Robert Sheckley: Deep Blue Sleep

THERE WAS A SUDDEN SNAPPY rapping sound at Gerson's door, followed by a sort of inflamed and frenzied tintinnabulation of the doorbell that would not be denied. It was just plain bad timing, because Gerston had been on the verge of plunging into SnuggleDown, the Deep Blue Sleep program provided by the good people at Unconscious Adventures Unlimited for those who wanted some fun during the hours normally reserved for zilch.

Excitement, thrills, love, laughter, all these could be yours while you slept! Things had changed a lot since the bad old days when at some time in every twenty-four hours you had to lie down in a darkened room and let your mind go into a holding pattern for eight or so hours.

Until recently, mankind was enslaved to sleep, that ancient enemy of our days and nights that condemned us to spend a third of our lives just hanging around doing nothing, and without anything to show for it but vague and generally unsatisfactory dreams that needed highly paid experts to render them even slightly intelligible.

Then along came the Deep Blue Sleep programs.

At last waking entry could be made into the mysterious kingdom of Mind, and this could be accomplished by ordinary people, not just college grads with a Masters or better in Psychedelic Psychology.

In this brave new world you could even earn a living while asleep, as a dreammaster, for example, or, if that position was filled, there was always room for a dreamslave. And this was a considerable boon for those who were unable to earn anything while awake.

The possibilites for inner travel were little short of amazing. Using the automated electronic services available at a price most middle-class citizens could afford, and lower classes aspire to, you could log onto SnuggleDown and plug the old psyche into a Personalized Sleep Corridor that would take you all the way to the Gates (frequently described as tall and made of iron) of Death. This became a considerable tourist attraction, and some daring couples even opted for marriage in the Oblivion Zone. They were advised not to tarry there too long, however, since death was still not completely under the Company's control, and individual safety could not be guaranteed, even though the Company took every precaution.

Gerston had no interest in going to see the Gates of Death. That could wait until he was in a morbid mood. He passed up on the Waterfall of Creative Endeavor, too, figuring his productive period might as well wait until later, since right now he was modeling Procrastination. He didn't even want to see the Eternal Life exhibition, where the Company had created a great composite jellyfish which it kept in a shallow lagoon in southern Florida.

The jellyfish was a composite entity made up of the life-essences of thousands, soon to be millions, of subscribers, who had opted for something comfortable and not too demanding as a way of spending eternity.

And there were other possibilities. For a little extra you could add on the Limbo Walkers service that would take your mind out from time to time and show it a nice time in the country before putting it back into the undying jellyfish.

There were other interesting things to do while asleep. They were listed on the Extra Services menu and cost a little more. Gerston had chosen one of those, opting for a deluxe interior adventure. He was ready to begin, but first he had to take care of whoever was at the door.

The loud doorbell shried again, and Gerston called out, "Who's there?"

"Thought-o-gram for Mr. Grumpton."

"Gerston?"

"What I said."

"Who's it from?" Gerson asked, because he led a quiet life and hardly ever received thought-o-grams or their near-cousins, intuition-flashes.

"Hey, buddy, you wanna know what color it is too and does it smell nice? Whyncha accept it and see for yourself? You catch my drift or am I vistling spitzie?"

Gerston had never liked the rudeness of what used to be called the lower classes and now weren't referred to at all. If he didn't answer, the fellow would undoubtedly go away. Still, Gerston wanted to know who had sent him a thought-o-gram and so he unchained the door and opened it. Standing in front of him was a small individual wearing a khaki uniform and a cap on which was written Mercury Thought-Transfer Service.

"Do I have to sign for this thought-o-gram?" Gerston asked.

"Naw, just signify assent by an act of mental volition and it will be so noted on the mind-sensitive receipt form which I carry in this small leather pouch."

Gerston signified, and the messenger said, "Here you are," and touched Gerston's forehead with a transistorized forefinger.

Gerston felt the familiar flash of transmission and waited for the message to appear in his mind. But it didn't. Instead he felt a strange interior sort of a movement. It took him half a beat to realize what this was. Something was stirring and moving inside his mind.

Gerston's first thought was a compact squeamish sensation for which there is no precise verbal equivalent. Somebody was in his mind!

"Hi," a woman's voice in his head said.

"What?" Gerston replied.

"I said `hi.'"

"Yes, but who are you?"

"I'm Myra."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"You invited me here, don't you remember?"

"I did?" Gerston said. "The details are a little dim. Perhaps if you could just remind me of the circumstances`"

"It was in the letter you wrote me. `If you're ever in these parts, do drop in.' That sounds like an invitation to me. What was I supposed to do, go to Siberia?"

"I'm afraid I don't remember," Gerston said. "But the thing I don't understand is, why didn't you just come visit me in the normal fashion?"

"Because I thought this would be a fun thing to do."

"I see."

"But you hate it, don't you?"

"Well..."

"So I made a mistake. So sue me. So I'll go kill myself."

"Myra, there's no need to be melodramatic. Of course I'm glad to see you. Well, it's not exactly seeing, but you know what I mean. It's just that I don't usually entertain people in my head."

"Don't you ever get lonely in there all by yourself?"

"Of course I do. But I still don't -- "

"I know, you still don't entertain people in your head. Well, don't worry, I don't hang around where I'm not wanted. Where did that delivery boy go? He said he'd come back for me. At least I think that's what he said. It was a little hard making out what he was saying, you know?"

"But you pretended you did?"

"Sure. I don't like to hurt people's feelings, Harold."

"What did you call me?"

"I called you Harold, of course."

"I'm not Harold."

"But of course you are!"

"Hey, I ought to know who I am. I'm Sid, that's who I am."

"Sid what?"

"Sid Gerston, of course."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"Not Harold Greeston?"

"No!"

"Then that idiot delivered me to the wrong mind!"

There was a short pause while Gerston tried to think.

"As long as you're here," Gerston said at last, "I guess you might as well make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks." There was movement in Gerston's mind, and then a sort of plop, as of someone sitting down. "Nice place you got here."

"Well, it's just my mind, of course, but I try to keep it nice. Some might consider it a little austere."

"A little what?"

"Stiff."

"No, I think it's real nice. You sure got a lot of books in here!"

"Well, I think having a library in one's mind is important."

"How come these titles blur out when I try to read them?"

"It's just the ones I haven't read that blur out that way."

"And what's this here? A kitchen?"

"A virtual kitchen, actually. I thought it would be rather fun, if you know what I mean."