The Sleepers

by Perry Rhodan

  The ceiling was shored up at several places. The corridor must have been blasted out of the rock. Dunbee kept running. He climbed over a cement base and squeezed through a couple of support pillars watching the rough edges at his sides.

  He had neglected to look at the ground and the shaft suddenly gaped at him like the voracious maw of a monster. He desperately tried to pull back but his feet had already lost their hold and he slid down the hole. His hands flailed through the air but failed to get a grip. Rubble and stones were loosened by his fall and the dust filled his mouth. He lost his sense of time as he tumbled down the depth of the hole, unable to stop his plunge.

  An eternity seemed to have elapsed when he finally hit the ground. He thought for a moment that he had perhaps fallen into the airshaft of a big hall when he opened his eyes which had been covered by sand and dirt. His bruised body ached all over.

  He found himself in an enormous dimly lit cave. The opening from which he had emerged was in the wall just above the ground. It led upwards at an angle of about 45°.

  Now Dunbee saw the repositories for the first time. They resembled oversized coffins and were lined up against the wall. He picked himself up and dragged himself closer to the containers which had a trapezoid shape and rested on conical supports. They were filled with an oily yellowish liquid. Small metallic ladders were fastened to their sides. A mass of cables and contacts were plugged in at the smaller end. Haunting noises emanated from inside.

  Dunbee was now close enough to peek into one of the containers. He pressed his hands against the plastic material and recoiled in a convulsion. An icy hand seemed to reach for him as he stared with gaping mouth at the slimy mass.

  The container was empty! There was no sleeper inside.

  Where were all those people who had joined the ISC? Dunbee ignored his pains and leaped to the next ‘coffin’ where he could detect nobody either. He didn’t take the trouble to inspect a third one.

  There probably were more containers in another cave. There had to be! Dunbee’s throat choked up as he looked around dubiously. He noticed that the underground vault could be reached normally by a door which had been hewn into the rock at the far end.

  His thoughts spun around in inconsistent patterns but they gradually became calmer. He sat down on a boulder to rest a little. He couldn’t remain here forever. It probably would be best if he came out of hiding again.

  He didn’t know how long he had crouched on the rock, mulling his future, when he heard a sharp and vicious hissing and looked up. He saw it merely for a fraction of a second but it was enough to rouse a ghastly fear in him. He was unable to utter a scream and he trembled in unspeakable terror. At the same moment everything went dark and Dunbee clung desperately to the boulder on which he sat.

  So this was the evil secret of the ISC! Dazed by dreadful fear Dunbee silently crawled under one of the containers.

  • • •

  "Dunbee! You’ve assaulted our guard," an accusing voice called out. "Yes, I did!" Dunbee answered defiantly. "This is Clinkskate speaking," the other man said. "Be sensible, Dunbee! We won’t hold it against you if you’ve suffered a nervous breakdown. I’ll see to it that you’ll be treated with the same consideration and

  not be subjected to any disadvantage." Dunbee laughed wildly. "Do you know what I thought when I slugged that fellow? I imagined he had your damn face, Clinkskate! You miserable miscreant!"

  "You’re crazy," Clinkskate shouted angrily. "Oh no!" Dunbee stood up with clenched fists. "I got wise to your criminal corporation. Where are the sleepers that are supposed to be in your vats, Clinkskate? Where are they?"

  "You’re a menace to the ISC," Clinkskate retorted. "Your mind is too hazy. Can’t you see that the chambers have a cover that keeps you from looking at the sleepers?" Dunbee shook his fist and challenged him. "Come and get me, Clinkskate. I’m ready to fight for my life!" There was no answer but the dim light was turned on again. Dunbee moved as far away from the containers as possible. When they came in he stood in the middle of the cave, holding a stone in each hand. There were six of them. They wore the blue smocks of the ISC. Their eyes looked cruel and determined.

  Deep below the surface of the Earth the hour of death had come to the weakling Dunbee. In this hour of defeat a new man was born Maurice Dunbee, the fighter!

  2/ THE EARTH AT STAKE

  The stairs which led to the office were carpeted with thick rugs that absorbed all sounds. It was a cool, clear day in April. The noise of the traffic in the street was muted inside the house.

  Jeanne Dunbee paused in front of the door with the sign:

  RICHARD KENNOF

  Private Detective

  The name represented all her hopes at the moment.

  The decor of the agency could be called—to use a mild expression—snobbish. An antique wrought-copper doorknocker was mounted under the sign. Stained glass with grotesque figures concealed the view behind the door. The letter box was a head carved of wood whose open mouth was the slot for the mail. A viewer could only guess that the occupant was either eccentric or a showoff.

  But such conjectures didn’t enter the mind of Mrs. Dunbee. At the moment she was too busy with other problems.

  Her dainty figure looked almost fragile. Her dark eyes were circled by shadows which her make-up failed to conceal. Her hair was swept up and held together by a simple mother-of-pearl clasp. Her age appeared to be about 40 years.

  She tapped the door with the knocker and was startled by the noise. A slim brunet with a fashionable wig opened the door. She peered with animosity at Mrs. Dunbee.

  "I have an appointment," Jeanne Dunbee announced.

  "You must be Mrs. Dunbee," the slim girl stated. "Please come in. Mr. Kennof will see you right away. He’s very interested in your case."

  As far as Jeanne recalled, she had told Kennof nothing about her troubles. She had merely asked him if he could spare some time for her although he was such a busy man. It was probably only one of the customary polite phrases the brunet used.

  The inside of the office exceeded the bad taste of the staircase by far. Three men and two women sat at kidney-shaped tables. Red tapestries with garish patterns hung at the walls. The ceiling was painted with ornaments. Jeanne Dunbee gained the impression that she had entered a weird exhibition. It took her some time to make out the paintings which defaced the background of this collection of kitsch and velvet plush.

  However the ultimate of deplorable taste was an enormous ugly vase. The flowers it held seemed to be affected by the same depressing feeling as they were on the verge of wilting. At least the flowers were genuine, not artificial.

  Jeanne, who would have considered such an agglomeration of monstrosities to be unsurpassable, was compelled to revise her opinion when she entered Kennof’s private office.

  To begin with there was Kennof himself, dressed in a yellow robe and enthroned on an ornate chair. After all that Jeanne had heard about him she was deeply disappointed by his appearance.

  He was corpulent and looked almost bloated. His eyes nearly disappeared behind their heavy lids. They had the color of grey dust. His hair was meticulously parted. He was tall but gave the impression of an awkward crank.

  The man, so it was rumored, was supposed to be a former official of the government service but right now Jeanne was ready to swear to the contrary.

  On the floor next to Kennof a decrepit cat with battle-scarred ears lay on a flowered cushion. The animal was curled up and purred contentedly.

  The whole room was a nightmare of gaudy colors, flamboyant furnishings and atrocious knickknacks. A special attraction was a bronze elephant with eyes that were lit up from inside and a trunk which was out of proportion to the rest of the body. The thing that provoked a snigger from everybody else seemed to be indispensable to Kennof since he had planted it on his table directly in front of him.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Dunbee," Richard Kennof greeted her with a pleasant sonorous voice and got up to offer her a chair
which was distinguished by its comparatively normal form. Then he pointed his thumb at the cat. "This is Buster, a most unusual animal," he said lovingly.

  Buster stretched himself, curved his back, yawned and turned away ostentatiously. Jeanne wondered what was so unusual about the creature other than the gilded collar he wore around his neck.

  Jeanne had planned exactly what she was going to say but now all she could do was to blurt out: "My husband has disappeared!"

  Kennof looked at her sympathetically and cracked his knuckles. "And you wish me to find out if there’s reason for divorce, I take it," he inquired matter of factly.

  "It’s got nothing to do with another woman," Jeanne pointed out in a soft voice. "He went to the ISC in Wyoming because he wants to sleep away the next 300 years."

  Kennof uttered a low whistle. "The Sleeping Corporation, the friend of tormented people."

  Jeanne handed him a letter across the desk. "This is his farewell note. I didn’t want to show it to anybody but you must know his reasons."

  Kennof silently and carefully perused the letter. "A very unhappy man," he commented with feeling. "Dissatisfaction with his work, fear that you don’t love him and acute inferiority complexes."

  Jeanne touched her brow. "He always believed that he has to achieve something special to deserve my admiration. If he was unable to accomplish it he would withdraw within himself for days. He thought I would resent his failures. I suppose I should have known better how to help him get over his setbacks."

  "Do you love your husband?" Kennof inquired earnestly.

  "Yes I do," she answered simply.

  The famous detective nodded and bent down to scratch Buster’s battered ears. "What would you like me to do for you, Mrs. Dunbee?" he asked.

  "Find him," Jeanne pleaded in a tremulous voice. "Could you go to Wyoming to look for him? Please get him out of the ISC because I’m sure he’s already sorry that he got mixed up with them."

  "I’m anxious to help all persons who come to me, Mrs. Dunbee, but I must have legal grounds to back me up. We have a true democracy on Earth which is part and parcel of the Solar Imperium. Every citizen has the inalienable right to decide his fate in accordance with his own conscience. If he chooses to take advantage of new biochemical methods to go into an extended state of deep sleep, nobody else is allowed to prevent him. Your husband has signed a contract, Mrs. Dunbee. If I do what you ask me I would presumably be acting against his expressed will. He has paid for the services of the ISC and has accepted their conditions. What do you expect me to do in such a case? There is only one question as I see it, which, however, you can put to the ISC yourself: has Mr. Dunbee been put to sleep? I sympathize with you but there’s nothing I can do for you."

  Jeanne Dunbee took out a bundle of bills from her purse. "I’ve overdrawn our account," she said, putting the notes on Kennof’s desk. "Here are more than a thousand Solars. Could you do something extracurricular in exchange?"

  The grey eyes looked pensively under the half-closed lids at the money. "I would have thrown you out if you were a man," he assured her without raising his voice, pushing the notes back to her.

  Jeanne replied with a tear-choked voice: "I thought you could use the money to make an application to the ISC for a hibernation. That way you could gain admittance to their caves without attracting suspicion and still remain within the bounds of the law. It would enable you to get in touch with my husband."

  Kennof stopped stroking his cat. He gazed at Jeanne as if he had just now really seen her for the first time. Then he pounded his fist on the desk. "That’s it!" he cried enthusiastically. "That’s an excellent idea!"

  Buster squealed indignantly. Jeanne was puzzled by Kennof’s unexpected behavior.

  "Three months ago one of my clients wanted to join the ISC," the detective explained in a calmer tone. "The corporation denied his request because he had lost both legs in an accident. You see, Mrs. Dunbee, he was an amputee. Subsequently I consulted a well-known physician who is a specialist in the field of prolongation of life and sleep into the future. The man maintained unequivocally that it was entirely irrelevant for the purpose of the temporary suspension of the vital functions whether the patient in question was amputated or not. Why does the ISC reject such people who are most in need of their services? Isn’t it significant that Cavanaugh charges exceptionally low prices in his business? They’re unbelievably out of line. Perhaps they want to lure as many people as possible for some sinister purpose. Cavanaugh is no benefactor, that’s for sure!" He leaned back in his chair and added: "The case of Maurice Dunbee has top priority with Detective Kennof. Put your money away, Mrs. Dunbee. Old Dick," he pointed to himself, "takes a personal interest in this affair."

  "Oh, I don’t know how to thank you," Jeanne exclaimed with new hope in her heart.

  ‘Old Dick’ coughed slightly and Jeanne finally discovered the empathy inside the man that was clothed in an eccentric manner. She realized intuitively that she couldn’t have found a better man for the task.

  Kennof lifted his hand to admonish her. "One condition, Mrs. Dunbee!"

  "Anything you say," Jeanne answered. "Nobody must learn anything about this. We’ve got to keep this a strict secret. I can’t take on this job unless I can depend on you not to talk about me. You’ll have to behave in public in such a way that everybody is convinced that you’re resigned to your fate."

  "I’ll do that," the dainty woman promised.

  Kennof got up and Buster hissed, annoyed by the new disturbance. "There’s something else that you probably should know," Jeanne recalled. "Shortly after my husband left for Wyoming two men from the ISC appeared in Dubose. They apparently conducted an investigation of Maurice. I guess they wanted to check all his statements. You’ll have to do a good job to mislead them."

  "That’s interesting," Kennof replied thoughtfully. "I’ll keep it in mind when the game begins."

  "It isn’t only for my own sake," Jeanne said sincerely, "if I wish you luck and success."

  "I can use both," the detective admitted. "I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I’ve found out anything at all."

  Jeanne very gratefully said goodbye. The faint hope she had retained had received new nourishment. She felt confident that there still was a chance for Maurice—and for her—to remedy the old mistakes. She had barely closed the door behind her when Kennof embarked on his new assignment with remarkable zeal. He turned to the small mike on his desk and said: "Benny, switch off the tape! I want to make a private call."

  He waited for the confirmation and picked up the phone. The game was on! But Kennof didn’t know that the Earth was at stake in his gamble.

  3/ TOO HOT TO HANDLE

  It took a little while before Kennof’s call got through In contrast to other people whose telephones were equipped with video-screens, Kennof preferred the antiquated system. He didn’t particularly care to look at the party to whom he was talking. "This is your old friend Dick speaking!" he finally announced.

  "I must be going donk!" a voice at the phone exclaimed. "Don’t tell me you’re tired of sneaking up on unfaithful husbands and are ready to return ruefully to the bosom of your family. The boss is still gloating over you and your stunts. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to take you back,"

  Kennof pulled his robe together. Buster licked his paws, bored and paying no attention to his master.

  "I don’t have the slightest intention of subjecting myself again to your iron discipline, my dear Shane," Kennof declared. "Furthermore, you ought to realize that I have other interests to pursue besides family affairs."

  Shane said frostily: "About which you’re going to enlighten me forthwith!"

  "Precisely," Kennof confirmed. "The object of my latest investigation is the Intertime Sleeping Corporation. So far my suspicions are based on the vaguest of feelings. In order to substantiate them 1 have several requests..."

  "Wait a minute!" the invisible partner interrupted him. "Since when do you mix feelings with cri
minal work?"

  "It’s a symptom of my soft civilian life," Kennof countered.

  "Besides," Shane continued, "the ISC is too hot to handle and I don’t want you to burn your fingers. Do you remember that skinny Snyder from the Interior Department who rapped our knuckles because of that deal with narcotic drugs?"

  "It rings a bell," the detective said dourly.

  "No less a personage than Snyder has conducted the last inspection in the caves of the ISC. Do you think he would overlook any infraction of the rules?"

  "I’ll be the one to make a donk of myself," Kennof assured him. "All I ask is for you to back up my story so that I can apply to the ISC for the long sleep!"

  The, man at the other end of the line uttered a cry of surprise. "You want the ISC to take you in as a sleeper?"

  "Right. This is the best way to infiltrate them and get to the bottom of this business."

  The man whom Kennof called Shane was sceptical. "They won’t accept you, Dick," he prophesied. "You’ve got neither melancholy nor financial troubles. You’re happy as a lark, not to mention that you’re a detective."

  Kennof dangled the telephone cord in front of Buster. "You’re way off the beam, Shane," Kennof chuckled. "I’m going to see Gaston Hartz today. He’s the smartest accountant in town and he’ll tell my creditors that I’ve been wiped out financially so that I’ve got to declare bankruptcy. He’ll have some fun stashing away my money. I’ll be in so much trouble that I would be relieved if I can sleep a few years to forget it all."

  Buster jabbed at the cord swinging before his eyes.

  "I hardly believe that that would be enough," Shane expressed his reservations.

  "I know it isn’t" Kennof said in a serious tone. "That’s why I have to ask you to give me Celia’s address."