tiger who once brought us the line which pulled us off the beach on the Isle of Fire when—”

  “Tiger? Yes, what about him now?” Tyronin saw the man and stood up. The group moved into the room and His Lordship started at both yellow cloak and dancing girl. “What’s this?” he thundered.

  “Sir,” said Tiger, “tomorrow you are to meet Zongri in battle. I am the chief cause of his coming attack and for that reason I—”

  “Bah! I only know that you are trying to play upon my generosity and make trouble for me with the queen. Did you know that the town is being combed for you? No, I suppose not! Did you know that you are to be arrested on sight? Oh no, of course not! And you thought I would blind myself to my duty to Her Majesty and take you in like some stray cur! And you come with a Rani dancing girl, with probably the blood of a priest upon your hands as well as his cloak, and expect me . . . ! God! GUARD!”

  “Wait,” pleaded Tiger. “I—”

  “SILENCE! Guard, place this man under arrest. Put the dancing girl in Malin’s cabin and make certain she does not escape. This man is Tiger. You may have heard of him. He is not to be trusted for an instant and you are to make certain that a sentry with a primed pistol stands outside his cell with the muzzle of that weapon trained upon him whether he is waking or sleeping. There!” He faced Tiger. “At midnight we weigh anchor to meet Zongri’s fleet. It is too late to put you ashore now. But if fortune favors us you’ll be surrendered to the queen on our return.”

  The sentry took Tiger’s pistols and saber and at pistol point escorted him back to the deck. Tiger was conscious of the girl’s despairing eyes upon his back—and conscious too of the short-lived gratitude of man.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Hearing

  Jan awoke to the uneasy realization that elsewhere he was asleep with a cocked pistol pointing at him and as the body, alive but without vital force, might roll and turn, he hoped that Tiger would offer no offense.

  He swung his feet down to the concrete floor and found that Diver had been restored to him. But Diver was still snoring and Jan wondered where Diver was and what Diver was doing. Someday he would find out, perhaps, though he was not very interested. And the counterfeiters, where were they and what were they doing while their earth bodies snored so resoundingly? Not, of course, that it mattered much.

  He sighed deeply and stuffed the pipe Alice had brought him and got it going. Thoughtfully he reviewed Tiger’s deeds and misdeeds. He was almost dispassionate about it—for a little while. With the theft of the dancing girl, Tiger had stamped his death warrant. While nobody could prove that he had had any connection with the destruction of Rani, merely the touching of a sacred member of that temple would doom him. And the queen? What would she say when she found how he had duped her about that seal?

  Soon he began to sweat. Certain he was that that night he would sleep himself into death. Tyronin’s foolhardy resistance to Zongri’s great fleet would probably doom the ship. If, somehow, it didn’t, Zongri would find him. Whether Ramus or Zongri held forth for victory, Tiger’s puckish pranks were over. As it was early he lay back upon his bunk and tried to dispose himself for further slumber. But he was too nervous for that and though he interspersed visions of a pointed, cocked pistol framed in a door with a pair of cockroaches climbing sturdily, being half in and half out of each world, he found no rest in either.

  He was almost glad when the jail began to stir about but he was far too worried to enjoy his food. He listened to Diver’s gibes and heard them not at all. And as the morning progressed he found he could not sit still but must walk up and down along the bars.

  Finally, at eleven, they came for him, Shannon and a guard. Shannon’s false heartiness sought to cheer him up.

  “Now you just do what I tell you, Jan, and this’ll all be okay. We’ll let you tell your story just as it happened and then I’ll throw what weight I can behind it and pretty soon we’ll have you out of here slick as grease.”

  Jan didn’t answer and Shannon kept it up until they came to an antechamber to the judge’s office where a thin, skeleton-faced fellow sat thumping the table with his pince-nez.

  “This’s Doc Harrington,” said Shannon. “This’s Jan Palmer, Doc.”

  “Ah,” said Harrington, looking professionally at Jan. “Let us get down to business.” He put forth pencil and paper and invited Jan to sit and write the answers to certain questions and, when that was done, to put down the first word which came into his mind after another word was given. That too was over shortly.

  The psychiatrist examined the result and his brows went up, up, up until they almost vanished in his sparse hair. He pursed his lips and pulled his beard. He adjusted his pince-nez and took them off. He scowled at Jan and then read the paper once more.

  “Okay?” said Shannon.

  “Ah . . . yes. Splendid.”

  “Then, let’s go.”

  They entered the judge’s office where batteries of legal books stood ready to fire opinions on any sort of case imaginable and where nervous feet had worn out the rug by the desk.

  The judge was a well-fed, rather dull person who carried his dignity of office very easily—never having been bothered with any original thoughts and so injure it.

  “Sit down,” said the judge.

  Jan sat down and looked around him. Aunt Ethel was there, dabbing at her eyes—which were quite dry—and muttering, “Oh, the poor boy, the poor boy.”


  Thompson sat against the other wall, gnawing on a bowler. Nathaniel Green paced back and forth, looking at his watch and complaining about the delay.

  For an instant Jan was frightened and then became flooded with relief when he saw Alice Hall sitting at a small desk ready to take down the proceedings for Green’s edification. She looked wonderingly at Jan but beyond that made no sign.

  “Now, let’s get down to it,” said the judge. “In brief, young man, sketch your story of how Professor Frobish came to be murdered. We’re all your friends here so you need have no fear.”

  Jan looked them over and experienced a desire to laugh in the judge’s face. With the exception of Alice, there wasn’t a person in the room who had the least desire to find him innocent. Indeed, Aunt Ethel and Thompson, Shannon and, last but not least, Green, stood to profit enormously by his bad luck.

  “Just say I’m crazy and have done with it,” said Jan truculently. “No matter what I say, that will be the verdict.”

  “Why, my poor boy,” whimpered Aunt Ethel, “you’re among your own—”

  “I’d rather be in a hyena’s den,” said Jan. He noted how they all started at his tone. “Well, with nothing to gain or lose, I may as well give you the truth.” And, so saying, he very briefly sketched the facts of the case.

  When he had done with his terse statements, the psychiatrist unobtrusively placed his penciled findings upon the judge’s desk and the judge bent over it for some time. Then he sat back, making a steeple out of his fingers and nodding. Just when everyone thought he had gone to sleep, he rang for his clerk and sent out for a form. When it came, he filled in a few blanks and then turned to Green.

  “You will have to sign this. You and two others.”

  Shannon almost leaped for the pen when Green was done. And Thompson and Aunt Ethel had quite a lively race for it. But Aunt Ethel won and placed down her name with vague murmurs about what a terrible shame it was and how insanity would have to run in the Palmer family that way. She didn’t see how she could ever live it down.

  The formalities over, the judge reached toward a buzzer.

  “Wait a minute,” said Jan, getting up.

  The judge sat back and then again, more hurriedly this time, bent a finger toward the button.

  “If this is justice,” said Jan, “I’m going to work for the anarchists. You’ve heard nothing sufficient to convince you that my story is or is not true. These people,” and he took them in with a wave of his hand, “are only too anxious to have me put away.”

  There were murmurs which showed that the company demurred heartily.

  “You have not even called,” said Jan, “for exhibit A.”

  “Ex-Exhibit A?” said the judge. “But my dear fellow, calm yourself. This is all very regular . . .”

  “There is the matter of looking at the copper jar,” said Jan.

  “But I see no necessity . . .” began Green impatiently.

  “You mean there really is a copper jar?” said the judge.

  “Indeed there is,” said Jan. “How about it, Alice?”

  “Why, certainly there is,” she said swiftly, though to tell the truth she had never so much as noticed it in all her visits there.

  “And an examination of that jar,” said Jan, “will prove my story perfectly.”

  “How is this?” said the judge. “My dear fellow, this form is signed. And besides, it is almost time for lunch.”

  “I demand that you have that jar brought here,” said Jan.

  “Now, now,” said Shannon soothingly. “He’s a little violent at times, Judge, and . . .”

  “I know,” said the judge, nodding. Again he reached toward the button which would call a guard to take Jan away. It seemed that even then the sanitarium ambulance was waiting.

  There was the sound as of a chair being shoved determinedly back. Alice Hall eyed the judge with disapproval. “Your Honor, the papers would like to print a story to the effect that you might have received money to put a millionaire in jail.”

  It was a terrible chance she was taking, Jan knew. And while he feared for her, his heart warmed toward her more than ever before.

  “What’s this?” cried the judge at the wholly unjust charge. “Are you mad?”

  “Not at all,” said Alice. “And I wonder if he is, either. His mistake lies in having been meek to a crowd of wolves. The papers, I think, would enjoy such a story, true or not. If it is even whispered about that Jan Palmer, heir to the Palmer interests, was railroaded to an insane asylum to cover up the thefts of his manager, Nathaniel Green . . .”

  “What’s this?” shouted Green. “Young lady, you are fired! Leave this office instantly.”

  “I may be fired but I shall not leave. Your Honor,” said Alice, crisply, “if Jan Palmer wants a copper jar brought here, perhaps it would be wise to bring that copper jar.”

  “I . . . uh . . . see your point,” said the judge. “O’Hoolihan!”

  In an hour the morosely lunchless judge was sitting in sad contemplation of the copper jar while Green walked in circles and said, “Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense! I’m due at the office this minute!”

  “And so,” said the judge, “this is the jar out of which the ifrit came.”

  “Yes,” said Jan, stepping up to it and lifting the leaden stopper.

  “And how tall is an ifrit?” said the judge.

  “Fifteen feet,” said Jan promptly. “But in another world they do not seem so tall—either that or we are larger.”

  “Fifteen feet?” said the judge. “And the jar is but four feet. My dear young man, I fail to see . . .”

  The psychiatrist tittered and the judge was suddenly pleased with himself.

  “Well!” said the judge. “That is that. It proves nothing except the charges already brought. The justness of them is plain to see.”

  Alice’s face fell. She had wagered her job and lost, but her sympathy and attention were all for Jan.

  In a very quiet voice, Jan said, “Your Honor, if I were you I would think twice before I call proof disproof. I might go as far as to say that it is dangerous for you to do so.”

  “A threat?”

  “Now, now, Jan,” said Aunt Ethel. “He is so violent at times, Your Honor—”

  “Aye, proof!” said Jan. “And a threat as well. A threat which I am quite capable of carrying out. There is one phase of this story which I have yet to mention. It is the answer to the ancient problem of the wandering sleep soul. And so, one and all . . .” He took a firm grip upon the leaden stopper, his palm pressing hard against the anciently imprinted seal. “And so you are brought to this.

  “By the Seal of Sulayman and by the token of all the deeds already done by its mighty power, I invoke upon all of you, the sentence of Eternal Wakefulness!”

  The psychiatrist tittered in the quiet room and the others gathered heart. As nothing had happened they were sure nothing would happen.

  “The ambulance is waiting,” said the judge. “O’Hoolihan, escort the young man out.”

  Jan stopped beside Alice. “Don’t worry. Things may yet turn out well.” He did not miss the moistness in her eyes and he knew then that even though he might be mad, she loved him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Battle

  At dawn the sound of ten thousand kettledrums, struck violently at once, shook the seventy-four from stem to taff!

  Directly under the starboard gun deck, Jan leaped up, not yet awake but already aching from the concussion.

  “Sit down!” barked the third sentry of the night, gesturing with the pistol.

  Jan stared at the muzzle and then at the seaman’s pale face and obediently seated himself upon the edge of the berth.

  There came the groan of shifting yards and the pop of fluttering canvas as the seventy-four came about to bring her port batteries to bear. She heeled under the buffeting wind and began to pitch as she picked up speed. Pipes shrilled and bare feet slapped over planking and then the whole vessel leaped as the demicannon
blasted away.

  “What time is it?” said Jan.

  “About six-thirty. Now pipe down. I’m sorry but I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

  “That’s fine by me,” said Jan.

  A shriek of hurtling round shot pierced the air and a series of muffled thuds reported that the seventy-four had been hulled. But again yards creaked and canvas thundered. Again she came about and heeled. The recharged starboard batteries brayed flame and shot.

  The sentry glanced up at the deck above and nervously wet his lips. Screaming grape slapped like giant hailstones in the rigging and he flinched.

  “You’re lucky,” said Jan. “If we’re sunk you get a nice clean burial. All in one piece.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Well, isn’t that better than being drowned and lacking arms and maybe legs? Listen to that musketry. We must be closing in on Zongri’s fleet.”

  A broadside of their own was instantly answered by the roar of another close by. The seventy-four reeled, hesitated and then picked up speed again.

  “Is that water I hear?” said Jan.

  “Water? Where?”

  “Hulled, probably. Many more like that and we’ll get it before the rest of them up there. Still, I don’t mind it. If a man is going to die, he might as well have some privacy.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Why, that doesn’t bother you, does it? Maybe you’d rather be blown up than merely sunk. And the sharks won’t be able to get at you in here.”

  There is nothing worse than a dark hold when a battle rages, listening to the broadsides thunder and feeling the seventy-four trip and wallow as round shot takes its count, hearing wounded scream and weep, sensing the rising levels in the bilges and having no idea whatever of how the battle goes. Men prefer dying where they can see the sun.

  For an hour the din was incessant and for an hour Jan remarked upon each expert broadside which was poured into them.

  “The way she’s listing now,” said Jan, “we’ve probably lost a mast and they’re too busy to cut it away. That cuts down the speed, you know, and makes it very easy for us to be boarded. Wasn’t your relief supposed to be here by now?”