Slaves of Sleep & the Masters of Sleep

by L. Ron Hubbard

  In a fright, for fear he would lose his own identity utterly with this shuffling, Jan started up the steps on the run. And then he felt calmer, tougher than was his wont. In fact, he felt like he could lick this high rigger Murphy without any trouble whatever. And with that feeling returned some of his wits. It was strange to feel bossy and competent, very strange. But he did. And he felt coldly calculating and somehow knew that as the foreman he could play a very hard game of poker.

  He arrived at the top of the steps. The man who looked like the high rigger was trying to focus his eyes on the man who looked like the foreman—the real Jan.

  With an abrupt insight, Jan saw it would not do to wish himself back into himself and leave, thereby, the rigger in the foreman’s form and the foreman in the rigger’s form. This cold calculation was something new. But he could use it.

  “See here, Murphy,” said Jan. “You can’t do this! What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”

  The foreman as the high rigger looked stupidly at the diamond. Jan reached out and took it. “Stand back now,” he said. “Leave Mr. Palmer alone.”

  Jan extended the diamond back toward the “high rigger.” “Here, take it!”

  The high rigger reached toward the diamond, agape with amazement, for he had not yet divined how he, a foreman, came to be Murphy, a high rigger. “Good lord,” said Jan, “I wish I was Murphy.”

  There was a whir, a nothingness, a blur and solidity. He found himself back being Murphy. He had his hand outstretched and was just then grasping the diamond. He took it.

  “What the hell!” shrieked the foreman, now again himself. “What’s going on?”

  The man who looked like Jan, actually the high rigger Murphy, was ready to bust somebody in the eye. Jan extended the stone toward him. “I think this is yours, sir,” he said. Dully, Murphy made a grab at the bright stone, his outrage gathering momentum. “Good lord,” said Jan hastily, “I wish I was Palmer!”

  A whir, a whirl, solidity. As himself, Jan Palmer, he hastily grasped the diamond. He pocketed it.

  “What the devil!” screamed the foreman. “I must be drunk! I could have swore—”

  “You could have swore!” said Murphy. “One minute I’m up a pole. The next I’m somebody else! What—”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Jan, marshaling up all his nerve for the occasion. “I am sure there has been some mistake.”

  “Mistake!” howled Murphy. “I—”

  “Shut up!” said the foreman. “Are you all right, Mr. Palmer?”

  “Quite all right,” said Jan feebly. And gripping the diamond hard in his pocket he made his way past the foreman, who was trying to dust him off, went down the steps and took his way past riveters and over mud to his car.

  He sat behind the wheel for some time, nervously disorganized. He had the odd sensation of not quite fitting in himself as though he had somehow been stretched like a sweater tried on by too big a man.

  At length, seeing that he was in an L of the building and could not be observed, he took out the diamond and looked at it. Vague memories were trying to stir within him, a feeling that he had been lately otherwise than he was. The nearest he came to anything was when he closed his eyes and had a picture of a tiger before him but it meant nothing. Of the world of sleep he now had no clue and, having none, he had only his knowledge of Arabianology bequeathed to him by his father’s cousin, Greg Palmer, the only relative for whom he had ever had any respect.

  He peered cautiously at the diamond with the air of one who has no confidence that what he handles is not a hand grenade. He looked carefully around him and gazed once more at the diamond. And then he saw it, the three-dimensional seal deep within its depths.

  Instantly he recalled the two-dimensional Seal of Sulayman and the copper jar. He recalled the death of one Frobish at the hands of the Jinni which had escaped from that jar after Frobish had opened it. He recalled his own incarceration, the swindles of Green—

  What a curious blank! he told himself. The Jinni, the jail, his nearness to being executed for Frobish’s death because Green wanted Bering Steam for his own, the help of Alice, his wife, then his secretary. But what had happened in between? Ah, now it was coming back to him a trifle. He had experienced a period of great strength and power in this world, a joy of life and a self-confidence which had never before been his. Ah, yes. There was something else, somebody else. He had gone somewhere when he slept. Or had he only dreamed? But no, he had changed. He was somebody else somewhere else, that he knew. And something had been but lately struck from his life. Wait, it was almost on his tongue. A curse—the Jinni from the bottle—the Curse of Eternal Wakefulness! Now he was getting somewhere. A curse had kept him awake somewhere, somehow. The Jinni had cursed him to eternal wakefulness and being cursed he had then, when he slept, awakened— But here he was stuck again. Where had he awakened? Only day before yesterday he had felt powerful. Now he felt weak. Something had happened.

  Whatever might have been Jan’s drawbacks in the field of action, he at least could think. And he was thinking now with swiftness and accuracy. Something had happened to him day before yesterday; today he woke up without any feeling of power but with a diamond.

  When he had occupied the body of the high rigger he had felt strong. When he had been in the body of the foreman he had felt cold and calculating and possessed of much brass. Now, as Jan again, he felt self-conscious— This definitely had something to do with being asleep and awake and it had much to do with this diamond.

  Who was he where? He was somebody else somewhere, that was certain.

  Again he looked at the diamond, pocketed it and drove toward home. He wanted no taste of the office. He wanted to sit down in his study and ponder this thing out. But as he drove, his wits kept turning.

  Obviously this diamond was an other-world item. There was another world. Where it was and why it was had something to do with sleep. This diamond might or might not have something to do with sleep. But it certainly had something to do with throwing identity.

  Carefully he plotted it. One could desire or command himself into another body whenever he possessed this diamond and the owner of the other body transferred into his. By expressed desires, one could possibly go on, chain fashion, through the whole human race, scrambling up the identity of everyone with whom he transferred. But it was vital to keep the diamond. The diamond stayed in the hands of the person one was quitting. What changed? he asked himself. Evidently, the soul.

  He scarcely realized that he was home, so abstracted was he when he entered the drive of the old Palmer mansion. Although it was now his, he followed his boyhood habits about it. He let himself in the back and went down into his study where the bric-a-brac collected by generations of seafaring Palmers gathered dust and the criticism of Alice.

  He set himself at the desk, placed the diamond before him and prepared to study it further. But an unaccountable drowsiness stole over him. The copper jar, source of so much dismay earlier in his life, stood empty in the corner, its lead stopper fallen to one side.

  Alice, his wife, entered. She had heard his car enter the garage and she knew she might find him here. She intended to make him go over the household accounts with her and demand an increase in her expense allowance, for romantic as she might have been as a secretary, she was, after all, a woman. He was too preoccupied to answer her, she thought. She was about to become impatient when her eye caught the glint of the diamond. She gasped.

  Jan was leaning back, eyes closed. She supposed he slept. She came closer and peered at the diamond. Gingerly she pushed it with her finger. Gathering courage she picked it up.

  She softened. Dear, dear Jan. Always so thoughtful. But this stone was far, far too expensive for her birthday next week. But he was a dear to think of it. It was too showy, besides.

  There was the ringing of a bell upstairs and she suddenly recalled that Amy Farlan was coming over that afternoon for tea and a chat about the girls. Alice took a look at Jan. He was ei
ther asleep or too deep in thought to notice. It would not do any harm to go up and show Amy. Of course Jan would have to take it back for a less expensive gift, but still, it would give the girls quite a twitter.

  She took it upstairs and showed Amy, who cattily agreed that it was far too showy, who became class (synonym for money) conscious and began to talk about her ancestors and the Mayflower, and one thing led to another and the diamond, thrust into Alice’s pocket, was soon forgotten in the more interesting details of Gertrude’s wearing last year’s hat to church last Sunday.

  Jan, unaware either of this fascinatingly intelligent conversation in progress upstairs or the absence of the diamond, dozed on, not asleep, not awake. Alice, who had a theater appointment with some friends, had Jan’s dinner sent down and took herself away. And at length came home to bed. In his study, Jan slept deeply, sprawled out on his desk. The diamond lay in the pocket of Alice’s frock tossed carelessly across the foot of Alice’s bed.

  Chapter Five

  Old Thunderguts

  The sea was blue and the waves were white and the little lugger plunged through the brightness of the morning sun, heading outward from the coasts of Balou.

  “What’s on your mind, Tiger?” said Walleye. “You been sittin’ there lookin’ stunned for about twenty minutes.”

  Tiger didn’t answer. He sat on the rail. He had been going through his pockets from time to time and he was convinced at last that the diamond was gone. He had now fixed an eye upon Muddy McCoy and the eye was not pleasant to encounter.

  Walleye gave her a couple of spokes down and glanced back at Tiger. Then Walleye followed Tiger’s gaze and, being a man much accomplished in looting, suddenly read the tale. His face grew very stiff.

  Muddy McCoy was whetting his knife, oblivious of these gazes. He was humming an obscene and serpentine ditty and wriggling to the tune of it. Ryan, who had been setting all taut forward, drifted aft at this moment, saw the tension in Walleye’s face, glanced to see what Tiger was looking at and then regarded Muddy McCoy.

  Ryan stopped as he reached the poop deck. “The diamond or the money or both?” said Ryan.

  “The diamond,” said Tiger and moved quietly toward Muddy.

  Walleye gave his attention to the wheel. Ryan drew a cutlass from the stand at the rail and tested its edge. Muddy, suddenly aware, looked up, took all in with a glance, sprang back and writhed into a defensive posture, his knife juggled in his palm, shifty gaze flicking from Tiger to Ryan but giving Tiger most of the attention.

  “I didn’t do nothing!” cried Muddy, a thousand guilts twisting in him.

  Walleye spared a glance from his steering, looked at Muddy. Everyone hated Muddy because Muddy hated everyone. Walleye wondered disinterestedly if the sharks would get a bellyache if they ate the corpse after Ryan and Tiger had finished. He was about to decide that the sharks wouldn’t because they would not be able to stomach Muddy’s unwashedness when he spotted something which, in this byplay, had gone unnoticed. There were three sails to windward and they had their courses set for the lugger. They might be coming to get them, or they might merely be on course for Balou Bay, now twelve hours’ sail astern.

  Muddy went up on the rail, shivering with fright. “I’ll jump!” he screamed, his knife hand shaking.

  Tiger reached out. Muddy’s knife flicked, missed and went sailing amidships as Tiger’s huge hand knocked his wrist. Tiger swept Muddy down to the deck and held him easily, going over him with care.

  Ryan repeated the search.

  “Must’ve swallowed it,” said Ryan.

  “Would’ve choked him,” said Tiger.

  “I’ll kill myself! I’ll kill myself!” shrieked Muddy irrationally.

  “Ought to cut him open for precaution,” said Ryan practically, raising his cutlass.

  “I’ll save you the trouble, lads,” said a calm voice from the deck below.

  Tiger and Ryan whipped to stare in that direction. Unseen by Walleye, Tombo stood, legs braced against the lift of the lugger. He had a pistol in each hand and the pistols, ifrit size, were cocked. Behind Tombo stood Malek, armed with two more cocked pistols, the remaining store of firearms on the lugger.

  “Drop your knives to the deck,” said Tombo.

  Tiger and Ryan dropped their knives and stood up.

  “Hey!” said Walleye. “What’s goin’ on? You better look at them sails out there. They ain’t goin’ to Balou. They just changed course for us!”

  “Now,” said Tombo, his big fangs shining brightly, “you can give me the Two-World Diamond. If we have no trouble, you will be permitted to live to sail us home.”

  Tiger raised an eyebrow. All ifrits, if powerful, were not quite bright at times. The entire proceedings about Muddy had been entirely misunderstood by Tombo or not understood at all. As humans the sailors had not needed to communicate as bluntly as Tombo’s mind would have required.

  “My dear admiral,” said Tiger, “I have just searched our shipmate here for the stone and he doesn’t have it. Walleye may have it, Ryan may have it, but I confounded well don’t. It was in my pocket last night when I slept. It’s not there now.”

  “Do I change course?” said Walleye anxiously, eyes all for the three sails which were now bearing down so close that the bones in their teeth were visible.

  Tiger looked up, saw the three vessels for the first time, read them and turned to the sheets. “Stand by. Let her off the starboard six points! Watch yourself, Admiral.” Tiger let the sheet run, the ship turning and the wind drawing aft. When he and Ryan had slacked off and secured both sails and they were picking up speed with the wind on their port quarter, Tiger looked fixedly at the ships. A gun in the bow of the foremost spoke and a ball skipped through the waves and plunked short of them. The report was dull against them.

  Tombo looked to this new concern. He glanced at his guns. He was still holding them on his quarry, but he had been ignored with such purpose that he could find no grounds to complain of it. He was not an overly bright individual, even amongst ifrits, a fact attested by his having risen to the rank of admiral. But bright or not, even Tombo could not miss the flag which fluttered from the truck of the foremost ship. It was blood red—it meant “No quarter” and it meant piracy. Things were happening a trifle too fast for him.

  The course change had slowed them but now they were picking up knots. But they were not picking up enough of them. They were squarerigged, the three oncoming ships, and although a lugger points better and sails faster into the wind, it cannot match the sailing qualities of square rig, designed to reach and run.

  Malek sighed. The sun had been behind these oncoming ships and so they had gained upon them unseen. But Malek was confirmed in his pessimism. “I knew we’d never make it,” he said mournfully, and shoved his pistols, uncocked, in his sash.

  Tiger watched a second shot bounce toward them. He puckered his brow. He looked at their wake. He looked at the foremost vessel.

  “Starboard your helm,” said Tiger. “Bring her up into the wind.” He and Ryan slacked off the sheets and the lugger, thus headed, was soon slatting her way to a halt.

  The strangers came around in a wide sweep and with slacked braces idled in to trumpet distance.

  A huge human in a red shirt stepped into the rigging of the largest ship and aimed a brass trumpet at them.

  “Come aboard!”

  “Send a boat!” Tiger yelled back.

  The human in the red shirt played an eye over the lugger, discovered that it did lack a boat and so, with a volley of orders, got a cutter into the sea. Manned by humans, the cutter was soon under the counter of the lugger which, slopping off, now lay in the trough; booms trembled as the canvas thundered.

  Tiger gave them a ladder and shortly a bowlegged, toothless, sun-stained man dropped over the rail, glared around and then confronted Tiger.

  “What’s your cargo?”

  “Empty sacks and two ifrits,” said Tiger. “We’re just out of Balou Bay and I wouldn’t be s
urprised if men-o’-war weren’t far behind.”

  “You steal this?” said the boarding officer.

  Tiger grinned.

  “Well, that’s one point in your favor!” He went to the rail and yelled down and the boat’s crew, all but one, swarmed up.

  The bowlegged one’s grin grew wry when he looked at the two ifrits. “Over you go.” He turned to Tiger. “I’m prize crew. You’ll join Old Thunderguts on the flag. Can’t say what he’ll do with you. Wouldn’t advise trying to escape by rowing. The bow’s been achin’ for some target work. On your way now. Lively. Now lads, step lively.” And he ignored the captives and began to assign his prize crew to watches and stations aboard the lugger.

  Tiger and the rest dropped into the boat and were soon alongside the flagship which was proclaimed to be, by smeary letters across the stern obliterating an old name, Terror. They swarmed up the Jacob’s ladder and stood in the waist, giving a hand while the cutter was swung aboard, all but Tombo and Malek who stood apart, disdainful.

  The ship was entirely a hurrah’s nest. Refuse filthied her waterways, grease and dirt bestained her decks. Crowded by a verminous rabble who showed every sign of debauchery, the Terror might better have been named the Horror, for so she would have appeared to any seamanlike eye. Her rigging was askew so that her masts raked differently. Her halyards were chafed. Her blocks were rusted. She was a seagoing spitkit and would have been a disgrace to an army transport service.

  The cutter stowed, Tiger and company, surrounded by the idly curious crowd, were thrust aft to the quarterdeck.

  Tiger had supposed that he would be greeted by the red-shirted man who had hailed him from the shrouds. And he was not at all prepared to find a man in a gold crown, blowzy drunk, swathed in a silk robe and seated on an improvised throne.

  A sailor went up and bowed before this creature. “Your Majesty, prisoners await your will.”

  Tiger blinked. There was a guard of men here on the quarterdeck which had cocked pistols in their sashes and carried drawn cutlasses in their hands. They were not neat and they were not sober but they looked businesslike. These were different than the crew at large. They seemed to be a guard around this preposterous throne.