The conditions were perfect. Or at the very least, in the very particular setting of this tube, they were perfectly designed to accomplish what the bosses wanted. Restful, continuous, and above all, predictable sleep. It was dark. Sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit on the dot, he’d heard them say, with continuous modifications to account for his changing body heat. Not a single sound, but for his heart, his breath, and a gentle, rising and falling tone that apparently got a sleep scientist named Kostya some award. Not a Nobel, but something in that direction. Everything was perfectly calming. Except for the millimeter-thick electrode spike that skewered his bolted-down skull to regulate his hypothalamus. Still, he went over a few old airman tricks, ones crafted to get someone asleep in minutes in case that would make the difference between a failed and a successful operation. And who knew, maybe this was one of those times. He breathed in, tightening everything from the waist down before letting it go on the exhale. Then, everything between his waist and his neck. Then everything above the nec- Ouch. Then, he imagined sitting on a black velvet hammock beneath a dark sky, telling himself calmly and nonjudgmentally not to think. And as he drifted away, the first oneironaut to pierce the human psyche, he wondered how much it cost to train him to do something that had never been done. He hoped it was a lot. Because all that stood between him and whatever dangers laid beyond was PolyCorp. After all. It’s Only Business. Side Chatter Music Credits Players