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  * Dekalogy—a group of ten volumes

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  Los Angeles, CA 90028

  SLAVES OF SLEEP & THE MASTERS OF SLEEP

  ©1993 L. Ron Hubbard Library. All Rights Reserved.

  Any unauthorized copying, translation, duplication, importation or distribution, in whole or in part, by any means, including electronic copying, storage or transmission, is a violation of applicable laws.

  Cover Art: Gerry Grace

  Cover artwork: © 1993 L. Ron Hubbard Library. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-59212-615-6

  Contents

  Publisher's Note

  Preface

  Slaves of Sleep

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  The Masters of Sleep

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Publisher's Note

  This is the first time that L. Ron Hubbard's fantasy novel, Slaves of Sleep and its sequel, The Masters of Sleep, have been published in a single volume. Though published years apart, both novels chronicle the adventures of Jan Palmer in the parallel worlds of Earth and the Land of the Jinn.

  "Slaves of Sleep" was published originally in the July 1939 issue of Unknown—the most celebrated and respected fantasy magazine of its day. The long-awaited follow-up, "The Masters of Sleep" appeared in the October 1950 issue of Fantastic Adventures.

  Fantasy was just one of the many genres in which Mr. Hubbard excelled during his long and productive career as a professional writer. During his lifetime, he wrote over 260 novels, novelettes, short stories, screen plays and dramatic works encompassing a wide variety of subjects.

  He initially established his reputation as an author of fast-paced adventure, detective and western fiction. Later, he wrote innovative science fiction and fantasy stories that gave new directions to these genres and established him as one of the founders of the Golden Age of Science Fiction.

  In 1980, in celebration of his 50th anniversary as a professional writer, L. Ron Hubbard returned to the genre of science fiction and completed one of the biggest and most popular science fiction novels ever written: Battlefield Earth. L. Ron Hubbard's masterpiece of comic satire, the 1.2 million word Mission Earth dekalogy (a set of 10 books), was published between 1985 and 1987. Battlefield Earth and each volume of the Mission Earth series became New York Times and international bestsellers and continue to appear on bestseller lists throughout the world.

  Galaxy Press is undertaking a publishing plan to rerelease all of L. Ron Hubbard's classic works of fiction. A number of these, including Buckskin Brigades, Final Blackout, Fear and Ole Doc Methuselah have already been published, each with a companion audio edition.

  The Publishers

  Preface

  “A word . . . to the curious reader. There are many persons in these skeptical times who affect to deride everything connected with the occult sciences, or black arts; who have no faith in the efficacy of conjurations, incantations or divinations; and who stoutly contend that such things never had existence. To such determined unbelievers, the testimony of the past ages is as nothing; they require the evidence of their own senses, and deny that such arts and practices have prevailed in days of yore, simply because they meet with no instances of them in the present day. They cannot perceive that, as the world became versed in the natural sciences, the supernatural became superfluous and fell into disuse; and that the hardy inventions of art superseded the mysteries of man. Still, say the enlightened few, those mystic powers exist, though in a latent state, and untasked by the ingenuity of man. A talisman is still a talisman, possessing all its indwelling and awful properties; though it may have lain dormant for ages at the bottom of the sea, or in the dusty cabinet of the antiquary.

  “The signet of Solomon the Wise, for instance, is well known to have held potent control over genii, demons and enchantments; now who will positively assert that the same mystic signet, wherever it may exist, does not at the present moment possess the same marvelous virtues which distinguished it in olden time? Let those who doubt repair to Salamanca, delve into the cave of San Cyprian, explore its hidden secrets and decide. As to those who will not be at pains to make such investigation, let them substitute faith for incredulity and receive with honest credence the foregoing legend.”

  So pled Washington Irving for a tale of an enchanted soldier. And in no better words could the case for the following story be presented. As for the Seal of Sulayman*, look to Kirker’s Cabala Sarracenica. As for genii (or, more properly, Jinns, jinn or Jan), it is the root for our word “genius”, so widely are these spirits recognized. A very imperfect idea of the jinn is born of the insipid children’s translations of The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, but in the original work (which is actually an Arabian history interspersed with legends) the subject is more competently treated. For the ardent researcher, Burton’s edition is recommended, though due to its being a forbidden work in these United States, it is very difficult to find. There is, however, a full set in the New York Public Library where the wise librarians have devoted an entire division to works dealing with the black arts.

  Man is a very stubborn creature. He would rather confound himself with “laws” of his own invention than to fatalistically accept perhaps truer but infinitely simpler explanations as offered by the supernatural—though it is a travesty to so group the omnipresent jinn!

  And so I commend you to your future nightmares.

  L. Ron Hubbard

  ________

  *Sulayman (less properly, Solomon), who ruled in Jerusalem about 960 BC, has left his impression on almost every land but especially Persia, Arabia and, in general Africa, where dark tales may be found in moldy books which do not at all agree with the prosaic histories written in modern times. Lord of more than mere man, the treasures he amassed are still rumored to be hidden
. His seal is still known in all lands where the black arts flourish and might be said to be the most universal of all magic symbols, probably because of the power Sulayman gained through the use of the original. It consists, properly, of two triangles upon one another to form a six-pointed star which in turn is surrounded by a circle representing fire. –L.R.H.

  Slaves of Sleep

  Chapter One

  The Copper Jar

  It was with a weary frown that Jan Palmer beheld Thompson standing there on the dock. Thompson, like some evil raven, never made his appearance unless to inform Jan in a somehow accusative way that business, after all, should supersede such silly trivialities as sailing. Jan was half-minded to put the flattie about and scud back across the wind-patterned Puget Sound; but he had already luffed up into the wind to carry in to the dock and Thompson had unbent enough to reach for the painter—more as an effort to detain Jan than to help him land.

  Jan let go his jib and main halyards and guided the sail down into a restive bundle. He pretended not to notice Thompson, using nearsightedness as his usual excuse—for although nothing was actually wrong with his eyes, he found that glasses helped him in his uneasy maneuvers with mankind.

  “The gentleman from the university is here to see you again, Mr. Palmer.” Thompson scowled his reproof for such treatment of a man of learning. Everybody but Jan Palmer impressed Thompson. “He has been waiting for more than two hours.”

  “I wish,” said Jan, “I wish you’d tell such people you don’t know when I’ll be back.” He was taking slides from their track, though it was not really necessary for him to unbend his sail in such weather. “I haven’t anything to say to him.”

  “He seems to think differently. It is a shame that you can’t realize the honor such people do you. If your father . . .”

  “Do we have to go into that?” said Jan, fretfully. “I don’t like to have to talk to such people. They . . . they make me nervous.”

  “Your father never had any such difficulties. I told him before he died that it was a mistake . . .”

  “I know,” sighed Jan. “It was a mistake. But I didn’t ask to be his heir.”

  “A healthy man rarely leaves a will when he is still young. And you, as his son, should at least have the courtesy to see people when they search you out. It has been a week since you were even near the offices. . . .”

  “I’ve been busy,” defended Jan.

  “Busy!” said Thompson, pulling his long nose as though to keep from laughing. He had found long, long ago, when Jan was hardly big enough to feed himself, that it was no difficult matter to bully the boy since there would never be any redress. “Busy with a sailboat when fifteen Alaskan liners are under your control. But you are still keeping the gentleman waiting.”

  “I’m not going to see him,” said Jan in a tone of defiance which already admitted his defeat. “He has no real business with me. It is that model of the Arab dhow. He wants it and I can’t part with it and he’ll wheedle and fuss and . . .” He sat down on the coaming and put his face in his palms. “Oh, why,” he wept, “why can’t people leave me alone?”

  “Your father would turn over in his grave if he heard that,” said the remorseless Thompson. “There isn’t any use of your sitting there like a spoiled child and wailing about people. This gentleman is a professor at the university and he has already looked for you for two hours. As long as you are a Palmer, people will continue to call on you. Now come along.”

  Resentfully, well knowing he should slam this ancient bird of a secretary into his proper position, Jan followed up the path from the beach to the huge, garden-entrenched mansion.

  Theoretically the place was his, all his. But that was only theoretically. Actually it was overlorded by a whiskered grandaunt whose already sharp temper had been whetted by the recent injustice of the probate court.

  She was waiting now, inside the door, her dark dress stiff with disapproval, her needlepoint eyes sighted down her nose, ready to pick up the faint dampness of Jan’s footprints.

  “Jan! Don’t you dare soak that rug with saltwater! Indeed! One would think you had been raised on a tide flat for all the regard you have for my efforts to give you a decent home. JAN! Don’t throw your cap on that table! What would a visitor think?”

  “Yes, Aunt Ethel,” he replied with resignation. He wished he had nerve enough to say that the house was evidently run for no one but visitors. However, he supposed that he never would. He picked up his cap and gave the rug a wide berth and somehow navigated to the hall which led darkly to his study. At the end, at least, was a sanctuary. Whatever might be said to him in the rest of the house, his own apartment was his castle. The place, in the eyes of all but himself, was such a hideous mess that it dismayed the beholder.

  In all truth the place was not really disorderly. It contained a very assorted lot of furniture which Jan, with his father’s indulgent permission, had salvaged from the turbulent and dusty seas of the attic. The Palmers, until now, had voyaged the world and the flotsam culled from many a strange beach had at last been cast up in these rooms. One donor in particular, a cousin who now rested in the deep off Madagascar, had had an eye for oddity, contributing the greater part of the assembled spears and headdresses as well as the truly beautiful blackwood desk all inlaid with pearl and ivory.

  This was sanctuary and it irritated Jan to find that he had yet to rid himself of a human being before he could again find any peace.

  Professor Frobish raised himself from his chair and bowed deferentially. But for his following stretch, it might have been supposed that he had been two whole hours on that cushion. Jan surveyed him without enthusiasm. Indeed there was only one human being in the world to whom Jan granted enthusiastic regard and she . . . well . . . that was wholly impossible. The professor was a vital sort of man, the very sort Jan distrusted the most. It would be impossible to talk such a man down.

  “Mr. Palmer, I believe?” Jan winced at the pressure of the hand and quickly recovered his own. Nervously he wandered around the table and began to pack a pipe.

  “Mr. Palmer, I am Professor Frobish, the Arabianologist at the university. I hope you will forgive my intrusion. Indeed, it shows doubtlessly great temerity on my part to so take up the time of one of Seattle’s most influential men.”

  He wants something, Jan told himself. They all want something. He lighted the pipe so as to avoid looking straight at the fellow.

  “It has come to our ears that you were fortunate enough to have delivered to you a model—if you’ll forgive me for coming to the point, but I know how valuable your time is. This model, I understand, was recovered from a Tunisian ruin and sent to your father. . . .”

  He went on and on but Jan was not very attentive. Jan paced restively over to the wide windows and stood contemplating the azure waters backed by the rising green of hills and, finally, by the glory of the shining, snowcapped Olympics. He wished he had been sensible enough to stay out there. Next time he would take his cabin sloop and enough food to last a day or two—but at the same time, realizing the wrath this would bring down upon him, he knew that he would never do so. He turned, puffing hopelessly at his pipe, to watch the Arabianologist. Suddenly he was struck by the fact that though the man kept talking about and pointing to the model of the ancient dhow which stood upon the great blackwood desk, his interest did not lie there. On entering the room it might have, but now Frobish’s eye kept straying to the darkest corner of the room. What, Jan wondered, in all these trophies had excited this fervid man’s greed? Certainly the professor was having a difficult time staying on his subject and wasn’t making a very strong case of why the university should be presented with this valuable model.

  Jan’s schooling, while not flattering to humanity, was nevertheless thorough. His father, too engrossed in shipping to give much time to raising a son, had failed wholly to notice that the household used the boy to bolster up their respective prides which they perforce must humble before the elder Palmer. And, as
a Palmer, it would not be fitting to give the boy a common education; he had even been spared the solace of youthful companionship. And now, at twenty-seven, he was perfectly aware of the fact that men never did anything without thought of personal gain and that when men reacted strangely they would bear much watching. This professor wanted something besides this innocent dhow. Jan strolled around the room with seeming aimlessness. Finally, by devious routes, he arrived beside the corner which often caught Frobish’s eye. But there was no enlightenment here. The only thing present was a rack of Malay swords and a very old copper jar tightly sealed with lead. The krisses were too ordinary, therefore it must be the jar. But what, pray tell, could an Arabianologist discover in such a thing? Jan had to think hard—all the while with placid, even timid countenance—to recall the history of the jar.

  “And so,” Frobish concluded, “you would be doing science a great favor by at least lending us this model. There is none other like it in existence and it would greatly further our knowledge of the seafaring of the ancient Arab.”

  It had been in Jan’s mind to say no. But the fellow would stay and argue, he knew. Personally he had rather liked that little dhow with its strangely indestructible rigging.

  “I guess you can have it,” he said.

  Frobish had not expected such an easy victory. But even so he was not much elated. He told Jan he was a benefactor of science and put the model in its teak box and then, hesitantly, reached for his hat.

  “Thank you so much,” he said again. “We’ll not be likely to forget this service.”

  “That’s all right,” said Jan, wondering why he had given up so easily.