Returning to the valley
over which the ridge rose like a sheltering wall, he searched about in
the deep snow. One of the first objects he discovered was a large, metal
box. On one side were stenciled words which burned into his brain:

_The Harton-Finston Institute._

He knew now beyond any lingering doubt that he was in the right place
and that the ship was gone, for it was the Institute which had sponsored
the expedition. And he had seen other boxes like that piled compactly in
the holds of the ship.

Nellon was stunned, crushed. But out of his despair a slow wonder rose.
How long had he been unconscious there beside the great green cylinder?
The degree to which the snow had blotted out the litter of the camp
suggested that it must have been many months. For a moment it seemed
incredible that his momentary exposure to the emerald rays of the globe
could have produced such a result. Then he remembered the beings,
circular row upon circular row of them, lying beneath it, and an awesome
knowledge flooded over him.

Those beings were not dead. Exposed constantly to the rays of the globe,
they were merely held in a state of slumber, dreaming dreams,
undoubtedly, just as curiously real and poignant as his own had been.
They were sleeping and dreaming, and the green globe brooded over them
like some vast guardian, soothing, nourishing.

And Big Tim slept with them. When they awoke, Big Tim would wake and
live again. But he, Nellon, would not live again. Suddenly his fear and
hate of the storm returned in full and terrible force. Because when his
batteries were exhausted, his suit would cool--and the storm would kill
him. Slowly, inexorably, death would come to him. And death was a sleep
from which there was no awakening....

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sphere of Sleep, by Chester S. Geier

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