The Long Sleep

porthole at a lazily swimming aquaman.

He turned to Henry Galing who occupied the chair on his right, and he said. “It won't work, you know.”

“The illusion.”

“What illusion?”

“Stop the game.”

Galing frowned, nodded slowly. “Very well. But do you know who you are, who the girl is, the whole story?”

“I'm Joel Amslow.”

“That's just a name.” *

“I know her name's not Allison. It's Alicia. But I won't tell you anything else.”

“Because you don't know anything else,” Galing said, smiling.

“Yes, I do.”

“You're lying.” He turned to someone behind Joel. “He hasn't doped it out yet. We'll have to go on with it.”

“No!” Joel said.

“Yes,” Galing said. “It's what you want me to do, you know. It really is.”

The faceless man loomed at Joel's right side. The needles of the hypodermic glove were icy…

Joel and Alicia crossed the dimly lighted view chamber and stopped before the window.

“Oh…” she said.

They looked out at the gray scene, grayed themselves by its reflection. The view was one of everlasting death, death without equal, death to stagger the mind, death beyond conception, death very nearly beyond endurance, death that was — in its own awful way — full of hideous movement and intelligence.

She shuddered but didn't run. She remained at his side, taking strength from him, unaware that he had gained his strength from her.

The required minutes ticked past…

The overhead speakers crackled and produced a lecture the subject of which was the scene they were required to observe. Each word on the tape had been carefully chosen by the community's psychologists and semanticists; no propaganda had ever been so meticulously constructed. “This,” the speaker said, “is what you have done and what you can never undo, even until the ends of your days.”

Others watched from viewpoints along the thick glass, but no one spoke. The scene was its own comment. It needed no analysis, no interpretation, produced no gossip. The scene was—

The bridal suite had flame red wallpaper and a mirrored ceiling, and it was costing him a hundred bucks a day.

He knew immediately that it was not real. He had not yet been able to break down the wall of amnesia to discover who he was and why he was here, but at least he could no longer be deceived by a lot of fancy props in a hypno-structured illusion. He knew that if he opened the door of the honeymoon suite, he would find Henry Galing's house beyond it, rather than a hotel.

His first impulse was to wake Allison and question her. Even if she called for help, and even if her call were quickly answered, he should be able to force her to tell him…

But that was no good. He would not be able to force her to tell him anything. Even though she had betrayed him, he would not be able to hurt her or even threaten her; he cared for her too much. His love was based on some relationship they had enjoyed when she was called Alicia, back on the other side of the amnesic wall, in those days when he had been totally familiar with the purpose of the pyramid. Now, regardless of her behavior, he knew that she loved him as he did her.

Besides, even if he could learn something from her he would gain no edge from the knowledge. He would be put to sleep again. And the next time he woke up they might take more care with the illusion so that he would not recognize it, immediately, for what it was.

And ever since this nightmare had begun, he'd been afraid that he would be put to sleep and never brought back again, or not for a long, long time, anyway. He was afraid he'd sleep for years and then regain consciousness in a life support pod — and have to start all over from scratch. He remembered that note he'd found on the porch of that fake house, the note he had left for himself. He had been through this before, the note said; well, he didn't want to go through it again.

So… What next?

Lying on the edge of the king-size bed, staring at his reflection in the ceiling mirrors, he decided that his best bet was to appear to be fooled, lull them into thinking that he was so dumb he didn't suspect a thing. They could be tricked. He'd proven that already. Now it was time to trick them again, though more subtly than he had done the other times. He would put them off balance, take his time, then make a move when they were least expecting it.

The only thing he needed was a hypodermic glove. He'd have to take it from them. With that, he could sedate all of them and have plenty of time to probe more deeply into the background of their game.

Two days…

In two days he'd make his move and become master of the house. He saw now that escape was not enough. Galing and the others must become his prisoners. Whereas he wouldn't have harmed Allison, he had no compunctions against torturing Galing to extract the information he needed.

Beyond the room's single window, skyscrapers thrust at an overcast sky. Distant traffic noises rose against the window.

He knew that he could open that window and smash the hologram scene to bits. But he would not.

Not yet.

But soon. “Soon,” he said softly.

Allison rolled over and blinked at him. She covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “Did you say something?”

“No.”

“No?”

“That's right.”

She sat up and brushed her long hair out of her face, tucked it behind her ears. “I thought for sure I heard you say something.” She was wary.

He pointed to the mirrors overhead and smiled at her. “Just talking to myself.”

“Nice place for mirrors, huh?” She grinned at him, then broke into another yawn.

“Sleepyhead,” he said.

“Narcissist.”

“I was only looking at myself because you were all covered up with sheets.”

“Likely story.”

He grabbed for her.

She playfully fended him off. But behind the playfulness, there was a look of uncertainty.

He kissed her, caressed her breasts, let his hands slide down her slim flanks, cupped her buttocks and kneaded them gently. “Old sleepyhead.”

She smiled, slipping back into her role now, sure of him now. “Sex fiend,” she said.

“Better than a narcissist.”

“Oh, you're still a narcissist.”

“A narcissist sex fiend,” he said. “I guess that means I shouldn't be in a room alone with myself.”

She laughed and pushed him back and rolled atop him, and she began to plant kisses all over his chest and stomach. He didn't mind at all when they began to add a dash of verisimilitude to the phony honeymoon setting.