The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  A neighboring shop sold pharmaceuticals and Dalt browsed through aimlessly until he heard a fellow shopper ask for five hundred-milligram doses of Zemmelar, the trade name for a powerful hallucinogenic narcotic.

  "You sure you know what you’re getting into?" the man behind the counter asked.

  The customer nodded. "I use it regularly."

  The counterman sighed, took the customer’s credit slips, and punched out the order. Five cylindrical packages popped onto the counter. "You’re on your own," he told the man who pocketed the order and hurried away.

  Glancing at Dalt, the counterman burst out laughing, then held up his hand as Dalt turned to leave. "I’m sorry, sir, but by the expression on your face a moment ago, you must be an off-worlder."

  "What’s that supposed to mean?"

  "It means that you think you just witnessed a very bold illegal transaction."

  "Well, didn’t I? That drug is reserved for terminal cases, is it not?"

  "That’s what it was developed for," the man replied. "Supposed to block out all bodily sensations and accentuate the patient’s most pleasant fantasies. When I’m ready to go, I hope somebody will have the good sense to shoot some of it into me."

  "But that man said he uses it regularly."

  "Yeah. He’s an addict I guess. Probably new in town… never seen him before."

  "But that drug is illegal!"

  "That’s how I know you’re an off-worlder. You see – there are no illegal drugs on Tolive."

  "That can’t be true!"

  "I assure you, sir, it is. Anything in particular you’d like to order?"

  "No," Dalt said, turning slowly and walking away. "Nothing, thanks."

  This place will take some getting used to, he told Pard as they crossed the street to the park and took a seat on the grass beneath one of the native conifers.

  ("Yes. Apparently they do not have the usual taboos that most of humanity carried with it from Earth during the splinter-world period.)

  I think I like some of those taboos. Some of the stuff in that first shop was positively degrading. And as for making it possible for anybody with a few credits to become a Zem addict… I don’t like it.

  ("But you must admit that this appears to be a rather genteel populace. Despite the lack of a few taboos traditional to human culture, they all seem quite civilized so far. Admit it.")

  All right, I admit it.

  Dalt glanced across the park and noticed that there were a number of people on the white monument. Letters, illegible from this distance, had been illuminated on a dark patch near the monument’s apex. As he watched, a cylinder arose from the platform and extended what appeared to be a stiff, single-jointed appendage with some sort of thong streaming from the end. A shirtless young man was brought to the platform. There was some milling around, and then his arms were fastened to an abutment.

  The one-armed machine began to whip him across his bare back.

  IV

  FINISH THAT DRINK before we talk," El said.

  "There’s really not much to talk about," Dalt replied curtly. "I’m getting off this planet as soon as I can find a ship to take me."

  They drank in silence amid the clatter and chatter of a busy restaurant, and Dalt’s thoughts were irresistibly drawn back to that incredible scene in the park just as he himself had been irresistibly drawn across the grass for a closer look, to try to find some evidence that it was all a hoax. But the man’s cries of pain and the rising welts on his back left little doubt. No one else in the park appeared to take much notice; some paused to look at the sign that overhung the tableau, then idly strolled on.

  Dalt, too, looked at the sign:

  A. Nelso

  Accused of theft of private ground car on 9–6.

  Convicted of same on 9/20.

  Appeal denied.

  Sentence of public punishment to 0.6 Gomler units to be administered on 9/24.

  The whipping stopped and the sign flashed blank. The man was released from the pillory and helped from the platform. Dalt was trying to decide whether the tears in the youth’s eyes were from pain or humiliation, when a young, auburn-haired woman of about thirty years ascended the platform. She wore a harness of sorts that covered her breasts and abdomen but left her back exposed. As attendants locked her to the pillory, the sign came to life again:

  H. T. Hammet

  Accused of theft of miniature vid set from retail store on 9/8.

  Convicted of same on 9/22.

  Appeal denied.

  Sentence of public punishment to 0.2 Gomler units to be administered on 9/24.

  The cylinder raised the lash, swung its arm, and the woman winced and bit her lower lip. Dalt spun and lurched away.

  ("Barbaric!") Pard said when they had crossed the street and were back among the storefronts.

  What? No remarks about being squeamish?

  ("Holograms of deviant sexual behavior posed for by volunteers are quite different from public floggings. How can supposedly civilized people allow such stone-age brutality to go on?")

  I don’t know and I don’t care. Tolive has just lost a prospective citizen.

  A familiar figure suddenly caught his eye. It was El.

  "Hi!" she said breathlessly. "Sorry I’m late."

  "I didn’t notice," he said coldly. "I was too busy watching that atavistic display in the park."

  She grabbed his arm. "C’mon. Let’s eat."

  "I assure you, I’m not hungry."

  "Then at least have a drink and we’ll talk." She tugged on his arm.

  ("Might as well, Steve. I’d be interested in hearing how she’s going to defend public floggings.")

  Noting a restaurant sign behind him, Dalt shrugged and started for the entrance.

  "Not there," El said. "They lost their sticker last week. We’ll go to Logue’s – it’s about a quarter-way around."

  El made no attempt at conversation as she led him around to the restaurant she wanted. During the walk, Dalt allowed his eyes to stray toward the park only once. Not a word was spoken between them until they were seated inside with drinks before them. Logue’s modest furnishings and low lighting were offset by its extravagant employment of human waiters.

  It was not until the waiter had brought Dalt his second drink that he finally broke the silence.

  "You wanted me to see those floggings, didn’t you," he said, holding her eyes. "That’s what you meant about catching ‘a little of the flavor of Tolive.’ Well, I caught more than a little, I caught a bellyful!"

  Maddeningly patient, El sipped her drink, then said, "Just what did you see that so offended you?"

  "I saw floggings!" Dalt sputtered. "Public floggings! The kind of thing that had been abandoned on Earth long before we ever left there!"

  "Would you prefer private floggings?" There was a trace of a smile about her mouth.

  "I would prefer no floggings, and I don’t appreciate your sense of humor. I got a look at that woman’s face and she was in pain."

  "You seem especially concerned over the fact that women as well as men were pilloried today."

  "Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I don’t like to see a woman beaten like that."

  El eyed him over her glass. "There are a lot of old-fashioned things about you… do you know that you lapse into an archaic speech pattern when you get excited?" She shook herself abruptly. "But we’ll go into that another time; right now I want to explore your high-handed attitude toward women."

  "Please–” Dalt began, but she pushed on.

  "I happen to be as mature, as responsible, as rational as any man I know, and if I commit a crime, I want you to assume that I knew exactly what I was doing. I’d take anything less as a personal insult."

  "Okay. Let’s not get sidetracked on that age-old debate. The subject at hand is corporal punishment in a public place."

  "Was the flogging being done for sport?" El asked. "Were people standing around and cheering?"

  "The answers are ‘no’
and ‘no’ – and don’t start playing Socrates with me."

  El persisted. "Did the lash slice deeply into their backs? Were they bleeding? Were they screaming with pain?"

  "Stop the questions! No, they weren’t screaming and they weren’t bleeding, but they were most definitely in pain."

  "Why was this being done to these people?"

  Dalt glared at her calm face for a long moment. "Why are you doing this?"

  "Because I have this feeling that you’re going to be very important to IMC and I didn’t want you to quietly slip away after you read the Contract."

  "The IMC contract? I read that and there’s nothing–”

  "Not that one. The Tolive Contract."

  "I don’t understand," Dalt said with a quick shake of his head.

  "I didn’t think you would. I mean," she added quickly, "that Dr. Webst was very excited about something this morning and I figured he never gave you your copy or explained anything about it."

  "Well, you’re right on that account. I haven’t the vaguest idea of what you’re talking about."

  "Okay, then I’ll take it upon myself to give you an outline of what you can expect from Tolive and what Tolive expects from you. The Contract sounds rather cold and terrible unless you know the background of the planet and understand the rationale for some of the clauses."

  "I don’t think you should waste your breath."

  "Yes, you do. You’re interested now, though you won’t admit it."

  Dalt sighed reluctantly. "I admit it. But I can’t think of anything you can say that’ll make public floggings look good."

  "Just listen." She finished her drink and signaled for another. "Like most of the Federation member planets, Tolive was once a splinter world. It was settled by a very large group of anarchists who left Earth as one of the first splinter colonies. They bore no resemblance to the bearded, bomb-throwing stereotype from the old days of Earth, nor to the modern-day Broohnins. They merely held that no man has the right to rule another. A noble philosophy, wouldn’t you say?"

  Dalt gave a noncommittal shrug.

  "Good. Like most anarchists of their day, however, they were anti-institutionalists. This eventually caused some major problems. They wanted no government at all: no police, no courts, no jails, no public works. Everything was to be handled by private firms. It took a couple of generations to set things up, and it worked quite well… at first. Then the private police forces got out of hand; they’d band together and take over a town and try to set up some sort of neofeudal state. Other police forces had to be hired to come in and roust them out, and there’d be a lot of bloodshed and property destruction." She paused briefly as the waiter brought a fresh drink and El recommended that they order the vegetable platter.

  "So," she continued, "after this happened a few too many times, we – my ancestors, that is – decided that something had to be done to deal with the barbarians in our midst. After much debate, it was finally decided to create a bare minimum of public institutions: police, judiciary, penal and administration."

  "No legislature?"

  "No. They balked at creating posts for men who like to make rules to control other men; the very concept of a legislature was suspect – and still is, as far as I’m concerned. I mean, what kind of a man is it who wants to spend his life making plans and rules to alter or channel lives other than his own? There’s a basic flaw in that kind of man."

  "It’s not so much a desire to rule," Dalt said. "With many it’s merely a desire to be at the center of things, to be in on the big decisions."

  "And those decisions mean power. They feel they are far better suited to make decisions about your life than you are. An ancient Earthman said it best: ‘In every generation there are those who want to rule well – but they mean to rule. They promise to be good masters – but they mean to be masters.’ His name was Daniel Webster."

  "Never heard of him. But tell me: how can you have a judiciary if you have no law?"

  "Oh, there’s law – just no legislature. The minimum necessary legal code was formulated and incorporated into the Contract. Local police apprehend those who break the Contract and local judges determine to what extent it has been broken. The penal authority carries out the sentence, which is either public flogging or imprisonment."

  "What?" Dalt said mockingly. "No public executions?"

  El found no amusement in his attitude. "We don’t kill people – someone just may be innocent."

  "But you flog them! A person could die on that pillory!"

  "That pillory is actually a highly sophisticated physiological monitor that measures physical pain in Gomler units. The judge decides how many Gomler units should be administered and the machine decides when that level has been reached relative to the individual in the pillory. If there are any signs of danger, the sentence is immediately terminated." They paused as the waiter placed the cold vegetable platters before them.

  "He goes to prison then, I guess," Dalt said, eagerly biting into a mushroom-shaped tomato. Delicious.

  "No. If he’s undergone that much stress, he’s considered a paid-up customer. Only our violent criminals go to jail."

  Dalt looked bewildered. "Let me get this straight: Nonviolent criminals receive corporal punishment while violent criminals are merely locked away? That’s a ridiculous paradox!"

  "Not really. Is it better to take a young man such as the car thief out there today and lock him up with armed robbers, killers, and kidnapers? Why force a sneak thief to consort with barbarians and learn how to commit bigger and better crimes? We decided to break that old cycle. We prefer to put him through a little physical pain and a lot of public humiliation for a few minutes, and then let him go. His life is his own again, with no pieces missing. Our system is apparently working because our crime rate is incredibly low compared to other planets. Not out of fear, either, but because we’ve broken the crime-imprisonment-crime-imprisonment cycle. Recidivism is extremely low here."

  "But your violent criminals are merely sent to prison?"

  "Right, but they’re not allowed to consort with one another. The prison has historically acted as a nexus for the criminal subculture and so we decided to dodge that pitfall. We make no attempt at rehabilitation – that’s the individual’s job. The purpose of the prison on Tolive is to isolate the violent criminal from peaceful citizens and to punish him by temporarily or permanently depriving him of his freedom. He has a choice of either solitary confinement or of being blocked and put to work on a farm."

  Dalt’s eyes were wide. "A work farm! This sounds like the Dark Ages!"

  "It’s preferable to reconditioning him into a socially acceptable little robot, as is done on other, more ‘enlightened’ planets. We don’t believe in tampering with a man’s mind against his will; if he requests a mind block to make subjective time move more quickly, that’s his decision."

  "But work farms!"

  "They have to help earn their keep some way. A blocked prisoner has almost no volition; consequently, the farm overhead is low. He’s put to work at simple agrarian tasks that are better done by machine, but this manages to defray some of the cost of housing and clothing him. When the block is finally removed – as is done once a year to give him the option of remaining blocked or returning to solitary – he is usually in better physical condition than when he started. However, there’s a piece of his life missing and he knows it… and he doesn’t soon forget. Of course, he may never request a block if he wishes to press his case before the court – but he spends his time in solitary, away from other criminals."

  "Seems awful harsh," Dalt muttered with a slow shake of his head.

  El shrugged. "They’re harsh men. They’ve used physical force or the threat of it to get what they want and we don’t take kindly to that on Tolive. We insist that all relationships be devoid of physical coercion. We are totally free and therefore totally responsible for our actions – and we hold each other very close to that responsibility. It’s in the Contract."


  "But who is this Contract with?"

  ("It’s ‘whom’,") Pard interjected.

  Silence!

  "Tolive," El replied.

  "You mean the Tolivian government?"

  "No, the planet itself. We declared our planet a person, just as corporations were declared legal entities many centuries ago."

  "But why the planet?"

  "For the sake of immutability. In brief: All humans of sound mind must sign the Contract within six months of their twentieth birthday – an arbitrary age; they can sign beforehand if they wish – or on their arrival on the planet. The Contract affirms the signer’s right to pursue his own goals without interference from the government or other individuals. In return for a sum not to exceed more than five per cent of his annual income, this right will be protected by the agents of the planet – the police, courts, et cetera. But if the signer should inject physical coercion or the threat of it into any relationship, he must submit to the customary punishment, which we’ve already discussed. The Contract cannot be changed by future generations, thus we safeguard human rights from the tamperings of the fools, do-gooders, and power mongers who have destroyed every free society that has ever dared to rear its head along the course of human history."

  Dalt paused. "It all sounds so noble, yet you make a dangerous drug like Zemmelar freely available and you have stores that sell the most prurient, sick material I’ve ever seen."

  "It’s sold because there are people who want to buy it," El replied with another shrug. "If a signer wants to pollute his body with chemicals in order to visit an artificial Nirvana, that’s his business. The drugs are available at competitive prices, so he doesn’t have to steal to feed his habit; and he either learns how to handle his craving or he takes a cure, or he winds up dead from an overdose. And as for prurience, I suppose you stopped in at Lin’s – he’s our local pornographer. All I’ll say about that is that I’m not for telling another individual how to enjoy himself… but didn’t you hunt up any other lit shops? There’s a big one on the square that sells nothing but classics: from The Republic to No Treason to The Rigrod Chronicles, from Aristotle to Hugo to Heinlein to Borjay. And down on BenTucker Drive is a shop specializing in new Tolivian works. But you never bothered to look for them."