by Perry Rhodan
RUDE AWAKENING?
HIBERNATE NOW, resuscitate later. This is the plum promised people with plenty of money who dream (dream is the word) of laying down their dissatisfied bodies in the present (of the 21st century) and reawakening in the 22nd, 23rd or 24th. But things are not what they seem and behind this hibernation lure is a scheme to conquer the world. No less! The promise: a happy future. The plot: treason to all mankind! The resolution of the plot: to discover it you must read—
Perry Rhodan
Atlan And Arkon #79
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The Sleepers
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1/ EVIL SECRET OF THE ISC
The incessant gurgling of the cell-plasma utterly enervated Dunbee. The container was close enough to touch if he raised his hand. Instead he dug his fingers into the sandy soil in silent despair, then groped trembling over the cracks in the ground and shrank away from a clammy rock.
Maurice Dunbee groaned in pain as he tried in vain to push his aching and tired body out from under the tank. His determination to escape grew stronger and, breathing heavily he managed to crawl a few meters, haunted by the gurgling and bubbling of the liquid in the huge vats all around him.
They had turned off the lights and the cave was completely dark. It was only a question of time when they would catch up with him and take him back. He hung his head in awareness of his physical weakness that frustrated his will to fight on. Then he continued to crawl forward despite his fear that his efforts were futile. A sharp acid odor pervaded the musty air of the cave; perhaps they had injected a narcotic gas so that he could be seized without the risk of resistance.
With a wan smile he thought that this was merely one more incident in the series of failures which had been typical of his life to date. Here he cowered again: Maurice Dunbee, the weakling!
He pushed himself up on his arms and listened. Were they already coming with their paralyzers? Was the end near?
Dunbee heard a noise coming from the impenetrable darkness. A shrill hard voice made his blood freeze. "Dunbee! Resistance is useless. You must give yourself up! Two of our attendants will come to assist you, Dunbee!"
Dunbee jumped up. His shoulder struck the corner of the container and he staggered back. Blind with fear he started to run away. The cave was full of terrifying noises. He could hear the footsteps of running men, the panting of their lungs and the loud voices which urged him to stand still.
He bumped against a rock protruding from the wall and came to his senses. Exhausted he leaned against the stony wall. He had shaken off his pursuers for a moment but his frail body shook as in fever.
"Be reasonable, Dunbee! We only want to help you!"
Yes, Dunbee thought bitterly that’s it. All my life I’ve let other people help me without ever taking things into my own hands!
He closed his eyes in resignation and his thoughts drifted back to the day when he had decided to ask the Intertime Sleeping Corporation for help.
• • •
"Please, come in Mr. Dunbee," Curteen asked the slight man waiting for him outside his office. "Now I’ve got time to talk to you."
Dunbee rose from his chair with an uneasy feeling and put down the 3-D magazine he had perused. Curteen motioned him into his office with an inviting gesture of his hand.
Lester Curteen was the vice-president of the Stardust Soap Co. in Dubose. He was tall and slender and his old-fashioned contact lenses made him look like something akin to a reptile. "Please sit down," he said while he rummaged through some papers on his desk. "Ah, here it is!" he finally remarked with satisfaction. "You’ve been 10 years with us," Curteen continued in a friendly tone. "Your standard of work has always been very satisfactory and your cooperation has been harmonious at all times."
Dunbee gulped and nodded. He silently admired the facility of words with which Curteen expressed himself.
"We’re extremely gratified by your exemplary contributions to our enterprise," Curteen claimed, "and naturally we hope that you’ll continue with your duties for a long time to come."
Dunbee nervously rubbed his hands and remarked hesitantly: "Mr. Vadelange left our company last week, Mr. Curteen. He was the manager of the Advertising Department. I... it’s always been the practice that the senior employee of the department was appointed to the leading position if the boss resigns."
Curteen looked at him across the table. There was a strange light in his eyes which quickly disappeared again. He answered in the same calm and obliging tone: "You’re quite right, Mr. Dunbee. This would entitle you to be appointed as Mr. Vadelange’s successor." Curteen hesitated for a moment. "Believe me, it’s utterly impossible for me to find a replacement for you in your present task. We must request you, therefore, to remain on your job for the time being. Mr. Priest will take over Vadelange’s job until we can find a suitable man to do your work."
"I understand," Dunbee replied grimly. "You’ve chosen Priest."
Curteen rose and walked around the desk to pat Dunbee on the shoulder. "Of course you’ll immediately classify for the salary of a department supervisor," he announced.
"Of course," Dunbee repeated mechanically.
"I knew that we could count on your understanding of the situation in our Advertising Department," Curteen said smilingly.
Dunbee slowly rose from his chair and exclaimed in a quivering voice: "I quit!"
And the very same day he penned a letter to the Intertime Sleeping Corporation to make his application. He desired to be put to sleep for the duration of 300 years.
The Intertime Sleeping Corporation was founded a year earlier by a businessman named Cavanaugh. It was commonly known as ISC. Cavanaugh, who promoted himself as the ‘savior of people disenchanted with life’, had invented a new deep sleep method with the aid of several scientists. With a permit granted by the Interior Department, Cavanaugh had acquired an area in Wyoming in the vicinity of Yellowstone National Park which contained numerous large caves created by the volcanic activity of thousands of years. Nothing seemed to be better suited for an undisturbed bio-sleep than this place. It didn’t take Cavanaugh long to equip the natural caves for his purposes. He installed big containers and filled them with cell plasma in which his clients were to be placed in order to sleep away the time until they entered a better future. With a heretofore-unequaled advertising campaign Cavanaugh gained quite a few disciples for his idea. Why shouldn’t a frustrated person who had never known success skip a few years in a deep sleep to wake up in a more beautiful future where he could accomplish remarkable deeds? The government saw no reason to intervene since Cavanaugh strictly complied with all medical precautions. The ISC passed all inspections by officials of the Interior Department. The mass media contributed to make the idea of the businessman popular and the first day the corporation was opened to the public there were hundreds of interested people who crowded its admission office.
Dunbee remembered an interview which Cavanaugh had given to a television reporter. Asked for his response to the criticism that had been raised in many quarters, Cavanaugh replied calmly: "I don’t know why anyone should find fault with my idea. I offer distraught people a happier future. What could be wrong with that?"
Dunbee was an unhappy person. The marriage with his wife had remained childless. At 48 years of age he had found little success in his occupation. He felt misunderstood by his wife and the world seemed but cold and cruel to him.
Two weeks after Dunbee had sent in his application he was requested by the ISC to come to Wyoming for a preliminary investigation.
Thus Maurice Dunbee disappeared from Dubose as quietly and inconspicuously as he had lived there.
• • •
His name was M’Artois. His dark wavy hair was streaked with strands of silver. When he laughed numerous tiny wrinkles formed around the corners of his eyes. His voice had a sonorous ring and he had a nonchalant way of hooking his right thumb in the waistband of his trousers. He wore a white, carefully tailored jacket and a colorful shirt. "We already know why you came to us," he addressed Dunbee. "You wrote in your letter that you wish to be put into deep sleep for the next 300 years, which is the maximum time we’re willing to allow anyone. Our sleeping times being with a period of 50 years. Are you able to pay the sum of 3,000 Solars?"
Although this was a fairly low figure it represented the greater part of Dunbee’s savings. He had withdrawn that sum from his account although not without a guilty conscience. The trip to Wyoming didn’t do much to raise his confidence. He felt as if he had betrayed Jeanne. Or was she glad that he had walked out of her life? He had asked her understanding and forgiveness in a farewell letter to her. "I’ve got the money with me," he said.
M’Artois, who sat in a ridiculous contraption of plastic which threatened to collapse under his weight at any moment, nodded. "I’m a psychologist, Mr. Dunbee," he said. "The conversation I have with you is one of my duties. The corporation has no intention of embarrassing you with unnecessary questions and precautions. However we must be sure to get certain facts straight."
Dunbee replied a little impatiently: "I’m ready. Go ahead!"
M’Artois smiled sympathetically. "You’ve described your situation at some length. You consider yourself an insecure person who has failed to cope adequately with his life. You have expressed certain difficulties in your occupation and your marriage which have shattered your nerves and otherwise affected your health. Your employer didn’t appreciate your work and your wife neglected to show patience with you. You have no children. There was nothing positive in your report." His tone became more urgent. "Nevertheless, Mr. Dunbee, I believe you should try once more."
"I’ve always tried to do something with my life but I am too weak," Dunbee replied, discouraged. "I’m at the end of my wits."
The ISC counselor reflected for a moment. "Maybe you’re oversensitive," he ventured. "Can’t you begin to appreciate the pleasant things in your life? Your standard of living wasn’t so bad. Make up with your wife. Discover what your common interests are and take a trip together."
"This was my last trip," Dunbee declared stubbornly.
"Well then," M’Artois said distressed, "your decision seems to be irreversible. In that case I’ll take you to Dr. Waterhome who is going to conduct the medical examination. You’re no doubt aware that we can accept you only if your organism is basically healthy."
He left his office with Dunbee. They passed through a large room and entered the main corridor of the administration building in Cheyenne. Several employees carrying files, and one robot, walked by. Dunbee tried to look out a window but it was a gloomy day and he saw nothing but fog and rain through the glass.
Without any apparent connection M’Artois suddenly asked: "Are you an amputee, Mr. Dunbee?"
Dunbee was taken aback. "No, why?"
M’Artois’ smile, which had disappeared for a second, returned. "It’s one of the rules of the Corporation not to accept amputated people. I forgot to acquaint you with this information," the psychologist explained.
Dunbee wondered why a person who missed a part of his body couldn’t be put to sleep as well as a normal person but he was too shy to express his concern.
"It’s got something to do with the functioning of the organs," the counselor said. "Dr. Waterhome can explain it better to you if you’re interested."
He opened a door and led Dunbee into a tiny room. A young blond woman greeted them. She sat at a desk but seemed to have little work to do. Dunbee fidgeted as she scrutinized him intently.
"This is Mr. Dunbee," M’Artois introduced him. "Will you please take him to see Dr. Waterhome, Laura!" He squeezed Dunbee’s arm. "I wish you good luck."
He was gone before Dunbee could answer him.
"There’s somebody in the office ahead of you," the blond girl said.
"I can wait," Dunbee assured her.
He thought of Jeanne, which made him choke up. If the ISC let him sleep for 300 years, his wife would be dead when he returned to Dubose. Dubose, that miserable hole in the boondocks with the pompous building of the Stardust Soap Co., how would it have developed after 300 years?
He heard a buzzer from the desk of the girl. When he looked up she pointed to a well-padded door and said: "Dr. Waterhome will see you now."
He stumbled as he got up and felt embarrassed when he noticed that her eyes followed him till he opened the door.
• • •
The examination lasted two hours. Dr. Waterhome told Dunbee to come back the next day. By that time the results of the examination would have been evaluated and he would be advised whether his request would be approved by the ISC.
Dunbee returned to his hotel and tried to calm his jangling nerves. He toyed with the idea of writing a letter to Jeanne but was unable to pull himself together. Finally he fell asleep with his clothes on.
He woke up very early. His body felt stiff and he had a stale taste in his mouth. He thought he was sick and the waterjet massage didn’t help to make him feel better.
However his feeble condition changed a few hours later when M’Artois informed him that the ISC had agreed to place him in one of its caves for 300 years. Now he felt as though dead.
• • •
All the painters in the world seemed to have come to the northeast corner of Wyoming to give the magnificent landscape a colorful appearance. The Yellowstone River twisted and turned like a mighty snake through the deep gorges far below Dunbee.
The pilot of the helicopter descended from the high altitude. "We’ll soon be in the outskirts of the National Park," he pointed out to Dunbee. "That’s where the crypts of the ISC are."
Dunbee shuddered when the man used the word ‘crypts’. But to make conversation he merely asked: "Were you born in Wyoming?"
The pilot laughed. "You won’t believe it but I was born on the Moon. Does that surprise you?"
Dunbee agreed politely. He would have liked to talk to the man about his own problems but he was afraid that the pilot might object to it.
"I wouldn’t want to let them put me to sleep," the other man mused. "Why do you want to do it?"
Now that Dunbee had a chance to talk about his fateful step, he was at a loss for words to discuss it.
"You don’t have to say anything if you don’t feel like it," his tall companion said. "But I always get a weird feeling when I bring people here."
"What kind of a feeling?" Dunbee inquired.
The pilot of the little helicopter glanced at him sideways. "I can’t get rid of the impression that there’s something wrong with this whole business," he explained. "Don’t think I want to scare you. After all, the ISC pays me very well. But have you ever stopped to think how cheap their price for such a transaction is?"
"What are you trying to imply? Obviously the Corporation is very efficient and it must be able to keep its expenses down to a minimum. Why shouldn’t it use low prices to attract customers?"
"Because," the pilot replied, "Cavanaugh is a slick businessman who knows how to make everything pay off. Just imagine, I get almost 40 Solars for each flight. Add the costs of the examinations, the administrative expenses and the outlay for the maintenance of the vaults. I can’t figure out where he can make a profit. Sometimes I suspect that Cavanaugh is financed by somebody who’s staying in the background and uses him for his experiments."
"Experiments?" Dunbee repeated, shocked.
"Perhaps the whole affair is only conducted on a trial basis and is slated to be enlarged if it’s successful and promises to make money."
Dunbee retorted indignantly: "I’ve got a signed contract which has been approved by the Interior Department. The caves are being inspected at regular intervals by officials
of the government. Of course I have to assume responsibility for such medical errors which are not caused by negligence but this is only customary."
The pilot didn’t insist on continuing the discussion. He seemed to consider the subject closed and Dunbee had to be content with looking at the scenery although he felt the need to air the controversy further.
A few minutes later the pilot pointed to one of the mountains and said: "There it is."
"I don’t recognize it. I can’t see any buildings." Dunbee craned his neck in disappointment.
"Virtually everything is underground except the landing field," the pilot explained. "You’ll be amazed how much room there is."
The helicopter slowly lost height. To the left a landing field hewn out of the forest came into view. The man from Dubose detected a road which led from the airport to the mountain where the sleeping chambers must have been located. He was seized by a vague anxiety. His heart beat faster and he rubbed his hands against the window. A red flag fluttered in the wind behind the trees. The name of the Corporation was imprinted on the cloth with yellow letters.
Dunbee had a notion that the sunny world bid him a last farewell before he would emerge on its surface again 300 years later. Now he was assailed by doubts. Was there really no other way out of his dilemma? Suddenly he remembered the summer days when he used to sit with Jeanne on the flat roof of their house. A gentle breeze from the mountains had waved Jeanne’s hair and brought the smell of moist earth. Once in awhile they would sing a song together.
Why didn’t I realize before, he thought, how much these little pleasures of our daily life meant to me?
Dunbee made an effort to quell his languid mood and to shake off his nostalgic thoughts. Now it was too late and he had reached the point of no return.
He was jolted by the landing of the helicopter and beset by a queasy feeling. The pilot climbed out. Two men in blue smocks came running across the field. The three letters ISC were embroidered at their chests.