I designed the water bed during years as a bed patient in the middle
thirties: a pump to control waterlevel, side supports to permit one to float rather
than simply lying on a not-very-soft water-filled mattress, thermostatic control of
temperature, safety interfaces to avoid all possibility of electrical shock,
waterproof box to make a leak no more important than a leaky hot water bottle rather
than a domestic disaster, calculation of floor loads (important!), internal rubber
mattress, and lighting, reading, and eating arrangements-an attempt to design the
perfect hospital bed by one who had spent too damned much time in hospita! beds.
Nothing about it was eligible for patent-nothing new-unless a sharp patent
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lawyer could persuade the examiners that a working assemblage enabling a person to
sleep on water involved that-how does the law describe it?-“flash of inspiration”
transcending former art. But I never thought of trying; I simply wanted to build
one-but at that time I could not have afforded a custom-made soapbox.
But I know exactly where I got the idea. In 1931, a few days after the
radio-compass incident described in the afterword to SEARCHLIGHT, I was ordered to
Fort Clayton, Canal Zone, to fire in Fleet Rifle & Pistol Matches. During that
vacation-with-pay I often re
turned from Panama City after taps, when all was quiet. There was a large swimming
pool near the post gate used by the Navy and our camp was well separated from the
Army regiment barracked there.
I would stop, strip naked, and have a swim-nonreg (no life guards) but no
one around, and regulations are made to be broken.
Full moon occurred about the middle of Fleet Matches-and I am one of those
oddies who cannot sink, even in fresh water (which this was). The water was blood
warm, there was no noise louder than night jungle sounds, the Moon blazed overhead,
and I would lie back with every muscle relaxed and stare at it-fall into it-wonder
whether we would get there in my lifetime. Sometimes I dozed off.
Eventually I would climb out, wipe my feet dry with a hanky, pull on shoes,
hang clothes over my arm, and walk to my tent in the dark. I don’t recall ever
meeting anyone but it couldn’t matter-dark, all male, surrounded by armed sentries,
and responsible myself only to a Marine Corps officer junior to me but my TDY boss
as team captain-and he did not give a hoot what I did as long as I racked a high
score on the range (and I did, largely because my coach was a small wiry Marine
sergeant nicknamed “Deacon”-who reappears as survival teacher in TUNNEL IN THE SKY).
Some years later, bothered by bed sores and with every joint aching no
matter what position I twisted into, I thought often of the Sybaritic comfort of
floating in blood-warm water at night in Panama-and wished that it could be done for
bed patients.. . and eventually figured out how to do it, all details, long before I
was well enough to make working drawings.
But 1) I never expected one to be built; 2) never thought of them (except
for myself) other than as hospital beds; 3) never expected them to be widely used by
a fair percentage of the public; 4) and never dreamed that they would someday be
advertised by motels for romantic-exotic-erotic weekends along with X-rated films on
closed-circuit TV.
By stacking the cards, I’m about to follow the advice of both Bill Gresham
and Sprague de Camp. First, I will paint a gloomy picture of what our future may be.
Second, I’ll offer a cheerful scenario of how wonderful it could be. I can afford to
be specific as each scenario will deny everything said in the other one (de Camp),
and I can risk great gloom in the first because I’ll play you out with music at the
end (Gresham).
GLOOM, WOE, AND DISASTER-There are increasing pathological trends in our
culture that show us headed down the chute to self-destruction. These trends do not
require that we be conquered-wait a bit and we will fall into the lap of whichever
power cares to occupy us. I’ll list some of these trends and illustrate (rather than
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