Healer, page 8
part #3 of LaNague Federation Series
With Webst gone, Dalt turned his attention to the girl.
(“Pitiful, isn’t it?”) Pard said.
Dalt did not reply. He was staring at a girl who must have been attractive once; her face now wore a ravaged, hunted expression that had caused seemingly permanent furrows in her skin; her eyes, when not squeezed shut, were opened wide and darting in all directions. Her arms were clasped around her knees, which were drawn up to her chest, and her hands gripped each other with white-knuckled intensity.
This could be very interesting, Dalt told Pard at last.
(“It certainly could. I think it could also be interesting to know what Dr. Webst is up to. He was obviously stalling for time when he left us here.”)
Maybe he wants us for his department.
(“Highly unlikely. To the best of his knowledge, we are eminently unqualified in this field.”)
“Hello, Sally,” Dalt said.
No reaction.
“Do you hear me, Sally?” No reaction.
He waved his hand before her eyes. No reaction.
He clapped his hands loudly and without warning by her left ear. No reaction.
He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her gently but firmly.
No reaction. Not an extra blink, not a change in expression, not a sound, not the slightest hint of voluntary movement.
Dalt rose to his feet and turned to find Dr. Webst standing in the doorway staring at him.
“Something wrong, Doctor?” Again, he wore the preoccupied, puzzled expression that did not seem to be at home on his face.
“I don’t think so,” he replied slowly. “Something may be very right, as a matter of fact. But I’ll have to look into it a little more.” He looked frustrated. “Would you mind going over to personnel for now and straightening out your papers while I try to straighten out a few things over here? I know what you’re thinking … but IMC is really much better organized than I’ve demonstrated it to be. It’s just that we’ve had some strange occurrences this morning that I’ll explain to you later. For the moment, however, I’m going to be tied up.”
Dalt had no desire to talk to the personnel department. On an impulse, he asked, “Is Ellen around?”
Webst brightened immediately. “Dr. Lettre? Yes, she’s in the next building.” He guided Dalt back to the entrance and pointed to a red building on the other side of the garden, perhaps twenty meters away. “Her office is right inside the far door. I’m sure she’ll be glad to show you around her section, and I’ll contact you there later.” He passed his hand over the doorplate and the inner door began to move.
(“Nice security system,”) Pard said as they strolled past the lolling patients. (“The intercoms and the door-locks are all cued to the palms of authorized personnel. Patients stay where you put them.”)
Unless of course someone gets violent and decides that the quickest way to freedom is to cut off someone’s authorized hand and waltz right out of the complex.
(“Your sense of humor eludes me at times … but let’s get to more-pressing matters.”)
Such as?
(“Such as Webst At first he lied to get us over to the psychiatry units; now he seems anxious to get rid of us and made up some lame excuses to do so. I’d very much like to know what he’s up to.”)
Maybe he’s just inefficient and disorganized.
(“I assure you, Steve, that man is anything but inefficient. He’s obviously puzzled by something and we seem to be implicated.”)
He did, however, promise to explain it all to us later.
(“Correct. Hopefully, he’ll keep that promise.”) The door Webst had pointed out opened easily at Dalt’s touch and did not lock after him. He concluded that there must not be any patients quartered in this area of the building. On a door to his left was a brass plate engraved DR. ELLEN H. LETTRE. He knocked.
“Come in,” said a familiar voice. El looked almost as beautiful in a gray smock as she had in her clingsuit aboard ship.
“Hasn’t that dictation come through yet?” she asked without looking up. “It’s been almost ten minutes.”
“I’m sure it’ll be along soon,” Dalt said.
El’s head snapped up and she gave him a smile that he didn’t feel he deserved after his cool treatment of her the night before. “How’d you get here?” she asked brightly.
“Dr. Webst showed me the way.”
“You know him?”
“Since this morning.”
“Oh? I thought you were going to be with the microbi—”
Dalt held up his hand. “It’s a long story which I don’t fully understand myself, but I’m here and you said you’d show me around your unit someday. So?”
“Okay. I was about to take a break anyway.” She took him on a leisurely tour of her wing of the building where various behaviorist principles were being put to work on the rehabilitation of schizophrenics who had successfully responded to medical management. Dalt’s stomach was starting to rumble again as they returned to her office.
“Can I buy you lunch?”
“You sure you want to get that involved?” she said with a sidelong glance.
“Okay,” Dalt laughed, “I deserved that. But how about it? You’ve got to eat somewhere.”
She smiled. “I’d love to have you buy me lunch, but first I’ve got to catch up on a few things—that ‘break’ I just took was well over an hour long.” She thought for a minute. “There’s a place on the square—”
“You actually have a town square?” Dalt exclaimed.
“It’s a tradition on Tolive; just about every town has one. The town square is one of the very few instances of common ownership on the planet. It is used for public discussion and … uh … other matters of public concern.”
“Sounds like a quaint locale for a restaurant. Should be nice.”
“It is. Why don’t you meet me there at 13.0. You can familiarize yourself with the square and maybe catch a little of the flavor of Tolive.” The square was near the IMC complex and she told him how to get there, then called an orderly to drive him out of the maze of buildings to the front entrance.
A cool breeze offset the warmth of the sun as he walked and when he compared the vaguely remembered cab trip of the morning to the route El had given him, he realized that his hotel was right off the square. He scrutinized his fellow pedestrians in an effort to discern a fashion trend but couldn’t find one. Men wore everything from briefs to business jumpers; women could be seen in everything from saris through clingsuits to near-nude.
Shops began to proliferate along the street and Dalt sensed he was nearing the square. A sign caught his eye: LIN’S LIT in large letters, and below, at about a quarter of the size above, For the Discerning Viewer.
(“There’s plenty of time before your lunch date. Let’s see what they sell on Tolive—you can learn a lot about a culture’s intellectual climate from its literature.”)
All right. Let’s see.
They should have been prepared for what was inside by the card on the door: “Please be advised that the material sold within is considered by certain people to be obscene—you might be one of those people.”
Inside they found a huge collection of photos, holos, telestories, vid cassettes, etc., most devoted to sexual activity. Categories ranged from human & human, through human & alien animal, to human & alien plant. And then the material took a sick turn.
I’m leaving, Dalt told Pard.
(“Wait a minute. It’s just starting to get interesting.”)
Not for me. I’ve had enough.
(“Immortals aren’t supposed to be squeamish.”)
Well, it’ll he a couple more centuries before I can stomach some of this junk. So much for Tolive’s cultural climate!
And out they went to the street again. Half a block on, they came to the square, which was actually round. It was more like a huge traffic circle with the circumference rimmed by shops and small business offices; inside the circle was a park with grass and trees and amusement areas for children. A large white structure was set at its hub; from Dalt’s vantage point it appeared to be some sort of monument or oversized art object in the ancient abstract mode.
He wandered into a clothing store and was tempted to make some purchases until he remembered that he had no credit on Tolive as yet, so he contented himself with watching others do the buying. He watched a grossly overweight woman step onto a fitting platform, punch in a style, fabric weight and color code, and then wait for the measuring sensors to rise out of the floor. A beep announced that her order was being processed and she stepped down and took a seat by the wall to wait for the piece she had ordered to be custom-made to her specifications.
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.
VII
“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.”
