The Sleepers

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The lush grass of the plains was sparkling with dew in the early windless morning. The grass marched unbroken for hundreds of miles, and then stopped abruptly at the outer edge of the Area.

No grass grew within the Area. In the beginning the earth had been fused to a depth that denied the existence of any living thing — except the Workers and the Sleepers.

The Area was twenty miles on a side, a perfect square: four hundred square miles of Sleep. The thousands of buildings, all of a height, built for eternity, shone in the pale sun of early morning.

It was the twelve hundred and thirty-eighth year of Sleep.

One building in the exact center of the Area was higher than the others. On the top floor Robert, the Director, stood looking out toward the east, the sun vaguely warm against his face. He was a tall man, powerfully built, with crisp gray hair and an air of bland calm. A man of peace.

Off to his right were the barracks of the Workers, almost identical with the Halls of Sleep. To the left were the Birth Stations, Psychofix, Power Pile, Food Generation and Statistical Analysis.

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