Healer lf-3 Read online

  "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 powermongers 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 yon 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."

  "The scene in the park cut short my window shopping," Dalt replied tersely. They ate in silence for a moment and Pard took the opportunity to intrude.

  ("What're you thinking?")

  I'm thinking that I don't know what to think.

  ("Well, in the meantime, ask her about that tax.")

  Good ideal Dalt swallowed a mouthful and cleared his throat "How do you justify a tax in a voluntary society?"

  "It's in the Contract. A ceiling of five per cent was put on it because if a government spends much more than that, it's doing more than it should."

  "But you don't even have any government to speak of; how does it spend even that much?"

  "Federation dues, mostly: We have no army so we have to depend on the Fed Patrol for protection from external threat. The rest of the expenses go to the police, judiciary, and so on. We've never reached five per cent by the way."

  "So it's not a completely voluntary society, then," Dalt stated.

  "Signing the Contract is voluntary, and that's what counts." She ran her napkin across her mouth. "And now I've got to run. Finish your meal and take your time and think about what we've discussed. If you want to stay, Webst will probably be waiting back at the complex. And don't worry about the bill... it's on me today." She leaned over, brushed her lips against his cheek, and was gone before Dalt could say a word.

  ("Quite an exit,") Pard said with admiration.

  Quite a woman, Dalt replied, and went back to eating.

  ("Still ready to take the first shuttle out of here?")

  I don't know. Everything seems to fit together in some weirdly logical way.

  ("Nothing weird about it at all. It works on the principle that humans will act responsibly if you hold them responsible for their actions. I find it rather interesting and want to spend some time here; and unless you want to start the fiercest argument of our partnership, you'll agree.")

  Okay. We'll stay.

  ("No argument?")

  None. I want to get to know El a little—a lot!— better.

  ("Glad to hear it.")

  And the funny thing is: the more time I spend with her, the less she reminds me of Jean.

  ("That's because she's really nothing at all like Jean; she's far more mature, far more intelligent. As a matter of fact, Ellen Lettre is one of the more fascinating things on this fascinating planet.")

  Dalt's lack of response as he cleared his plate was tacit agreement. On the way out, his eye was caught by a golden seal on the door. It read: "Premises, kitchen, and food quality graded Class I by Nauch & Co., Inc." The date of the most recent inspection was posted below.

  ("I guess that's the Tolivian equivalent of a department of public health,") Pard said. ("Only this Nauch is probably a private company that works on a subscription basis. When you think about—")

  Pard paused as a ground car whined to a halt before the restaurant and Dr. Webst leaped out. He looked relieved at the sight of Dalt.

  "Glad I found you," he said as he approached. "I met Dr. Lettre back at the complex and asked her when you were coming back; she said she wasn't sure if you were coming back at all."


  "That was a possibility."

  "Well, look, I don't know what this is all about, but you must come back to the complex with me immediately."

  Dalt stiffened. "You're not trying to make an order out of that, I hope."

  "No, of course not. It's just that I've made some startling discoveries about you that may have great medical significance. I've doubled-checked everything."

  "What are you talking about?" Dalt had a sudden uneasy feeling.

  Webst grabbed Dalt's arm and guided him toward the car. "I'm babbling, I know, but I'll explain everything on the way over to the complex." He paused in mid-stride. "Then again, maybe it's you who should do the explaining."

  "Me?" Dalt was genuinely puzzled.

  "Yes. Just who or what are you, Mr. Dalt?"

  VIII

  "This is my psi pattern," Webst said, pointing to an irregular red line undulating across the viewscreen in his office. "It shows the low level of activity found in the average human—nothing special about my psi abilities. Now, when we focus the detector on you, look what happens." He touched a panel and two green lines appeared on the screen. The one at the lower end was very similar to Webst's and occasionally superimposed itself on it at certain points.

  "That's what I expected from you: another normal pattern. And I got it... but what the hell is that?" He was pointing to the large, smoothly flowing sine-wave configuration in the upper part of the screen. "We have tried this out on thousands of individuals and I have never once seen a pattern that even vaguely approximates that, neither in configuration nor in amplitude.

  "Whatever it is," Webst continued as he blanked the screen, "it seems to like you, 'cause it goes where you go. At first I thought it was a malfunction, that's why I brought you over to Big Blue, where we have another model. But the same pattern appeared as soon as you walked into the building—and disappeared as soon as you left. So, what have you got to say for yourself, Mr. Dalt?"

  Dalt shrugged with convincing bafflement. "I really don't know what to say." Which was true. His mind raced in an attempt to give Webst, obviously an expert in psionics, a plausible but fictitious explanation. The machine in question was a fairly recent development of IMC research—it detected levels of psionic capacity, even in the nascent stage, and was planned for interplanetary marketing to the psi schools which were springing up on every planet. The current thrust of Webst's research was in the field of psionics and psychotherapy, so he took the liberty of screening for psi ability everyone who entered his office. He felt he had hit pay dirt with Dalt.

  "You mean to say that you've never had any inkling of psi ability?" Webst asked. Dalt shook his head. "Well then, are there any blank spots in your memory ... do you ever find yourself somewhere and can't recall how you got there?"

  "What are you driving at?"

  "I'm looking for a dissociative reaction or a second personality—something, anything, to explain that second level of activity. I don't want to alarm you," he said gently, "but you're only allowed one: one mind, one psi level. The only conclusion I can draw is that you either have two minds or the most unusual single mind in the galaxy."

  ("He was right the first time.")

  I know, but what do we do?

  ("Play dumb, of course. We wanted to get out of microbiology and into psych—this may be our chance.")

  Dalt mulled this over. Finally, "This is all very interesting, Dr. Webst, but quite meaningless as far as my professional life is concerned." That should put the conversation on the track we want.

  "That's what I'd like to discuss with you," Webst replied. "If I can get a release from Dr. Hyne, would you be interested in spending some time with my department assisting us with some experiments?"

  "Just what kind of experiments?"

  Webst came around his desk to stand before Dalt. "I've been trying to find a use for psionics in psychotherapy. We are daily trying to probe the minds of these so-called horrors cases in an effort to find out why they don't respond to conventional therapy. I have no doubt that it's the path of the future—all we need is the right technology and the right psi talents.

  "Remember Sally Ragna? The girl who hides in the corner and no known psychotherapy can reach? That's the kind of patient I'm after. We've developed an instrument to magnify psi powers, and right now a man with one per cent of your aptitude is trying to get a look inside her mind." Webst suddenly stiffened and his eyes burned into Dalt. "Right now! Would you come over to Big Blue right now and give it a try? All I want you to do is take a quick look—just go in and out, no more!"

  ("This is our chance,") Pard urged. ("Take it!") He was obviously anxious to give it a try.

  "All right," said Dalt, who had a few reservations lurking in the back of his mind. "Might as well give it a try and see if anything at all can be done."

  In Big Blue they seated him before Sally Ragna, who wasn't cringing now, due to heavy sedation. The psi booster Webst had mentioned, a gleaming silver disk, was slung above them.

  This is a waste of time, Dalt told Pard.

  ("I don't think so. I've learned one thing, anyway: That machine of Webst's isn't worth a damn—I'm not getting a bit of boost from it: But I don't think I'll need it. I've made a few probes using the same technique I played with on the liner and I'm meeting with very little resistance. I'm sure I can get in. One thing, though ... I'm going to have to take you with me.") I don't know if I like that.

  ("It's necessary, I'm afraid. I'll need every ounce of reserve function to stay oriented once I get in there, and I may even have to draw on your meager psi power.")

  Dalt hesitated. The thought of confronting madness on its own ground was deeply frightening. His stomach lurched as he replied, Okay, let's do it. But be careful!

  ("I'm frightened too, friend.")

  The thought flashed across Dalt's mind that he had never before considered the possibility of Pard being frightened of anything. Concerned, yes ... but frightened—

  The thought disappeared as his view of Sally Ragna and the room around them swirled away and he entered the place where Sally was spending her life:

  /countless scintillating pinpoints of light that somehow gave off no illumination poured into treelike shapes/ a sky of violet shot through with crimson flashes that throw shadows in paradoxical directions/an overall dimness that half obscures living fungus forms that crawl and leap and hang from the pointillistic trees/ /moving forward now/

  /past a cube of water with schools of fish each made of two opposing tails swimming forever in stasis/mountains crumble to the right/breach-born ahead is a similar range/which disappears as they step off a sudden precipice and float through a dank forest and are surrounded by peering, glowing, unblinking yellow eyes/ /descent/

  /to a desert road stretching emptily and limitlessly ahead/and suddenly a town has sprung up around them, its buildings built at impossible angles/a stick man walks up and smiles as his form fills out and then swells, bloats, and ruptures, spewing mounds of writhing maggots upon the ground/the face and body begin to dissolve but the mouth remains, growing larger and nearer/it opens to show its double rows of curved teeth /and growing still larger it moves upon them, enveloping them, closing upon them with a SNAP/

  Dalt next found himself on the floor with Webst and a technician bending over him. But it was Pard who awakened him.

  ("Get up, Steve! Now! We've got to go back in there as soon as possible!")

  Dalt rose slowly to his feet and brushed his palms. "I'm all right," he told Webst. "Just slipped out of the chair." And to Pard: You must be kidding!

  ("I assure you, I am not. That was a jolting experience, and if we don't go back immediately, we'll probably build up a reflex resistance that will keep us out in the future.")

  That's fine with me.

  ("But we can do something for this girl; I'm sure of it.")

  Dalt waved Webst and his technician away. I'm going to try again," he muttered, and repositioned himself before the girl. Okay, Pard. I'm trusting you.
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  /and then they were in a green-fogged bog as ochre hands reached up for them from the rank marsh grasses to try to pull them into the quicksand/

  /the sun suddenly appeared overhead but was quickly muffled by the fog/it persisted, however, and slowly the fog began to thin and burn away/

  /the land tilted then and the marsh began to drain/the rank grasses began to wither and die in the sun/slowly a green carpet of neatly trimmed grass unrolled about them, covering and smothering the ever-clutching hands/

  /a giant, spheroid boulder rolled in from the horizon at dazzling speed and threatened to overrun them until a chasm yawned suddenly before it and swallowed it/

  /dark things crept toward them from all sides, trailing dusk behind them, but a high, smooth, safe wall suddenly encircled them and sunlight prevailed/

  Dalt was suddenly back in the room again with Sally Ragna, only this time he was seated on the chair instead of the floor.

  ("We'll leave her in that sanctuary by herself for a few minutes while I get the lay of the land here.")

  You made all those changes, then?

  ("Yes, and it was easier than I thought it would be. I met a lot of resistance at first when I tried to bring the sun out, but once I accomplished that, I seemed to be in full control. There were a couple of attempts to get at her again, but they were easily repulsed.")

  What now?

  ("Now that we've made her comfortable in her sylvan nunnery—which is as unreal as the horror show she's lived in all these years, but completely unthreatening—we'll bring her back to reality.")

  Ah, but what is reality?

  ("Please, Steve. I haven't time for such a sophomoric question. Just go along with me, and for a working definition we'll just say that reality is what trips you up when you walk around with your eyes closed. But no more talk ... now comes the hard part. Up until now we've been seeing what she sees; the task at hand is to reverse that situation. Here goes.")

  They were back in again and apparently Pard's benign reconstruction had held—and had been improved upon; the wall had been removed and a smooth grassy sward stretched to the far horizon. Pard set up a bare green panel to the left; three more panels appeared and boxed them in ... a lighted ceiling finished the job. An odd piece of metallic machinery overhung them, and there, just a short distance before them, sat a man with a golden hand and a flamestone slung at his throat, whose dark hair was interrupted by a patch of silver at the crown.