L Ron Hubbard - ME10 Doomed Planet

by Doomed Planet [lit]

  The doctor that Hound called asked if I'd been mauled and chewed by a snug and wanted to give me numerous shots for snug-bite. I said no, but Hound said yes and the reaction from the shots was far worse than any illness I might have had.

  These people were far too nosy and it was with great relief, on the fourth day, when they finally let me out.

  The bruises had turned yellow. I ignored the ruptured veins. I grabbed Shafter and made him pack the old air-tourer. I had things to do!

  In my pocket nestled a note I had blackmailed out of Prahd. It was on the stationery of the King's Own Physician and it said I was a medical inspector. He had quickly seen the light when I had told him that my great-uncle, Lord Dohm, at the Royal prison, would be fascinated to know where his prisoner, Soltan Gris, had gotten to and, further, that the neighbors in that elegant neighborhood might object to mobs burning down Minx Estates if they found the hated Gris was not only alive but in the attic there. Prahd had seen the light, all right! I marvelled at the way I was rapidly picking up the skills of an investigative reporter: I could do them so well now that even the after-haze of marijuana could not dull them.

  And neither could these broken veins and bruises! I was heading for the Confederacy Insane Asylum on the chance that Doctor Crobe and Lombar Hisst were still alive!

  If there had been a cover-up on so many other things, might it not be true that their TRUE condition might also be masked? Perhaps they had just been the victims of political opportunism and chicanery! It might be that they were illegally held!

  What a coup if I established THAT!

  The Confederacy Asylum is far, far to the north. There is a wasteland there that borders a vast ocean near the northern pole of Voltar, a dismal place, covered most of the year with ice.

  It was the autumn season and the quarter of the year which covered the north with perpetual night had not quite arrived, though Voltar's sun was awfully low on the horizon on these brief, remaining days.

  After an overnight stop at a midway air hostel, we arrived in the twilight of a 10:00 A.M. dawn.

  As far as one could see, there were small huts and buildings. They ended at a cliff edge far above the sullen northern ocean.

  Shafter landed on the target marked Reception Center. Wrapped in an electric-heated jacket and covered by a snow mask, I stepped out into the shrieking, icy wind.

  A guard flinched at the letter and hastily directed me into the building and down a long hall to the office of the Resident Keeper.

  Strangely enough, the official was a cheerful, bright young man with black eyes and charm. The sign said his name was Neht.

  He came right out of his chair when I handed him the note. His hair rose faster than he did but the speed of his recovery told me all I needed to know: his appointment was political rather than technical and was held by INFLUENCE.

  I didn't remove my snow mask. I said severely, "There have been rumors of mistreatment of inmates, denial of medical care."

  To my astonishment, his alarm did not just switch to charm. It went right on to laughter. "I can't imagine where that came from," he said at length. "We have a staff of physiological doctors unrivalled in skills. You will forgive my seeming mirth. Actually, it is relief. There has been criticism of a different kind: that our employment of gerontological technology on inmates adversely affected our budgetary burden. No, no, inspector, you will not find mistreatment here. The bodily illnesses of the insane—and they are many—are extraordinarily well cared for. And I can assure you that this task is performed, despite its difficulties: you see, the insane do tend to bash themselves around. But we patch them up, regardless. You see, we are forbidden by law to tamper with their nerves or damage them, but I assure you that, when they get ill or even scratched, they are cared for at once."

  "You spoke of gerontological technology," I said. "Are there abuses there?"

  "Some say so," replied Neht. "But personally, I am proud of it. By extending age in inmates, it can be argued that the cost of running this place is heightened. But you must realize that, despite the short northern growing season, we actually EXPORT food to northern government installations: the inmates, many of them, seem to find relief in working outdoors despite the weather, as it gets them out of their cells. So, what does it matter if we extend age? Sometimes, though rarely, aging is attended by calming reflections, if senility does not set in. Just the other day we discharged a man who had reached 195. He said his wife would be dead by now, so there was no one left to keep him insane and he went away as happy as could be."

  "Nevertheless," I said, still severe, "this does not get you out of an inspection."

  Of course he complied. With the specter of a cancelled appointment being issued by the Emperor, he was all obligingness.

  There ensued an hour of walking from barracks to barracks and hut to hut. I went through the charade of trying to talk to this patient or that. They stared at me blankly or thought I was a cloud and one even gave me a carefully stamped drawing receipt for two billion credits—except, despite his motions, he was holding neither an identoplate nor a paper. One was pushing a single-wheel cart through a yard. It was upside down; I asked him why he did not turn it right side up and he whispered to me that if he did, somebody would put something in it.

  Although walls were scarred up, the huts and barracks were well kept. Although the inmates were strange, none of them were physically injured or ill. The dispensary and hospital were clean and busy and no fault existed there.

  Finally I turned to Neht. My investigative-reporter skills would be needed to the full. I said, "I see no extremely aged people here. I doubt very much that you are using gerontological techniques to keep them alive. Frankly, I am beginning to suspect that you are killing the older ones off!"

  That got through his bland, black-eyed charm. "Oh, not so!" he cried. He studied the situation for a moment and then he said, "Come with me!"

  His way led to the record office. There sat huge arrays of consoles. He cleared away a covey of fluttering clerks and sat down at one, fanning his fingers over the keyboard. He was causing case records to flash by age.

  He kept up a running fire of comment, "You see? One-ninety-one. Two hundred and three. One-eighty-nine. One-ninety-two..." This one and that one, he went on and on. It dawned on me that there must be at least a half a million inmates in this place. This was going to take all day!

  My wits were sharp. I said, in an acid voice, "I see you are avoiding the political prisoners."

  That stopped him. He forgot his charm and gawped. "We don't have any political prisoners here!"

  "Oh, yes, you do!" I said in as deadly a voice as I could manage. "Or, that is to say, you DID until you killed them off."

  "Oh, here now," he said. "That is very brutal talk. They would fire the whole staff if anything like that happened!"

  "Precisely," I said. "I happen to know there is truth in my allegation. You HAVE had political prisoners. I know the names of two."

  He shook his head, confused. Then he said, "There never have been any such here. You have been misinformed, Inspector."

  "Punch in," I said, "the names of Dr. Crobe and Lombar Hisst!"

  Instantly he relaxed. He even chuckled. "Oh, those!" he said. "They're not political prisoners. They're as insane as anybody ever got."

  "Punch them in," I said sternly.

  He did.

  AND THERE THEY WERE!

  Neht tried to explain that the reason they had not come up on his gerontological console was that Hisst was only 170 and Crobe was only 180.1 would have none of it.

  "Political prisoners," I said. "I must inspect them!"

  He shook his head. He pointed to the notation on Hisst's card: INCOMMUNICADO. May only speak to Crobe. And then on Crobe's card: INCOMMUNICADO. May only speak to Hisst. "They are not permitted to talk to anyone! Nobody ever goes to see them!" Neht said. "Those are Royal orders!"

  "Aha!" I said. "From another reign! And what am I carrying but Royal orders? The
charge is proven. You DO have political prisoners here, prisoners no more insane than you or I. Well, thank you, Neht. I shall now go back and make my report that the Confederacy Asylum----"

  His charm was gone completely. "Please!" he wailed. "Those two are as mad as mad!"

  "That can only be proven by an interview in depth with both of them. And WITHOUT you or your staff coaching or jabbing pins in them! Because I like you, Neht, and do NOT want to cause trouble for you, I will accord you this favor!"

  "Oh, thank you," he said in a faint voice and rather huntedly beckoned for a guard.

  I swelled with elation. Investigative reporter skills were absolutely fantastic!

  Here came my next coup!

  PART

  NINETY-TWO ENVOI III xvi

  The hut was isolated. It stood upon a point which jutted like a finger from the cliffs above the sea. Two thousand feet, straight down, the Northern Ocean roared, battering its heavy green fury against the basalt barricade, using for battering rams great floating islands of white ice.

  We had to go through a locked gate before we could enter upon the point. The guard used a plate to unfasten the bars. "It's past noon," he said. "The cleaning crew have probably just come and gone, so you will find them reasonably sanitary. It's a good thing: usually you can smell that hut clear from here."

  We walked along a path between the two vertical cliffs. The wind from out of the northern pole moaned dismally. A flurry of snow beat at my mask. This was a gruesome place—think of being incarcerated here for nearly a century!

  After a walk of a hundred yards, we arrived at the hut. It was rectangular, built of heavy insulating block like all these huts, a kind of a fortress standing lonely by itself in the teeth of icy winds. It had two doors on the shore side.

  The guard approached the left-hand door. "I'll let you see Number 69,000,000,201 first." He consulted his list. "Yes, that's somebody once named Crobe. Now you must be very careful, for both of these are quite mad. I've been here sometimes guarding the cleaning detail while they work and to ensure that nobody speaks to them."

  "Have they ever attacked anybody?" I said.

  "Not that I recall."

  I became even more certain that this was what I said it was—political expediency. This guard had been coached by Neht, that was obvious. "You're not going in with me," I said. "My interview is technical but it may contain state secrets. So let me in there and stand well clear of the door."

  He looked a little uncomfortable. Then he hitched his greatcoat around him, dropped his stungun off his shoulder into his hand, put his plate against the door and gave it a shove. He glanced in and then, with another look at me and a shrug, walked off thirty feet.

  I repressed a thrill of excitement. I was about to see the notorious Doctor Crobe!

  I walked in.

  My eyes adjusted to the sudden gloom.

  The whole hut was really just one oblong room; dividing it in the center was a string of vertical bars.

  I scanned the area I had entered. It was a very capacious room. It was even furnished. It had shelves of books.

  Somebody was bent over a tub of some sort. He turned around.

  IT WAS CROBE!

  His nose was too long; so was his chin. His arms looked more like the legs of birds. He had no hair left at all. He was wearing a coat, but if the cleaning crew had given him a fresh one, it was already dirty.

  "You're just in time," he said, as though my visit was a daily occurrence. "The fermentation is completed and I've just hooked up this tube. Let it drip a little longer into the canister and you can test it. I think it is the best I have.ever made."

  "What is it?" I said.

  "Home brew. 1 save half of my dinner every day and dump it in this tub. It ferments quite nicely." I saw he had a lid over the tub and a tube came out of its center, going through several coils before it dripped a clear fluid out the end.

  He removed the canister which had been receiving it, quickly putting another in its place. "Now," he said, "sit down on that comfortable couch and try this."

  I was amazed. This was no madman. He was even smiling pleasantly. I sat down on the indicated couch and he handed me the canister, making a sign then that I should sip.

  I was cautious. I removed my snow mask but I only pretended to drink.

  "Oh, goodness, go ahead," said Crobe. "You're not depriving me! I have gallons and gallons of it." And he indicated a rack of jugs on the far wall.

  Well, it couldn't kill me. I tossed it down.

  PURE FIRE!

  It scorched my throat like acid! I couldn't talk!

  He watched me carefully. Then he said, "Ah, no convulsions. Which means the fusel oil has distilled off. Can you still see?"

  I coughed. "Of course I can see. Good Gods! What is this?"

  "The very finest Kentucky bourbon or possibly white mule. One of the many gifts to Heavens from the planet Earth. I learned how to make it from a professor there in a higher institute of learning called Bellevue."

  A glow was springing out of my stomach. My alarm faded. Actually, I suddenly felt very good. I looked around. I said, "I see you also have a lot of books."

  He smiled at the shelf. "They're a bit dog-eared now, but Noble Stuffy insisted they be brought for me from the townhouse long ago. He seemed to think I might need them."

  I stared at their titles. The letters? didn't make any sense.

  "Psychology, psychiatry," said Crobe, "and all the works of Sigmund Freud. All the basic texts of psychotherapy on Earth. But they won't let me use it here. They are very unenlightened and retarded. I could clean out this whole asylum for them but every day they gag me before they let the cleaning crew in. However, I have lots of friends, such as yourself, dropping around all the time. Have another shot?"

  He poured me one from a jug and then took one himself. He shuddered as it went down. He said, "Gods!" and after a second, "but that's good." Then he sighed. "I wish they'd let me have some retorts, for without them I can't make LSD. So you'll just have to be content. Drink up."

  I threw down the second drink. It sizzled like the first. But shortly, the room looked quite rosy.

  "Well, we've wasted enough time," said Crobe, glancing at his wrist where he had no watch. "I have other patients coming in, so you'll just have to rush it a bit. Now lie down on the couch and start talking."

  I lay back. I said, "What about?"

  "Does it matter?" he said. "We will simply begin by free association. You leave it to me. Just say anything that jumps into your head."

  Well, of course, the first thing that jumped into my head was the continual plotting of my family to manage my life for me. I said, "If my book is not a success, I am finished utterly. My uncles will crush me into some awful job or I'll have to marry that ghastly Lady Corsa and spend my life, much like you, in a cultural desert, Modon, an exile."

  "Ah," he said, "trouble with your mother!"

  "How did you know?" I said.

  "Obvious," he said. "Sigmund Freud covered it like a blanket. An Oedipus complex! I can get to the bottom of your case at once. It is a classic example of psycho-pathology. You see, there is the anal passive, followed by the anal erotic. Then there is the oral passive, followed by the oral erotic. There is also the genual stage but no one ever really reaches that. These are ALL the mental stages there are. Everything is based on sex. Sex is the single and only motivation for all behavior. So there you are."

  I thought maybe it was the white mule. "I don't quite understand."

  "That's because you have yet to achieve insight into your condition," said Crobe. "But it is VERY plain to me. Your mother did not let you play with her nipples when you were a baby. Correct?"

  "I don't think so," I said.

  "Itbu see? And that inhibited your natural sexual outlets! ALL your trouble with your family comes from that. This will inhibit you from freedom of expression and movement. The cure is simple. Just face up to the fact—and you MUST face up to it—that you are ar
rested in the oral erotic stage. You will NEVER find any remission of symptoms unless you ride roughshod over your repression and find yourself a nice young man and practice, unremittingly, fellatio"

  I stared at him.

  "I see I am being too technical for a layman. I am giving you pure Freud. Your insanity can be cured only by a life of dedication to making love only to young boys and men—orally, of course. Now, I am sorry," and he glanced at his watchless wrist, "but your appointment is over for the day. However, you are now cured so you need not come back. My calendar is overfull."

  XVII

  I rose up from the couch. "Well, I certainly thank you for your therapy," I said. "And I can understand how busy you must be, but do you mind if I ask you for your professional opinion?"