Healer lf-3 Read online

  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

&n
bsp; "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 cont
rol 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!"