ROOM 2B THE PONTIBUS JOURNAL 3

The Pontibus Journal
LUZ-BETHEL

by Larry Lee Slot

Chapter Forty-Two

Cambridge, Massachusetts
10 years after Lester dedicates Luz
Late 21st Century

Andrew Wilks was good. He made a fortune in his chosen profession, and they’d never caught him. The burglar was now on his last job. He felt it was time to call it quits. Stealing & cheating, although spirit engendering, carried enough seeds of spirit destruction to negate all positive effects.
Plus, Dr. Cinza held more money for him than Andrew would need in 4 lifetimes. Lifetimes represented by the 4 passports he held. At 24, young Wilks would soon retire a very wealthy man. Falling prey to the money trap was not his wish.
“Who can safely draw that line between when a man has lucre & lucre has a man?” Andy thought, crawling past two trisomies and a Huntington’s chorea on his way to the tower. “How much wisdom does it take to discern that figure? More than I’ve got. Better to quit while ahead.”
The First-Surface was not the regular haunt of a good 2nd story man these days. Very few people with big money lived here anymore. Those that did couldn’t make it on the great bridges for some reason. Poor sick human dregs, biological misfits, and their predators, doctors, lawyers, politicians, etc. were still lower life denizens.
“Multinational Military Industries & Mining” (MMIM) executives lived on both levels. While on the First-Surface, these and other wealthy uncaught criminals resided in towers. They felt towers and ample security agents protected them from the hoi polloi. Andrew made a fortune proving the fallacy of such thinking. Such tactics kept just the very poor at a distance. That was one aspect of Andy’s business he always found distasteful – proximity to the genetically deficient (biologicals). The First-Surface was rampant with what he called “these whining masses of subhumanity”.
Wilks pondered. “What do others feel when they see these monsters & biological misfits? Unreasonable guilt? Disgust? Revulsion? Must I, too, sublimate and feel pity? No, never!”
A few yards from the tower Andrew stopped to rest, still thinking. “No matter. I feel all of these mental states anyway. In a sane society, I’d never see such things; I wouldn’t feel the emotions. Nature wouldn’t let me onto the scene before She destroyed them.”
He began low crawling again, thinking. “Powerful fools, scam professionals, bureaucrats, social workers, drug dealers, pesticide peddlers, and lifeless religionists. They hold sanity at bay here! The old-government enforces insatiable worker rights & gun interdiction. Mindlessness everywhere keeps residents ignorant & poor.”
Andrew was a warrener. Clandestine entry obliged him to spend time, however short, near the “biologicals”. It was inevitable. A finished job for him meant recuperating a month afterwards. He chose mid-altitude equatorial ocean Pontibus locales, no “biologicals”, no cops, no poor, no taxes, and no bullshit.
There were birds up there too. Wild birds no longer lived on the First-Surface. Cats, beggars, and pesticides ate them all. Beggars and pesticides were banned on the bridges and Pontibus wild alligators insured domestic cats lived short lives. First-Surface people just didn’t think right. Lester Frye made it very clear, when he said. “Where you sustain “biologicals”, there can be no “biological sustainability”.” Why didn’t they listen to him?
Past the last deficient now, the burglar searched and found the old sewer grating. It was where the purloined blueprints indicated it would be. Andrew bought the building’s plans from a friend of the owner’s architect over a year ago. Down he went now with his bag of tools. An experienced tunneler, the burglar was soon looking in on the building’s atrium.
He knew right where to go. Mr. Michael Hodges, owner of the tower, was away. Gas kit donned, Andrew opened the tank valve on his back and focused the nozzle. Security people fell around him. He entered the main vestibule corridor and went to the elevator.
It took him to the master bedroom on the top floor. The room was just off the sala next to the terrace. About to enter the sala, he heard moaning amid muffled words. It was 11 PM. The owner’s wife was partying with 3 male friends.
Andrew froze and then continued forward. Peering around the doorway, he saw from where the sounds emanated. Three friends of the owner were penetrating his young wife in her 3 most convenient apertures. She didn’t seem to mind, in spite of her moaning. Perhaps the muffled sounds were to encourage the woman to keep a stiff upper lip.
Andrew paused to admire the scene for a few seconds. It was a bedroom. He appropriately put the foursome to sleep. At the side of the perforated, Wilks stooped to remove the locket from her necklace. The emerald was a prize in itself. He looked at it a moment before separating the stone from its setting.
The gem was Muzo quality and went into his pocket. The gold setting he carried over to a dresser. Gold no longer held its former high value. Calein’s prospects destroyed gold futures and other precious metal prices. Anticipated production of the new piers, replacing Al-Con, would make all expected mineral supplies plentiful. People were selling metals short. Hoarding was moribund. The current price/weight hazard didn’t warrant stealing it.
Under a lamp, Andrew examined it through his magnifying glass. Memorizing the engraved numbers, Wilks threw the setting back to the foursome and went safeward. Moments later he, contents of safe, and his tools were waiting on the huge terrace.
The helicopter approached, and Andrew threw everything aboard. Jumping in last, he motioned for the pilot to lift away. Hours later, a jet deposited Andrew and his booty before Rio de Janeiro Customs. He passed through them and stepped out into the reception area within minutes. An ugly obese man with a pasty white complexion greeted him.
“Hi, man. How’d it go?”
“Snap, Sparky.”
“Great. We’ve got a super reception planned for your retirement.”
“Really?”
“Sure have. You’re a wealthy man.”
“The emerald is Muzo, quality, should bring a few hundred grand. The safe’s contents were sparse. That address, codebook, and these little tubes, as agreed. They mean that much to you?”
“A billion bucks. I promised you.”
Brazilian Federal Police, hovering around them, made Andrew nervous. The aging Dr. Cinza never went anywhere without his “honor guard”. The group walked over to a large white car in the parking lot. Cinza’s entourage waited until his fatuous son Dubbin arrived. The car left the parking lot and headed for Copacabana.
As they left Porçao, the exclusive self-serve restaurant, the Federal Police arrested Andrew. They let him finish a fine meal before delivering him to extradition headquarters. He got a court-appointed attorney and 10 years. Cinza kept Wilk’s $5 billion, and the safe’s contents, including the 4 biological weapon vials.

Shack near Rio Paulaya, Honduras
Six years later

General Aloirav stretched and yawned after the long day. It was his first return to Gracias a’ Dios, La Mosquitia, Honduras since before prison. Sixteen years elapsed in the interim. The conversation with his old friend was deep and meaningful. Ten years the senior, Jose’ was retired now in preparation for the big retirement. His intelligence service was in the capable hands of his son.
After mutual memories sharing ended, the former king described his current mission, a prison spur boss. Jose’ still possessed much information on personages in the asocial trades. In the presence of apparently senile old men, people sometimes relax vigilance. There are many slipped words, and the jungle grapevine grows far. The old Indio remembered hearing things about a fellow matching the description.
The two images coinciding, General Aloirav thought over what the old prospector said and replied. “Seems like the same guy, Jose’. He’s calling himself “Sr. Mendoza” at present.”
“Thees guy ees dangerous, Rav. He call heemself Braulio Montez, when he wass een Palacios.”
“You’re sure he’s Guatemalan?”
“No, he say hees Paya, reeceently eemigrated. Mebbe Georgetown Guarani more likely.”
“Contrabandista (smuggler)?”
“Well-known, but neever busted.”
“Says a lot.”
“Si.”
“He’s either very smart or very disloyal.”
“Si.”
The Indio said the local gossip was replete with stories about Braulio’s nefarious exploits. He operated for less than a year in the local area. Puerto Lempira was a small joint in the Columbia-Venezuela-Miami Twenty First-Century drug pipeline. Other than that, it was of no strategic importance. Jose’ conveyed a few of the more notorious alleged accomplishments belonging to Sr. Montez’. The description exposed many of the colorful character’s putative strengths and weaknesses.
It appears he started out as a Guarani garimpero (prospector). Leaving the jungle, he moved northwestward with the heat from Lethem, British Guiana. Venezuelan housebreaking occupied him for a time. These individuals are as plentiful in South America as they say tightwads are at AMWAY & Herbal Life conventions. The robber-gangs resemble Native American butchering attacks on US frontier settlers. The invaders wait, until they think a homeowner has fallen fast asleep. Then, with a small winch, they break apart a window’s protecting bars. After each “boinng” noise, they wait ¼ to ½ hour before resuming operations.
Sometimes, it takes all night. Very little wood goes into a common South American middle-class house. Sleeping homeowners think it but house contraction noises due to day-night temperature differentials. If awakened, they quickly return to their sweet slumbers, oblivious of their impending doom. Upon entering the compromised window, the thieves kill their victims outright, ransacking the premises. Such behavior was standard recreation in communist countries and those hemorrhaging from US – multinational ravaging.
A small-time contrabandista (smuggler), Hernando, also lived in the Palacios area. One day his wife and their six children noticed some minor discrepancies outside the house. Hernando got an inkling that housebreakers were looking to invade his place. Sending his family elsewhere, he waited all night for the thieves, hiding behind a darkened wall. When the robbers entered, his disappointment was supreme after missing an easy shot.
Hernando then built a pitchfork guillotine inside and over a window that presented the most attractive entrance. Should there be a repeat performance, absent the entire family, it would serve as a welcome. The trap worked well. It fatally surprised one of Braulio’s men upon re-entry. Pitchfork prongs punctured the fellow’s spinal cord and carotid artery.
Braulio lost face, blamed Hernando, and a vendetta ensued. From what Jose’ could determine, Palacios’ Miskitos felt Hernando responsible in part for his own demise. Both men were drinking. Braulio demanded satisfaction for Hernando’s “cowardly” act of self-defense. He couched it in terms of the other missing a drug payment for past “fronted” drugs.
Hernando, under the influence, was feeling macho. Booze increases stature approximately 10 meters in small men. Without too much reluctance, he began a discussion on Braulio’s alleged animal ancestry. It appeared there was an uncle possessing 100% genetic complementarity with a cabron (goat). Braulio felt no aversion to being termed something other than his given name. Aliases were tools of the trade. Hearing himself and his antecedents described as gracious benevolent creditors was not equal to being termed ungulates.
Immediate offense accepted, Braulio procured a cana de azucar machete (3 foot long knife). Without further ado, the two men engaged in a heated discussion over their several paternities. Such confrontations are quite common in Central and South America. They occur after over-imbibing, sometimes resolving years of pent-up animosities over slights. The results are often serious maiming or violent death.
Hernando drew the first blood with Braulio cut across the lower jaw and chest. Braulio wore a leather bandoleer of 7.65mm ammunition draped over his left shoulder. Hernando’s right-handed downswing cut him high left and down to mid right torso. Without the leather, Braulio’s left collarbone and nearby arteries would have been breached, battle over. Instead, the blade slipped & sliced along the leather, effecting a deep crenulated wound.
(The cut was now a large purple scar shaped like a biohazard emblem. General Aloirav reported it to Jose’ to elicit recollection. It made Jose’ focus on Braulio Montez as the progenitor of the Mendoza appellation.)
The parched grass around the cantina incarnadined. With most men, such a wound would destroy what little stomach remained for continued fighting. Braulio, however, was not most men and continued with his left arm virtually immobilized. Recovering, he took brief notice of the new handicap. Shifting the machete to his right hand, Braulio went on a reckless offensive.
Hernando was unprepared for such unexpected gusto. He may have, perhaps, even wavered. If so, it was a fatal vacillation. Braulio mustered an erratic strength, due to quiet desperation. One particular horizontal swing with the large jungle knife removed Hernando’s most treasured possession.
Blood gushing forth from both parts of the nearly decapitated man, his remains flopped to the ground. The larger part kicked some, twitched a bit. The head blinked, looked quizzical but serene, and ended occupancy. The two crumpled grotesque pieces cooled on the ground. Honduras lost a smuggler but gained a new widow and six orphans.
Hernando’s friends brought the two (almost) segments to his widow and progeny for their edification. The surprise was not to their liking, and their reaction was unpleasant to witness. Braulio eschewed deserved acclaim to elude the illegal ramifications of Hernando’s former influence.
He scampered out of Honduras on the next available cocaine run north. Arriving a few hours later in Miami, Braulio became Sr. Mendoza. Smuggling continued, but the merchandise changed. Within the year, family and business connections placed him elsewhere. A secure new position developed in a private prison. A subsidiary of MMIM managed the compound.
He now worked as head guard in that New England Pontibus’ spur. The “connected” absentee warden knew First-Surface potentate, Mr. Michael Hodges, and the Pontibus governor, Adam Quake. Sr. Mendoza got free rein as quasi warden. The jungle grapevine reported Braulio’s family and friends bragging about his good fortune. His contract-carcel (jail) honcho job made him a big name among the smuggling riff-raff.

Restaurant, Twenty-Seventh Level, Luz (While Mr. Aloirav visits with Jose’)

The morning started out bad. Having to settle for the solitary waitress’s company, Mr. Leion felt a foul mood begin his day. The restaurant was slow at 10 AM, so the woman was a captive audience. Being appreciative of his good breeding, she would receive a nice gratuity. The poor soul smiled, when he expounded upon his impending munificence. Mr. Leion took it to mean he appeared a rare and impressive customer. Maybe it was time to modify his hard stand against females.
“I’m like a dog trainer,” he thought. “I have to exercise more patience. Women and Doberman’s are a lot alike. Skulls are too small to house much of a brain. High strung, can’t see the big picture, neither very smart, but improvements over the next best animals. Lead, never force. It’s a hard lesson to learn. Some, excluding myself, of course, never master it.”
Gratified by her servility, buoyed for the day, he paid the check, leaving a 3% tip. Lumbering over to the office area, he met his associate at the door.
“Come on, we’re leaving.” She said.
“We, er…well. I just got here!” He said, confused as to his priorities.
“Are you coming?” The assertive woman shouted.
“Yes. I guess so.” Mr. Leion said, following her out the door like a Doberman on a leash. It was noon, as they went over to the restaurant he just left twenty minutes prior. After ordering coffee, she told him. “They’re missing weapons!”
“No!?”
“Lots. I found discrepancies and irregularities between storage slips and S&R chits all over the area. Storage records are supposed to be dated and upgraded periodically or when necessary. They have to match with pallet slips in the yard. I went out there to be sure. Where magazines are supposed to be, there’s either something else or nothing. Empty crates! No slips are up to date. I’ve got enough of a start to move for a more extensive audit. The corporation’s obligated to the Company to research it right. That means more people.”
They discussed the matter, and then both left the restaurant. She contacted corporate headquarters on the vehicle computer to deliver the bad news. They approved her decision to cut the investigation short.
Mr. Leion’s manager told him to accompany the woman back to the Third-Level magnelev station. He was then to go home and report on the visit from his perspective. The corporation re-programmed the vehicle to the Third-Level magnelev station. The two checked out of the skyway domicile and left the base.
The perambulator got about fifteen minutes in from the Twenty-Seventh Level compound. Near the path leading to a cantilever prison community it slowed. 500 feet above the main walkway-road, 800 feet from the guard domicile, the prongs appeared. The sky car began free wheel-spinning.
The woman said. “Get out and see what the matter is.”
“I don’t see why it’s my responsibility.” Mr. Leion riposted. “You’re younger and thinner.”
“That’s right! And you’re old, fat, and lazy!”
“I would expect a woman to respond in just such a manner!” Mr. Leion answered. “Limited capacity. Yes. That’s your problem. You see, Nature designed females with a smaller cortex for a damn good reason! You, being so unfortunately endowed, deserve to hear an example of your inadequacy.”
“And you deserve a pre-frontal lobotomy!”
“Deep thinking requires brain mass, you understand. That’s why men do it and women don’t. Nature planned it that way. Do you know why?”
“No. I do have the feeling a moron is going to tell me though.”
“Who’d watch junior if mom was out chasing rainbows and windmills, or slaying dragons, along with dad? Women don’t think well, because it’s counterproductive to human survival. Women run world democracies. They own 70% of the wealth and control 95% of it. They outnumber men 5 to 1. Despite a plethora of rhetoric and poems to the contrary, women are the most bloodthirsty savages that exist on this planet! I’ve recorded their behavior in peacetime and numerous OG wars. I’ve read history books and seen documentaries that concur, and yet men get the bad press. Humanity will lose, if women win and democracy continues. One of the key demands of the militant environmentalists is female empowerment. It’s not necessary. Democracy already gives it to them. Democracy and religion will drive us back to the caves or oblivion. Female, Chinese, and Black values are born slave values. All over the planet democracies are pushing the white male aristocracy out of power and into an agro-managerial despotism. Do you think it was just ignorance or accident that for 40K years Man has subjugated his feminine aspect? I suppose you believe that female liberation has come about just because we are all more enlightened now?
“Will you dispense with the Company-line dogma, get out, and see what the matter is, turkey?!”
Mr. Leion laboriously got out to discover the problem. He peered over the bow and saw the vehicle functioning according to design. The Al-Con walkway-road was missing in the area preceding them. Its unusual opening didn’t look corrosion damaged. Mr. Leion became concerned and wary.
Walkways & roads eroded in small areas. They needed repair, at times. That’s why the Company maintenance people kept itinerant highway personnel. They spliced in patches at irregular intervals where acid rain oxidation warranted it. Whole sections never corroded in such a manner. The metal here was shiny and bent back, not black and pitted. The foamed concrete was beaten, not dissolved to rot.
Designers programmed sky cars to secure position, when they sensed oxidation or no walkway-road ahead. It would “mark time”, wheels inside prongs spinning to no effect. The safety feature protected occupants. Operators couldn’t cancel manually without a prior door opening. The vehicle, an older model, could not jump ten to twenty feet like the newer ones.
Thinking about throwing it into reverse and taking another route, Mr. Leion turned to reenter the cab. Hearing the woman scream, he looked up to see two men holding her next to the right hatch. Another held a piece trained on Mr. Leion himself. The road damage was too much. It was something he sensed earlier, still outside the vehicle.
The area was wild, uninhabited. He immediately thought hold-up. The man with the gun trained on him said. “Come with us.”
Mr. Leion said. “Please. Just take my wallet and let us go.”
The man nudged him with the gun, causing Mr. Leion to ask. “Where are we going?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll know when we get there.”
All this time, the woman was issuing short but repeated remonstrances. She maintained her perceived dignity, quite well, at first. After a few hundred yards of forced rapid walking, through night vegetation, the situation changed. An impatient captor pushed the exhausted woman, and she fell. Hesitating to rise, all perception of dignity left.
Whimpering, the accountant remained on her hands and knees. Rather than rising to fight, never before having experienced such indignities, she was quite passive. It was a hysterical creature that regained her footing after unsympathetic assistance. Now, blubbering futile protests, she didn’t hesitate to scream outright. The fellow on her right arm, Tomas’, became incensed, saying.
“Shut-up, bitch. Keep up the racket n’ o’m gonna’ slug ya’.”
She understood and stifled. The two captives stumbled down the rough jungle path toward the guard domicile. One fellow, gun fixed on Mr. Leion, waved to the guard. When closer, the gate opened. They passed through it onto a smooth calein walkway leading to the prison community modules. Ten minutes later, the captives stood in a domicile of that assemblage.
A man with a large purple scar, showing above his shirt, entered and demanded identification. A few questions later, it became apparent what he wanted to know. The fellow was trying to discover all he could about their visit to the storage depot. He focused on Mr. Leion.
“Wha’ ‘bou’ eet, fatty?”
After explaining about the audit, Mr. Leion assumed an attitude of unfelt bravado, and added. “Not that it’s any of your business! What right have you to treat us so atrociously?”
The man ignored him, turning to the woman, he asked. “Why wass an audit needed?”
Having regained some composure, she answered. “That’s none of your business!”
The Spanish voice replied. “I’n goeeng to haf to meke eet my beeseeness, meecy.”
The woman asked, “Why? Are you Company people?”
“Yes, I yom.”
“Then you won’t mind showing us some I.D.” Mr. Leion said.
The waylaying and later treatment made Mr. Leion suspicious. He was no fool. There was something happening here more than just routine investigation. Company People were gentle. They didn’t operate this way. He was sure of it.
The man took out his wallet and showed Mr. Leion a Company blue-tetrahedron-on-silver badge.
“O.K.” Mr. Leion said.
He was surprised. Mr. Leion always found Company official’s behavior most courteous. Unable to think of anything else objectionable at that time, he said nothing more. Fidgeting, the captive just looked around the room. Unremarkable was the adjective to use in describing the calein-surrounded space.
Bulkhead, ceiling, and floor were all the same plain translucent ivory-white material. There was a desk and some chairs. A Pancho Villa portrait photo reprint hung in the corner. Solar collector blinds covered portholes.
“Now, once again. Teell me why you weere condoocteeng audeet of thee weerhouse books?”
Mr. Leion explained his job; marketing stored recycled toxics and rehabilitated old weapon systems. He related how computers discovered a contradiction in disparate records. That irregularity waved a programmed flag. His firm located the discrepancy in the raw material sector. The merchandise class, from which they were to manufacture their latest product, involved these supplies.
He said. “Management held it off the marketing schedule, until they could rectify the inconsistency. It evolved into an ordered shutdown in the operating agenda. The requisition for a pre-audit developed from that. The corporation sent her and me out to look around – see what the trouble was.”
“And what wass eet?”
The woman, not to be outdone, calmed by Mr. Leion’s casual answers, interjected. “Many unanswered questions!”
“How ees thet?”
“We don’t know the full extent of the discrepancies. We’ve but scratched the patina. At least one hundred magazines of conventional ammunition are missing with their weaponry.” She replied. “I didn’t get started on the chemical or nuclear ledgers yet. I haven’t even finished the conventionals. We were on our way back to the Third-Level when the vehicle stopped, and you detained us.”
“I see. What ees next step?”
At that, Mr. Leion started. He jerked his head in the questioner’s direction but recovered. His suspicious mind clicked on to something. That last question should have been gratuitous but wasn’t. Intimidating and omniscient, the Company didn’t act that way. The man got a sinking feeling they’d said way too much.
“Don’t answer that!” He shouted to his partner. “I don’t think we’d better say any more, until we contact headquarters.”
“That’s all right, I haf’ enough.” The man answered. “Fredo, poot theem bofe een domicile Four.”
“Si, meester Mendoza.”
They brought both captives to the other domicile. With no lights, guarded from outside the hatch, the two spoke little. Once, they exchanged personal thoughts on reasons for their incarceration. Both received unsatisfactory responses. Each left the other to his or her personal discomfiture.
Mendoza didn’t waste the time the two were separated from him. He received quick answers to his compuphone inquiries. An hour later, the two captives returned to the first domicile. With more information at his disposal, the questioning continued. “Geeve me one good reasohn why I should let you go?”
The woman, who hadn’t figured it out yet, got up to leave and said. “You can’t keep us here. It’s illegal. We’ve done nothing wrong. If you think it was us who vandalized the road you’re mistaken! I intend reporting everything to your superiors.”
Lopez yanked her back down by grabbing at the front of her blouse. The material tore, exposing her left breast.
The men laughed, until Mendoza said. “Lady. ‘less you makes me beeleef there ees a good reesson why I should let you leefe, you goin’ ta hafta’ grow some weengs.”
Excepting Mr. Leion, the other men resumed their laughter. The woman’s face got ashen, as she fumbled with the torn blouse. It occurred to her that Mendoza’s badge was misappropriated. The escutcheon represented no real Company person. Until now, she thought very little beyond a brief speculation on a possible quick release.
Mr. Leion’s mind raced. The audit, missing weapons, and proximity of depot to prison began coming together for him. He now also remembered seeing earlier how a chopper went between the two areas. Abducted right in front of the prison. It all followed a logical configuration.
Being a survivor, the man thought. “With what can I bargain? These guys aren’t messing around.”
“Ya’ gots ten meenoots.” Mendoza barked. Looking over at Mr. Leion, he continued. “You don’t sell me theen, you both go over thee edge. Entiende?”
Mr. Leion nodded, while the woman stared back in resurgent terror. Mendoza’s men left the room, and she asked. “What are they talking about? Why are they threatening us? They don’t mean it, do they?” Her companion’s simple stare provoked her to shout. “Do they?!”
“I believe so, yes.”
“You bastard! It’s your entire fault for refusing to answer their stupid questions. Why couldn’t you have been more diplomatic? What harm could it have done?”
Mr. Leion thought like he’d never thought before. The woman just stared at him. No one spoke. About fifteen minutes later the men came back into the room. Mendoza looked over at the woman and said. “Times up! Wha’cha got fer me?”
She was too scared to either talk or cry. He grabbed the hair on her head with his right hand. Bending her backwards, he shouted. “Weel beetch!?”
Hyperventilating, without a clue to the real situation, she just sobbed, “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. We didn’t break the path. H… h…h. Don’t hurt me, please?”
Her hands came up as in prayer, and she relinquished the torn blouse to gravity. It re-exposed her breast, little blue veins standing out in pleasant relief. The men moved closer. Mendez took the small breast in his hand and squeezed. The pain showing in the woman’s face increased.
Pulling up her skirt, she screamed. “Don’t hurt me anymore. Take me. A-a-all of you. I…I won’t tell anyone. Please. Tearing away the lingerie between her legs, the woman exposed the object under discussion and said. “Here. Do what you want.”
On the skid row booze shelf of life, Fredo was at the muscatel or white port level, the very lowest. The subject of discussion was of great import to him, and he said.
“Meester Mendoza. Eet ees ay gude eeyday (idea), no?”
“Lopez!”
“Si, meester Mendoza.”
“Sdreep heer nekked. Burn heer cloths y everytheeng een thee veheecle. Theen domp eet over thee edge. Make sure eet heets thee water somewheere past Stellwagen. I don’ wan’ no whan see eet through thee agua.”
“Si.”
“Fredo.” Mendoza said. “Cut thees beetch’s guts and lungs out before you domp heer over. I don’ want thee sharks meesing her. She got to seenk y bleed gude wheen she heets. E eu don’ wanh heer ta com’ opp somewheere weef heer teef eentact. Entiende?”
“Si.”
Turning to Mr. Leion, Mendoza asked. “Wha’ aybout you? You eeny smarter?”
“I’ve been thinking of something.” Mr. Leion answered.
“O thet ees nice.”
A true survivor, he knew it was his most important political challenge ever. No time left, everything was at stake. His jowls quivered like an aspen leaf in an autumn breeze.
“If you gave me a little bit more information, I might be able to sell you on me?”
Lopez finished stripping the woman, while the other two picked up her clothing and jewelry. They shoved the materials into her dyed calein bag. Fredo handed the bag to his partner. Pinning the woman’s arms behind her back, he began dragging her toward the hatch. The other minions left Fredo lagging behind as they went to the vehicle.
Mendoza shouted. “Hold eet! I don’ want Fredo doing thee job on thee woman alone. Hee’s too horny all thee time. Might fock eet up. She stay heere teell you geets beck. Geet that stuff eento thee veheecle. Wheen eets burned and eento thee ocean, you come back ta geet thee cohnt y Fredo. Alla’ you waste heer, togeffer. Dos o tres pedazos (2 or 3 pieces). Entiende?”
“Si. Si.” Tomas’ and Lopez said, resuming their exit, while Mendoza returned to Mr. Leion.
“Eckscuss me, Meestare Leeone. I haff a slight proablem weethe one off my meen, Fredo. Wheen cohnt ees closse to heem – he lak inseto. Sabe?”
“Actually, no.”
“He att lak ay bee on grass near pees off diabetch.”
“Oh, yes, a bee on the grass, yes, of course. Near diabetic piss. I see.”
“Bee sabe azucar ees theere. He keen smeel eet, bohch he not gonna’ geets nada isso. Entende?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, you wahs sayeeng?”
Fredo held the accountants’ arms behind her back. Her naked body faced Mr. Leion, who found it very disconcerting. Having no idea what to sell, he knew how much he wanted to live. Glancing at the woman’s naked breasts and pubic area, he looked back to Mendoza.
The woman’s begging got louder. Still vowing not to squeal (figuratively), she promised great sex, money, eternal love, etc. Pleas turned to impotent threats. Whatever came to mind, between bouts of hyperventilation, the woman shouted. Wild assurances intermingled with comic coercion and shrill entreaties for a reprieve.
“Theese cohnt ees ver’ deestracting, no?” Mendoza asked.
Snatching furtive looks at his naked and distraught partner, Mr. Leion said. “My neighbor’s a bigwig at the Company.”
Mendoza knew the man was reaching, and he laughed, saying.
“La-de-dah. He canhna heelp you heere.”
“I didn’t mean that. I can watch his movements for you.”
“Not gude enough, tubby. You hafta’ do better than thett!”
Mr. Leion explained. “His name’s Otorp, one of the two calein co-discoverers.”
“What ees heem name?”
“Mr. Otorp.”
“Leester Frye’ freend?”
“Yes.” Mr. Leion answered, brightening somewhat at the apparent interest. “That’s the one.”
On the whisky shelf of life, Senor Mendoza was located far from top shelf (C.C. and Cutty Sark). Yet, he was above bottom shelf (Corbys and Kesslers). Not of Jim Beam status, Senor Mendoza was still not just a glorified turnkey. He surmised there might be something here his superiors could find of use. Ready to capitalize on any good fortune finding its way to him, the turnkey said.
“Fredo.”
“Si, meester Mendoza.”
“Geet Lopez n’ Tomas’. Tell theem to hol’ off. Breeng theem back here, pronto!”
“Si, senor.”
“Ees thee estrada (street) repaired?”
“Todavia. (Not yet)”
“Go through thee vehicle. Eenytheeng eesn’t part of eet, breeng eet to me. I don’ wan no trace oh’ thees woman, eenywhere I don’ know ‘bout. Entiende?”
“Si.” Fredo replied, dropping the woman into a crumpled heap to obey. Mendoza glanced at the quivering lump on the floor. Turning back to Mr. Leion, he said. “Mebbe…we can usse you.”
A half hour later, the three men returned. They had stuffed all the woman’s belongings into her briefcase & calein bag. Anything of hers, found in the perambulator, was there. Lopez handed the half-shut case to Mendoza. He looked through it. Upon finishing the inspection, the man nodded to the expectant Fredo.
The three men dragged the naked woman toward the hatch. Once again, she returned to alternating sobs and hyperventilating with rapid semi-coherent speech. Breaking free near the hatch, the woman fell at Mendoza’s feet, begging for life. Kicking and pushing her away, he yelled at the men to get on with it.
Stunned from his kick, the woman fell prostrate. Lopez grabbed her arms. Fredo and Tomas’ each took a leg. They began hauling her away, like a sack of rice. Reviving at the hatchway, she began a vigorous kicking.
Breaking loose of Tomas’, the woman rolled over onto her back, knees up and spread, kicking wildly. Transfixed by her opened genitals, Fredo then also lost his grip. Lopez alone still held on to the crossed arms of the spread-eagled female, who stopped kicking. The former leg porters just stared and allowed the woman to also break free of Lopez’ grasp. She grabbed the hatch, planting a hand and a knee on each opposing side.
As hard as the men pulled, they couldn’t budge her for long. Apparent sexual vulnerability didn’t help her attackers. There were too many opposing forces involved. The woman looked over toward Mr. Leion. He never moved to those glances or to her screams for help.
She was in the room, naked, with the men now for over an hour. The intermingling of her fear, urine, and feminine scents permeated the small room’s atmosphere. It was as exciting as it was sobering to the men. Mr. Leion found it so but in addition, offensive. Such sights & smells conjured up images his psyche was unprepared to confront.
Looking at the sight in the hatchway, Mendoza shook his head and shouted. “Jesus fuckeen Chris’!”
Picking up a rifle from the bulkhead, he walked over to the imbroglio at the hatch. Raising the weapon high, he drove it down at the top of the woman’s neck. She crumpled into a heap. The three regained their porter positions and carried her out of the room. The last Mr. Leion heard from that direction was a scream and …silence.
The three minions returned to find their chief in deep conversation with the remaining captive.

Mankind is, as yet, largely contemptible. Because the human race wants culling, hate makes the world go around. Love, a volatile blend of endorphins, contained in a vessel of illusion, keeps it from spinning too fast. Nature employs both emotions for her creation’s ultimate perfection. Arthur C. Smith

Chapter Forty-Three

General Aloirav told Jose’ about following Sr. Mendoza as he left the prison spur. The “screw” went to the Twenty-Seventh Level weapons warehouse and disappeared. Binoculars being the old king’s sole tool, he was too far away to ascertain much. General Aloirav knew Jose’ would need more information for purposes of identification. A brief recollection of vague perceptions through a set of binoculars wasn’t enough.
As an inmate in Sr. Mendoza’s prison, however, Gloria provided a better description of his physical characteristics. Thanks to her help, they were now quite certain of whom the man was. Because of the conditions of his release, General Aloirav could not meet with her on the cantilever. She, nevertheless, kept Rav informed about what went on within the MMIM prison community.
He in turn continued Mr. Frye’s procedures to supply her with sundries and personal news. Dehistorization, bribes, and Lester’s database deletions meant few hoi polloi knew of their past relationship. The mob’s memory is weak. Because the prison’s contractual custody belonged to Lester’s undeclared enemy, MMIM, they kept it secret. He never visited her there. An old acquaintance might recognize them.
The former Emperor gave the Indio a good account of her well-being. General Aloirav got up from the rough-sawn mahogany table, at which the two sat, and looked out of the window at the surrounding vegetation.

He accumulated sufficient information about Sr. Mendoza for his present needs. Stretching his legs, the old Emperor walked over to an empty sluice box. He drew out a few of the prettiest nuggets from the poudre de oro (gold dust).
Putting triple the Lempira value in their place, the man walked to the door. The gesture showed his gratitude and affection, sentiments shared over years of working together. Jose´ needed no money. General Aloirav turned back in the hut’s doorway. Jose’ accepted the Hesperides elixir, but once, when the hotelier offered it, years ago. The Indio never wanted more. He was also well over a century old now but very feeble.
Tears showed in both their eyes. Embracing, they parted, knowing it was the last goodbye. Too painful to prolong their leave-taking, the former ruler soon left the small jungle behind him. A pippante paddle down a much shallower Rio Paulaya brought him to his airplane.
Rav and Gloria’s love survived all the trials. Much older now, they were still locked in each other’s souls, although separated by prison for sixteen years. Jose’ and he went back a long way too. General Aloirav thought about the date. He realized just how far.
They were compadres longer than even Gloria and he. Private Jose’ and Sergeant Aloirav met in Viet Nam. No one remembered that war. Not five Viet Nam veterans still lived in this world. Jose’ owed General Aloirav both his present and eternal life for a number of reasons. The Indio would own up to them if asked. The former “boss” never questioned his friend’s loyalty. It was pristine devotion.
Jose’ was the youngest son of a Quiche’ woman and a US ex-patriot Klondiker. Rumor was, the old Klondiker arrived in Guatemala about 1910 AD. It was coincident to a Rabbit (Bonanza) Creek — Yukon Territory killing near Dawson City. He just escaped the Canadian “Mounty” Police manhunt. In Central America, the man hid in the mountains, changing his name to “Pappy” Jones, keeping out of civilization.
He washed the banks of a number of Central American rivers, before settling in Gracias a’ Dios. The sluice-box stayed with him the rest of his life. Pappy eked out a fair living, married, and raised some children. Rehabilitated. Never again did he venture to re-enter the U.S.A. or Canada.
Circumstances thus denied Jose’, born in 1940, his legal U.S. Citizenship. His father cautioned him about mentioning the story to US Immigration officials. Jose’ didn’t, joining the Marine Corps after entering the U.S. as a wetback. It was the one way to insure his continued stay in the country. After his Viet Nam service, he spent a few years Stateside.
When Jose’ returned to his native Guatemala, he prospected for gold as his father before him. Years later, Mr. Aloirav went into the Guatemalan jungle to find him. Weeping now, in the pippante, General Aloirav glided the boat down the narrow silty river. His aircraft waited on the riverbank airstrip near the little village of Sico. The headman, Mundo, Jose’s son, also owing his life to the former emperor, stood guard.
One of the last two remaining quetzal, the most beautiful birds in the world, flew before him. General Aloirav didn’t notice. He was remembering the last year’s events. Of the past sixteen, it was the most eventful. The little plane lifted off the riverbank with its pilot still recollecting the past year.

General Aloirav was just inmate 214-69-62 then, classed incorrigible, banished. No way, except as a corpse, could he expect ever to leave the prison community. Amazing enough, they still permitted him existence after the enormity of his crimes against Homo. It was probably more for humanity’s benefit than his. When Lester Frye entered the prison module, the convict took quite a start.
“Lester! You’re the last person I expected to see here.”
“I don’t doubt it. Took me a long time to make the trip, Rav. I wrestled with myself for 15 years.”
“Longer than that, as I remember.”
“Right! You’re the devil in my soul I can’t shake. I’m still not sure I’m doing the right thing.”
“Well, I am! Damn! I’m so glad to see you! You’ve no idea how many times over the last sixteen years, I’ve wished it.”
“I can’t say the same. You left us with many problems. It was damned expensive.”
“I’m sure. Even so, I want to thank you again for getting Gloria’s sentence commuted and sent up to the spur.”
“I didn’t want anymore killing.”
“Sure, Les. I understand. Didn’t hurt any she knew things about us all either, did it?”
“No.” Mr. Frye looked askance, smiling. “You never could resist exposing hypocrisy.”
214-69-62 ignored the comment and said. “After fifteen years, you didn’t come here to reminisce.”
“You haven’t learned yet to beat around the bush, like civilized people, have you?”
“No. What’s on the mind of the greatest architect in the world for all time?”
“Next you’re going to call me the greatest criminal too.”
“Absolutely! You broke all the rules, swam upstream when conventional architecture was going down (literally). You made the world a better place. “Good” people don’t do that.”
“They try.”
“Not very hard. How would you define “criminal”?”
“Not like that.”
“It’s all right, Les. I won’t tell. But, don’t get too big headed. It’s small consolation for cohabiting with the human race.”
“True, but there are compensations.”
“I’m sure. Get to the point, Les. Why the personal visit and not just another message? Visitors I get now don’t come for tea and crumpets. Spit it out, man.”
“I need some advice, maybe some help.”
“With?”
“Extricating this planet from the grasp of the “Death Merchants”!
“Oh that.”
“You know? How?”
“The whole world knows what’s happening to your Company. Why should I be ignorant of it? I may be an inhuman monster, but I can read, remember.”
“Yes.”
“How did it happen?”
“Taxes.”
“But we agreed! If you let’m tax – you let’m cut your throat.”
“I know. I know. The calls just got so pervasive. After you fell, I had to spend, trillions, hundreds of them, just to survive.”
“I don’t understand, Les. Most witnesses to my reforms are humeal. That and dehistorization…”
“The dehistorization machinery was intact, but implementing it was…
“Pricey.”
“Yes. Just too many “rehabilitated” judges, lawyers, doctors, etc. came forward. Hiding the bridges provenance took a chunk. I needed to take on directors, some not so docile. I got tired, let my guard down. Little by little, a tax here, a tax there, I accepted them. Now they’re out of hand.”
“I remember as if it were yesterday, Les. You said. “No government has the right to force me to make war on children, nor will one ever again have that capacity.” Sounds like one has.”
Mr. Frye hung his head, and the former king continued. “It’s all right, Les. I let my guard down too. I don’t know what I can do to help you though?”
“No?”
Gesturing with his arms to indicate his incarceration, he said. “My means are not limitless?”
“You still might help.”
“How?
“Listen?”
“Shoot. Where’s the most pressure coming from?”
“First-Surface.”
“Of course.”
“The world’s become a prison of nations. The multinationals are in the warden’s seat. They replaced the Pope, you killed, with a Commission member. The world looks to him for direction. They call the Holy See the New Roman Empire. The USA is even less a country than it was before you killed the president.”
“You know about that!?”
“Yes, Rav.”
“Well, Les. For decades, the USA has been but a subterfuge for multinationals and illuminati. As long as I’ve been on the planet. Remember who controls them?”
“The Commission?”
“Yes. The USA – multinationals, to which the ruse belongs, are just Commission-illuminati thugs.”
“They’re still trying to steal all the world’s resources.”
“They almost got the oil, as I remember. And Israel’s still their Sancho Panza?”
“Yes. The US military-industrial complex, the (OG) old-government now, controls the entire non-Pontibus world. Sometimes the OG is hard to separate from a new, very powerful, multinational called “Multinational Military Industries & Mining” (MMIM).”
“I’ve heard of it. They say directors are all interchangeable except for one, the Pope.”
“That´s true. My bridges are next on their agenda. They want me to disappear.”
“But you don’t want to.”
“It would be one thing if these men were philosophers. They’re not. I do not want children growing up in their kind of world. I’ll fight!”
“Hold on, Les. How?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t either. You’re too moral.”
“And I don’t seem to be growing anymore, either …in any way but older.”
“Calm down. The US government has never been more than a whitewashed whorehouse. I can’t believe they’ve found the Lord.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lobbyists, professional suborners. They solve problems like yours, always have.”
“They’re out of my league now, Rav. I’m nearly broke.
“You must have a particular name. In whose way are you standing? A name, Les?”
“I told you. MMIM.”
“Yes, sorry. I remember you said that. My mind has become a bit lazy of late. No challenges to keep it fit. How are you standing in their way?”
I’m not buying aluminum or concrete anymore. Calein brought independence. My First-Surface procurement costs have almost ended. In addition, calein extractive mining competes very aggressively with their methods. In fact, there’s no competition. I passed them long ago. Precious metal prices have plummeted. Gold is near the price silver was before calein. First-Surface media propaganda excoriates me with lies.”
“And that bothers you? Libel? Criticism?”
“Of course not. What bothers is how they’ve taken to making up their losses.”
“How?”
“Punitive First-Surface taxes on my operations. The Company is bleeding – hemorrhaging. They’ve suborned many of my Directors. That bothers a lot. The Council still seems above it, but I can’t be sure for how long. You know the world. Money can corrupt anyone. If it discovers a price, it’s but a matter of time.”
“It doesn’t sound like your Utopia.”
“No, it’s not. Never was, but it was a damn sight better than anything that ever went before.”
“It was good. I can’t deny it.”
“Nevertheless, I’m losing it…I’m tired, Rav. I need help. You know about my “oh so tenuous” grasp on sanity. Once again, I’m wondering. Is the idea too big for one mans’ lifetime?”
“What do you mean, Lester? You proved it wasn’t. You’ve got it all, everything you wanted.”
“Really?! What did I gain from realizing my dream? Emergencies, responsibilities, enemies, overwhelming unhappiness, and a devastating sense of loss. . Life appears to be a meaningless series of interconnected chemical reactions that ultimately prove but painful and tragic. I had no idea the price…”
“What do you expect from me?”
“I hoped maybe you could think of a way I might turn the situation around?”
“Our means were never compatible, Les. I don’t want to fight you any more.”
“I don’t think we shall fight, Rav. I. . . I. .I’m …beaten. MMIM is worse than you ever were, and they have no redeeming qualities. They want a complete caedere world. I have no one to turn to. If I did I wouldn’t be humbling myself before you right now.”
“’T’s all right, Les. I don’t mind.”
“Fuck-you!”
“Sweet talk.”
“I can offer you a number of inducements.”

General Aloirav lost his reverie, just then, as he flew past the mountain by Trujillo, across the bay from where Puerto Castilla, (now under water), used to be. Columbus discovered Honduras here during his fourth voyage on August 14, 1502 AD, nearly 600 years prior. The mountain’s elevation back then was four thousand fifty feet. The little mountain was lower now with sea level so much higher. General Aloirav’s plane was at five thousand. He began dropping a thousand feet now in a slow descent. Skirting the northern coast, the hotelier descended another thousand feet towards the new La Ceiba. Cutting back the throttle, his descent steepened.
Returning to the Honduran baby jungle was good therapy. He wanted, but failed, to see his finca (farm) and old friends not seen for sixteen years. A measure of rest and happiness always existed there for him. Campesinos that planted and tended his pina (pineapple) and yucca (casava) plantation were gone. It never brought in profit, but whenever their Padrone arrived, they would fete him.

The sandy soil was never fertile or extensive enough to produce much. He always allowed the Morenos and campesinos to pocket what they produced. It was a de facto return for protecting the land from interlopers and communists. They used the pina to make chicha (crude rum) for entertainment. He never objected.
The arrangement worked well and satisfied all concerned. That was all now impossible. Palacios no longer existed. The sea level rise, due to the last glacier melt, made it ocean floor and swamp. The area south of las Champas and Sico bore even less comparison to his past US life than had Palacios. Ante-prison Gracias a’ Dios reminded him of Viet Nam’s jungles a century ago. Now only the Pontibus wilderness areas held that honor.
The Rio Sico Tinto Negro and the Rio Paulaya also brought back memories. Places like the Mekong and Cam Lo River valleys still occupied mental space. General Aloirav never returned to that country after the 1968 Tet offensive. Now he could not go back to Palacios either. It existed but in his memory. More defining.
During the war, he felt his contrary soul at peace. His spirit always found composure when close to jungles. He was now a thousand feet above ground, descending to the new Goloson airport. The ex-emperor called the tower, prior to downwind approach. 800 feet above ground, his plane flew over the renovated German community, Nueva Armenia. It was higher up on the mountainside now.
The raised United Fruit Company muelle (pier) was on his right, near La Ceiba town. He again contacted Goloson’s tower, informing them of final approach entry from downwind leg. Four other aircraft were in sight. The Tower soon gave permission to land. After landing, General Aloirav went to his hotel.
Gear collected, he returned to the airport. Departure’s 1st step was clearing customs & immigration. The 2nd step was stopping in the cantina of Julio, former pilot and mechanic. Julio died while the General was still in prison. The café brought back good memories. The hotelier got his thermos filled with Honduran espresso for the trans-Caribbean flight to Mexico. Downing a quick cup of it, he paid the check and left the cafe’.
Shouldering his gear, the man walked down the path to the airstrip and his plane. Checked over, the General hopped in, yelled, “Clear!”, and started the engine. Within minutes, the plane was over the Gulf of Yucatan. Passing a much smaller Utila, General Aloirav glanced down at the last northern Honduran island toward Mexico. Rolling the plane to the left, he took a final look at the mainland.
His brief trip to Honduras was more than a junket in paradise. The hotelier acquired valuable information. Rolling right, he set the gyro on a 333-degree course for Chetumal, Mexico. The man was en route to the New England Pontibus. It would have been much quicker and safer just to land on the Central American Pontibus north of Roatan.
He could have taken the magnelev to Tenerife and then on to the New England Luz. Public transportation would take him to Grand Rapids. It was more fun this way, and MMIM would have a harder time finding him in a small plane. Pontibus feet biometric machines would telegraph his approach, if they were monitoring them for him. He poured a cup of espresso and settled back to enjoy the flight. His mind went back again to his conversation last year with Lester Frye.

“Don’t know, Les. I’m getting older too. Do a little gardening and some reading. I’m more of an armchair philosopher now than I was.”
“Except for that paper you published on anthropophagia.”
“Yah. You read that, did ya’?”
“Still beating the old horse.”
“I Miss Gloria and my kids, you know, but I’m content here. Even learned to control my megalomania. I’ve paid my dues, done everything I could for human evolution. My responsibility to the planet too is discharged.”
“And the Andirobal enclave?”
“I’ve earned a rest.
“I know that, but I didn’t think you’d grown so smug.”
“My! My! How condescending we’ve become!”
“Shows, hunh?”
“Yah.” The former hotelier replied. “T’sall right. I understand. Who wouldn’t be? Our fortunes are so changed. You’re rich & free. I’m poor & isolated. I am indeed a prisoner, you know? I have to be realistic.”
“I guess I didn’t know how complacent I’d become.”
“Dreams conquer complacency, Les. Have you none?”
“No more, Rav. My dreams have fled.”
“Perhaps you’re right about my attitude. I’ve become complacent too. How much can I dream? Dreams here break hearts, drive men insane.”
“I’m sure.”
“These prison modules aren’t like the First-Surface penitentiaries I grew up with. The only way we know we’re rejects here is the reminder guard at the gate and the GPS under my skin.”
“I can’t believe you do not want to help!” Mr. Frye said, raising his voice in frustration, slapping the cot on which he sat. “After all you did to help build the dream, you can die now without lifting a finger to save it?”
“Yes. You’re asking me to wear the crown of thorns again!”
“The peril we face is in large part due to you!” Lester shouted.
“You may leave now, Les.” 214-69-62 said, with the death-like coldness of the old “boss”. “Don’t dump your guilt on me! I rotted here for sixteen years! You never once came to see me! I never neglected to visit you in the warehouse. Once a week was the average.”
“I couldn’t without jeopardizing everything!”
“Unlike what happened anyway, hunh?!”
“Fuck-you!”
“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“Oh, jest!”
“You never ever knew how hard it was for me to make those visits, to see the hate in your eyes. You never saw what was in mine. Talk about jeopardizing everything!”
“I…I guess I don’t understand.”
“You don’t want to. If moral support is what you need, come by as often as you want. We can have some great conversations. Just like old times. For now. . . Ciau.”
“Don’t be coy, Rav. What do you want?”
“Like you need to ask?”
“Freedom?”
“Was Christ a fairy!? Of course I want out!”
“What else?”
“You haven’t learned to beat around the bush, either.”
“No.”
“Damn, Les! I’m old! What time do I have left? I’d like to live to be 300, but the clock, you know…”
“There’s the elixir clones. I’ve been sending you their tea. Haven’t you been getting it?”
“I have, but they only keep the body, mind, and spirit young. There’s the Sybil factor…”
“O.K. What’s your real price, Rav?”
Staring into the Founder’s eyes, he replied. “A part of you.”
Lester cringed, twisting his face. “No I can’t pay that…I told you so, long ago. Once is enough.”
“That’s my price.” He replied, smugly twiddling his thumbs. “Either deliver it, swear it’s yours, or no deal. I’m safe and fairly content here. You’re asking me to go to war again. I’ve done my time for Her. Now it’s Rav’s turn. A few more years, and I’ve got a ticket to ride.”
“I’ve tasted the wares, held the money, and endured the cares. I’ve dreamed of towers and bridges, won battles, gained empires. I’ve lost friends and loving people, taught lessons, learned more. With you, I’ve been a party to using, taking, and destroying, until I could stand no more.”
“Aren’t you forgetting creating, building, and protecting?”
“I suppose I was, Rav, but the time to live and love has gone for me. Thank-you. I’ll not need a second helping.”
“Suit yourself. My job here is finished. I did all I could… I may leave now too.”
Lester was silent for a few seconds, and then he replied. “All right…you win…as usual. If I agree, will you promise something?”
“Depends?”
“Promise me you’ll keep Her safe, at least until you die.”
“You are speaking of my current life?”
“No.” Lester riposted. “I want you to promise me that your dynasty will never vouchsafe responsibility to & for the planet. If we can keep Her growing a few hundred more centuries, it may save our species. You’re so strong. I’ve always admired that. I know you don’t think much of us, but if we have enough time, we may improve. Don’t let the Pontibus die. We all might return someday. Please don’t sell the planet out. It’s just a wink and a blink yet, and it’ll be all over for you too. Keep our faith, Rav?”
“Of course, I promise that, Lester. You needn’t have asked, you know it.”
“Thanks, Rav. I was pretty sure. I guess I knew.”
“Goodbye, Lester.”

General Aloirav broke off remembering their conversation, when he stopped for microbial fuel in the Chetumal desert. He thought about other things while on the ground. Once in the air, his mind returned to Lester. It was about a week after that last prison visit, a year ago. The Founder returned.

“I’ve done it, Rav. I’ve burned all my bridges now to build a bridge. There’s 50ccs of my semen in glycerol in your old Revco at the hotel.”
“That’s great, Les. I hoped you’d see it through. It’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t know.
“I do. I couldn’t imagine leaving this world without knowing there was a part of you in it yet.”
“How will you use it?”
“Don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.”
“Can I get you out now?”
“Whenever you can arrange it.”
“Soon.”
“I’ll be here.”
They parted. Lester Frye returned to his newest Pontibus office and made compuphone calls. He got new lawyers. They redoubled the pre$$ure on the powers in charge of incarceration. Getting Rav Aloirav released to the general Pontibus community was virtually impossible.
Lester’s personal financial situation was no longer unapproachable. He now needed to pass certain accounts through his directors to use Company resources. The old-government remained adamant. The latest decree by a judge incarcerator didn’t help. Policy on releases left little wiggle-room.
214-69-62 remembered seeing the decision. He frowned after reading it. Lester’s face showed even more disappointment. He was dying. Putting the paper down, the inmate said.
“I can live with it, Les. You can’t.”
He shouted. “I’ve done more than anyone, other than perhaps yourself, to advance the spirit of man and the cause of life on the planet. Yet they can decree to the contrary, against me!”
“We enjoyed success for a time, Les. We brought to our species some sanity, biological sustainability, started a new religion, and opened prison doors. We removed nuclear terror, pollution, and hunger for a spell. We stopped their raping of the earth, made habitat available for all creatures. Even if it was but for a short time, there’s a good basic altruism charge against us. We’re criminals. We deserve punishment.”
“What’re you talking about!? Four years! Nobody remembers that! The world’s greed, brutality, and ignorance haven’t ended. There’s still plenty of suffering to go around. Everything fell apart after you did. It’s worse now than ever! All you accomplished was to show how easy it is to destroy human institutions.”
“Same old Lester. Pure white and uncharitable.”
“OK. The Pontibus still exists.”
“Annnnnnd?”
“You want me to say it, don’t you?”
“Yes!”
“Okay! It’s the one haven in hell, and I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“My, my. Aren’t we growing?”
“Fuck you! The old-government sees things as unsafe. They feel defenseless against people like you, Rav, and the prisoners you released. They get enough pressure from those in power that should be incarcerated but aren’t.”
“That may very well be true. But before passing judgment on me, they might have looked into their own souls.”
“Pols are pigs, Rav, not philosophers, not even men! You can still be so damn naïve! Or, has this place made you forget?!”
“Name for me just one war materiel contractor or corporation! I wanna’ hear about just one, since the First World War, ever tormented by the winners. You can’t! After the armistices, the victors forgot the loser’s failure to win the war. Pawns pay the price of defeat, not principals! Wars are just a polo match for the principals, an Oxford rugby Club! So why are they still after me?”
“You and Gloria were hardly pawns, Rav.”
“My thoughts, exactly.”
“The World clamors for redress from the acts of the petty antisocial. Failure is petty, no matter how big the objective. In fact, the bigger the more petty. They have to judge you. The world isn’t yet perfect…comprised of humans and all.”
“Sub-humans!”
“All right. Sub-humans. You were just too scary for them. New Society was no ordinary war-mongering mass-murderer like Alfred Krupp von Bohlen & Halbach, Rothschild or the Bushes. You weren’t some tinhorn president, German pill peddler, or Japanese tin can bender. You made the world quake! You put the gutter on the street….made Hitler look like an amateur. Some remember.”
“Gutters were already on the street, Les. If someday there’s a perfect judgment, which I doubt, I shall not be found wanting. Without retreating into the morass of religion, I’ve done more than most to make the world a better place. Could I have done more had I done things differently? Perhaps, but we live in a stochastic world, governed by thermodynamics. I did what was right for me at the time. You know that, Les.”
“I know that, Rav.”
“Is there no hope…no one with whom you might plead our case? I can’t believe there’s so much integrity in the OG.”
“You’re right. There isn’t even one drop of it in any First-Surface government. Inconsistent duplicity!”
“You sound somehow singularly aware of that.”
“I’ve cause to be. Thanks to your friend, Cinza.”
“Erstwhile.”

(After the New Society fell, resurrected US government DEA & NSA agents went after Dr. Cinza’s grandkid. They robbed and beat him, until he snitched. The information extracted was a composite of truth and whatever came to his small mind. The 58-year-old adolescent gave what he thought they wanted to hear. Brazilian Policia Federal used the foregoing to pressure Dr. Cinza, until he informed on all his clients.
Many war criminals, serial murderers, and others that could implicate him, he murdered. The man was lucky to find just enough time to embezzle their money first. Many inmates were in prison now because of his perfidiousness. The “boss” entrusted his GF (Global Facilitator) excessively. Cinza turned into a major witness against them.
Even more betrayal followed that treachery. He was ostensibly working with some Arab anti-USA terrorists. They may have been only posing as such to get New Society biovectors. Together, the crew offered Lester billions to misappropriate Rav’s personal bugs. The ex-emperor, however, was not vulnerable in that area. Even if Lester wanted to help Cinza, he could not have done so.)

“Quis qui quod. His unwanted overtures cost me more than I care to relate. He made offers of unlimited financing.”
“To do what?”
“Destroy, with your biological weapons, the reconstituted imperial Constitution perverter, USA. I refused.”
“How could you not? You had no access to them.”
“How true. He then embezzled my hawala funds and used their return as an extortion ploy. Failing again, he made attempts on my life. I had an illegitimate son. Cinza destroyed him.”
“Really, Les?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you give me such a hard time about your sperm sample?”
“You got your semen, didn’t you?”
“Yah…”
“So shut up!”
“Right.”
“I even had to hide on my own Pontibus for a time. Can you believe that? It was old-government corruption saved my ass in the end.”
“No pun intended?”
“No.”
“If I ever get outta’ here, I’ll find Cinza and show him how much we appreciate his help.”
“On my account?”
“On the New Society’s account.”
“Right.”
“Interesting isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Those pols that saved you from Cinza’s treachery.”
“Yah?”
“Those bastards are their own worst enemies.”
“How so?”
“Hitler, Stalin, even Saddam Hussein and Bin Ladin were of great help to Western pols. The slime learned the use of power from Hitler & Stalin. They used the Arabs to excuse removing what few freedoms their people still possessed. Now their kids enjoy just one remaining freedom – corruption. Keep at it, Les. I know you’ll succeed.”
“I’ve had to go into some uncertain areas, due to my financial state, but I’m still working on it.”
“Hope so.”
“For someone, a few weeks ago, who wasn’t interested in freedom…?”
“I now seem pretty anxious to get out?”
“Yeh.”
“What do you expect? You got me dreaming again.”
“I’m optimistic about it, Rav. I’m trying to mortgage the Pontibus.”
“If not parole, maybe you can get me a “furlough”. I could do something with a furlough.”
“Give me a little more time, please.”
“I got lots to give.”

The landing gear squeaked onto the runway of Kent County International Airport, Grand Rapids, Michigan. General Aloirav taxied to the general aviation parking and tied down the little ship. He made a short phone call to his new associate, Mr. Otorp, through the Pontibus exchange. The airport restaurant’s coffee wasn’t Honduran, but it tasted good after flying all night. The General called a cab and was soon relaxing in his Division Street hotel laboratory.
He poured some cognac and began listening to 1960’s music, when the crypto compuphone rang. It was Gloria calling from her prison spur. She wanted to know if he returned safe from La Mosquitia. Rav Aloirav gave her Jose’s affection, after they exchanged some basic innocuous information. The line wasn’t safe, of course, and the conversation was short. The prison exchange would show only that she was but calling a Pontibus local exchange. Nevertheless, after the NSA’s eavesdropping technology became so acute, one never knew. Even Lester’s anti-OG computer experts were vulnerable.
The ex-emperor went back to his music and memories. Attempting to achieve planetary biosustainability injured him, for sure. The endeavor took his wife and son. Nevertheless, Life blessed him with Gloria, 2 café au lait children, grandchildren, and even great grandchildren. He realized his dreams before disaster struck.
The same aspiration gave Lester horrible wounds. His dream took everything and delivered just the achievement. Without mystic drivel, Mr. Frye taught the world to eschew the terrestrial environment for the celestial. For that his life was significant. He paid a very high price.

Do you know, my son, with what little understanding the world is ruled? Pope Julius III

Chapter Forty-Four

General Aloirav recalled that day Lester returned to the prison spur module. It was long after they reached a tentative understanding regarding collaboration against MMIM. Neither a pleased nor a gloating expression graced Mr. Frye’s face. He entered looking even more tired and resigned. 214-69-62 waited. Unable to contain the tension, he asked.
“Well? What is it? Do I jump or sit?”
“I got your sentence commuted to 15 years. You outpost tomorrow to a Pontibus Rehabilitation Watch Center.”
“That’s great, Les! It’s what we wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yah…”
“Why are you so down-looking?”
“The reality is actually little more than a clandestine prison break. So, you can’t go a’gloating. No publicity. If the real powers knew what I did, or even what just happened, you’d be shot on sight.”
“I see.”
“But, procedurally, since you’ve done almost sixteen years, the Watch Center is just a formality, and you’ll be free in a day or two.”
“What a coup, Les!”
“It took my last erg.”
“It didn’t come cheap?”
“Certainly didn’t. I mortgaged everything, pleased neither Council nor Company.”
“Understandable. They’ve neither your vision nor memory of whose blood spilled bringing them into existence.”
“I’m still majority shareholder, but they acquiesced like I wasn’t.”
“You did it. That’s all that matters.”
“I had to make a side deal with a Commission member.”
“What kind of deal?!”
“Funds came only with a proviso that I further water down the Board.”
“Does he know where the money went?”
“No.”
“The Commission will shit when they discover who helped get me out!”
“I expect so. He may be terminated.”
“I would expect it.”
“One other thing you won’t like.”
“Yeh?”
“Gloria’s transfer from the First-Surface to the spur was provisional. I never told you. You two New Society leaders were never again to see each other. I gave my word on that. What I did for you, I can never do for her.”
“Why not?”
“I have to deal with the entire old government (OG), not just the US pols.”
“So?”
“Japanese prejudice and vengeance is implacable. They stipulate that she never gain access to sky structures. Argentina and South Africa back them up. Unless I agreed to those terms, you would look forward to perpetual confinement.”
“But she’s already up here?”
“Gloria Gold is still in Spandau prison.” Lester replied. “It’s rumored that she committed suicide a few years ago and is buried there.”
“I see. Have you talked to her corpse yet?”
“No. I wanted to see you first. Give you a chance to back out.”
“Why are they giving her so much grief? I was the principal!”
“The old government doesn’t see it that way. Dehistorization imbroglios, among other things, created strange illusions. I talked until late last night with the Prime Minister of Japan. He told me there was no way. They’d never countenance her going to a Pontibus spur prison, let alone a Watch Center.”
“So not everyone believes she committed suicide?”
“No. You and I are among the very few who know her actual residence. The rest of the world believes she rots in Spandau. There is a demented woman there now, using Gloria’s name, who thinks she’s your woman. You can never do anything to jeopardize that. The charade blowing up in our faces could put me here along with you.”
“I see.”
“I hope so.”
“What are those “other things” against her?”
“During your occupation of Tokyo, Gloria made insensitive remarks on Japanese television of a racial nature.”
“She told me about it. I encouraged her. It was pay back. They called her a nigger cunt.”
“Well then. You’re still paying the piper for it. During your 4 years as Emperor, Gloria was much more visible than you were. People remember her. She either stays in a Pontibus contract prison or returns to Spandau. I know Gloria doesn’t want to return to the First-Surface.”
“Of course not. She knows what you paid just to get her up here. They want vengeance. I understand. If the racial shit she flaunted went too far, it’s to be expected. I knew she was getting judgmental. Gloria wanted to use our power to punish beyond what we could justify as survival or revenge. I couldn’t make her see the error in that. Toward the end it got the best of her, beat her.”
“What do you want me to tell her?”
“Tell her I’ll do everything I can to get her out, once I’m free.”
“I’ll do that. Don’t do anything obvious just yet, Rav. Everyone in the know expects you to go on a spree. Prove them wrong, for me. My power is limited.”
“I’ll be a lamb. What do you mean, your power is limited?”
“I’m fuckin’ broke! Should you make a wrong move, we’re both finished. Bridge income won’t make the mortgage payments. I lied to get the loan. Even with that, the extra from Dr. Fargen…”
“Dr. Fargen is the Commission member?”
“Yah.”
“Even with what?”
“Even with everything I have now, I could never raise another bribe. I promised to pay too much. I barely held on to the bridges’ ownership rights. Everything I had and more went to the pols for your manumission. And that’s just part of it.”
“What do you mean? Spit it all out!”
“The lines on my hand & my presentiments all tell me the end is near. How near, I don’t know. Death lends a sense of urgency to one’s goals. I don’t want to die, before I’m dead, like my father. I never accomplished my grand dream. I don’t know why. Such a beautiful, amoral, meaningless universe, without any need for me or anyone else. A plaything of thermodynamics and the physical powers that exist. I haven’t much energy left to strive for life, or Life, or a dream that’s fading. Time & weakness crept up on me unawares, Rav. I just have wonder left. The dutiful fear & loathing is even beginning to show on my face. I’ve got a ticket to ride.”
“The answer doesn’t lie in limiting involvement with life, Les. It lies in limiting involvement with Death.”
“Perhaps.”
“How long have I got?”
“Eighteen months. After that, the bridges belong to the opposition.”
“I see. That is indeed grave.”
“I had to put the Credo up too, as collateral.”
“That must have been tough.”
“The hardest of all my genuflections. Don’t fail me, Rav. Save the Credo and you save the Pontibus.”
“I haven’t read it in a long time. Do you have a copy for me?”
“Yes. Here’s one.”
214-69-62 accepted the piece of paper and read:

THE PONTIBUS CREDO

1 The Company will not bother any resident or Company-defined humanoid of peaceful conduct.
2 The Company will not punish those “criminals” who bother others. The Company will apprehend and rehabilitate such individuals. If incorrigibles do not find sanctuary, the Company will banish or destroy them after apologizing for impotence.
3 The Company will protect human knowledge & all life forms forever. It will augment surfaces for existence and never reduce them. The Company shall insure security for the greatest number of species. Neither the Governor nor the Council will interpret these constraints in squeamish or transient ways.
4 All Pontibus territory shall remain forever under Company jurisdiction without an outer limit. Colonies may never interfere with the Governor or the Pontibus Council’s activity. Common transportation facilities, energy, non-toxic or non-hazardous waste disposal, and water shall be forever free to residents.
5 The Company will reimburse inhabitants contributing specie, biomass, or energy for Pontibus survival. The Company shall never enslave or tax. Incarceration of wild populations shall never be. Humanoids shall have limited (non-reproductive) freedom under Pontibus Council visage.
6 The Company will insure that all respect the sanctuary in selected primitive areas. The Company will shoot on sight those who violate the refuge of wilderness areas.
7 The word humanoid shall never construe to include natural genetically deficient Homo sapiens.
8 The genetically deficient and incorrigibles have equal rights and responsibilities.
9 The Company will never allow competition from other bridges in the sky.
10 The Company will never make laws, or changes to this Credo, tending to contradict it in spirit or in deed.

“You’re right. They can cut our throat without this!” 214-69-62 said, waving the paper.
“For sure.
“I’ll need the elixir clones. It may take longer than I expect to recoup the initiative?”
“Longer than 18 months!?”
“Don’t worry, Les. I won’t fail you. My raisson d’ etre won’t let me. I’m not tired. I’ve had a 16 year vacation, remember.”
“OK. The clones are in your Grand Rapids Revco, Rav, along with everything else from Brussels, and your other world labs.
“Right.”

General Aloirav remembered leaving the Watch Center and walking into the Founder’s office. Lester was alone, somewhat reticent, but he offered him a glass of wine. Mr. Aloirav knew it was apprehension and declined, saying. “No thanks, Les. I’ve been drinking raisin-jack so long; I’ve lost my discrimination. I doubt I can enjoy good wine, and I’d hate to waste it.”
He knew a future with the “boss” out of prison again must be frightening for the Founder. Their conversation turned to his immediate plans for neutralizing MMIM. They talked until Lester could concentrate no longer. He considered Rav’s suggestions and made some phone calls. Moments later, Mr. Aloirav found himself in possession of a Company commission. He was now its top military official.
He answered to the Founder alone. Either the ideas appeared good, or sufficient motivation existed to accept anything resembling action. They both agreed to keep General Aloirav’s new status sub rosa for as long as possible. The meeting ended after Lester signed the stock transfer papers. At the Founder’s death, the new General would be the majority owner of the Pontibus, once again, as long as the 18 month mortgage was effectively discharged.
Lester produced the keys to the Grand Rapids hotel. He held them close for a moment. Handing them to General Aloirav, Lester turned, and left the lab. A few minutes later, he was on the factory floor. Spirit shattered; his one remaining joy was to watch Pontibus projects thriving. Here was hope and a chance to feel that biosustainability in the world might yet occur in perpetuity. It was his escape from the dread of impending doom, occurring with MMIM’s drive for ultimate power.
After the Founder invested power in him, the new General got his old plane out of Lester´s storage hangar. After a compression check and a preflight, he left for his old hotel. After landing his plane at Kent County International, he stopped short at the airport front gate. The sight nauseated him. In every direction he looked, it was the same.
Retarded, demented, autistic, seniles, and assorted other biological misfits, writhing in apparent drunken squalor, were striving to regress. General Aloirav recovered and hurried to a cab. He arrived at the hotel and encountered more of the same, begging and feeding on each other. Rushing down the stairs to his lab, he found the keys turned in the same old locks. The safe was recalcitrant, and he needed to jiggle the sticking key.
Before him lay everything, almost as it was before the disaster. In the center of the floor were paraphernalia from his other labs. Recollecting the locations of the entire remaining biological agent inventory was on his mind. To ascertain how many still existed, hidden in various locations was essential. What was their viability in clandestine corporate and university lab freezers? Which were lost, which intact?
Were the lost ones irretrievable or recoverable? The “boss” made multiple DNA copies, placing them in different storage deposits. How much protection from total loss did his foresight give him? How many of the redundant copies were misappropriated or lost in routine house cleaning? Could he still locate those he stored in the artic wastes, as king, while pursuing recalcitrants? How many were still his exclusive private stock? Some of the arctic caches were not at high altitudes. He never measured their exact heights. When the ice shelves fell, sea level’s rise may have inundated them. Could he even find them in the snow?
Of one thing, he was certain. Gaining possession of a vector was but one aspect of a biological weapon. Before successful infestations could occur, a bioweapon must have desiccation protection during deployment. An elegant construct also required a functional vaccine. A vector was of small value without these attributes. A stolen vector would still require much research to produce such accouterments.
Not every molecular biologist was a Rav Aloirav. The OG and MMIM scientists certainly were not. Such time-consuming recondite research was a prime reason for his delaying world take-over. He found desiccation protection and vaccines almost as difficult to acquire as the original vectors. He was sure that Rothschild and the other illuminati would have had to do the same to acquire their arsenals.
The hotelier always placed his vaccines in different locations from their vectors. His disloyal people and their employers or partners enjoyed a serious disadvantage. Not having that past research to guide them meant considerable delay. The East Lansing freezer, Heinz sacked, contained but one vector. The remaining vials contained vaccines that, being proteins, would have decomposed soon after removal. Heinz was no scientist.
In the past few weeks, Lester undid a great deal of Lester’s own past effort. He replaced the entire lab contents that Gloria helped him remove and hide years ago. The precious notebook, ensconced in a methane generator on the Pontibus for almost 2 decades, now sat here. It lay, still fragrant, next to all the other old logbooks and the three-laptop computers. General Aloirav smiled, as he thought about all the time and work it would save.
The creative-intellectual capacity necessary to acquire such information was true art. Experimental structuring difficulties and experience required to perform the requisite vector constructions were but a fraction. Equipment complexity and cost was another hurdle. Unique education, interest, and skills counterbalanced additional complexities. Detailed manufacturing information and limited access possibilities compounded difficulty.
Luck, as residue of diligence, led him to a recondite secret of the human immune system. It later became the basic element in all his constructs, key to vector and vaccine. An engineering background was so important to developing methods of protecting his bioweapons from damage during deployment that he almost went back to school to study engineering.
Lester knew what it was like to lose a body of work. He could sympathize with another’s pain in its loss. His personal feelings opposed the amorality of such research-work. Nevertheless, Mr. Frye did not allow its destruction. He was indeed a very special person.
General Aloirav touched data-books, observations, drawings, photographs, filters, x-ray film, autoradiograms, measurements, etc. with affection. He perused clone lists, genes from organisms whose genetic complement was unique to his laboratory. In the Revco were altered DNA from mice, bacteria, and viruses. It held plant metabolites, algae, fungi, and invertebrates. A number of Ouchterlony plates accompanied associated purified antibodies.
Those serums, of course, were long-since degraded by proteinases. Host organism cultures, cell lines, and cataloged antigens from selected genetic expression vectors were there. The hotelier found nucleic acids and proteins of cataloged sizes. The freezer still contained enzymes, electrophoretograms, and baked preserved nitrocellulose filters. He saw where Lester placed the frozen clones of the Hesperides thorn apple tree. The General took out a small vial and placed the contents in an autoclaved culture flask to grow. He would need all his strength for the coming trials.
On the benches stood models, polystyrene and acrylic. Here were structural paradigms of possible stochastic and heuristic conformations and configurations of organisms. They showed various mechanisms and evidence for decisions on further experimentation. Structural constructs set forth as proof of possible methods for employment of final compositions. His horizontal gel electrophoresis apparatus, bioreactor-fermenter, and associated hardware were there. He saw an audio-video recording machine, resembling a DVD player. The technology was new to him. There were up-to-date catalogs of biomolecules, textbooks, and electronics waiting for his use.
He remembered making the diagrams of cut nucleic acid pieces, preserved slides, tools, and jigs. The General noticed photocopies of other scientist’s original research, read and annotated. He recalled storing them next to the thermometers, plastic containers etc. His lab almost seemed hermetically sealed all these years. Notebook in hand, the man leafed through its pages.
Hearing a noise at the laboratory door, he turned to see Lester Frye. They just stared at each other for a few moments. So much happened to them over the years of their acquaintance. It was as painful as it was beautiful to recollect. Speech came hard.
Lester opened the conversation. ”I heard you’d left the Pontibus.”
“First time in 16 years.” Mr. Aloirav replied. “Kinda eerie.”
“I can imagine.”
“It looks nearly the same. I expected to find more changes.”
“I photographed all the labs, before I removed things, and trust you found all in order?”
“I think so. I haven’t taken an inventory. How can I thank you?”
“Don’t lock me up again.”
They both laughed, and Lester said. “I’ve often thought about today. Had nightmares about it. How would I respond to your regaining power? I put it out of my mind. Then a resurgence of legal troubles began. My caretakers shot, dead, five boys violating Pontibus wilderness areas. First-Surface lawyers made me pay and pay and pay. You would have dealt with them without spending a cent. I didn’t want to admit to myself that you could help. I’ve wrestled with it for years. Years, Rav! I can’t lie to you. Don’t take my humiliation lightly! Your freedom never would have happened, even now, if I didn’t know, without you, biosustainability is beaten. Everything we both worked for could disappear…”
“Does it concern you that much?”
“Your power or annihilation?”
“Both…either?”
“Yes.”
“You’re responsible for most of my work’s continued existence. Gloria told me everything you did. You could have destroyed it or given it to them any time over the last 16 years. Why didn’t you? Was it all just self-preservation?”
“I’ve asked myself that same question a thousand times. Saving it cost trillions. Was it worth it? Will it be our salvation or our damnation? Does saving it make me as guilty as you for all the blood? I believe it does. Something in Goethe’s great work comes to mind.”
“”And here you stand, with all your works of lore, still the wretched fool you were before”?”
Mr. Frye looked into Rav’s eyes and continued. “That wasn’t the part I was referring to, and you know it! Don’t try to minimize my guilt or sentiments regarding it! I couldn’t have accomplished what I did without my Faustian bargain with you. Your help saved, no… realized for me my dream. I know that. It’s my albatross. Yet, what I built is good, Rav. What you built was not. I know there is a difference.”
“Who knows what it all means, Les? You and I may try to judge what we did. Others can but evaluate. We sold our very lives to save planetary life. We each did what we could and what we felt was right. We both paid a terrible price.” (Silence.)
“Viet Nam taught us nothing about the futility of altruism.”
“No? Viet Nam taught us never to ever trust any authority or to fight other men’s battles. Altruism is anathema! Why’d you come down here just now? Was it your fear of me or for old times?”
“It was to bring you these papers.” Mr. Frye laid some folders down on the lab bench. “You better secure them. I don’t know who might want them to disappear on the Pontibus.”
“The shares?”
“Yes, among other things. You’ll want to read them all, when you have time.”
“Thank-you. I believe it was a wise move. But that’s not the only reason you came.”
“No. In answer to your question, I can’t say it was because I fear you. But, as I said, for years I couldn’t dream but in nightmares of your return. I didn’t want to confront either you or me. I never came to terms with myself for associating with your bunch. I should have done more to stop you.”
“You did enough!”
“How?”
“I rotted in prison for 16 years. Never once did you come to see me or make contact. I could have burned you too.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Never.”
“I’ll never forgive my reluctance to prevent your crimes.”
“What could you have done? You stood small chance of success.”
“I never even tried.”
“Whether you prevailed or not, it would have meant an even earlier end to the Pontibus than that one now threatening us.”
“Perhaps. I’ll never know. I’ll live with what I did till the day I die, anyway.”
“You seem to feel its all been bad.”
“It hasn’t. I feel my part could have been better played.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Nor I.”
“Sounds like you’re wallowing in a slough of morality.”
“I’m a good man, Rav. My life is exemplary if just for having made the world a better place. It’s true, I failed my personal mandate.”
“You tried too hard, Les. You asked for too much. You accepted too much responsibility, made it your duty. You played El Supremo.”
“Unlike yourself!”
“I never lost myself in duty!”
“You just lost yourself.”
“Yes.”
“As you made me see with your convicts. Were it not for blind luck, the USA would have put me behind bars for thousands of years for numerous offences. Yet, I still fail to see what’s wrong with duty or morality.”
“You have no idea of the numberless joys and sorrows you miss by following someone else’s moral code. Dead men’s dictates of what was right or wrong in their own time, perhaps centuries old. Morality is a conditioned, illogical, imposition of limits in response to fear.”
“Defined by Rav Aloirav.”
“Of course. Morality is ochlocracy. God is a mob.”
He was silent for a moment and then replied. “Are you tired, Rav?”
“No. Why?”
“I am. I’ve eaten the apples, enjoyed the elixir. Like you, I know I could have years yet. Nevertheless, I feel as if I’ve been carrying a field transport pack on a forced march. I’m ready to bivouac.”
“Nearly all bio phenomenon have a cyclic component, Les, so why not good times & bad?”
“This is deeper than that.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’ve lost too much. I don’t have enough spirit left to vanquish my enemies. My battles with Entropy, you and MMIM, the loss of my family … it’s just too much weight to carry.”

“I’m sorry, Les. I’ll miss you. I mean that. In my entire life, I’ve found but two people I could bounce my ideas off. Only two people in well over 100 years that I never wanted to lose. You and Gloria. I love you both so very much. Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ve done enough. My duty’s over. Otorp & you can handle things. There were times I felt I could never carry the burden of it all by myself. I was right. I couldn’t. When I stumbled, you caught me. Before I fell into the abyss, you made me go on. I never thanked you. I do now. With you back in control, I feel no more responsibility. I’m not senile, Rav. I know what is necessary, and what you’ll do. I’ve thought long and deeply about it. I’ve not the stomach myself to do it. I’ve lived my whole life within the confines of my place and social definition. You have not. You do not care about how others see you. You define yourself as it becomes necessary, systematically. To save life on our planet an inhuman monster is necessary. You are that monster! I am not!”
“I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“It’s not necessary to respond. I didn’t expect a response. I remember people calling me a monster in the 20th century for my recombinant DNA work.”
“I hope to live “up to” your expectations.”
“Nothing you do can be as bad as what’s coming without you. I don’t want to confront either scenario.
“You don’t know, Les. It may not be so bad. We may be able to prevail with diplomacy.”
“Don’t, Rav. Bullshitting isn’t your style. Neither is it mine. I failed. I know that. It was too much responsibility for one man, or I was not the man. I have no one. There’s nothing to keep me here any longer. I miss my family. I thought my son and little girl would never be distant memories. I was wrong. Sometimes I can’t even make out their faces in my internal vision anymore. It hurts. I feel like such a total failure. My life’s purpose was to keep them safe. I failed them so. You were damn cruel, but right in ridiculing me that day in Palacios. I just can’t carry them any longer. I’ve gained a world, but have nothing.”
Silence enveloped them, until Lester continued. “It’s getting dark outside. More biologicals will be appearing soon. I’d best leave.”
“O.K.”
“If we don’t see each other again…?”
“Yes?”
“I never did discover where you hid your bugs…”
“I didn’t want you to.”
“…Don’t sell us out, Rav.”
“Never happen.”
“I believe that.”
“I know.”
Lester left, stopping short of the door. He turned back and said. “Did you find your apple clones in the Revco?”
“Yes. They were well marked.”
He was soon out of the hotel. They saw each other again, but it was the last time they talked together alone.
Lester never would have succeeded were it not for Mr. Aloirav. Nevertheless, neither man was oblivious of the changed situation. Lester was more than just a very important person to the other. Rav Aloirav’s state held no comparison to Lester Frye’s status. Although waning, Lester’s was still pure positive energy.
The initial hospital stay and later imprisonment affected Ray Aloirav in many ways. His money, arms, and army disappeared, a subject, where once he ruled. When stopped from operating any longer, his life as much as ended. Since his arrest, there was no requirement even to function. Escape to regenerate the New Society was not feasible. The organization’s collapse, Aloirav’s self-destruction, was almost complete.
Ever since freedom became an approachable concept again, 214-69-62 brooded on his alter ego holding all the power. It was energy wasted. Lester no longer valued it. Nevertheless, Aloirav understood power. Treating the Founder with respect and deference would make the “boss’s” new plans materialize.
General Aloirav remembered the fly agaric solution spilling on him. He couldn’t recall Gloria discovering him 16 years ago. He learned later how the first person she informed, Mr. Frye, handled the delicate situation. He saved himself and the king’s family. Mental institutions and the prison system held 214-69-62 until his recent release.
Protecting the evil work from the OG & arranging Rav’s freedom repaid everything Lester owed the “boss”. The planet now became Aloirav’s inheritance. He was Lester’s sole beneficiary.

General Aloirav finished his cognac and his reminiscing. Turning his music off, he switched on the computer. It was time to record all the events that occurred on his la Mosquitia trip. The Pontibus was in danger. Time was short.

…they who possess the best human qualities are the ones readiest to sacrifice their lives for the ideals they cherish.”
Berliner Zeitung – at Richthofen’s death.

Chapter Forty-Five

The conversation between Sr. Mendoza and Mr. Leion ended. Lopez took the prisoner back to domicile Four. All alone now, the frightened fellow sat thinking about his murdered compatriot. His inaction in the woman’s defense bothered no sense of manhood in him. He knew his age, weight, and physical debility couldn’t match four violent young men.
Still, her death was sobering. His thoughts focused on whether Mendoza would accept his offer to spy in return for a reprieve. The trauma of everything now became too much. He lost focus. His mind wandered to tranquil times, two days prior.

He remembered turning on the computer screen after entering his domicile. The time spent outside with his fishponds was refreshing. Nevertheless, it was time to contact his section chief. Back on-line, the holograph was waiting for him. It presented his section chief’s form.
The man spoke even before the image cleared. “Leion, where were you?”
“Out, sir.”
“I could ascertain that, man! You’re ALWAYS away! I don’t want to hear your puerile excuses.” The canned message then started: “We want some information about the situation on Level Twenty-Seven. We’re sending an accountant out with you. Go to the auxiliary magnelev station stop on the Third-Level tomorrow morning at 9 AM. Pick her up there and proceed to the Twenty-Seventh Level. We’ve already programmed the coordinates into your vehicle. So, don’t try to “get lost” again. We’ll activate the perambulator circuit at 0800 hours in the morning. “Pull the trigger” after you’ve collected her. You can expect to be there a maximum of three days. You’ll be informed as to the particulars on the way.”
The statement repeated itself, until Mr. Leion stopped it. Even discounting the obvious disrespect, it was still not pleasant news. He’d miss that display of antique pottery at the Seventh-Level Museum. The show was tomorrow. They were expecting some Sung Dynasty pieces to be there too.
The man thought. “I needed some information from that display. How will I know whether to buy that jade article from Jensen? I don’t want him to best me on the Oriental deal.” Resigning himself to the fact, he rationalized. “Oh. I don’t know where I’d put it anyway. I still have that mahogany chest of my sister’s. Might as well pack for the trip tomorrow.”
Mr. Leion didn’t like orders. He didn’t feel deserving of such treatment. The new Section Chief was too young, treating him like some First-Surface lackey. That eternal battle between experience and theory excluded an amicable relationship.
Both men were prep school (Deerfield and Exeter) graduates. Both came from military fathers and distant social-butterfly mothers. Mr. Leion wasn’t advancing anymore. His section chief was. The envy was obvious.
Mr. Leion also entertained similar sentiments for his neighbor Mr. Otorp. Mr. Leion wanted to be an appreciator. He never got past collector. Thinking about his Chief, he spoke aloud. “He’d change places with me just for my memories. Have to find out who controls him. Somebody’s pulling his strings. Need to check that out. Be of use down the road.”
The compuphone rang. It was his assigned partner for the following morning, the accountant. Unfamiliar with the Twenty-Seventh Level, she wanted to know what to wear. It was a nice, get-to-know-each-other, call. Parading malignant misogyny with his usual Tourette-style elocution, Mr. Leion said.
“We’re goin’ out twenty four levels from here. At eight hundred feet per level, negative point 3 degrees per level, it’s a simple multiplication problem. Figure it out. You’re the accountant. I don’t remember any recent Company Level formula changes. The last time I was there it was colder’n a witch’s tit. Wear what you think yours’ll be comfortable in.”
The woman, taken aback by his offensiveness, remained silent for a moment. Level Twenty-Seven was out 22,000 feet, over four miles. It was the month of May. The days were warm and sunny. She wondered. “What would the temperature of Mt. Washington be like in comparison?”
The woman corrected him. “You mean something in which my tits will be comfortable?”
Her presence of mind bridled Mr. Leion. He always felt inadequate and intimidated when confronted by assertive women. The man replied. “Er…Yes. Something in which you’ll be comfor…”
Aware she put him on the defensive, the accountant interrupted. “Is there anything else I should be prepared for tomorrow…besides your bad manners?”
Mr. Leion was unaware of the impression he gave. The churlish response to her initial question came naturally to his lips. Mr. Leion thought women less intelligent and creative than men. He felt parturition and child rearing propensities dissipated their artistic energies, whether they became mothers or not. Claiming science as his corroborating witness here, Mr. Leion cited numerous studies as rudimentary proof of his thesis and also, as anecdotal evidence, the absence of graffiti on female restroom walls.
Colorful imaginative graffiti covered men’s public restroom walls but women’s public privies were nearly free of such art. He never entertained the thought that it might have something to do with men’s greater predilection to lawlessness. By his gruffness, he knew he appeared strong, independent, and macho. Frustrated also in sexual matters, the man was ever ready to capitalize on opportunities in that direction. Ever ready for the opportunities, however, did not mean likewise prepared for consummation. Salacious desire always degenerated into a political game with him. Could he mentally coerce copulation?
Thoughts of sexual intercourse beyond prurient imaginings dismayed him. Objective results never quite materialized. His mind counseled. “Never can tell, she might want me for sex. If she thinks I’m strong and virile, I can use that.”
Therefore, she now knocked him out of equilibrium. Taking her second question as the insult intended, he replied. “I’ve no idea why they want me along to baby-sit. All they need is some vacant-minded bean counter. You’ll do your own research. Don’t expect me to hold your hand!”
The woman shut off her compuphone, and Mr. Leion entered his kitchen to fix breakfast. Quite proud of himself, he felt strong and competent. The man spoke to the silent computer. “I handled that quite well. Ball-busting bitch!”
The reticent computer accepted the tirade as a stoic. The philippic continued. “Cunts! Best thing I can say of ‘em is that they’re ungrateful, aspiration-atomizing, baby factories. If they’re anything else, they’re less. Human!? Ha! If perceived as nothing more than a uterus’s life support system, perhaps.”
He accepted the computer’s silence as, “discretion being the better part…”, and Mr. Leion persisted. “To coexist with them man must remember. These masochistic creatures have no capacity for civilized behavior. Shallow to the extreme, these painted perfumed slaves dream but of love. Which to them is the right to destroy the object of affection with impunity. They feel such is their just due for selling sexual fore-and-after play. All women abuse men after receiving a couple months of steady sex. They have no idea what real love is. That’s why they need men.”
Turning to conclude, he pointed a finger at his unoffending stove. “And don’t ever make the fatal mistake of thinking a woman rational. Just because she’s not ignorance itself is poor foundation for such a position. A woman’s arriving at a similar conclusion as you to a premise signifies nothing. Don’t ever tell a woman anything in confidence, unless you’re prepared to have it twisted into a shiv and later used to castrate you. She’s a savage, feeling creature, irresponsible, and wild. Her uterus controls her. A woman that cannot or will not stay home and produce children is a menace, a veritable obscenity!”
His well-informed household agreed 100%, in principle, and kept docile, Mr. Leion breakfasted. Shaving would finish his morning toilette, so he entered the bathroom. Proud of his smooth skin, the man rubbed it, sensuously, before the mirror. A heavy drinker, he felt fortunate his skin did not betray the predilection. Telangiectasia often results from similar assiduous attention to such studies of “the creature”. Mr. Leion was ruddy but the redress was not a blotched redness.
He puttered around his domicile the rest of the day. At 7 PM, he thought about going to a local restaurant for “just a few pops”. He thought about his blood pressure coincident with food and alcohol over-consumption. “Is increasing blood pressure with age Nature’s way of protecting us? Habituated inactivity lets less food go further? If ya’ don’t cut back yer’ cut down. No sense eating. Eating just makes me hungry.”
Nevertheless, wanting somebody to wait on him, Mr. Leion forgot his resolve. As with most, money acquired by using his reason bought him an emotional outlet. Ordering chicken, Cajun-style, our hero’s eyes glazed over a bit. Five tumblers of gin and onions, consumed in expectation of the meal, may have caused it. Perhaps a sexual-sublimation experience occurred, precipitated by anticipated pleasure. The food arrived and, after a perfunctory examination of the rooms’ other patrons, Mr. Leion’s repast began.
He filled his mouth with slow deliberation and great personal ceremony. The serving staff’s estimation of Mr. Leion was very important to him. He demanded recognition of his acute sense of good taste and breeding at sup. The man belabored the activity. He never forgot it during any transitory moment of perfidious hunger.
Mr. Leion very seldom sent wine back. Yet, there was always a lengthy discourse with the wait personnel regarding the bouquet. He never began his meal until certain prerequisites transpired. All persons, of impressionable use, must be aware of his sublime good taste. Unless they escaped, unaware of his exalted awareness, Mr. Leion impressed them prior to demon deglutition.
Food ensconced, his jaws moved up and down in concert with well-trimmed bouncing jowls. The two punctuated a syncopated rhythm together. The stage set for the events that followed. With dispatch, spoon or fork entered the food. Jaw and jowl cadence increased in tempo.
Each loaded utensil approached the mouth and hesitated. Was concern for facial musculature or subliminal apprehension of appearing unrestrained the cause? Whatever, Mr. Leion seemed to feel the need to judge its exact mass. His hand resumed motion with an up-and-down movement of rapid frequency. The food-laden instrument continued to cycle from chin to mouth.
Four or five rotations passed muster before gaining entry. It was as if ascertaining orifice limits. How much was the busy portal prepared to encounter before allowing more material to pass?
Mr. Leion enveloped the oscillating well-burdened device, before it could resonate. Well-masticated tasteful bites settled into his digestive machinery. Grease, however, was exceptional, obdurate, and willful. It evaded seizure. The perverse stuff persisted in sneaking out from the corners of his mouth.
Finding themselves outside the confining cavity, unruly rivulets undertook to travel. Down they went, threatening his tie and other clothing. He always seemed to have a sixth sense in that regard however. Before any permanent damage accrued to his sartorial splendor, Mr. Leion leaned forward. Slight increments to the fore were inconspicuous yet most regal in manner.
Shiny speckled food bits, at times, tumbled innocuously onto his undefiled meal. Grease and such, dropping without creating much of a scene, however, did not mean unnoticed. Other morsels, sometimes larger, gathered courage. Soon, even greater sizes and weights initiated a similar trek across his cheeks and chin. Confident now, with gentle grace, they too, cascaded down to join their peers.
In time, masticated lumps even explored virgin territory. Meanwhile, the reverberating utensil kept up a syncopated beat with the dropping repast. It produced a slow-motion blur to an uninterested observer a few feet distant. Such an arcane education can be painful. The entire tasteful scene sometimes became too arduous for the wait staff to appreciate in full.
Some found it too severe to discharge their duties with satisfaction on his behalf. Those sufficiently obtuse to be appreciative found a meager reward for their largess. Unfortunates feeling it condescension to allow him to command their undivided attention confronted alternate fates. These latter accepted much less than an adequate compensatory share of the final gratuity. They also never again experienced the dubious pleasure of his patronage.
The final fifteen minutes of the repast, he shared with the guest-check. Scrutinizing ended; some engaging minor argumentation over certain aspects of the experience took place. Disposing of these interesting points, Mr. Leion began his departure. Unobtrusive movements, difficult given his rotundity, guided him toward the establishment’s atrium. Arriving there, he surveyed the area.
Mr. Leion never missed any gratis inducements to return. He considered condiments, matches, toothpicks, etc. meal discounts. Once discovered, Mr. Leion collected them unto himself for the trip homeward. Glancing right and left, he would take his leave. Tonight was no different than the others, and it went by without incident.
Once home, the man fell asleep reading a war story. He awakened, somewhat dissipated, on the following morning. Undaunted, Mr. Leion readied for his trip out to the storage area. The bright sun shone, as the electric vehicle neared the auxiliary magnelev station stop. He didn’t have to wait.
The woman was right where Mr. Leion expected her to be. A briefcase and overnight bag stood next to the hatch. She got into the vehicle with her luggage, and he “pulled the trigger” (activated the coordinator circuit). The vehicle perambulated out of the inner calein-aluminum tetrahedron network toward the Pontibus’ periphery. The four-mile trip took longer than a 20th Century person might expect.
One didn’t travel vertically as fast as one did horizontally. Navigating through 41.5’ high tetrahedrons took time. Some of the newer cars could jump from path to path. Taking successive 20’ flights, people circumnavigated the Pontibus’ outer limits. Traveling convoluted communal Company walkways with newer vehicles increased resultant vertical speed to 10mph.
Mr. Leion and his accountant passenger were in one of the older vehicles. It could just do regular triangularizing. They perambulated out at 4mph. A half-hour brought them to their journey’s midpoint. The intermediate spot found them near the Pontibus’ periphery.
Biomass grew luxuriant here due to bountiful sunlight and carbon dioxide. Central Pontibus environs oxygenated more, due to thick accumulated plant life. There was also less carbon dioxide in the interior because of slight wind. Plants used available quantities very fast. As a result, animal life was more abundant there. A center-to-periphery decreasing animal gradient formed.
The woman wanted to get out and take a picture of the Ocean and Provincetown from that altitude. He grudgingly stopped the vehicle for a moment to comply with her request. Getting underway again the woman noticed, further out, a cantilevered spur. It extended ¼ mile out from the rest of the Pontibus. The one-ended bridge was about ten thousand feet above the ocean surface.
“What is that?” She exclaimed, pointing in the spur’s direction.
“Incorrigible community.”
“Really? I’ve never seen one before. Will we be going past it?”
“We’ll be passing the entrance, not the modules themselves.”
Nearing the guard shack, they saw motion sensors and video cameras. Most seemed to be monitoring the spur’s underside. Inadequately socialized individuals, biochemically or developmentally, (perspective dependent), appeared in miniature. Society’s detritus enthralled here after having fallen down through the ocean of respectable life. At one time, the unforgettable scene could have displayed a proud Genghis Khan, Attila, or Napoleon. A later epoch might have housed an Edison, Tesla, Fleming, or Pasteur.
Now, humanity’s refuse, unwelcome relics & Messiahs of bygone eras, tended gardens and performed other harmless activities. Convicts appeared engaged in the same things regular, gainfully-employed, Pontibus’ citizens did on holiday.
“What are those electronic instruments doing under there?” The accountant asked.
“Making sure nobody jumps undetected.” Mr. Leion answered.
“What are you saying? How could they jump from this height and survive the fall to the ocean?”
“The key to your inane question appears to be in the word “survive”. However, charity bids me ask if the word “parachute” has ever entered your limited word repertoire?”
“What?”
“If you look closely, you will cogently see. There are but two ways to escape. Rush the guard domicile, being the first, the one way in or out. The narrow little path entering the spur makes that a virtual impossibility.”
“Why?”
“You’d be cut to ribbons with that guard’s set of weapons.” Mr. Leion said, pointing up at the top of the guard domicile. “Alternatively, you might jump.” He continued, directing her eyes to another formidable set of guns. A large, much obscured, screen hid the man in charge of them.
She followed his short & feminine, yet hirsute, little finger.
“I’ll bet that that bullet-proof screen he’s behind is made of calein. My neighbor co-developed it. It’s the same stuff the platforms are being made of now.”
“Yes, I know.” The woman replied. My purse and new briefcase are made of it.”
“Can’t be. Calein’s just used as a building material.”
“Not anymore. Read your Company News, November issue. The article says it’s the strongest material there is, after fused quartz. It’s becoming ubiquitous, nevertheless.”
Mr. Leion grunted. He was not pleased. The man felt the woman should have been more appreciative and brisk to reward his astute observations. Who cares about boring recondite knowledge, anyway?
“I still don’t understand why the prison people think those convicts might try to jump. It would be certain death at such a height.”
Mr. Leion replied. “You’ve never heard of parachutes?”
Chagrined, she said. “Oh, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Obviously. Then again, it’s not all your fault. Women can’t think. They seldom listen. Heads are too small to contain the requisite machinery. You do not remember me saying, “parachute” just a minute ago, do you?”
The accountant didn’t reply, and he continued. “Never did meet a broad knew how to listen. Their brains are too tiny for profound thinking. Some men mistake feminine rapid superficial repartee for intelligence.”
“It’s an indication.”
“It’s a specious argument. When a woman enters adolescence, her brain falls to her chest. As her breasts enlarge, she uses them increasingly for her mental work. That is, you see, because men do her cerebration for her in hopes of observing them. Except when too young to know what’s happening – getting pregnant – women live but to destroy. The power of their young cunts shocks them. Since they’re female, unable to sustain pure reason, they respond by almost thinking. “Power over men must be eternal.” Then the opposite shock hits. Shelf life. They continue to believe that the organ is to men as valuable a commodity at 33 as it was at 13. Sorry sis. Reveille!”
“Fag!”
“Men are civilizers and responsible. The larger masculine cortex allows conceptualization. In reality, women have never left the jungle. They still paint their faces, flaunt sexuality as an alternative to dignity, and are unable to resist consumerism’s lures. They don’t understand or value virtue, discipline, or accountability, etc. Wherever men have allowed women personal control over their lives, democratic government and other aberrations arise. Civilization rots.”
Mr. Leion re-adjusted his ample posterior in the vehicle’s seat. He would enjoy the woman’s mortification more in comfort. Needs filled in both these regards, Mr. Leion moved the position back to forward. The vehicle resumed its teleological motion. He resumed his sermon on cerebration.
“Neanderthal man was more intelligent than Cro Magnon. His brain was larger. Cro vanquished him with lesser intelligence. Why? As indicated by his art & social organization, he had better imagination & communication skills. He was more creative in his destruction.”
“Creative destruction? Are you daft?”
“For those sadly deficient few, who think creativity does not involve destruction, let them give a child a set of crayons or colored chalk or a woman a state of pregnancy.”
A half-hour (in total silence) later they arrived on Level Twenty-Seven. The Cartesian-coordinate point, programmed earlier into the vehicles’ navigator memory as destination, appeared on screen. (71degreesW, 42degreesN, Level 27). The two occupants looked out at a calein domicile’s hatchway. Shutting off the engine, Mr. Leion put on his jacket. It was cool. Even so, the temperature seemed ten degrees warmer here than on his last visit.
That trip was long ago. The current limited vegetation and other biomass were not yet existent. Devoid of much life then, very little oxygen or heat came out to greet him. The site was better now. It seemed healthier.
Grabbing her coat, the accountant jumped from the vehicle. Entering the office hatch, she introduced herself to the attendant on duty. Mr. Leion entered a few minutes later. Bouncing out of the vehicle like his compatriot, considering his girth, was not possible. The two soon stood together waiting for the Storage Depot’s section chief to present himself.
Their corporation instructed them during the trip as to joint and several responsibilities. It was an unusual task for a marketing man. Mr. Leion suspected the reason was devious. It was not a marketing mission. They must want to get rid of him for a few days.
The office area, where they waited, was 860 square feet in total. The module allocated three of its 30 triangular rooms to it. The Section Chief soon appeared from behind a screened-in portion of his own. The accountant showed her credentials and passed into the gated segment.
They talked for five minutes and then walked over to a set of filing cabinets. He motioned to her right, and the woman thanked him. Sitting down, she went right to work. Mr. Leion watched the scene until satisfied his companion was going at the books assiduously. He then turned around to look for a coffee pot.
Mr. Leion’s orders were to accompany and assist. His principals would be asking later for his impressions of the depot. He would tell them about the work going on there. The depot was only an hour by electric perambulator from his domicile. Mr. Leion didn’t see why it would require three whole days.
It was what his boss ordered, so he would comply. Sitting down in the office lounge, Mr. Leion waited for the day to pass. He soon got quite bored with light reading and began to pace. Mr. Leion was not one who found it easy to amuse himself. After awhile, seeking additional diversion, he went outside the building. The distal tip of the prison, they passed on the way out, was just visible.
The local landscape was still in design stage during his earlier engagement on the Level. It was now similar to the rest of the Pontibus in growth surge. There appeared no stopping it. Even with the new vegetation and more platforms, however, the landscape was bleak. Winter at higher altitudes and latitudes always seemed so.
He returned to the module and listened to the Company holovision news. The bridge media never seemed to tire of letting people know about each new Company development. Now it was the latest calein extraction center in construction. The Company filled information dissemination centers with positive information regarding it. The First-Surface media took the opposing view. It was full of invective regarding anything Company-driven.
They inveighed about unfair labor practices and environmental concerns. His neighbor, Mr. Otorp, said the First-Surface media reports were mendacious. Mr. Leion didn’t know. He never heard people complain about the Company abusing its workers. No one was unemployed up here that wanted work. Mining was alleged cleaner and cheaper because of the new extraction method. It was certainly healthier here than the First-Surface. Calein was a good thing. Each new center meant more jobs.
About noon, the woman came out of the building. The two went to lunch together. Mr. Leion played his usual gourmand role and annoyed her. With the meal over, the woman went back to work on the books.
He walked around the modular warehouses. The large heavily tetrahedralized hexagonalized weight-bearing platforms and bulkheads caught his attention. Mr. Leion watched helicopters land on these platforms, load and leave. One seemed to be very curious about him, hovering very close. A crewmember looked at him through binoculars.
It made Mr. Leion uneasy, but he continued to inspect his surroundings. It was his job, he convinced himself. In time, the chopper took off to another part of the depot. He could see it was one of the Company’s helicopters. There was one of the large blue-on-silver tetrahedrons painted on each side. Mr. Leion remembered seeing them stop at his neighbor’s domicile.
Returning to the lounge, he read some more, stopping to look at each person coming through the hatch. Five minutes after returning, Mr. Leion noticed someone enter and talk to the attendant. The two looked over at him many times. Distracted from his reading, he happened to look outside at the same time.
The same nosy helicopter hovered near the lounge. The person talking with the attendant left the domicile and entered the chopper. It then headed for, what appeared to be, the far end of the prison spur and landed. The distance was too great for Mr. Leion to get any details. He turned away and resumed his endeavor to find amusement, thinking.
“Strange. What business could my corporation and the Company have in common with the prison?”
Not being a curious man, he thought no more about it. About four o’clock the woman came out of the office area. Looking tired, she said. “I’m quitting for the day. I’d like to see the room, the corporation’s providing, before it gets dark. I’m gonna’ have to be back here early in the morning, and I’m beat.”
Mr. Leion grumbled a bit about how he’d rather be sleeping in his own bed. They soon found their rooms in a nice public module. The hotel domiciles were between the interior platforms and the peripheral skyway. Overlooking the ocean, 22,000 feet below, the view was breathtaking in its splendor. The woman took photographs in the dimming light.
“I hope they turn out.” She said. “The light’s getting low, but such beauty….”
Mr. Leion, by now quite hungry, said. “Don’t worry your little head about it. They will. Let’s eat.”
They enjoyed a pleasant evening meal together in the hotel restaurant, Mr. Leion’s obsessive eating habits notwithstanding. They then went to their separate beds. Their rooms above the sea didn’t hinder the jungle animal’s night sounds. Cries came through from the lower interior Pontibus platforms over the ocean east of Boston.
Mr. Leion remembered reading a story once about old Kenya, Africa, First-Surface. During the last Century, it was alleged; one could hear, from a Nairobi hotel, lions coughing on the veldt. Similarities were worthy of note. The heavy meal pacified him, and he fell right to sleep.
The accountant, however, spent a restless night. Mr. Leion was still getting himself together the following morning, as she left. The woman was ready for the days’ audit. He was looking for breakfast company. She declined his invitation to linger.
Mr. Leion was not pleased at the thought of having to eat alone. Finding someone to impress with his good taste would be difficult. Last night, the woman was too tired to notice anything. He managed to get through it by overindulging. Now, somewhat dissipated, he would again be unappreciated. Mr. Leion managed.
He was just about to recall impressing the waitress that morning, when all recollection stopped. Men entered the module door and brought him back to the present. They returned him to the prison’s command module, where Sr. Mendoza was waiting. The interview didn’t go well. The “Company” men were brutal.
Mr. Leion lost consciousness after absorbing just a few blows. He never remembered going back to module four. There was no further mention of his possible use as a spy. They appeared ready to send him on the same route as his former feminine associate. The future didn’t look bright from his perspective.

General Aloirav finished entering the last of his Gracias a Dios’ trip’s recollections into the computer. Pouring another cognac, he took a sip. Leaning his head back against the wall his eyes closed. The flight to & from Honduras was long. The man was bone-tired. Even with the Hesperides apple elixir, he needed sleep.
“You’re no longer young.” Gloria loved to remind him.
His plan was to make an early morning flight tomorrow to the New England Luz. Already quite late, a good night’s sleep would have to wait. It was imperative he explain to Mr. Otorp about the man named Mendoza. Mr. Frye was not well, and Mr. Otorp handled most administrative duties now.
General Aloirav knew how important Mr. Otorp was to Lester, and the Company needed the information. Sr. Mendoza would almost certainly be one of the Company’s enemies, and he was no lightweight. MMIM trusted him with a prison’s care. The prison appeared to be misappropriating weapons from a Company contracted arms depot, acting as a way station or both. That meant something.
Not all prisons were so involved against the Company, but the total was still an unknown. Maybe the problem went no further than MMIM contracted prisons? Where could he find that answer? A revolution seemed in the making. That much was becoming clear.
Although low in the hierarchy, Mendoza was no one with whom to trifle. In his position, however, he was better than Heinz for General Aloirav’s purposes. Heinz was still around. That he could feel, but where?
The Company needed to know all the cabal’s strengths and weaknesses. How to get that information? For now, it was essential to circumvent whatever Sr. Mendoza planned. General Aloirav wondered.
“Does Otorp have the substance necessary? I have to watch Otorp and help him. As I remember, he’s always been a babe in the woods. Can he best Sr. Mendoza, or should I take the bastard out? I don’t want to take the guy out yet. They’d just replace him with someone else, maybe worse, perhaps Heinz.
Opening his eyes, he looked around at the walls before him. No equipment had left yet for his new Brazilian lair. Did he act circumspectly, moving his headquarters to South America? Brazil’s socialistic government was back to doing everything it could to cut its own people’s throat. Malingering worker’s rights, poor transportation & education infrastructure, US style narcotics’ interdiction fraud, high tariff mercantilism, heavy-handed gun control, etc. operated unchecked.
It would be necessary to smuggle into Andirobal the Newer Society’s equipment, chemicals, and agents. Time was wanting. Fortunately, Andirobal was located in a Catholic country and, as such, very corrupt. There would be little delay. Only his important papers and a few microbes were there, so far. Surveying his long-unused laboratory, General Aloirav didn’t see much change from before the accident. Lester altered just what he felt necessary to keep the laboratory intact and unmolested. The center of the room still contained materials brought from his former labs around the world.
The out-of-place stored paraphernalia gave the lab a cluttered look. The more he stared the more the General saw how much time the Founder must have spent here. There were slight alterations that before went unnoticed. A painting of the Central American Luz, viewed from Roatan Island, Honduras was new.
The Caribbean Sea background showed behind and below it. No Central American Pontibus existed, when the Emperor went to prison. The artwork was a gift from Lester upon the General’s prison release. It graced the South wall above an ultra-centrifuge. A large Peace Lily plant grew next to it.
The plant was also from Mr. Frye. On both sides of the office area stood large incubators. On one side, there was also a walk-in cooler. Piled spare rotors from a number of centrifuges rested on a bench nearby.
The desk, empty filing cabinets, microscopes, models of molecular bonds and proteins were in positions unchanged. The compuphone, two microcomputers, printers, and a video-stereo were new. Old equipment and these new replacements adorned the West-North office area. One hand holding the shot glass and the other on the bottle, General Aloirav poured. He drank the cognac and placed the bottle on top of a dehumidifier cabinet.
The bottle shared the space with a unique beehive – sculpture. The General recovered it from a hive of mutant bees he owned while still Emperor. It wasn’t good research practice to eat or drink while in the lab. General Aloirav knew that but wasn’t a purist. Office and computer sharing the same 2,000 square foot lab space made it understandable. Much time slipped by since any research went on here, anyway.
He didn’t feel comfortable going up into the main hotel lobby to relax and think. It would mean socializing with the commercial guests. In these old First-Surface hotels poor OG retirees and the handicapped were the general occupants. Most were demented, retarded, or twisted in some other way. It presented a much less pleasant environment than his secluded lab or a Pontibus wilderness.
Listening to 1960’s music and thinking about the good old days was easier alone. No intrusions on his memories happened down here in the lab. After 16 years in prison, being alone was comforting. Looking upon his old stamping grounds was strange and moving.
Was Lester thinking about the First-Surface hotel’s environment, when he gave him the keys?
The Company would not sell modules to “genetically or physically challenged” people. Such people now accumulated in First-Surface environs like these skid row hotels. Hemophiliacs, cystic fibrosis victims, and the “mentals” amassed faster than other “biologicals”. The old-government felt hard-pressed to house and provide for all. The General’s Hotel was, one of many, now devoted to unfortunates. Mr. Frye said the hotel paid 95% of its rent receipts, in taxes, to support the pols & “biologicals”. If it were not the home of the original clandestine lab, he would have relinquished it to the OG long ago.
Cagey Lester knew very few misfits inhabited Pontibus space. Estrangement of anti-selective genetic factors and no hospital privileges for “biologicals” produced the comparative anomaly. Stronger healthier citizen counterparts resulted on Luz. The Pontibus would make a much more tempting residence for General Aloirav. There would be little chance for him to acquire a divided loyalty or get lethargic.
The General didn’t need the outward push. He wanted a First-Surface position for strategic reasons. The Grand Rapids hotel environment was passé anyway. The OG was way too close. That was his reason for relocating his off-Pontibus lair to Brazil. Outside of OG controlled territory, the third world also boasted of fewer “biologicals”. Christianity and democracy existed everywhere on the First-Surface. Such political diseases were unavoidable, the General reasoned, and produced most of the planet’s repulsive aspects.
First-Surface citizenry felt Luz denizens should pay more than they did. The OG excused its increasing tax demands against the Pontibus with such hype. Bread & circuses were expensive. Persons vested in the “selectively stressed” side of the issue (“biologicals”) were also strong pro-taxers. The Company and, by extension, the Pontibus’ citizenry were just as adamant in opposing levies.

Pro-taxers reasoned that those above provided no care or feeding for “unfortunates”. According to the politicians, augmenting Company taxes was a fair way to assist amenity providers. Sentiments were becoming volatile over the issue. “Make ‘em pay!” The lower life screamed. “Let ‘em die!” The heavens shouted back.
Mr. Frye’s internet eradications (an extension of New Society dehistorization) were quite thorough. They almost succeeded in disconnecting knowledge of the name Aloirav, Gold, New Society, etc. from crimes against humanity. Except for Gloria Gold, names of lower hierarchy New Society were never well known. Those former heads of conquered states excepted. Few knew that “boss” Rav Aloirav, King & Emperor, hotelier, serial killer, and war criminal was now the powerful General. The Company’s new Head of Security was indeed former incorrigible convict 214-69-62.

He began reminiscing. After his immediate return from Viet Nam, he almost failed to survive the U.S. Like many others, Rav Aloirav was just another sad statistic. To most Vietnam combat veterans 20th Century USA was Disneyland. A place inhabited by people living a fantasy life. Non-vets didn’t see it so, and there the difficulty started. Veterans saw the USA living in illusion, while they struggled with disillusionment. The shrinks called it PTSD.
The discontinuity therein reflected, its causes and effects, made most vets change. Most found “dead” ends. Prisons and asylums, drugs and alcohol, early deaths and graves claimed them. Unacceptability to make the ultimate sacrifice engenders maximum guilt sentiments. Having your face rubbed in that shame, and its diametric opposite concomitantly, upon your return home did strange things. Very few managed to survive, intact, one of the most terrible assaults possible on a psyche. When combined with the normal trauma of combat and war, it is understandable why extremely few post war Viet Nam vets lasted more than a few months.
Veterans felt they represented the highest tradition of Grand Rapids style Christianity. “Greater love hath no man than this, that he gives up his life for his friends.” – J. F. Christ. They offered their own lives for their loved ones. Many fellow Americans refused that sacred offering in disgust. Precious gifts, not just refused… ground into the dirt. It was as though they were just sputum under the heel of a boot. Most veterans felt Americans said GI lives weren’t even worth recognizing, let alone accepting them in sacrifice.
“Such disgust they felt for us. We were despicable to them!” He voiced to the empty lab.
The General heard that the US government’s demographers found 21 million young men capable of going to Viet Nam. Only the poorest million ever went. Of those that saw combat about 50,000 died and 300,000 got wounds. Illuminati and a duped country tried to poison the survivors with Agent Orange before they returned home. As understandable as the attempt to eliminate the poor was, he felt, it failed. Some stubborn vets survived even the resulting cancer. To US citizens, losing a war was unthinkable. Yet, the war was indeed lost and, ergo – Vietnam veterans were unthinkable. Now, except for the four elixir recipients, all the war’s veterans were gone.
“Such ingratitude is as monstrous as it is incredible.” He said to an empty glass. “Yet, I can’t fault the illuminati or even the Commission. They were doing what they thought they needed to do to survive. It’s the rest of the world who are the real fiends. The ignorant, the poor and the superstitious will never understand. They can’t appreciate how nauseating their atavistic behavior is to the more sentient.”
For one brief moment, Rav Aloirav realized a sweet revenge against the USA. For crimes against himself and other veterans, the man retaliated. He and his supporters escaped failure and purposelessness for a short time. Pressing his victories, Rav Aloirav, like Caesar, made war on the entire human race. He failed, however, and spent 16 years in pain without aspirations. His present connection to the Company gave him renewed purpose and another chance at total victory.

Savage is he who saves himself. da Vinci

Chapter Forty-Six

Less than fifty feet removed (from Mr. Leion’s prison domicile) inmate 585-38-94 hung up the holophone and waited. The contact was late. Looking around for her associate, she laid the stiletto on the bench. The solitude made her think over the reasons for getting involved in the operation. The main reason was Rav Aloirav.
When Mr. Frye wanted to arrange relaxing her sentence, the thought didn’t please her all that much. Thinking about spending the rest of her life behind Spandau’s cold stone walls appealed even less. Her cell’s former inmate was a suicide – Walter Richard Rudolf Hess of National Socialism fame. Those parallels were as unsatisfying as the reality. Her accommodations were not pleasing, but her sentence to hang was equally unpleasant.
There were logistical problems; finding a plausible replacement for her in the First-Surface cell would be difficult. Then, a name and a number would be necessary for her incarceration on the Pontibus. The Founder located a demented inmate of an insane asylum that could be used as her replacement in Spandau. The world found hanging a crazy lady to be revolting. A less acceptable answer greeted Lester for finding a formless name above.
But, it went forward just the same. When the possible transfer to the spur came, as an alternative to a rope, Gloria accepted it. Her life improved at once. Gloria saw her children on a regular basis and started a garden. Not all was pleasant.
It could not be so, being a prison. Invasion of privacy and spot searches are usual in penitentiaries. They opened and read her letters. The prison management treated messages to her likewise. It was all part of “rehabilitation”.
When Rav’s release came, despite the codicil, their hopes for reunion grew. After initial ecstatic moments passed, Rav got busy. A lucky break provided a confidential courier to his morganatic wife. For a number of reasons, the hotelier did not want his old prison knowing what he was doing. But those reasons did not apply at Gloria’s cantilever, and now he could ask her for help. The General wanted all the details of the prison’s social organization.
Ms. Gold complied. Even with the courier, getting information back & forth without administration awareness was risky. It was near impossible without enlisting other inmates’ help. She often wondered if they would, one day, discover her identity. Dehistorization a la Frye was not omnipotent. For now, it was helpful. Identity details changed when she went up to the Pontibus cantilever. Her new name, Estelle Keatch, attached to a new number, 585-38-94. .For the present, no one who could recognize her shared the same spur.
While Estelle was getting acquainted with the courier, she encountered Fredo. Ordinarily, 585-38-94 would have shunned the old lecher. When he mentioned personal knowledge of the new head guard, Sr. Mendoza, her reserve waned. She waited to see if his bluster held merit. It did. Estelle met Sr. Mendoza and found him to be as ruthless as anyone she’d ever known.
He expressed no humanity beyond baseline. Old Estelle Keatch soon became ancillary to his select Latino gang. Telephone privileges went along with the affiliation. In return for her missives leaving the prison unopened, the band expected payment. Sexual favors weren’t sought from either direction (She was aged and still carried a torch). There was a large selection of younger inmates from which to choose.
Estelle delivered her associated compensation at the end of a blade. She practiced daily the knife-fighting virtuosos’ baton twirling like movements. Never slacking off, her battles showed the effects of diligence. The woman was still a formidable opponent with a knife. None could compare. All feared such prowess. Perhaps the elixir helped some.
The competence caused her immediate predicament. The intended victim was a treacherous snitch. The well-known informant cost a number of other inmate’s rehabilitation credits. Penitentiary worlds are provincial. Very few inmates have cosmopolitan aspirations. That is, most political motives & activities begin and end within the cage. Other than familial, not much that goes on inside affects the outside.
The snitch would die, whether or not Estelle did the job. Her recompense would be three letters to or from Rav free-of-scrutiny and two phone calls. She waited now to get permission to proceed. Estelle wouldn’t proceed without confirmation. No naïve youngster; her orders must be solid. For that sanction, 585-38-94 now waited.
What made her turn to the left, just then, was conjectural. Doing so exposed peripheral movement. Grabbing the stiletto in reflex, she whirled around to face the threat. The snitch wasn’t without cohorts. Three appeared at Ms. Keatch’s back.
She expected someone to be watching her flank. That “friend” must have also been an enemy or a traitor. No guards in sight. The contact woman wasn’t in sight. Inmate 585-38-94 read the telltale signs of a sellout.
She got ready, a matter of three deep breaths. The first attacker made an easy target. The stiletto plunged deep and quick. Estelle removed it by pushing the dying creature’s neck away with her left hand. The head on that neck now blocked an attack from the far left.
The assaulting woman negotiated past her perishing partner. The evasive action cost precious milliseconds. 585-38-94 flipped the bloody blade around her middle finger. Raising her right arm, she whipped the blade across her approaching enemy’s throat. An arcing red necklace appeared on the second assailant.
Rotating about now to confront the last remaining problem, her arm raised further. Lifting fingers rotated the blade, until it held like a hammer. The last woman died screaming, the stiletto plunging deep into her right eye socket. Sticking to sinus bone, the knife wouldn’t retract. Estelle needed to use her foot to gain leverage.
Blood now covered her shoe. Trembling from the emotion – adrenaline rush, she found it difficult to clean away the liquid evidence. She managed it however and left to find the traitor. One of the three bodies still twitched and convulsed. One was silent and the other gurgled her last.
Running now, 585-38-94 encountered the treacherous inmate in the prison laundry domicile. A few quick questions sufficed. Unsatisfactory responses answered them. The double-crosser soon took the same path as her late compatriots. In another part of the laundry, Ms. Keatch found her contact’s cooling body. It would be more difficult getting a message out now.

General Aloirav turned off the computer and left his desk. The cognac helped him relax, but he still needed more rest before flying back to the New England Pontibus. Fifteen minutes later, upstairs in his room, the General was fast asleep. Awakening after two hours, he showered and left for the airport. Soon, the man was skimming the clouds.
A few hours after leaving the Grand Rapids airport, he landed his antique plane. The Cessna 185 set down on one of the Pontibus’ ubiquitous grass strips. The sea view, between Provincetown and Cape Ann, Massachusetts, was beautiful. The particular platform was two miles high, still over the former USA’s territorial waters. Landing at that altitude was not easy. Density altitude is not mocked.
The Company provided these general aviation fields for small aircraft free of charge. Powerful electric sky vehicles could make long jumps resembling short flights. They used the grass strips too. Such heavy usage required additional care. The Corporation hired special groups of itinerate maintenance people, who preferred the nomadic way of life. They went from location to location with miniature cattle, buffalo, and other ungulates.
The grazing animals kept the grass short and the turf strong. The platform stayed smooth enough for both aircraft and sky vehicle use. Solar electric light illumination maintained the field’s night visibility. The periphery of Luz was thus always discernible to close flying or traversing aircraft. Collisions were few; those occurring came through gross pilot error.
General Aloirav taxied his airplane over to the microbial-fuel spicket. Tying the Cessna down to the anchors provided, he entered a local coffee shop. It was just off the strip under a platform. Wheat at some stage of growth always covered the spot. Accustomed to landing at that particular strip, the General knew it quite well.
He went to the compuphone and contacted Mr. Otorp. They needed to meet, but Mr. Otorp was being consistently difficult in that regard. Lester wanted them to work together. General Aloirav, true to the Founder’s wish, wanted Mr. Otorp to know everything he discovered. Mr. Otorp was not interested.
The information about the prison community that Gloria delivered earlier presented another problem. The General was uncertain about whether the prison’s cartel was aware of his Company re-association. Information takes time to trickle down to rank & file workers. Nevertheless, he wanted many levels of insulation between himself and Gloria. The longer Mr. Otorp’s possible ignorance of her existence lasted the better.
Their love endured over a century now. General Aloirav would protect Gloria, even if it meant losing future credibility with the Company. She meant too much to him to be casual with her life. He still remembered how Gloria appeared at their first meeting. Her beauty and poise struck him like a message from God. The man almost killed her once. How much less his life would have been without her.

Mr. Leion lay on the cold calein deck. He was near where 585-38-94 just finished her holophone call to General Aloirav. She was still brandishing her stiletto as his consciousness returned. His bruises now made more sleep impossible, and thoughts haunted him. How much longer would it last? What seemed an eternity was about 4 hours at most. What would the next hour bring?
He hurt and would do anything to get out of the situation. Sr. Mendoza sure knew how to administer a beating. Mr. Leion’s mind wandered back to more pleasant times. He thought about days gone by and good times. The man remembered that day last week, sitting on the grass of his garden platform.
Leaning back on his elbows, his calves dangled over the edge. Still early morning, it was before breakfast. Mr. Leion and his fish kit were alone, except for the birds. The peaceful sights and smells of a Pontibus morning bathed him with tranquility. Grass bent and crushed under his body’s weight. His soul filled with a flush of cloud gazing rapture.
That first look of the morning was always a narcotic-like experience. Perhaps the nearest a person could come to seeing eternity. A simple pleasure, it cost nothing. The hour was quiet and the sky was still with slight wind. It could not have been more than two or three knots.
After sitting at the computer for hours that morning, Mr. Leion welcomed such diversion. Fish farming almost monopolized the platform. A mariculture pond stood on his left and an aquaculture pool on his right. The large water-filled tetrahedrons appeared triangular or rhomboid in shape if viewed topside. Rain, condensate, and recycled sewage supplied their 15,000-liter volume.
A few weeds, some beehives, and a dwarf apple tree shared the platform with the fish. He did not go in for heavy cultivation, as did some Pontibus platform owners. Never one for delayed-gratification, Mr. Leion did not care for intensive farming. While feeding the fish, he dallied, living for the moment. The desire came upon him to lay back and enjoy his existence.
Reclining thus, the man rested next to a few uncondensed cumuli. The water test bag supported his head. The vertiginous flush from the cloud’s euphoric effect wore away. His bulbous frame and well-trimmed beard pointed out toward the blue sky. His right hand fell into the water, as he dozed. The cool water massaged his skin, relaxing him further, until small tilapia nibbled at his fingers. The sensation obviated the water’s singular calming affect.
The suspended ponds cantilevered out over the ocean from Luz proper. Two thousand feet below rolled the surface of Cape Cod Bay. The supporting rostrum extended out horizontally from the main tetrahedral network. It stretched another hundred feet further than did the main sky community.
Mr. Leion requested and engineered his cantilever to exist so separated. All paths, leading to his domicile-module, rose to meet it. They were closer to the First-Surface and the main bridge network than was his house. He also located his covered scaffolds eccentrically compared to the main community.
Mr. Leion felt safe in doing so. The Company engineers pre-approved it. No one built creatively without that imprimatur. At first, just looking over the edge of the walkway gave him vertigo. Those uneasy feelings diminished with time.
Having purchased his module years ago, he now found his little point in space quite comfortable. Other residents termed the feeling “getting your sky legs”. Once they grew on him, his property ownership increased. Having purchased Company materials, Mr. Leion installed ponds and other improvements. He bought some scaffolding out a ways too.
Going up on occasion to the cold outer periphery settlements was enjoyable. Each time he visited his outlying property it was warmer and greener than on his former visit. His space on Level Thirty-Seven was but calein piers at present. It would not be long though, before it too was wilderness.
Mr. Leion also owned a large turbine, and he rented out some storage space. Both were on Level Fourteen over the Martha’s Vineyard periphery. A bit cold yet at this time of year, he spent a few weeks there every August. Sunrises from there were as close to a vision of paradise as one could imagine. Light reflected off the calein like shining sparkles of pearls. The sky was becoming Earth’s crown. Life never felt so well.
Nevertheless, the first generation experiencing sky living remained skeptical of a lower-density Earth. The Second-Surface, Level Two, sold the slowest, due to buyer skepticism. It was still the cheapest of the sky Levels, but for different reasons now. The Pontibus was not all paradise, but it was an immense improvement over what was available earlier.
Just reading an early 21st century newspaper reproduction made that obvious. What sentient being wouldn’t be frantic to escape? The Pontibus’ new frontier was a flight to sanity. It recapitulated past European immigrations to the “colonies”. Oppressed people viewed the American West’s opportunities in a similar fashion.
Until his present tribulation occurred, Mr. Leion’s life was pleasant. Financially, he was well set. His module mortgage was paid off and his bank balance sound. Minor bills were inconsequential. His company maintained the vehicle. They even paid him for the electricity to keep it charged. Mr. Leion’s module, home, and life were under control. Nobody bothered him, and he bothered nobody. Other than antiques, the man’s fish, bees, and other animals & plants were his world.
Secure and healthy, his single want was companionship. He married and divorced long ago. Mr. Leion later lived with a woman, Jane, fifteen years his junior. In their eight years together, they never got close. His control issue always got in the way. It prevented anything more from developing.
He wanted children, but the intimacy and commitment required never came to fruition. Mr. Leion learned that after preparing a special room for his expected progeny. He could not get into life that way. Work was disruptive, and it would not stay out of his personal life. His relationship suffered.
Perhaps drinking a bit too much did not help. Mr. Leion did indeed have a fondness for “the creature”. Some said he pontificated. Perhaps. Sexual daydreams often betrayed him, and the man felt pressure to live vicariously. One of his silent envies was of his neighbor, the man upon whom he was now offering to spy.

Mr. Otorp was a real Company man, not an apparatchik, but a true believer in the entire Pontibus development. He became a disciple after first hearing about the sky network concept. The man accepted Mr. Lester Frye’s vision long before the structures were even a reality. The Company biologist lived with his granddaughter on a spur. Their sky house extended further out peripherally than did even Mr. Leion’s cantilevered platforms.
The Otorps, and most of their neighbors, were year round residents of Luz. The Temperate Climate Zone required polyhydroxybutyrate (PHB) film over platforms in the colder months. Calein frameworks supported the tent-like structures against strong winter winds. Protecting plants from dehydration, the biodegradable greenhouses maintained quasi-summer-like conditions. The microbial product permitted activity year-round.
Many Cape Cod Bay Pontibus neighbors disliked the constraint. They moved to Luz southern modules in the winter. Both communities kept verdant. Dried comminuted biomass (DCB), activated as needed with humeal, generated animal feed, fodder, and plant mulch. Communal wetlands produced beautiful wildlife habitat.
No noxious odors developed, because all went according to the Company’s specifications. Streams never failed nor flooded. Bio-sustainable, the bridges increased in efficiency and beneficial aspects. The First-Surface’s unsustainable alternative produced but a burden on its progeny. To Lester’s mind, wherever politicians, religionists, and bureaucrats congregated famine, suffering, and war went unabated. He worried that his own Pontibus custodians might degenerate someday into similar parasites.
Mr. Otorp and Lester Frye worked together, for many years, very close. In those frustrating early days, the two sustained hope for success with difficulty. Rav Aloirav’s covert financial support held them together. Lester’s imagination cleared away the darkness bit by bit.
To surround the Earth with the Pontibus someday seemed a pipe dream then. Its reality now shone out into the darkness of space. From further out in space, the Earth and its Bridges appeared as one. They resembled a single living cell seen under a light microscope. The Earth was like a nucleus affecting its surrounding Pontibus cytoplasm. Reminiscent of endoplasmic reticulum microtubules, Pontibus’ piers reached out in all directions. To hear Mr. Otorp tell it, the analogy went even further.
Lester Frye and he were old-style 20th Century vegetarians. True vegetarians then were called vegans, for some reason. It was de rigueur, back then, for the intellectuals. That was before sky aquaculture ponds became so plentiful. Now fish protein, for various reasons, cost the planet no more than vegetable protein. Strict vegetarians were less common.
Most found economic nutrition balance and its impact on the new cultural wealth definition abstruse. They knew it involved many esoteric subjects. Things like solar energy efficiency, chemical heating, protoplasmic nutritional needs, etc. entered the equation. Some of the constraints, such as the regulations regarding range-fed chickens, most understood. Chickens reeked havoc with new sewage gardens. It was easy to destroy the delicate water-sewage-plant balance in the initial stages.
The special cockroach-eating gaipira chicken and South American giant toads were welcomed everywhere.

The depredations of the gaipira bird, a glorified vulture, needed special controls. Other controls were harder to understand. Explaining them absorbed much custodial energy and time. Most people just accepted the Company doctrine cum novo-religion.
Frye and Otorp shared with Aloirav a common mission to preserve pristine Nature. The two former believed in hurting as little as possible. None of the three would ever harm innocents for pleasure. Just the hotelier was large in body. The other two were quite thin.
Their obsession, perhaps a trauma residual, came from a shared experience. A long ago First-Surface conflict brought them together. Nobody even remembered it now. The dirty little war destroyed a lush jungle called Viet Nam. A psychiatrist could hold a seminar on just these three victims of the politicians.
Their mutual dream was to create an eternally healthy planet through recombinant DNA techniques. They wished to blend, synergistically, an individual’s need for values, purpose, and hope with a starving raped Earth. The means to accomplish it came through the innovative Pontibus architecture and a substance called calein. Calein was dried calcium-carbonate-silicate impregnated mussel protein used as a reinforced concrete substitute. To mass-produce the substance as a building material, they needed its DNA blueprint.
Lester & Company searched and re-searched for the material over many years. Once, in the 20th Century, Lester Frye, working alone, developed it. A prevailing climate of Luddite-like fear of recombinant DNA existed simultaneously. People felt recombinant DNA techniques were sorcery, those using them tantamount to witches. Many considered researchers, inclined to work with applied genetics, as Hitlerian monsters.
Ignorance created avid followers who enacted laws proscribing such research. Others were eager to accept nefarious religious weapons against these dedicated scientists. Abuses became prevalent, hurting valuable people. The human race behaved as usual when confronting those having progressive criminal tendencies (heretics). Heretics also behaved as they usually do.
They went underground. Mr. Frye did so literally but not figuratively. Mindless, First-Surface attacks deferred calein’s earlier possibilities. Mr. Otorp and a colleague, just a few years back, rediscovered it. All aerial structures were now undergoing the change to calein from Al-Con.
Constructing tetrahedralized structures devoured Mr. Otorp’s time for weeks after the calein re-discovery. They were all of which he spoke. The diaphanous protein – seawater bridges supported aerial biomass, without metal, lumber, or stone. The material made Al-Con piers obsolete overnight. Aluminum purchases before calein were expensive and subjected the Company to metal market vagaries. Company purchase orders for aluminum tubing slowed and then stopped, completely.
Original calein production occurred on the First-Surface. Rocks, (silicates and calcium carbonates), in seawater entered the calein protein matrix as micro-deposits. As the Pontibus grew, pumping seawater from the ocean out to where needed became difficult. An ex-convict discovered how they could use humeal technology to solve the problem. Changing the hammer mill metal allowed the portable machines to crush rock.
When a slow humeal climate evolved, retooling was quick. Dissolving terrestrial rock powder in aerial lakes of spent seawater was economical. Materials left behind, by-products, were often insoluble precious metals. They would not dissolve into the mussel protein-seawater interface. Precious slurry accumulated under the pre-mold calein cauldrons and lakebeds.
Such valuable materials, collected where they fell, entered the Company treasury. The direct result was a reduction in First-Surface companies’ toxic mining operations. The Company and Planet benefited concurrently. Calein production, profitable in itself, made mining benign & almost cost-free. Firms, not profiting from the calein changes, expressed displeasure.
The calein building process differed from the aluminum foamed-concrete method. Initial stages of the new system appeared convoluted but cost less. Original Company offices and plant moved from Grand Rapids, Michigan. They relocated to Pontibus’ Level-Twelve (70W, 40N, L12). Until calein’s rediscovery, all aluminum tubing arrived there first. The Concern found the Level strategically advantageous and expanded its capabilities. Tetrahedron construction, using calein, went on here in a few large modules formerly dedicated to Al-Con.
Aerial work was dangerous. Many men and women fell to their deaths. Thinking about the mistakes and accidents leading to his prosperity never sat well with Lester. Loss of convict life concerned him. He engineered many changes to ameliorate unsafe conditions.
His alterations made a virtually innocuous sky in which to work. Even with the more benign environment, however, he still felt discomfort. The man never knew where to draw the risk line. Others accepted the responsibility for him. Inmates displayed true greatness of spirit and undoubted courage. They were convinced of the value of their contribution.
Some, however, exhibited a treacherous disease. They seemed to suffer from a type of combat fatigue. Rav Aloirav mentioned to Mr. Frye how he exhibited similar characteristics after the communists killed his Vietnamese wife and child. The Romans called it morass fraudulentus. It was a Weltschmertz, pain of soul.
Everything around them seemed gray, vague, colorless, and drab. These blank-eyes manifested contempt for life. Many still leaped to their death. People, sky, vegetation, new tetrahedral gardens, and even the sparkling columns failed to inspire joy. Lester felt great compassion for these souls, perhaps a kinship.
His hope was to someday reach and eradicate their pain. After pouring much energy and profit into research toward that end, success eluded him. Attempts for their rehabilitation never ended for him. Traversing prison spurs, the Founder talked to inmates, gaining their confidence. They felt his concern and pity.
Mr. Frye never allowed it to dishonor them, protecting their pride. He never indicated that some work held less planetary value than other functions. The convicts showed their gratitude by constructing a quality product and undisguised friendship.
Members of Mr. Aloirav’s “Club” did not like to see him coming. He brought back memories, tinged with resentment. Despite his efforts to make life better for them, they were in prison. One of them, yet he was free. Despite their different conditions, former New Society inmates trusted Lester, treating him with deference.
Although but a select few received the special tea, most knew it was the Founder’s money keeping them comfortable in their cells. Everyone knew he was special. Their behavior toward him differed little from that of other inmates. His presence made them uncomfortable, however, and they fidgeted. Much uneasiness, and perhaps good behavior, resulted from residual fear of 214-69-62.
The “return” of calein brought problems. Aluminum and the proteinaceous matrix were incompatible construction materials. At first, the Company bifurcated calein processing and sky house construction. Treating the material as if it were an aluminum substitute was inefficient. Despite having to solve many logistical problems, convict creativity soon changed the technology.
Great lakes appeared high in the sky near the Level –Twelve factory labs. Enormous conduits for seawater sprouted out of the ocean to fill them. Surrounding these lakes, imported rock became dissolved earth (via humeal mills and spent seawater). Giant vats collected secretions from a series of 500-kilo flat mega-mollusks. The exudates entered into osmotic filter tubes. Seawater, high in the sky, circulated to cure it into extruded micropiers.
Molds, seawater, and exudates combined in a 2000-hectare aerial processing facility. Sized from microscopic to 48 feet, tetrahedrons followed the carbon molecule model. Molded subassemblies went to other factories or out to the periphery. Lester pulled his seawater from mid-ocean to preclude First-Surface interference. First-Surface taxes on Company procurations took a precipitous drop, and the old-government became concerned. Threats against Lester were diurnal, but calein would be no hostage to fortune.
In the electromagnetic wave spectrum, humans view but a small range of frequencies. A similar situation exists with our auditory apparatus. We see and hear very little of what is out there. There are many reasons why optic and auditory nerves truncate our sensual perception. Like morals, they circumscribe and limit our world. In the entire group of Pontibus tetrahedrons, humans also perceived just the macroscopic, a very limited size range.
Lester Frye’s concept originated while he stood on the shoulders of great men. One of those great men was 20th century thinker, Buckminster Fuller. Mr. Fuller made his own concepts work in 1947 with igloo type structures called “geodesic domes”. He in turn stood on the shoulders of Greek mathematicians like Euclid. Arab predecessors to the Greek’s geometric ideas seem to have started it all. However, it may have originated even further back, when sea level was 500 feet lower and shorelines much deeper.
What we seem to know is, despite palaeoanthropological hubris, Australopithecine is a euphemism for chimpanzee. Even Homo habilis was but a glorified pongid, Homo erectus not much more. (Neanderthals may have been more intelligent even than the Cro Magnon, if brain size is any indication. It is a factor, Rav felt, despite some sex-biased evidence to the contrary. Quis qui quod, intelligence alone did Nean little good in confrontation with Cro. There are many Neans still around, if my neighbor’s cranial features mean anything.)
The determining factor in Cro Magnon’s & our apotheosis appears to have been the genetic gift of a hypertrophied prefrontal lobe. Until the late Pleistocene in the Quaternary era, a hard-boned ape was all Man ever was. Noah was just another monkey (hominid). Neanderthals merged into Cro-Magnon as cave art appeared. Semitic gossip maintains some space Casanova put the horns on our drunken pongid predecessor. That philanderer may have put extra-terrestrial DNA (prefrontals) into his “offspring” too. The sudden rise in imagination and organization may have held a heretofore-unappreciated side benefit. The cave tectiform signs & partitioned rectangles of Font-de-Gaume & El Castillo’s ceiling, like the 75 Aurignacian vulvas near Ve´ze´re, could be just parietal symbolism. Could they also be records depicting, now forgotten, passage details of intergalactic arrivals?
Early burial rites placed red ochre in graves and on corpses. Just bloody savagery, or to comfort & remind the departed of the pink of the bridge’s vagina-like entrance? Most primitive men did not live in caves. What made them put their art there? Prudent protection from inclement weather, or resemblance to Einstein-Rosen bridges?
In like manner, the Venus of Brassempouy & other Gravettian carvings of women show Homo monkeys without mouths. Were the 1st Cro-Magnon, to leave the other world or arrive here, so misformed? For 25,000 years, women were at the heart of art. As time passed, phallus worship replaced vulva worship.
Animal – man bizarre mixtures covered cave walls. Bizarre mixtures may or may not occur less frequently, in today’s maternity wards. We are not all mundanely familiar with such occurrences, as the medical profession is notoriously myopic, being attracted to memory more than rationality. The strange animal-human DNA combinations could have come & gone the way of many other wonderful life forms. While King, Rav Aloirav visited Cro-Magnon art in Vezere valley caves. The Aurignacian period gave him some good evidence with the 198 figures in the Font-de-Gaume. Lascaux clarified the premise.
Aurochs and woolly rhinoceroses are not the only strange beasts no longer to exist except in our imagination. Unicorns, centaurs, and other figures, including the grotesque carved females, of the Dordogne may have once existed. Did the Vedas third eye, front & center, see past & future? Could the Templar’s & Cathars Holy Grail be, in reality, not a religious bit of superstitious nonsense but a vestigial voice from our hidden phylogenetic past? Perhaps the idiosyncratic images in the caves are not so bizarre. We are privy now to Homo’s depredations and Nature’s caprice.
Nothing man ever produced, other than cave paintings & crude carvings, has lasted much over 7000 years. Along with extinct bizarre creatures, there could have been heavenly bridges in the distant past. Who knows? Lester Frye may have tapped into a reverberating intelligence that, as cave art, escaped Nature’s expunging whim. Perhaps Ham, Shem, and Japheth’s randy prefrontal’ed sire came through an Einstein-Rosen bridge to plant the idea, along with us.
Whatever. Seeking to augment planetary ecosystems, not just human needs, Lester Frye was unsatisfied with geodesic domes. Feeling they contained fatal limits to expanding habitable space, he made his thoughts known to Bucky. Mr. Fuller answered the objections by proposing gigantic land-based tetrahedrons filled with condominiums. That obvious error, plus Bucky’s religious frailty, made the Founder look elsewhere for inspiration.
He delved deeper into carbon molecules. In the 1970’s, Mr. Frye’s dreams reached further into the sky, beginning where Mr. Fuller’s ideas ended. The “Pontibus” concept emerged as living geometry. Valid proofs existed to its validity, before he could grasp it. Not least among them was the fact that for years people considered him a crank.
Buoyed by the criticism, undaunted by failure, he said. “Even if only the slightest chance exists to eradicate consummate tree-harvesting exigencies, it’s worthwhile. The concept merits all our efforts to expand surface area and habitats. Isn’t it our duty to Planet and Posterity? Must we not stop the alternative’s madness immediately?”
Unlike Mr. Frye, rapid-fire speaker Mr. Otorp was exciting and stimulating. He illustrated his explanations with Lester’s plastic models. On non-navigable evenings, Mr. Leion stayed close to home and listened to the seminars. Even he was spellbound.
When clouds enclosed a Level, their water vapor precluded visibility. Contact between domicile paths became negligible. Lost time was minimal, however. Moisture condensers on each domicile captured the mist. Fog changed quickly to potable water.
For a short time, however, outside walking was inadvisable and rare. People stayed indoors, close to home, unless familiar with each step of the way. Some people were as adept as mountain goats. Others adjusted their lives to conform to the situation. They talked to neighbors or just puttered around the module.
Many behaved as construction workers in the rain; they went indoors. Family life benefited from these constraints, but not outside community events. Fog curtailed nightlife, unless one owned a radio telepathy sky vehicle. Few people used their normal sky vehicles during these periods. Not that there was any danger, accidents from collisions between vehicles were nonexistent. Driving in obscuring mist was just uncomfortable.
Avoidance & precipice technology, built into each car, even with the overriding options, saved many lives. Accidental transportation falls were technically impossible. Nevertheless, teenagers could not always get a strato car license. They needed to exhibit certain maturational attributes first. Fog-driving permits came after years of driving experience.
Calein was not everywhere yet. Mr. Leion’s domicile, like many others, was still Al-Con. He declined Mr. Otorp’s kind offer to help him replace it with the new material. It was not just the expense or his pride. Mr. Leion felt too busy to take on more responsibilities. He also expected to profit from his antique place some day.
Methane generators, sewage composting, and potable-water condensation ponds needed periodic servicing. Walking paths, part of that system, turned liquid waste streams into clean water for fishponds. Green plants and the subsequent white thermophilic Actinomycetes fungus processed away harmful elements. The resulting humus supported platform surfaces’ abundant growth.
Brown diluted goo bubbled under gas collectors near the domiciles. Measured comminuted odorless sewage then entered a covering layer of sand and small stone. It continued to descend until a clear clean liquid resulted near the ponds. Flow viscosity depended on individual chemical activity load, plant growth stage, and the weather. Ample sunlight was essential.
Computer monitoring continued all the way through harvest of water, methane, finished fish, tomatoes, etc. The computer controlled the offal from body exit to body re-entry. There was no waste. Lower levels of the special stream never became completely nitrogen free. In such a state, it supported non-human water needs. Wildlife abounded near the ponds.
A new Pontibus neighborhood, or a very old one, could not maintain self-sustaining root masses against strong concentrated sewage. Lightly polluted or clean storm water run-off protected fledgling hydrophilic wastewater plants. Initial stages did not always do as well as expected. Use of “night soil” also took cultural habituating. Semi-retired Mr. Otorp got occasional calls to aid new Communities. Overqualified to act as “wetland doctor”, he enjoyed it, nevertheless.
Marsh marigold, slippery elm, willows, bamboo, winterberry, loosestrife, hyssop, rhododendron, toads, frogs, and snails lined the polishing paths. Hydrophilic hyacinths, cattails, arrowheads, bulrushes, arrow-wood, blueberry, sweet flag, and dogwoods grew in state. Pepperbush, millet, reeds and reed canary grass, soft rush, duckweed, and skunk cabbage begged attention. Wild ducks, pheasants, and partridges hid in the lush vegetation. All polished detoxified septage in the most esthetic way. A silicate, carbonate, and fiber harvest replaced sewage “fed” to the system. Waste disappeared in proportion to area, sunlight, and temperature.
As communities “ripened”, people traded-in their antique modules. The Company replaced them with new identical locales further out. It recycled the mature neighborhoods into communal wildernesses.

Back of the job – the dreamer, who’s making the dream come true. Berton Braley

Chapter Forty-Seven

On the prison domicile’s deck, Mr. Leion’s thoughts turned away from pleasant platform memories. Bruises wouldn’t let him dwell long on comfort and ease. The beating and consequent pain depressed him. These hours of imprisonment compounded it. Everything combined to make him feel how much of life was passing by him.
Even before this horrible day unhappy thoughts intruded. At times, he felt them helpful. Mr. Leion even credited his job survival to their influence. Some of his expertise, foretelling political repercussions of management decisions, he attributed to pessimism. Entering frequent negative internecine office frays, Mr. Leion always came out singularly unscathed.
Cynicism made him adept at second-guessing other’s hidden agendas and ulterior motives. Suspicion and pre-judgment were his métier. People were little more than tools for his petty power contests. His aloofness led to fear of small exposures. Borderline paranoia absorbed him. A classic coward, Mr. Leion lived in perpetual fear.
He wouldn’t share even his most mundane personal thoughts and feelings. Close acquaintances knew Mr. Leion not. Comparison’s light never shone on his personal concepts and sentiments. Festering, they produced a real-life example of 20th Century Beatles’ song, Hey Jude. He too made his world ever colder.
Skill at his chosen profession brought financial success, but little else. Coworkers didn’t think well of him. Just one close friendship ever developed, Jane. They were quite a team for a time, making a united front against his repertoire of enemies.
As a resume’ of successful power struggles accumulated, so did adversaries. Small political vendettas earned him a share of company perquisites. Nevertheless, he didn’t advance in the corporation, and it bothered him. He kept the small disgrace to himself. A feigned degree of nonchalance handled it.
As time went on, obsession with manipulation increased. He began over-controlling. Soon, even the minutiae of his limited world became cause for intense scrutiny. Mr. Leion became a fussbudget. As a natural consequence of that, and his emotional reticence, disaster struck.
Jane grew distant. She began spending most evenings out with “girlfriends” in another sky neighborhood. She also traveled much more than he liked. Conversations with his paramour became less open and lengthy. On Mr. Leion’s side, they got more hostile and demanding.
He attempted to buy her love, purchasing a new sky vehicle for her. She used it to gallivant about the Pontibus even more. Her strato car was mist gray metallic and, considering fog regs, very rare. It contained the latest in Cartesian coordinate – GPS navigation & radio telepathy control mechanisms. Easy and enjoyable to maneuver, almost anywhere, it did 8-mph vertical.
One day, Mr. Leion became a bit more suspicious than usual. Something Jane said got him to thinking. While she slept, he surreptitiously examined the last vehicle navigational control program entry. The computer’s memory bank couldn’t lie. The vehicle wasn’t where the woman said it was.
They argued about it. No mathematician, Jane was unequal to his computer skills. The situation became even more difficult. Of course, Mr. Leion still assumed he trusted her. The man was a classic cuckold.
In his desperation, Mr. Leion believed what he wanted to believe. Fear & ignorance are like eczema. If you can’t get rid of them, giving in just makes it worse. For nearly a decade, Jane was his one female friend. He remembered how good she was with his dying sister.
Cooperation is like a canoe, floating in a steady current of circumstances. Altering conditions, as would a rocky streambed, destroys steady flow and can capsize it. It’s hard for anyone to face the reality of sudden change with equanimity. He was no exception.
Then, Mr. Leion caught her inflagrante delicto. She stole some of his money. He could avoid it no longer. Things got ugly. Mr. Leion slapped her. Under a great deal of stress in his job at that time, he over-reacted. Slapping her twice more, he ordered her out.
While she packed, he told himself. “Got to get rid of a woman that won’t obey. You can never give a woman everything she asks for. It’ll just make her very unhappy, and she’ll blame you. They’re born slaves. Most are insane, flagellated by their emotions. The older they get the more their crazy behavior becomes habituated.”
Regretting his behavior, even before finishing his soliloquy, he tried to get her to stay. Pride wouldn’t let him ask her to remain, but the man began speaking gently. To no avail, the relationship deteriorated fast, along with Mr. Leion’s opinion of females and their affiliation.
Mr. Leion made a copy of her vehicle’s navigation log and traced it. Many people, he discovered, saw the vehicle at a “pousada” domicile on Level-Fourteen. Dates matched those same evenings Jane said she was out with “girlfriends”. Some said another corporation employee was having an affair with her. Then, someone whispered her paramour was dark. All was unbeknownst to Mr. Leion, until the end.
The news didn’t diminish his growing misogyny. His drinking increased, as did his attempts to cohabit with other women. Jane came back a few times, while he was out, to collect her belongings (and just a few of his). Since the Company prohibited lawyers on the Pontibus, Jane felt she had no other way to rob Mr. Leion. It was tough to be a gold digger on the great bridges. She kept the new car, and they never again spoke to each other.
After a few more failed liaisons with women, Mr. Leion concluded, “The difference between women of education and those without is the economic dangerousness of the former and the physical violence of the latter.”
Propped against the calein bulkhead in prison module four, Mr. Leion continued thinking about his home. He liked to daydream about sleeping on the grass near his platform ponds. The sounds of fish, jumping to catch insects, broke dewy morning stillness, as cumulus clouds moved by him. He now recalled the pleasant sound of the rain-like water condensate dripping into the potable reservoir. The Company engineered the outflows to fall like soft rain, peaceful & soothing. The mist floated under the platforms like a white diaphanous mattress. One felt like stepping out onto it.

Mr. Leion’s reverie ended with his captor’s re-entry to the domicile. They hauled him back to the interrogation office. Expecting another beating or even death, he cringed before the desk. Sr. Mendoza set him at ease, revealing his identity as other than a Company man. He also disclosed that his superior’s found Mr. Leion’s suggestion favorable. For the next few months, Mr. Leion’s status would be like a captured enemy combatant.
As a spy, he would be a novice on probation. However, they instituted efficient implementation measures. Sr. Mendoza explained what their principals wanted from him. For obvious reasons, he withheld ultimate objectives. Mr. Leion never asked.
He was to gather surveillance information and other intelligence. His captors would provide electronic devices in furtherance of that mission. Should Sr. Mendoza’s confidence in him be lost, his ultimate fate was certain. However, if the man proved valuable, he might find “other inducements to more extensive cooperation later”. Chaperoned supervision would also relax in time.
Leaving the prison compound, relief competed with nervous exhaustion for occupation of his emotional state. After the six-hour stopover, and such a rapid & drastic change in his life’s conditions, positive incentives were not on Mr. Leion’s mind. Remaining useful to his new employer’s objectives was obligatory. He was under no misconceptions as to his future should he betray or even appear to betray them.
Sr. Mendoza put one of the women trustees in the departing vehicle. He disconnected her GPS from the computer for the job, covering the skin-implant with a special rf-absorbent cloth. The managing miscreant reasoned that strangers should see a woman, resembling the accountant, with their new spy. Police should not attribute the woman’s homicide, if discovered, to Mr. Leion. He needed to appear far removed from suspicion. Questions about her disappearance were sure to come. They wanted him prepared to be an accessory-after-the–fact along with everything that that entailed. In jail, he would be a wild card, until terminated.
Not the overtly nervous type, Mr. Leion felt he could control the situation. Worries over being an “Accessory After The Fact” didn’t concern him. Perhaps he felt, as do most naïve squares, justice will prevail. Evidence contrary to such silly preconceptions fills prisons, the world over. Grateful to be alive, the man planned to adapt.
Agonizing over ethics and self-accusations could come later. Mr. Leion felt little compassion for the woman. It was, to him, just a political question of priorities – survival. His nature was too cynical to involve him with Hearst-style captor-identification. Who could ever forget that girl’s scream?
That sound was educational. The next scream might be his. Then again…it might not be, if he played a good game. He was going nowhere in his present job. Change was not a terribly unattractive idea at that point in his life. That he might, someday, have to help reimburse Society for the accountant’s murder never entered into his contemplations.
The inmate accompanying Mr. Leion back to the Third-Level was not talkative. Of the prison trustee population, the woman was closest in resemblance to his former partner. She was ten years older but would have to do. Resembling the accountant, she wore the deceased’s clothing. As Mr. Leion delivered her to the magnelev station he noticed that her hairdo was also similar.
“Mendoza is no slouch,” he thought. “He doesn’t let the little details slip past him.”
At the station they made a show in front of the ticket stand and said goodbye. The woman kept her back to the magnelev attendant most of the time. He would remember them. Mr. Leion returned to his module thereafter. He needed to contact his section chief and begin obfuscations.
Conjured up police prejudices, verging on the truth of what happened, must end with dispatch. The man drove the perambulator up his module’s path. He saw Mr. Otorp through the port. They waved. Mr. Leion parked the vehicle and entered his domicile.
“Don’ say no’theeng, meesta,” A voice hissed.
The adrenaline rush subsided after recognizing Tomas’, who continued. “Shut thee hatch!”
The door closed, and the convict said. “You wass right. You do know meesta Otorp. I seen heem wave ta ya’.”
Mr. Leion stood mute, unsure if he could speak yet, and Tomas’ continued. “Sr. Mendoza wan’ me hep you for a while. Make sure ya’ don’ mek no beeg meestake.”
Not surprised, he answered. “May I speak yet?”
“O, si.”
“I half-expected Sr. Mendoza himself. He doesn’t seem the type to leave things unsupervised.”
“He trusts me.”
“I should contact my section chief.”
“Go-head! Meek bleeve I’m no’ here . . . sort of.”
“You’ll have to get out of the video’s reach.” Mr. Leion said before turning on the machine. “You’re sitting within hologramera range.”
“Righto, meesta.” Tomas’ said, jumping sprightly to the domicile’s other side. “Meesta Mendoza wan’ copees of eveytheen you sen’, comprende?”
“Yes.”
“You fogeets uhn, you ded, okay?”
“Yes, Tomas’.” Mr. Leion replied, turning on the machinery. Everyone knew he was over 7 hours late returning from the Level Twenty-Seven depot. A good reason was in order for the delay. Tomas’ was waiting to hear it. Mr. Leion was prepared.
His chief’s hologram was ready, when Mr. Leion came on line. He listened, until the message ended. The first question wasn’t about his impediment. That was a relief. The chief asked, among other things, what was unusual out there.
Until Mr. Leion felt comfortable, he fidgeted. That helped. “I saw nothing out of the ordinary.” Mr. Leion replied. “The place was warmer than the last time. ‘Bout it.”
“Took you damn long to contact me.” The chief replied. “Some reason?”
He blamed the hiatus on the woman. Considering everything, she was in no position to deny it. “The broad wanted to stop and take pictures all the way. Plus, we weren’t on the road all the way back. She met some guy right before we passed the prison compound.”
“The vehicle said you pulled off the road. That must have been it. Why?”
“The guy met her on the periphery. They talked all the time at the depot. Couldn’t stay away from each other. I don’t know how she got anything done with all that hand-to-hand shit between ‘em. She and he wanted to talk more, I guess. And talk they did, for hours.”
“What about?”
“Don’t know. She left me in the vehicle listening to the compu-radio. They went walking around the periphery.”
“I see. Didn’t you ask her what it was all about?”
“Yeah. She said it was some important information about the shortages.”
“Why didn’t you advise us about the delay?”
“She said she wouldn’t be too long, and it wouldn’t be necessary. Said she’d explain when we returned. I fell asleep ‘n the vehicle.”
“Were you drinking?”
“A pop…or two.”
“What time did you get back?” The chief asked.
Mr. Leion told him the correct time. He knew the police would check. The magnelev attendant and neighbors would corroborate. They might not even assume the accountant’s disappearance to be foul play. That would qualify as wishful thinking, however.
A problem was in development for sure. 6+ hours was a long time to be asleep in a car, even a nice car. He needed to be cool. Mr. Leion was the last person to see her. He would swear, if asked, that she was alive at that time.
Many people at the magnelev station could verify him dropping off a woman. With a possible lover in the picture, her request to cut the pre-audit short became more understandable. Mr. Leion would be under suspicion for a time. Mistrust would, hopefully, focus on the accountant’s mysterious depot companion. Perhaps not. The police only had Mr. Leion’s word for the mysterious companion’s existence. Plus, the decoy was not she. But then, who remembers faces seen in metro stations?
He signed off his hologramera and turned to Tomas’, hopeful that the convict was satisfied. It was the best fabrication Mr. Leion could muster.
“Well, whaddya’ think?” He asked. “Di’ sound convincing?”
“No say, meesta. Time weel teel, no? You deesappear, we find.” Tomas’ said, moving his finger across his neck and pointing outside. There, Lopez waited after following Mr. Leion from the prison.
“Yah.” Mr. Leion agreed, too tired to say more. The preceding few hours were tough and tiring. The included events seemed like a year’s worth. Hungry & shaken, he wanted sleep.
“I’m going to bed, Tomas’.” Mr. Leion said, getting up from the chair in front of the computer.
“Si.”
“It’s been a big day for me.”
After his 18 hour nap, Mr. Leion felt calmer. With the strength born of a day’s distance, he reassessed his decision. Despite the opposite situation, Mr. Leion felt more in control. Tomas’ presence, however, spoke to the contrary and guaranteed another’s hegemony over doubt. Looking over at his antique couch, he could see his fate watching him.
“I wonder what Mendoza meant with that business about “other inducements”?” Mr. Leion mused. “How will we “cooperate more extensively later”, should I prove “valuable?”
His marketing career was secure and without financial worries. However, it remained but a semi-gratifying and dead-end job. His political maneuvering, backstabbing, petty extortions, etc. brought him nowhere. Was it time to readjust his fealty?
Just think of the possibilities if Mendoza worked for him. Maybe he could get his section head “roughed up” some night. Serve him right for all those unfair promotions. Mr. Leion spent the rest of the day dining on hope and trying to decide. He never did.
Except for those times he talked to Mr. Otorp, Mr. Leion could feel Tomas’ presence. The microphone was annoying. He wondered how long before they would trust him enough to remove it, along with his “chaperones”. The man didn’t feel he knew enough yet to go 100% over to Sr. Mendoza. A little time was necessary to discover those “other inducements”.
Mr. Leion didn’t entertain the alternative thought: they might not find him useful. Neither did he feel any temptation to escape his predicament. The man behaved here as most of us do, believing what we wish. “Pie in the sky” was the main course of Mr. Leion’s new feast on life. He tried to forget his bruises while working on the report to his legitimate boss. The man made frequent visits outside for “breaks”, to “bump into” Mr. Otorp.
The next day, he was reclining on one of his platforms. The budding new spy hoped to “accidentally see” and speak to his victim. He noticed a Polyporus sulphureus growing on the nearby dwarf apple tree. Reaching out, Mr. Leion picked off a small bracket from the young mushroom. It was still pink – choice.
One didn’t often find them on non-oaks or at such a perfect stage; their camouflage was too effective. The moist semi-tart fungal flesh melted in his mouth. It sent pleasurable sensations throughout his relaxing body. Closing his eyes, he thought what a shame it was to cook them. Tomas’ was using the stove. The mushrooms would stay fresh.
Fungal products made up a large part of the Pontibus’ resident’s diet. They also helped rid the community of weighty non-living material and rotting vegetation. Fungal food products cleaned the body of disease, furnishing low fat, low-protein roughage. Thought superior in taste and texture to red meat, mushrooms grew in popularity. Many mimicked the taste and texture of the animal foodstuffs they replaced.
Mr. Leion knew his rotund body didn’t need the extra calories. Guilty thoughts came but left. He remembered how scientists found all those anti-carcinogens in the polypores. Even with the calories, they were good for him, Mr. Leion argued. He was always an easy sell.
Stuffing another chunk in his mouth, Mr. Leion thought back to his youth. He remembered those ambitious first days on the Third-Level. Getting away from the First-Surface was all that mattered back then. Older now, dreams gone, the break was a vague memory. Nevertheless, his being one of the early bridge pioneers was an undeniable fact.
The man never hesitated to tell everyone about his intrepid younger days. He always focused on descriptions of himself as a thin young man playing collegiate lacrosse. Mr. Leion felt being captain of the team at Notre Dame gave him stature. Known as a rake with the girls didn’t hurt. He was a BMOC (Big Man On Campus).
Recollections ended, as his current situation came into the foreground. The man knew he should have replaced his module long ago. Structural members still contained over 90% resin-coated Al-Con. Calein was far superior. Mr. Leion thought about restoring it once, his oldest platform anyway, but he procrastinated.
Mr. Otorp helped with Mr. Leion’s other projects, but they delayed here. No matter how he approached it, the cost was a factor. Mr. Leion thought about Jane. His psyche would not yet allow full enjoyment of all the pain. It twisted him; he knew, but not how or how much.
Unique ways of displacing his anger toward the woman sliced through her sex. His behavior, sometimes bizarre, was indiscriminate without personal recognition or control. Speaking to the fish, Mr. Leion reaffirmed his new resolve. “I don’t need her! I don’t need any of ‘em!”
He opened his eyes to see a new Avenue going up on the periphery. Mr. Leion guessed they were at Level Sixteen or Seventeen. He couldn’t make out many details. At 800 feet/Level, it was over two miles further out than his own cantilevers. That height was still troposphere. The new owners would pay a lot for such prime real estate and the additional oxygen or coca leaves in the summer.
Yesterday, Mr. Otorp said the Company was preparing to announce another limit refinement. They were, once again, extending the troposphere boundaries. It was for the same reason each time. The Biosphere was increasing. Human descriptions must keep pace with changing conditions.
Cartesian coordinates defined the Pontibus network. The system used three-dimensional locator points (x, y, and z). As the interconnections grew outward, the levels got larger. Streets (longitudes) and Avenues (latitudes) continued to elongate. Reminiscent of the old-government’s New York City, USA, streets ran perpendicular to avenues. Here fixed longitude & latitude azimuths (GPS) also ran perpendicular to altitude in kilometers. Washington, D.C. would be: (68degreesW, 42degreesN, Level 0) First Surface. Mr. Leion’s cantilever was (70.72degreesW, 41.99degreesN, Level 1).

By design, the Company constructed the Levels parallel to sea level. Presenting no problems to growth, these didn’t change. Radial calculations, however, done with too many bifurcations, made for unacceptable error. Pointing outward toward the stars, vertical azimuth nomenclature changed into ever-larger Levels. Nevertheless, the situation still proved unworkable without redefining Biosphere and Troposphere outer limits at times. Addresses read, (x-longitude, y-latitude, z-Level Q). In addition to Cartesian addresses, people named their own neighborhoods within the biosphere.
Ambient heat, oxygen, light data, etc. defined limits. Each Level contained a chemical spreadsheet. The current level of biomass dictated Biosphere information. Biomass meant life. Life meant growth, and these parameters programmed readjustments. Redefinitions followed.
Mr. Leion’s own address was short. He was not very far out into the troposphere. Some outer Biosphere levels carried sesquipedalian addresses, and people complained. It was nice grumbling about such minor things. Times got tedious having so few major criticisms available from which to select.
Mr. Leion thought. “Wonder if Otorp’ll offer again to help me change over to calein? He helped with my former projects. Replacing these old resin-coated aluminum piers is inevitable. Should get on it. Time’s a wastin’.”
He envied Mr. Otorp. The old guy was wealthy & respected. Even after the CIL depredations in the past, he could still boast of progeny. Mr. Leion didn’t have to worry about his progeny or even posterity. He was his sole concern, and he thought about that.
“How many spend their future protecting posterities? How many do not? How many use the word as a rationalization for something else? Vested interest in the future! Ha! At least, I’m above all that.”
Mr. Otorp was one of the first to live on the Second-Surface. His re-discovery of calein ended the Company’s penultimate impediment, (limited & expensive structural material), to outward colonization. It put Mr. Otorp’s footprints deep in the sands of time.
The important discovery made him a very famous man. Large quantities of metal impregnated fibrous protein matrix were now available. It was all due to his brilliant concepts on mussel DNA re-arrangement. Lester Frye, calein’s first molecular architect, bestowed great honors on him.
Mr. Leion picked up his fish kit. He stood pensive, watching the voracious creatures eating the maggot meal thrown them. Uncomfortable parallels between his existence and the fish’s began emerging. A sparrow hawk appeared, and ended his silent reverie. Predation broke up chattering birds’ sweet concord. In its wake, a cacophony of small squawks, signifying terror, erupted.
Mr. Leion grabbed the pail of instruments and started up the path toward the module. Before entering his domicile, he went over to the solar-electricity charger. Switching it from the vehicle brought power back to the water vapor condenser. The automatic switch was broken, on purpose. Mr. Leion didn’t want it repaired.
Fixed, it would show the car using a smaller share of electricity. Broken, his corporation paid him more. He never considered it stealing. One of his perquisites, the frugal Mr. Leion felt it but good business sense. Many gadgets required considerable module surface employed to photovoltaics. Installation cost money too.
Flipping the switch back saved energy. Too much power entering the vehicle could also cause a fire. The last one in the neighborhood cost the owner plenty for willful negligence. Mr. Leion wanted none of the same situation. Even with his many liberal ideas, he was a very conservative fellow.
Entering his home, Mr. Leion walked past Tomas’ at the stove. Going over to the instrument panel, he contacted his section chief. It was time to earn a living. The wind generator purred overhead. His neighbor’s was whining too.
Mr. Leion said to Tomas’. “Mr. Otorp must be cooking breakfast. His turbine’s got a load on it.”

Three men in a First-Surface hotel lobby turned, as Mr. Michael Hodges said. “I booked us a room. We can go there now.”
“What’s it all about?” Heinz replied.
“I’ll tell you all in the room.”
“I don’t understand why we have to meet here. There are some great hotels on the Pontibus. The First-Surface is such a dump!” Hernan Castillo said.
“You don’ approof? Thee land uff thee free y thee home off thee braffe?” Sr. Mendoza asked.
Hernan Castillo, a tall, medium-build, 185-pound, young executive, returned a cold glance. He did not like South Americans. They were all closet commies, he felt, sub-humans, never achieving a psychological age beyond 18 years. Countries like Brazil & Venezuela tolerated all manner of petty crime. It took less energy than the work & risk involved with making their governments more responsible. Authorities even encouraged it as cottage industry. Embezzlement, extortion, robbery, assault, rape, homicide, fraud, drug dealing, child neglect, etc. never encountered retribution. Hernan did not approve of pure freedom, seasoned only by hard ignorance.
Of apparent Mediterranean extraction, he was not bad-looking in a fierce sort of way. His eyes shone with subdued aggression & violence. Strong aquiline features matched well his olive skin. The impression he left was one of distance, deserving of respect. Between Hernan’s eyebrows, there was a cleft. To most, it made him appear cruel and resentful. Whatever image the feature brought to an observer’s mind depended on perspective, of course. Such assessment is a moot question of direction. Emanating from or entering in, pain remains pain. Mr. Castillo & Sr. Mendoza were both men with whom one trifled not.
“Look here, Mendoza.” Hernan said. “Keep your ignorant ridicule to yourself. At least away from me. The less I hear from your direction the better.”
“Whaat deed I say so bod, mon?”
“You know this. I’m sure. I was never in favor of you working with us. I don’t feel we need you. You’re common. Common people can’t produce anything good.”
“My family weer not common. We wass poor!”
“Poor…common – same shit. George Eliot’s “poor” never existed. Ignorance and bad economy make people poor. The poor are effeminate & ungrateful. Very few wish to learn. You need your ignorance as religious people need lies. You develop a tolerance for it, approaching an addiction. The ignorance drug is your god.”
“You jiss don’ lak South Americans.”
“True. They’re the worst of the worst.”
“You’re stereotyping, Hernan.” Mr. Hodges carped.
“That’s an inane criticism and an even more inane caveat, Mike.” Hernan countered. “Does our survival depend on using the rules of logic to the most arcane degree?! Hell, no! We live in a heuristic social group. Maybe I am stereotyping, and once out of 1 million times I could very well be wrong. So be it. I can live with that. Those unfortunates love their poverty so; they stop at nothing to maintain it. Misfits genetically, disloyal, crude, and despicable… humanity’s Titanic. They’re all lacking in character – thieves, prostitutes, and murderers. Not-so-common ones are irresponsible swindlers and cheats. You almost never encounter, down there, a simply worthless individual. All have negative baggage. The definition of normal, law-abiding, and citizen becomes obscure and blurred with that kind. Mal-synchronizing with the general milieu…not crime, per se, makes one a criminal there. Most of those superstitious simians are still fighting private property & capitalism. Even the definition of what constitutes private becomes hazy with them. They’ll never learn either the work ethic or behaviors such as friendship, mutual respect, and gratitude. Their very word is an obscenity.”
“All right, now. Just cool it, Hernan. We all know your sentiments.” Mr. Hodges interrupted. “Adam Quake himself made Sr. Mendoza our compatriot and you will accept that! Understood?”
“O.K. Mike.”
“Poncheebus gov’na maka’me sua companero, entiende, mon?”
“You too, Mendoza! Cool it!”
“Sim, Senor.”
“Sim, Senor.” Hernan mocked. “Fuckin’ Portugue! Brazilians have such a dearth of anything resembling quality, they glorify everything. Cheap guitars are “violins”, rotgut whiskey is “cognac”, processed cheese is “mozzarella”, mud huts are “houses”, ordinary nurses are “doctors”, and monkeys with clothes are “humans”.
As the last word left Hernan’s mouth, Sr. Mendoza began rising from his seat, saying. “I not Brazilian! I Guarani, Ingles’.
Mr. Hodges put his hand on the Latino’s arm and said. “Hernan is finished. Are you not, Hernan?”
“Yah. For now.”
“As to your earlier criticism, Hernan. I’m no longer with the government. Like you, I work for MMIM now. MMIM is a First-Surface concern. Our policy at MMIM is to use First-Surface facilities whenever possible. I’m surprised you’re not aware of that.”
“I’m just newer than you, Mike. I understand.”
“Fine.”
“I hafe many peoples here.” Sr. Mendoza added by way of an apology. “I like to et. Wheen they hafe beans. Eet eess bad when no hafe food.”
The four entered the room and picked seats. No air conditioning, the room was hot. Mr. Hodges wiped his brow and said.
“I’ll get right to the point. Aloirav is sprung.”
“No!” Heinz exclaimed.
“What ees Alohaff?” Sr. Mendoza asked.
“Your worst nightmare.” Heinz replied.
“Tell them, Hernan.” Mr. Hodges said.
“It’s true. Aloirav left the prison and halfway house. Rumors compelled Frye to advise us of it last night. Apparently, Aloirav’s been trying to meet with Otorp. Otorp’s been avoiding him but let it get out. Everyone is mad. It cost the Company trillions. All assets mortgaged. The Council decreed against the release ex post facto and forced Frye to overrule them. They threatened to resign, en mass. Otorp is trying to hold it all together.”
“Why? How?” Heinz asked. “Never mind. I know why. . . and how.”
“What can I say? The old buzzard is still the fucking boss!” Hernan said. “He does what he pleases.”
“You are referring to Frye, I presume?” Heinz queried.
“Yes. Who else?” Hernan replied.
“Who else, indeed?” Heinz murmured, looking at Mr. Hodges, who returned the look.
“Aloirav?” Heinz asked. “Where is he now?”
“Don’t know.” Hernan said. “Could be anywhere. Frye made us approve his 5-star General status. Just the Founder now has more power in the Company. Frye dies – Otorp and Aloirav are coequals. Of course, it’s paper power.”
“If he gets men and arms somehow…” Heinz murmured.
“We can’t allow that!” Mr. Hodges exclaimed.
“And you’re gonna’ stop him?” Heinz asked – then laughed. “How?”
“Kill him, you fool!” Mr. Hodges said.
“Ha!” Heinz guffawed.
“I think it is in order, Mr. Heinz.” Hernan said, with more respect.
“You fuckin’ think I don’t!?”
“What ees thee problem?” Sr. Mendoza asked. “He ees a man, no? He can die, no?”
“He ees thee fuckeeng deveel, Mendoza, you monkey!” Heinz replied. “You’ve never seen what happens to his enemies?!”
“No.”
“They …no…eles pegao grippe e morir (catch cold and die). Sometimes minutes, sometimes they take years to do so, in misery like you can’t imagine. He wiped out Tokyo overnight, took out every nigger & Boer in South Africa in an afternoon! Buenos Aires stopped speaking Spanish forever in a fortnight. That ees Alohaff!”
Mr. Hodges asked Hernan. “What about Otorp?”
“We still don’t have enough directors in the fold to remove him.” Hernan replied.
“Damn, Hernan! Calein production is disemboweling mining. After it came on board, MMIM’s profits plummeted. The principles want our aluminum and concrete sales back. That whole division is moribund.”
“I’m aware of that, Mike. You’ll never get the current Company to renounce calein. Profit went up 75K% when it took over. If you’re gonna’ get aluminum sales back, ya’ gotta’ remove Otorp!” Hernan said.
“You told us you could get calein out and our sales back by discrediting and removing him.” Mr. Hodges said. “That’s what got you in the door at MMIM!”
“Thought I could. The guy steps in shit and walks away smelling of disinfectant. Can’t believe it. Too many people in his corner.” He replied. “You’ve got to dilute the Board more or kill him.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Never mind that now. Orders are still the same. Discredit and remove. Heinz?”
“Yah.”
“Get Aloirav! Any way you have to, but get him!”
“It won’t be easy.”
“I didn’t ask for excuses, Heinz. You know the drill.”
“If he’s got men, it’ll cost more’n you want’a pay.”
“That’s not important.”
“O.K.”
“How much?”
“Yer’ gonna’ need 20 ta 30 good men. Each will cost at least 7 figures a week.”
“I hope you’re not including yourself in that group?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I’ll cost 8.”
“You bastard! That’s more’n I get!”
“Pity.”
The meeting over, they went their separate ways. Sr. Mendoza went to see a female friend in Boston. Heinz was the last to leave. Hernan and Mr. Hodges remained in the lobby drinking scotch and talking strategy.

…to see into mankind, into life, and still more into ourselves, suffering is requisite. Richter

Chapter Forty-Eight

General Aloirav walked into the Company headquarters on Level-Twelve and asked for Mr. Frye. The woman at the front desk told him that Lester was out at another part of the Concern. He wouldn’t be back until the following day. The General, being of high rank, she maintained, shouldn’t wait and experience any delay. He could speak, at once, to Mr. Adam Quake, the governor, if he so desired.
“I prefer to speak to Mr. Otorp. Mr. Frye told me Mr. Otorp is aware of the nature of my business. I am to talk with one or the other.”
The receptionist contacted Mr. Otorp, but he was busy. Upon hearing the news, the General said he would wait. The woman relayed the message to Mr. Otorp. Then she said.
“It may be some time. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to speak to Mr. Quake?”
“No. I’ll wait and speak to Mr. Otorp.” General Aloirav said. After a few minutes, he went to a porthole chair to sit. An hour of waiting passed, and the General became restive. He approached the receptionist again and asked.
“Would you ask him to cut his business short? My time is as important as is his!”
“Yes, Sir.”
A few seconds later, she said. “You may go in, General. He’s waiting for you.”
“Where?”
“In conference room 4.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s down the hall and to the right. Number 4 is the first on the left.”
The General went where she directed and found Mr. Otorp reading a book.
“How are you, Aloirav?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Otorp. And yourself?”
“Great. Let’s not stand on ceremony, shall we?”
“All right.”
“What do you want?”
“There’s something I wish to bring to your attention.”
“What might that be, Aloirav?”
“First. I’ll thank you to be respectful, Mr. Otorp. I have been so with you.”
“And how am I being disrespectful?!”
“I have a title.”
“I don’t have much respect, or any affection, for a serial killer, sir.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Otorp. Until you made me wait an hour for you, just now, I have always felt I admired you.”
“I was busy.”
“Nothing you were doing could have been more important than speaking with me.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“You could have spoken with Adam.”
“No, I couldn’t. Lester asked me to work with you. Referring me to Quake was a bad judgment call. Suppose I had indeed gone in and told him the news I bring?”
“It would have been fine. Adam Quake is very capable and a good friend of mine.”
“That is unfortunate. The man’s a traitor.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your antisocial opinions to yourself. Mr. Frye mentioned you to me the other day. I don’t know what you can possibly do for the Company except to make yourself scarce. You are an embarrassment to me and everyone I know. The Council and Board are appalled at the expense and the imprudence of obtaining your release. I have no idea why a man as great as Mr. Frye would stoop to have anything to do with the likes of you. From what he told me, you have never been much of a friend either. More of an enemy, I’d say. I can just imagine why he got you released.”
“Lester said he wanted me to help you save the Company from MMIM encroachment.”
“MMIM is a political problem. Nothing we can’t handle amongst ourselves.”
“Lester doesn’t share your optimism. That’s why I’m here.”
“Why?”
“To handle it with you.”
“It’s a small matter. You need not bother.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Otorp. It’s more than a small political problem, unless you are referring to a Clausewitz analysis.”
“I cannot enjoy your pedantic jargon. Please spare me it. At any rate, we are not in need of any biological weapons this year, thank-you.”
“Your disdain for me is noted.”
“If you are blackmailing h…”
“I am doing my part and expect you to do yours. I don’t feel I warrant your disrespect. I have repeatedly tried to work with you and keep you informed of my progress. You have been obdurate in avoiding me for months. Acting in such an irresponsible manner does our Company no good. If you continue in this manner I will inform Lester of your intransigence and work alone.”
“Perhaps you’d better.”
General Aloirav made an about-face and went through the door at once. He was down the hallway when Mr. Otorp called aloud for him to return. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to hear what you have to say. My secretary informs me that you have been spending a great deal of Company resources on whatever it is you’re doing.”
“I have been spending. There is no alternative. The Company has no good intelligence on MMIM. How do you expect us to acquire it if you do not spend?”
“I have no idea. It’s not my area…”
“Exactly. So stop trying to inhibit someone who knows how it’s to be done!”
“As I asked before. What is it you want?”
“I wanted to inform you or Lester of the possible extent of the problem. At least one cantilever prison is a staging area for items stolen from a weapons-toxics depot. We are losing many stored weapons.”
“We are aware that an arms depot has been somewhat lax in accounting for some items. We are also monitoring the situation. I was not aware that a prison is involved.”
“Now that you know it is, what do you intend to do about it?”
“I will take it up with Adam. He’s our MMIM liaison. We will decide on a course of action.”
“I just told you about that man. Your intransigence is foolhardy. You should talk to Lester before doing that.”
“Why?”
“Adam Quake controls people in positions of trust in that prison. He is also in the employ of MMIM.”
“Impossible! I’ve known Adam for years. It was I who recommended him for the position of governor and MMIM liaison officer. His experience is extensive, and he is NOT an employee of MMIM. He is a former employee of a subsidiary of MMIM.”
“Your judgment was in error there.”
There was a knock at the conference room’s door. Mr. Otorp answered it to admit Adam Quake.
“We were just discussing you, Adam.” Mr. Otorp said.
“I would venture to guess he knows that, Mr. Otorp. The man was standing at the door for 5 minutes before he knocked. He’s not deaf, I’m sure.”
“I can not apologize enough, Adam, for the General’s rudeness.”
“No need, Mr. Otorp. I’m aware of our friend’s tendency to be frank.”
“I have not had the chance to determine if you could be a friend or not, Mr. Quake.” General Aloirav said. “You are certainly not mine and please refrain from saying so or assuming such. I choose my friends. They do not have that privilege.”
“All the same. What is the nature of your business, General?”
“That is between me and Mr. Otorp.”
“I see.”
“No, Adam. You do not see. General Aloirav has a very active imagination. He suspects that you may have something to do with our missing depot weapons.”
“Is that so, General?”
“Mr. Otorp is a very foolish man, good day.” The General said, as he walked out the door.
“What’s the problem, Mr. Otorp?” Mr. Quake asked.
“He is!”
Within ten minutes of leaving Mr. Otorp, Adam Quake was on the holophone with Mike Hodges, saying. “That son of a bitch was here, just now!”
“What son of a…?”
“Aloirav! He’s trying to poison Otorp against me!”
“How?”
“He’s aware of the prison’s involvement in our procurement.”
“So, they know now.”
“Yes. And Aloirav suspects I’m working with you.”
“You know that for sure?”
“No. But, I listened at the door when the two were talking. Aloirav wants Otorp to believe it.”
“Don’t be concerned. We have known for some time Aloirav may be on to us. He’s being observed and will be terminated.”
“Not a moment too soon.”
“Frye is still a problem.”
“Not much longer.”
“Really?”
“We’re telling everyone he’s out on Company business. It’s bullshit. He’s really home in bed, losing weight. It won’t be long.”
“Ah. That is good news.”

A middle-aged looking man entered cantilever 12, Level 7, an incorrigible prison compound. He presented his medical credentials to the guard and waited. Soon, the warden came to the gate and asked his business in the prison. The “doctor” said he was to give a number of inmates physical examinations in preparation for transfer. The suspicious warden contacted Company headquarters, which confirmed the mission.
The “physician” soon found himself ensconced in a special room for prisoner medical emergencies. The room was free of outside listening devices. Requested records lay piled on the desk before him. He picked up his first patient’s records and learned that the individual was outside waiting. Opening the folder, the “doctor” appeared to read. He then turned his back to the door and shouted.
“Inmate 12-1001-13 enter.”
The convict entered, saw the turned back and waited in silence, until the “doctor” said. “How’s your health, inmate 12-1001-13?”
“I’ll live.”
Silence greeted that answer, until the “doctor” asked. “Unless you catch a cold and die, right?”
The inmate’s eyes and ears were accustomed to ignoring most queries from squares. He felt strange, hearing those words and became more attentive. The same phrase was a private joke at one time. Rav Aloirav and his friend Bacon used to banter in that way. The inmate wasn’t sure of his ears’ integrity.
He waited without saying anything. The doctor repeated the question. He added the name “Bacon” at the end. The inmate stared as if looking through a hazed window. He dared not believe what might lie on the other side.
“Boss?”
General Aloirav turned around and said. “Hello, Bacon.”
Overcome with emotion, hard cruel Bacon grew weak, struggling to say. “How?” Stumbling forward, due to the water in his eyes, he caught himself on the gurney. The General just smiled. Standing up straight, Bacon took a step closer. He wanted to make sure his eyes and ears were honest.
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, my friend?”
“Is it really you, Boss?” Bacon asked, as they embraced.
“It is, Bacon. I’m out, free.”
“I’d given up hope, Boss. Really did.”
“Understandable. 16 years. I let you down, man. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Boss. We all new the score.”
“I lost hope too. They kept me so isolated. How many of our people are left?”
“Most have died, and the rest of us are all split up, Boss. We see each other now and then, but…”
“I heard you made it to Cinza and got away clean. How’d you wind up here?”
“Cinza’s dirty, Boss.”
“So I heard.”
“Coupla’ years after they sent ya’ up, the sonofabitch embezzled all my hawala cash. Said it was because he heard I was working with the law. Said it was security in case he needed ta pay a lawyer ‘cuzza’ me. I went down ta Rio ta take it back, and the sonofabitch put the law on me. They extradited me right from the airport. Been here ever since. He pulled the same trick on all the guys who got away. Everyone who bought his passports, or wired cash through his kikes, he sold out.”
“I suspected as much. I’m very sorry, Bacon.”
“Naw, Boss. We all know it wasn’t your doin’. It’s the biz’. You still crazy?” Bacon asked, then regretted being so blunt. “Sorry, Boss.”
“Hopefully, yes. Hate to be sane in this world.”
“Boss?”
“No problem, Bacon. I’m okay now. The chemicals have been out of my system for 16 years.
“That’s good. Whatcha’ want wid me?”
“I want you to leave here and come work with me again. What do you say?”
“It’s something I’ve dreamed about every day since you got sick. You helped me get my revenge.” Bacon said. “I can’t forget that. Just because you couldn’t handle being God, don’t mean I ain’t still grateful. I’m your friend for however many years I still got, Boss, come what may.”
“You have no idea how glad that makes me.”
“I’ve been drinkin’ the tea Mr. Frye sends. I don’t look over a hundred do I?”
“Nope. You sure don’t.”
“What do I have to do, Boss?”
“I want you to do some serious research. I need you to give me your opinion on which survivors of our “Group” are still in our corner.”
Bacon rattled off some names. They talked about how to go about making contact. Bacon left saddled with many duties. It was like old times. He was soon following his “boss” to cantilever prisons all over the Pontibus.
A “doctor” and male “nurse” gave many “physicals” to selected inmates over the following weeks. Within a month after their checkup, many of these inmates received special reassignments. The Company kept contract prison officials unaware of the “pardons”. Ex-cons relocated to new prisons that didn’t exist (custody of General Aloirav). Duly recorded accounting changes and per diems reflected cancellations in contract prison ledgers.
Those pardoned, as if reproducing viruses, formed other medical crews. They also traveled the Bridges interviewing inmates. One would think, with all that prison visiting, Christianity was on the rebound. They made many converts.
There were some expected disappointments. Most former New Society members were aged, and avoided. Many others no longer wished an association with Rav Aloirav. No pressure fell on them. Interviewers wished them well and parted. Bacon put other re-recruited former inmates to watch incognito and ferret out the adversarial disenchanted.
Memorandums followed those who genuinely wanted rehabilitation status and those that showed misplaced loyalty signs. Members also noted all snitches & inmates working for MMIM or the old-government. The Company freed cons wanting to stay legal. Their rehabilitation was conditional upon periodic check-ins. Dismissal was likewise rapid for those former members with misplaced loyalty. They caught colds.
It was some time before a semblance of secure feeling developed in the Newer Society. It grew until it reached 20% of its pre-collapse strength. The average age of the re-formed “Group” was higher than that in the New Society. Increased caution, coming with age, was not always a negative. The “boss” never complained about the character changes.
As he intended, the new General moved his First-Surface headquarters. From Grand Rapids, Michigan, new First-Surface Central Command relocated to a third world country, Brazil. No longer near the ocean, it was south of the Amazon in the State of Maranhao. The hot, savage, frontier, dirty, poverty-stricken, little crime factory, Andirobal, was rife with riffraff & young beautiful women. It soon got a new name. Rav began calling the town Pio XII.
Bacon thought, “The Boss is an atheist. Why tack the religion-deluded world’s former Hitleri-collaborating communist leader’s name on a small village?”
The “boss’s” sense of humor could be quite recondite.

As Adam Quake moved out of sight, Mr. Otorp returned to his office in the Company’s headquarters module. He thought about the meeting he just left. He was surprised at the attitude of General Aloirav. The man was much more polite than Mr. Otorp remembered him but just as insufferable. The way he talked to Adam Quake was unforgivable. “What is Mr. Frye doing?!” Mr. Otorp thought. “That man will always be an enigma to me, so headstrong.”
Mr. Otorp fell to remembering how he & Lester took on the entire First-Surface government over the abortion issue. They were real comrades-in-arms against a common enemy. It was like old times in Viet Nam, fighting shoulder to shoulder, with friends. Some of Mr. Frye’s own Company people turned on him in active rebellion. Mr. Aloirav was still in prison then.
“Could that be my problem with Aloirav?” He thought. “Am I just jealous? Mr. Frye finds him valuable. Could he feel he’s as valuable as I am? Perhaps more valuable?! Am I frightened of his upstaging or devaluing me? No! Impossible! I’m just concerned about the Company’s image. Mr. Frye is aged. Perhaps his judgment is failing. Yet, I thought that before too, and I was mistaken. He’s always ten steps ahead.”

Hernan and Mr. Hodges left the hotel bar. They continued talking together in front of the hotel.
“Hernan, I want you to come with me.”
“O.K. Where we going?”
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
A few minutes later, the two men entered an apartment building. Concealed HEPA filters studded the walls, as they went underground. Leaving Boston’s “combat zone” behind was most welcome to Hernan. After descending many levels of HEPA filter protected floors, they entered a magnificent furnished room.
Hernan asked. “Where are we?”
“Commission way-station.”
“It really exists?”
Mr. Hodges smiled at Hernan’s lack of poise. It was understandable. Ushered into a nerve ending of the pinnacle of control on Earth. Visiting the wealthiest multinational corporations’ inner sanctum was not an everyday occurrence. A new set of doors opened after numerous security checks and vapor locks. Portals then allowed passage into the most beautiful train depot Hernan ever saw.
A train approached, and the men entered. Once movement began, security people approached and questioned them. When the interrogation ended, the train stopped for 5 minutes. The security men disappeared. Mr. Hodges’ voice rose.
He began speaking to no one in particular. “Mr. Michael Hodges and Hernan Castillo. Here to speak with General Trilate. We have information about the current price of aluminum.”
The train began moving, and 10 minutes later it stopped. The men got out and entered another room furnished like Taj Majal. A man in snow-white livery greeted them. Bringing them to a doorway, he spoke a few inaudible syllables. Neither Hernan nor Mr. Hodges understood.
The door opened and a cadaverous looking gentleman said. “Come in Mike. Introduce me to your friend.”
“This is Hernan Castillo, General Trilate. The young man, I mentioned, who has been so helpful at our company.”
“Oh, yes. The Company director who advised MMIM of Aloirav’s release?”
“Yes, Sir.” Hernan replied, responding to the man’s proffered hand.
The three men sat down to some fine scotch, and Mr. Hodges said. “Hernan has been asking some very pertinent questions, General. I didn’t know how to answer them without your presence. That’s why I asked you to meet with us. A few minutes ago, he expressed the desire to know why Mr. Otorp still exists. I didn’t feel competent to answer him.”
“I understand, Mike. You did right.”
Turning to Hernan, General Trilate said. “I hope you realize, young man. Coming into our environs is an honor shared by very few.”
“Yes, sir. I feel so honored. Thank you for having me.”
The General nodded and said. “The Commission has been communicating with MMIM for some time now… one of our best friends among the multinationals. We assist them when our interests in an outcome coincide.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Otorp is a nuisance. Your perceptions are quite correct. We would like to eliminate him. The reason we do not is that, strange as it seems, we need him. In much the same way as the Company is a nuisance, but we also need it.”
Desiring to show the utmost deference, Hernan said. “I understand, Sir. I was just thinking of efficiency.”
“And so are we all. I’ll explain. Mike tells us that you can be trusted. You have proven your loyalty to MMIM on numerous occasions. Therefore, I feel justified in accepting you here. Ordinarily we have but one liaison officer from each multinational. It suits our purposes. MMIM is growing and becoming such a factor in world affairs that it requires more attention than the others do. My fellow members have authorized me to accept an additional channel. Would you like to be MMIM’s second agent to the Commission?”
“Oh very much sir.”
“Good. Your duties will be similar to Mike’s, and he will show you our communication system. He will be senior to you, as he is at MMIM.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As to our mutual problems on the bridges… I’ll take the time to give you some history.”
“Would you like me to leave, Sir?” Mr. Hodges asked.
“Yes, Mike. I think that would be advisable.”
Mr. Hodges left the room, and the General said. “I want to thank you for passing on to us the news about Aloirav. That was most helpful. We have been watching him for years, hoping to get some “information” he possesses. That information, even now, remains elusive. His release both to and from the halfway house came as an unwelcome surprise. We thought all our people were with us. Some were of the impression we did not compensate well. They have since been well “re-paid”. So much so that they will never feel need of remuneration again.” Leaving no doubt in Hernan’s mind as to their fate, he continued. “I understand you were one of MMIM’s chemical enhancer salesmen prior to your Company directorship.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Did you know, early in the century, the chemical enhancement business was called drug trafficking?”
“Yes, sir. Our raw material couriers from First-Surface South America still refer to it as that.”
“Quaint. It was quasi-illegal back then. The story is most interesting. Care to hear it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Our Commission had a member who used a family in the former U.S. A. to organize his business. He helped the family become oil company executives, bankers, U.S. Presidents, governors, etc. for shattering the competition. They broke banks, started wars, and acquired oil fields for him. MMIM grew out of his work. There hasn’t been one U.S. President, since the early days of drug interdiction, which has not worked, exclusively, for the Commission. That is, except for that 4-year period when Aloirav was king.”
“That caused an upheaval, I’m sure.” Hernan said.
“Yes. We lost some advantage for a while. People saw how crime dropped and living standards went up, after he decriminalized narcotics. The pols no longer had the drug war to lean on or blame for their greed & incompetence. They were never again able to completely sell people on interdiction.”
“The raw materials are still illegal on parts of the First-Surface.”
“So I’ve heard. It does provide a measure of control over the most bovine. Did you know? We almost got Aloirav to work for us?”
“Really? I never thought of him as an employee or a joiner.”
“Oh, he wasn’t. It was way back… in the 20th Century. He wanted to keep his two boys from combat in the first Iraqi war. The US government was discussing it with him. We were privy to everything said, because of our member who started MMIM. I was just a child but I remember listening to a tape of him saying. ““You haven’t paid for my service yet, don’t think you’ll get my kids too.””
The war was so short; they couldn’t serve, and the Commission lost its potential influence over him. The Iraqi president’s brazenness failed to mature. He never developed sufficient severity to make certain weapons tests for MMIM. We told the US President to call it all off. As you may know, Aloirav prevailed for a time. He even killed some of our members. Dehistorization enveloped the Planet. He never got to our computers, but it was close. MMIM lost some executives to him too. As it turned out, he was almost as good for MMIM as he was for the Company. He showed MMIM how much the Pontibus needed “humeal”. The Company is still their best customer. Frye never did solve his nitrogen fixation needs.”
“It isn’t because he hasn’t tried.”
“I’m sure. He’s quite a character.”
“Yes. He is.”
MMIM gets most of the animal nitrates, sold to the Company, from war cleanups. With the new technologies, cadavers turn into high quality humeal within minutes. It’s the reason we still allow sub-humans a place in the sun. Purposeless animals – virtually the entire species. Monkeys that know how to dress. Macaques with names, habiliments, and intelligible speech. They’re not very often “human”, Hernan.”
“Oh. I agree wholeheartedly with that, Sir. In fact, Mike just bridled me for expounding on that same matter with another MMIM employee.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” General Trilate replied, laughing. “Except for humeal nitrates their rabble is worse than useless. I never could understand why cannibalism lost favor. Its demise, or more correctly that of anthropophagia, has certainly hurt the cause of civilization. Homo meat is an acceptable food. It contains all the protein, carbohydrates, and oils necessary for good nutrition. Aloirav understands that. He has told people that he ate human flesh, while traveling in the old Belgian Congo, and it wasn’t bad. That was back in the 20th century too, before our time. Frye will not countenance the practice.”
“I would guess it’s the emotional aspects, rather than the mental, denying its acceptability.”
“Perhaps. Surreptitious counter-propaganda may have happened back in the early 21st century.”
“How is that? I never heard of such propaganda.”
“No? I’m not surprised. Most people are unaware of a technology that’s been going on for years. The old USA used it, and the new one too, from what I hear.”
“What technology is that, General?”
“No one speaks of it, because it’s horrifying to most. MMIM still uses it to sell wars for the carrion merchants. Aloirav himself used it as part of his dehistorization of the planet. Of course, he’ll never admit to it, the bastard! In the 19th century, I believe it was, they discovered the technique.”
“What technique?”
“I’m coming to that.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
“The common practice is to flash high velocity messages on the retina, microseconds in length. It bypasses conscious gating mechanisms, bamboozles the “doors of perception”. It still affects the subconscious, however. People don’t know it. But, it programs them.”
“No?!”
“Yes. TV was truly the “tool of the enslaving Devil” and holovision still is.”
“And I used to feel bad that work often kept me from the holo. I was fortunate.”
“Yes. I believe a 1/30,000 of a second message, repetitively flashed, does the job. The US government and their advertising people, along with the pharmaceutical companies, feminized 20th century USA that way, and it’s been so ever since. “Whatever happened to “penis envy”?” People ask. It disappeared along with “rugged individualism” and respect for white males. Subliminal perception made everyone buy all that “good team player” rubbish and tolerance of homosexuals. Remember needing to be “politically cool”?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. You needed to be a neurotic conformist to gain acceptance, or even “get laid”, back then. Before both our times, I guess.”
“I guess so. You say Frye disagreed with Aloirav?”
“Oh, my skivvies, yes! They fought all the time. That time they were composing the new religion, “anti-caedere biosustainability”
“Yes?”
“It wasn’t pretty. While Aloirav was King. We almost came to blows ourselves over it.”
“Really? How?”
“Many in the Commission believed in democracy for the subs. The vast majority of our families got rich off the sub-humans. There are others that just want to use the word “democracy” to enslave.”
‘Enslave?”
“Yes. Smother the humans in subhuman ignorance. Democracy is the HR’s hemlock. Oh, how we do hate our victims.”
“I see. How did Aloirav & Frye get involved with the Commission over cynical differences in member opinion?”
Well. Aloirav wanted to make cannibalism & anthropophagia part of the new religion. Frye wanted to continue just with the “pursue the pol to death” program. It was a thinly-veiled scheme to get people to kill a pol a day.”
“Both Frye and Aloirav were for that!?”
“I’m not sure, but I think so. Frye always had an out, you see. One could, I suppose, construe the program as just meaning to demand accountability to the grave. But, Frye knew people were taking it literally. All over the world, pols were dying violently. The Commission sentiment divided, as I mentioned. Everyone wanted the pols off the earth, for obvious reasons. It’s not as if they have value. They’re a disease. It wasn’t like killing a human or an animal or something of worth… Some of our members, however, still held business interests. They needed democracy, and the pols were necessary, like maggots & gangrene. You can’t turn sub-humanity into a feedlot without democracy. We all knew that. But killing all the pols…it was…just too tempting.”
“So how did it resolve?”
“Well. Aloirav’s “reforms” inundated his humeal machines. I don’t know if causality was involved, but he started his “pop a pol in the pot” program simultaneously. It was going along quite well. Hungry people took out pols for the material benefit sans any ideological concerns whatsoever. Entrepreneurs started selling choice cuts in the marketplace. Smoked pol, pol bacon, sirpol steak, pork & beings…the gamut. Commodities markets even began gambling on pol-bellies right along with soybeans and bullion. Then a pol judge got some nerve from somewhere. He hit the Chicago Exchange with a criminal complaint. A broker went to the chair.”
“No?!”
“Oh, yes.”
“Where was Aloirav?”
“Somewhere in Siberia, chasing holdouts. He returned too late to save the broker. Frye and he went to the ring over the case. Frye was trying to maintain respectability for his bridges. Aloirav just wanted to destroy pols and feed his sub-humans.”
“Why did he want to feed sub-humans?”
“I don’t know, Hernan. That’s a good question. Maybe for labor or alimentation of some type.”
“Alimentation?!”
“Yes. Plant food. You need to know more about his wars with Frye. Those two are a study in aberrant psychology.”
“Really?”
“Yes. There were many battles, over the years, from what our spies tell us.” General Trilate said. “One was really big. It was over that issue of which we were just speaking.”
“Cannibalism?”
“Yes. Aloirav wanted to allow, even push, it!”
“Generally!? Not just pols?”
“Right. Frye kept him at bay with the bridges for a time. Nevertheless, human population grew faster than the bridges could accommodate. Before his demise Aloirav was getting impatient. He didn’t want to fight Lester, but …”
“Why not? Aloirav was invincible, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, Hernan.” The General said, searching in his files for something. “You need a history lesson on the Aloirav-Frye love-hate relationship.”
“Love-hate!? You may be right.”
“This may help you get a feel for the situation.” He said, handing Hernan a yellowed pamphlet. “Aloirav wrote this from prison. God knows how he got everything in place to arrange it.”

Is it time for cannibals and anthropophagites to unite?

Homo sapiens var. sapiens is no more than a thousand generations from his cave-dwelling Homo predecessors. We are but parvenus compared to species like the dinosaurs that existed 200M years before going extinct. Subhumans, for the most part, have breached the limits of all reason. If evolution has any teleological value, they represent a monumental failure of Nature. Global warming and ozone depletion threaten mammalian existence. Bees & ocean flora and fauna are dying. Soon it will be the apes’ turn. We must return to species health.
Jonas Salk put our carrying capacity at 11B. At 8B and still growing exponentially, we approach the death phase. Democracy & religion, primrose paths, have led all species to the brink of extinction. Superstition, plus subhuman law & medicine, menaces all multicellular life. These felonies vs. Nature polluted Eden and relegated healthy human mores to the criminal class.
We punish our felons because castigation promises to lighten our burden. Like humanism, the promise never delivers. Keats intimated that beauty is truth, truth beauty…but Keats world was as circumscribed as his urn. He never witnessed a Dachau, a Tet offensive, Bosnia, Rwanda, or a kwashiorkor child. Civilization demands immediate united effort. We must reevaluate all cultural mores in the light of evolutionary imperatives or we will not survive.
The 1000 or so top subhuman potentates think mendacity and position will buy their survival. Simians placing faith in these pigs, pols & religionists are equally as ignorant. Receiving ends of such swindles will surely starve for want of food, water & oxygen. What Oscar Wilde said about prison also applies. Ignorance & poverty from overpopulation will take our souls bit by bit.
So what can save us at this late hour?
Lester Frye, as a biophysicist, tried to make a difference, inventing a new building material to amplify habitats. For a time, he crossed swords with the government, and it threw him into the arms of terrorists. As a fugitive from both, he met some Amazon headwaters’ indigenous people, the Yanomami. Yanomamis are cannibals. Brazil has long protected indigenous tribes that practice such salubrious life styles.
Subhumans merit little love and no respect, but humans can mitigate or ameliorate simian depredatory affects with a controlled anthropophagia. Only it can save the species from the twin humanism diseases, democracy and religion. Christians are already aspiring cannibals. They need but widen their horizons. God is a metaphor for Nature.
The eastern world needs converting. Uniting our Weltanschauungs may synergistically reduce subhuman population. A diet of politicians & priests along with other mental-physical defectives will diminish Homo’s planetary parasitism. Preying on the weak is sound. Nature blesses the practice. When human survival again appears possible, all subhumans become prey. Choices are dwindling. How long can any mammal survive without oxygen engines or bees?
The world is predominately feminine. Perhaps, for this reason, the scourges of democracy & religion obtained such a stranglehold on human aristocracy. Quis qui quod, balance your diet. Estrogen is a potent carcinogen. As most are unfit for use as companions, don’t become habitualized to female flesh just because it’s easier to acquire. Avoid children. Even roasted, their flesh is too tender for culinary pleasure. Some find sautéed pol-bellies delicious. Others say a sacerdotal sandwich is delightful, garnished with tomato, oregano, and a little lettuce.
Subhumans nauseate me, no matter what use to which they are applied. I prefer to run 20 to 30 through the intestine of an alligator first. Enjoying them roasted later in a tail shish kabob can be quite agreeable. Macaque flesh, like pork, demands that you protect your arteries. Stockpile edible cellulose, vitamins & minerals. The dearth approaches. Avoid rabbit poisoning.
Visit WASH in Brazil. Get more information on mutual problems & aspirations. Identify your herd. Learn heuristic methods to discriminate between the human and the raw subhuman. Share harvesting hints. Bring a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon or a nice Pomerol. Watch your livestock together from the hotel’s upper floors.

Yours for planetary health,

Rav Aloirav
World Anthropophagia Society Headquarters – Hotel Aloirav
Andirobal-Pio XII, Maranhao, Brazil, CEP65707-000

“How does this demonstrate a feel for the Frye-Aloirav relationship?”
“Frye paid for its publishing.”
“No?!”
“Yes. Who knows why? Did he even know what all he paid for at the time? When Aloirav fell from power. Frye had all he could do to survive. There was no one available to push either the pro or the con version of the pop-pol program.
“Stop people from killing a pol a day?”
“Yes. Can you imagine how hard that would be? Think how popular something like that could become. Even the silly fools that vote would welcome policide.”
“Of course.
“Well, that’s what happened. Pols may have subliminally programmed cannibalism out of acceptable mores.”
“Just not suitable to the remaining monkeys.”
“Right.”
“What about the ones that aren’t monkeys, General?”
“Demented devils most of them. The special people are in the Commission. You may make it yet, Hernan. Multinational executives have made it before.”
“What makes a special person, General?”
“Well, Hernan. It took the world a long time to understand that it’s not race, color, or creed that separates men from monkeys.”
“What does separate us, General?”
“Money. The quantity of dead things & their symbols you can mobilize in any given moment. That makes you a man. A person without such goods doesn’t deserve life. He’s a usurper.”
“What about Frye?”
“I guess I’d have to put him up there with the Commission members in human quality. He has many assets. We asked him to join us, but he declined.”
“I didn’t know that. Did he give a reason for his refusal?” Hernan asked.
“Said something strange. “Two societies in my life are enough”.”
“The Royal Society, French Academy, and National Association asked him too.” Hernan said. “He turned them all down. I don’t know if the Nobel Committee asked him to accept a prize or not. He’s not accepted even one of the thousands of honorary degrees thrown at him.”
“Strange man.”
“And Aloirav?”
“Aloirav! That’s an altogether different beast. Humans, as well as monkeys, are afraid of him! That man is the Devil Incarnate!
“How did he acquire such an appellation or image? Whatever happened?”
“Humeal. Aloirav invented it and never bothered to hide the fact as he did his genocides. Very few know about his serial killing mega crimes, but everyone associates his name with humeal, because of Liberia.”
“Liberia?”
“Yes. Frye doesn’t like it, but he buys all MMIM produces. Crops grown from it are almost as efficient, in food per energy expended, as direct human flesh consumption. Frye knows how the product depends on our phony democratic wars. He still buys it. The guy’s a real study in paradox.”
“Hypocrite?”
“Yes. But, to be fair, he discovered a basic law of Nature.”
“What law?”
“World suffering increases in proportion to one’s efforts to diminish it. Futile enterprise. Frye has no alternative without a nitrogen source.”
“To be sure. Until speaking with you, I always believed the false propaganda.”
“What’s that?”
“Forces no man could control, and all men have brought about, bring us to a state of war. The various factions just hold our attention.”
“Not exactly. Those forces of which you speak? The Commission controls them, Clauswicz notwithstanding. Women and a few old men start wars. Young men enjoy prosecuting them. We decide when and where to let loose those dogs. MMIM handles the logistics. Except for the carrion merchants, the rest of the world lives or dies in the aftermath. No one controls how long the conflicts last or where they will end. Frye can’t stop us from capitalizing on the situation, so he works with us.”
“How’s that?”
“Without humeal, the Pontibus languishes; the Aloirav camp wins.”
“There’s no choice but to reinstitute cannibalism?”
“Planetary carrying capacity requires…demands anthropophagia.”
“Another reason to destroy Aloirav?”
“Yes. The Company needs us as much as MMIM & the carrion merchants do. So you see how much we wanted to keep Aloirav and Frye apart?”
“Yes. Frye makes many deals with his devils. Aloirav doesn’t.”
“Oh, Frye is a compromiser, but Aloirav is no purist. He whitewashes a sepulcher here and there.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand why Otorp is still necessary.”
“Otorp is an artist.”
“How does the Commission feel about artists? Aren’t they also special?”
“Artists!? The majority are whores and swindlers. Cubism, with all its “modern art” whelps, reflects democracy and its humanistic fecal matter. Such bizarre, distorted, and hideous creations reflect the confused, disordered, and sick mental state of their subhuman aficionados. The majority of art survives due to appreciation by these lowest elements of our species. Art esteemed by the best of our species is art that elevates us all.”
‘What about writers and scientists?’
‘Most writers are schizoid imaginative children with their sublimated wish fulfillment. Stream of consciousness writing is like anything else undisciplined – pure trash. Scientists are squirrels gathering information nuts. They have no idea what they’re doing or where they’re going. It’s a plague, Hernan.”
‘Aloirav called it the Plague of Sapiens. Did anyone ever tell you about Aloirav’s beginnings?”
“No.”
“I first heard of him when I was just ten years old. My father was in the Commission. I knew I would be too. The Commission school was very interested in Aloirav’s ultimatum. The world governments were trying to ignore him. We were studying him. World governments were playing ostriches. They wanted to stay in the dark as to his aspirations.”
General Trilate handed Hernan another old, yellowed pamphlet, saying. “Aloirav wrote this before going to prison, long before the Pontibus made its appearance.”

Plague of Sapiens

The pestilence originated 40,000 years ago as a misplaced translocation derivative of Homo erectus (pron. eructus). The mental – spiritual genes of Ascaris lumbricoides ligated to porcine intestine, blood, and genitalia DNA. Some wag, with a true sense of bizarre levity, coined the fiend’s containing sac “sapiens”. Our mad religious beast is an equal menace to both itself and all other planetary life. The 18th century, with sewer systems coming in vogue, witnessed an increase in numbers of the malady. Later inventions of a type of hydrocarbon (Chlorofluoro) made the intensification go exponential. An interesting note appeared. That same substance, giving the disease its perverse universal command, could be the very one to destroy it (and all other life). The planet’s moribund flora and fauna can take small consolation from the infection’s probable demise within the next 100 years. If found after that, the pestilence will probably survive in small sporadic patches as Homo jehovus. All trace of the global danger shall have disappeared within 3000 years, life returning to normal.
XXX

“He doesn’t like us much, does he?”
“No. But, the Devil sure knows his hoi polloi. Just imagine, Hernan. No more sports metaphors, Jesus
freaks, “biologicals”, vote chasing pols…”
“You feel his prognosis is still valid after seeing how much the bridges are rejuvenating the planet?”
“The bridges are a wildcard. They’re too new an advent to be useful as a prognosticator.”
“They’ve been here for decades.”
“Like Aloirav says, the dinosaurs were here for 200 million years, Hernan. How many are left?”
“True.”
“The Commission has been around for twenty centuries. Before we called ourselves the Trilateral Commission we were the Holy Roman Empire. Before that our members were the papacy, Rosicrucians. We predate Visigoth Spain and the Germanic invasions of Rome. Napoleon in 1806 AD, and others before him, tried to destroy us. Aloirav tried. We’ve faded, at times, but we always return. A few decades are but an eye blink. The Pontibus is a parvenu.”
“Aloirav was speaking about the First-Surface biologicals, no doubt?”
“No, Hernan. He was speaking about the entire sub-human race! Here for less than 40,000 years, they can autodestruct and take us with them! Many times in the past, men have tried to exterminate the poor, ignorant, and superstitious. Torquemada, Cardinal Richelieu at La Rochelle, Stalin, Hitler at Dachau and his other facilities, the USA in Viet Nam, Iraq, Brazil… Nothing works. We are fortunate; the catchword “democracy” still controls most. We shall effect the cure for Aloirav’s plague.”
“Is that why you want to institute democracy on the bridges?”
“No.” General Trilate replied, laughing.
“Did I say something funny?”
“In a way. Democracy is a joke among the Commission members. There is no such thing. The real world does not have a functional one, never did. Imagine the havoc it would cause. Blind fools leading blind fools. The vox populi, rabble babble, is a dangerous dissonance caused by their hysterical jumping. Mandela’s South African Tutu blacks come to mind. The Third World paid the bill for the USA’s experiment with an interpretation of liberal democracy. The USA, like Zion, could never stand on its own. 80% of the world’s population starved for 300 years to absorb the cost of the USA’s experiment. Democracy doesn’t exist anywhere, Hernan, except as a hypothetical concept. How could it? Who would want it? Men are fools. Men run democracies. Ergo…fools run democracies. Unsurvivable. You might just as well put the word “monkeys” in the place of fools. The republican fantasy endures in mouthings of dollar-controlled pols intent upon enslaving us all. Belief in its possibility, however, results in the most useful kind of control for our interests. That’s why I laughed.”
“Oh.”
“What we are attempting to do is institute the belief in democracy’s possibility on the bridges.”
“I see.”
“I would venture to say that the belief “democracy is possible” has enslaved more people than democracy itself ever could. Before Aloirav killed the US President, the US Government was forcing the subs to work for Rothschild 11.5 months per year.”
“How could they do that?”
“Just conned them into paying their taxes with paper currency. That’s slavery!”
“It sure is.”
“Hernan. As long as there is hunger or people believe in democracy, then slavery and wars are simple to start. Destroy the fit, and you can deal with the unfit at your leisure. That’s why the estrogen analog pesticides . . . feminize the only resistance. Why do you think the USA was locking up over 1% of its population before Aloirav stopped the practice?”
“That devil Aloirav understands the principle.”
“Yes, he does. Let’s hope Frye never solves the nitrogen fixation problem.”
“It doesn’t seem to be a priority.” Hernan said, joining in the other’s laughter.
“Let’s also hope his frenetic growth never slows.”
“I don’t think it will.”
“Great. You know, Hernan. Life is strange. We never got to Aloirav. It took him to destroy himself, not us. He barely touched the Commission and helped us in many ways. He helped MMIM in more ways than just humeal.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. The man decriminalized all drug offenses. Legalization cut the easy profit out of the business and all its ramifications. It floored MMIM for a bit. Then, they hit on the idea to use the time available to clean out the competition that the US Presidents left them. The idea worked well. It became necessary to produce a good product to garner business. They did that, and the competition didn’t. MMIM won.”
“I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Aloirav ordered the dismantling of all nuclear weapons too. Nasty things, whoever owns them. Frye has most of the plutonium now, but MMIM is acquiring the firing mechanisms. Aloirav’s tax moratorium was inconsequential. MMIM made the OG cancel it, and re-institute every one, after he fell. People were just beginning to live in harmony with themselves and other life. MMIM stopped that horror for us. War is much more conducive to our needs, as well as to Lester’s.”
“Unless Frye or Otorp repeat the calein miracle.”
“How?”
“Find a way of enhancing nitrogen fixation.”
“Touché.”
Democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for the people. Wilde

Chapter Forty-Nine

Hernan smiled as General Trilate continued. “I’d like to have you know one of our problems. Perhaps you can help us solve it.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“As you know, Bridge administration is most difficult to penetrate. The Pontibus Council is untouchable. We’ve tried. I can’t tell you how often. It’s a genuine aristocracy, like the Commission. This brings me to answering your question and my objective in this long explanation. Why do we need Otorp?”
“Yes. I’d very much like to know.”
“Frye is getting tired. I shouldn’t wonder. The man’s well over 100.”
“Don’t know how he does it. He’s never had an organ transplant.”
“And he fought in the Viet Nam War.”
“That was nearly a century and a half ago. What ever possessed him to do that, I wonder?”
“We did.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He was one of the poor we bamboozled. He seems to be taking his revenge. That war was almost a mistake for us.”
“How so?”
“It began as a good idea, a great idea, in fact. It was another phony “Make the world safe for democracy” war. Send burdensome poor off to kill burdensome poor. Ingenious. Kills two birds…One of our members even had a chemical that helped augment revenues and still got the job done. It even took out some veteran’s progeny. Otorp & Frye both lost in that way.”
“So, how did the idea go wrong?”
“The problem began when competitive sports’ natures entered the equation. Some fools wanted to win the war. It could have gone on ridding the world of indigents & using expensive weapons for years. As if some eternal truth needed vindicating. The subs started spending big. We controlled the Presidents, however, and managed to scuttle the escalation urge before they launched a bomb. That would have done some real damage … and cost big! The USA went on to make MMIM rich as much from imperialism as from slavery and the murder of freedom.”
General Trilate chuckled, and Hernan asked. What’s so funny, Sir?”
“Those monkeys were working eleven months of the year for MMIM at that time. They never caught on. MMIM proved that no matter how much you tax them, there are always cattle that will pay more.”
“Except on the Pontibus.”
“Yes. Except on the Pontibus… Anyway, back to the subject – Frye’s age. The man’s been letting Otorp handle more and more of his most personal functions.”
“Such as appointing the governor.”
“You are quick. Hodges was right.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Otorp is an artist, as I said before, and a brilliant scientist, which means he’s but 30% human. Political judgment is most naïve among such people, and they’re easy to enslave. Otorp is a bit different from most but still inhuman. He’s as old as Frye. I don’t know how they do it. More about that, later. The governor, an Otorp appointee, has been in our pocket for years. If Adam Quake knew Frye was about to spring Aloirav, the “Boss” would have been meat. We’d have taken him out…in jail.”
“The “Boss”?”
“Aloirav. Who else?”
“Indeed. Who else?”
“With Aloirav free, there is no more Company hierarchy, Hernan. It’s a whole new world now. Otorp is losing value for us very rapidly.”
“I see. With the Council & Frye untouchable, you needed Otorp to maintain control over the Pontibus.”
“Heretofore. Such control as we could manage.”
“Yes… I have a question.”
“Why didn’t we kill Aloirav, long ago, while he was in prison?”
“Yes.”
“A good question. I ask myself that same question every day. We waited too long. It’s worse than just neglecting to eliminate him. We even protected him.”
“Whatever for?”
“Orders from above.” General Trilate whispered. “For awhile I thought it was because of certain rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“It’s almost embarrassing to relate now. I almost believed the gossip myself.”
“Really?”
“Yes. There was talk about a youth serum he and Frye were supposed to have developed. He, Frye, and some of their people didn’t seem to age. Speculation, you know? Aloirav & Frye, such virtuosos with molecular biology, it just naturally went that they…”
“Found a fountain of youth drug.”
“Yes. Turns out it was just a joke. The real reason the “boss” got our kid glove treatment goes back even before he fell. I was in liaison. That’s how I met Mike. We were both channels to the National Security Agency. He came from the US government, and I hailed from the Commission.”
“What did you need the NSA for?”
“The NSA was a translating machine. Most people believed for years, due to well-placed news items – our propaganda, that the NSA was just a great spy agency like a glorified CIA. But that was incorrect. It also translated orders from the aristocracy to the democratic wannabe’s. Commission to OG.”
“I see. MMIM has that job now.”
“Right. The NSA now is just another moribund OG feeding trough for the pols.”
“Getting back to Aloirav?”
“Yes. He was on to us.”
“He was? In what way?”
“It almost seemed he had a mole in the Commission. We were never sure. Then too, it was a different world back then. Oceans and rainforests were dying. They weren’t going to last any longer than our oil reserves. It caught us by surprise. With dwindling food, water, and energy, we saw big risk. One member, the Pope, kept many optimistic with his feigned socialistic goals. We held ample food reserves, but my principals were worried anyway. Not even religious lies can control starving people. Dead ones you can control. The one purveyor of living things, “Bridges-by-Lester”, took us again by surprise. We never expected the Pontibus to come along when it did. We wanted protection.”
“Enter Aloirav with the solution.”
“Yes…sort of. Aloirav’s anthropophagic attempts were going nowhere but he possessed certain “facts” we wanted. We started trying to get his “information” long before he even became Emperor, back in the 20th century. We got but a small amount of that “information” before his fall. We thought our agents in the cantilever prisons could get it for us. They’ve been failing us for 16 years. His people in the New Society were incredibly loyal. Each time we got close, the “Group” took out the traitor.
“Really?! That is a long time.”
“Yes, it is. It’s embarrassing. We placed some faith for a time in a Global (GF) Facilitator. A swindler and part-time CIA agent called Ditmar Hanks, “Diamond Dit”, “Dr. Cinza”. He failed, or swindled, us. We didn’t kill him…just removed all the ill-gotten gains from his banks. Somebody will get him. That GF was involved in some heavy sabotage of the US in 2001. They blew up two New York buildings and stole a great load of Rothschild gold.”
“How did that happen?”
“In 1998, the guy also promises one of our budding Aloiravs, an Arab, that he can get enough of the “boss’s” bugs to decimate the US. Dit swindles our terrorist “wannabe” silly for years. In time, the Arab gets nervous about his own people. He uses common explosives to make his decidedly smaller statement. We were on to him though and catapulted his sabotage into commandeering almost all of Iraqi petroleum.”
“The twin towers.”
“You knew about it?”
“OG History 101.”
“Whatever. It would appear that our security at the Commission is not as strong as we would have it be. Now we have no choice. We must kill Aloirav before he gets men behind him. The man could be very bad for MMIM & Commission interests.”
“He’s opposed to CPE (chemical pleasure enhancement)?” Hernan asked.
“Along with CHE (chemical health enhancers) & CEE (chemical environmental enhancers) and most of your other CXE products. But it’s much more than that.” General Trilate answered. “As you know, the Council allows no politicians. Anyone with a record of more than ten months as such, is considered contaminated, and they proscribe from membership. Either elected or appointed… Frye hates ‘em all, won’t have any truck with ‘em. Residents will never be CPE (chemical pleasure enhancement) customers without such people. No advantage. Frye won’t interdict any plant. Residents grow coca, Cannabis, poppies, mushrooms, etc.”
“They don’t need MMIM for CPE’s. That’s true.” Hernan agreed. “Our best raw materials come from the bridges.”
“That’s one reason why your major CXE revenues come from the First-Surface.”
“I learned that from painful experience.” Hernan said.
“I’m sure. Without pesticides (CEEs), little disease exists on the Pontibus. How can you sell CHE (chemical health enhancers)?” General Trilate asked. “Frye calls the medical profession a brothel of myopic altruists & masochistic whores! He makes it next to impossible for a doctor to practice up there.”
“He allows physicals & emergency medicine. We have special couriers that bring them support supplies.”
“Smuggled contraband?! Just that!”
“Yes. He maintains, without any solid evidence I might add, that medicine does not just strike disease causes. He says it’s toxic and poisons healthy tissue too, weakening body, mind, and spirit. The medicated becomes less than the potential promise.”
“Incredible!”
“He blames legal drug suppliers for nearly all mental and spiritual inadequacies on the planet.”
“No?!”
“Yes. He ostracized, and then banished, an entire hospital staff caught doing an organ transplant last month. They’ll never see freedom again unless the Council pardons them. Getting caught buying intensive care equipment for neonates or the aged gets you the same treatment.”
“Amazing! His own son was in a neonatal unit too!”
“As was Otorp’s. Hypocrites!”
“Where you gonna’ find doctors to practice under such conditions?” Hernan added.
“Exactly! He maintains doctors pay taxes with full knowledge of how those monies murder and starve millions of children. He says neonatal units usurp resources that could feed and educate healthy children & protect the environment. He accuses doctors of keeping bodies, useless to the planet, alive – bodies sick from their own fault, defective genes, or ignorance. Ignorance caused by others commandeering funds that could be used to remove that ignorance.”
“How is that possible!?” Hernan asked.
“He says our species mismanages the planet via a Homo nepotism. Says we spend too much of our energy on trite thrills, like TV Sports, sitcoms, etc. and not enough on qualified teachers.” General Trilate explained.
“Yah. He calls professional sports a trite thrill.” Hernan added. “MMIM can’t sell celebrities there nearly as well as we can on the First-Surface. Revenues on circus networks are less than 1% of those on the First-Surface.”
“Frye says celebrities are advertising nonentities and confuse human values. He’s prohibited televised politics, sitcoms, religion and games. He says contact sports in First-Surface schools create an evil alliance, increasing brutality and decreasing science education.”
“I heard a Company director say that his calling contact sports celebrities “steroids with air-bag fixations” is criminal! He’d be jailed on the First-Surface for such slander!”
“He calls even slightly plastic heroes “degenerates”! He says by not throwing useless sports crap off First-Surface holovision they are accomplices in murder.”
“According to him, we could have saved much life on the planet from extinction, along with our ozone, for $4 trillion back in the last century. We were, supposedly, too busy with our sports manias and watching inane sitcoms & special effects on DVDs.”
“I agree with him on the contact sport’s point.”
“What!? You do?”
“Yes. Any game played with a ball is strictly for children.”
“You don’t like them?”
“Ignore them. For me, the one spectator sport worth watching is war. Pure war is entertaining, the sport of gods. There’s a point to it. Mistakes made when monkeys kill monkeys. Frye said early 21st Century pituitaries traveled many miles to chase agitated air-filled membranes around closed systems and got nearly $1B/ year for doing so. He spoke the truth there. We watched the performing pituitaries, paid them, and neglected the ozone depletion. The man maintains First-Surface women and their male sports aficionado counterparts still encourage such an uncivilized mentality. He asks if there’s not something wrong with the human race’s value system. Of course there is!”
“Says, “sickos recover, die, or leave the Pontibus.”” Hernan added.
“Yes. That’s another matter. The man has no pity!”
“Runaway deficit spending never materialized on the Pontibus. MMIM & Rothschild make almost no money from usury and taxation there.” Hernan said. “The role-model system . . . virtually everyone believes in it! Fools! Human and planetary benefactors supplant “wealth” accumulators as archetypes. It’s insane!”
“Frye has no business head.” General Trilate added.
“It gets worse!” Hernan said. “The man is too much! Five percent of MMIM’s corporate revenue comes from taxing human endeavor through the legal system. Not on the Bridges!”
“Without written laws, lawyers gain no parasitic foothold.” General Trilate said.
“The man is shameless!”
“Have you heard the latest on what he says about the profession?”
“No.”
“I recorded what he said last week in response to MMIM’s last tax initiative. Listen. “…The medical profession is a menace to the human race, posing as its benefactor while diminishing its capacity to evolve. The legal profession is a bit more straightforward. They admit their goal is the destruction of Society and with it the human race. International lawyers, fiduciaries, and other licensed thieves deal in mendacity, corruption, treachery, betrayal, etc. as a trade. Lawyers use jargon to evade the layperson’s scrutiny of such contemptible behavior. Their “legal ethics” are simple euphemisms, tactics, and sham excuses to cheat their clients. They accept whatever means are available & break any accepted value to accomplish a deception. Their one constraint is to avoid exposure leading to embarrassment or difficulties for their ordinarily shameless colleagues. They use Nature-given verbal skills in irresponsible ways, hiding the truth, displaying the false, to distort another’s’ perception of reality. They liberate people who make millions dumping thousands of tons of carcinogenic benzene derivatives into aquifers. Those so liberated can then afford to bribe lawyer regulators and other scum to allow that dumping to continue. Poisoning tons of protoplasm, they render it either dead or into less significant life forms. They make laws that imprison people for carrying the wrong kind of vegetation in their pockets, so they can sell slave labor to their caedere cronies. Taxing pols come from these predators. You would have me feed these… these sharks!””
General Trilate finished, looking at Hernan as if to say, “Do you believe the fool?”
Hernan replied. “I heard Frye ask a holovision reporter. “Who deserves the greater punishment? I ask you, Sir, lawyer regulators or killer child molesters?”
General Trilate seemed a bit confused but replied. “Did he get an answer?”
“Before anyone could open their mouths, he continued. Wouldn’t even let the reporter answer. Frye says, “A polluter’s depredations cause thousands to suffer the agony of cancer and other diseases. The human race is also genetically weakened in the present and into the eternal future. Molester-killer miscreants cause the suffering & death of but one. It’s a simple question! Use logic, if your reason fails!””
“As if that was enough!”
“Yah! He says it’s the First-Surface who is responsible. He had the nerve to say that innocent children have as much a right to survive as do corruptible First-Surface regulations. He said it was a travesty that the First-Surface punishes molester-killers instead of lawyers! Respected lobbyist lawyers he termed professional suborners and planet destroyers! He says Society rewards them as if they were planetary benefactors. The man is a menace!”
“He’s mad!” General Trilate screamed. “Our renowned First-Surface newspapers he called, “lying viper sheets”. Two of their publishers are Commission members. He called them “life-wreckers of any decent person who would like to try to better the planet?””
“He doesn’t say that about his own paper.” Hernan said.
“Of course not! He told MMIM to take their fine new tax initiative and shove it.”
Hernan said. “I was at the Board meeting when I heard him say. “The First-Surface leaves no positions of responsibility to humans. Just irresponsible self-serving political detritus and greedy caedere profiteers hold status situations down there.” I am not detritus, General. MMIM is not a greedy caedere profiteer!”
“Hernan! It’s not even a consideration.”
“He says the First-Surface squashes planetary benefactors out of existence. He attributes over half the world’s insanity to lawyers!” Hernan complained.
“It’s no where near that high.”
“I didn’t think so either.” Hernan replied.
“I’m sure medical doctors and CXEs are just as responsible.”
“Of course. I’ve been wondering, General, without lawyers allowed on the Bridges, what’s your hold on the sky?”
“A very fragile one, Hernan. To do any business with the First-Surface, Frye needs to submit to some taxation. Council and Company regulate all near space. In the event of conflicting opinion, the governor decides the issue. We own the governor through Otorp. At times, we have to give a little. We don’t want Frye getting wise to Adam Quake. With Aloirav loose, the jig is up. He will not be “out-to-lunch”, as Otorp is. The “boss” is ruthless . . . unscrupulous! We stand to lose everything we’ve got in place there, as does MMIM. What’s more, we could lose what we have planned.”
“Which is?”
“You’re with us. I can tell you. It’s not supposed to be public knowledge yet, but MMIM wants to own the Pontibus, and Rothschild plans to put a bank up there. The First-Surface is about to increase the Pontibus’ growth costs. Humeal prices will soon double. We’ve mandated the President raise Pontibus’ procurement taxes. Paying levies will destroy anything.”
“Of course. That’s economics 101.”
“If the Corporation refuses our toll, MMIM & the OG will lay siege – make war. The bridges can’t keep growing without humeal and rocks. Frye’s growing like a weed – too damn fast! Normal nitrogen fixation is too slow to support such rapid expansion. Yet, he has to continue at that pace or die. He paid his incredible bribes, to release the “boss”, with mortgages past Level-Thirty! Doubling humeal prices increases the pressure on him. MMIM’s increased income will make it possible to curtail First-Surface warring. They can order the furloughed army to interdict calein stone. Stop humeal sales, no calein… the Company will have to capitulate.”
“You don’t think we can prevail by continuing to purloin directors?”
“No, I don’t. Neither do the other Commission members. With Aloirav out of prison, it won’t be long, and he’ll discover all our planted people. If he still has access to his arms. . . ”
“Everything hinges on his demise.”
“That it does.”

Mr. Leion went to his compuphone to begin work for the day. It was not yet dawn. If there was a good time to let someone know about his predicament, it was now. Tomas’ was still sleeping. Lopez was no longer resident. Mr. Leion got as far as making the connection, before his thoughts wandered.
They went back to the prison module and his beatings. He remembered the accountant’s last plaintive look to him for help. Remembering her gaze of terror got too painful to endure. Then the module floor and the combination of mental, spiritual, and physical pain sprang before him. The recalled images were overwhelming.
He felt like a child after a parental castigation. No, he would not snitch today, maybe tomorrow. Mr. Leion stayed at the machine. He wanted to do what he needed to do to complete his day’s responsibilities to the corporation. Mr. Leion wanted to spend more time outside, watching for Mr. Otorp.
Giving his captors more information might hasten those “other inducements”. Tomas’ awakened, saw him at the compuphone, and stayed out of range of the hologramera. When Mr. Leion noticed him up and taking nourishment, he left his task. Concentration fell prey to preoccupation. He also remembered it was time to take the diurnal chemical test of the fishpond water.
He felt that checking the sewage effluent for nitrogen each morning, with cresyl-orange indicator paper, was needed. Testing was necessary before allowing the water to go into the fishponds. A color change to red meant it needed longer treatment. A computer could have done the water analysis just as well. Remote sensors in concert would evaluate, re-evaluate, adjust incrementally, and indicate re-calibration, if necessary. They saved time.
He was frugal, however. The necessary instrumentation was expensive. Mr. Leion did not want to spend the extra script. He tested the fluid manually and entered it into the computer’s database. Money saved went for a broken ivory idol in an antique shop on Level-Four.
His neighbor, Mr. Otorp, supplied indicator paper needs, gratis. In his home workshop, he also monitored, by dilution-plate, Mr. Leion’s fecal coliform line count. Mr. Leion could have bought the papers and hired out the counting. He chose not to do so. Should his system develop problems, Mr. Otorp’s proximity made him feel safer.
Mr. Leion was also miserly and found it more acceptable having Mr. Otorp do it. “Otorp can afford it,” he rationalized. Not a scientist, Mr. Leion appreciated the help with his sky farm. He was pragmatic, not crusading. It never occurred to Mr. Leion that some might consider it ungrateful, spying on a benefactor.
Excepting the recondite antique collecting avocation, Mr. Leion was just a dutiful marketing professional. He was good at his two skills and liked them. They appreciated and were remunerative. The vocation and avocation alike took intelligence. The man possessed the commodity in abundance and exploited it to the fullest.
He was not too sensitive about losing his hair. Perhaps, because of that attitude it did not detract greatly from his appearance. Mr. Leion spent most of his free time perambulating older Pontibus paths and walkways. He searched the Al-Con labyrinths for antique shops. Oriental “era” pottery treasures cluttered his module.
They didn’t look like much, stored away in his module’s unused corners. Their wanting proper display gave his domicile a cluttered, second-hand store look. Someday, Mr. Leion planned to arrange everything esthetically. A card catalogue would be just the thing. Professional responsibilities and side interests took up too much time at present.
Mr. Leion worked for the same First-Surface corporation many years. It stationed his subdivision on the Pontibus long ago. They assigned him to the “chemicals developing” section. Old weapon systems’ ingredients caused occasional movement glitches. New products, extracted from toxic waste, could become expensive items for these reasons.
His mind spaced while taking the water tests. He remembered that day he encountered Sr. Mendoza. The trauma of that day was still very much with him. He felt the need to go over it all again. How his life changed that day.

The corporation was all set to separate their new product from the Level Twenty-Seven source materials. Mr. Leion recalled being on the compuphone, waiting for the go-ahead from his chief. They were to begin sectoring marketing responsibilities. Licenses were in order. Marketing funds were in the works. Then, before manufacturing and sales could proceed, someone discovered the source-accounting error.
Just how reduced the stored waste and weapons were remained a mystery. His section chief told him something was wrong at the material source and there would be a short delay. He was to take a short break. Mr. Leion exploited the unexpected opportunity and went to work on his ponds. He enjoyed the diversion.
The red-tape snag on the new commodity pleased him. He remembered feeling, at the time, that the marketing problem was just a relaxation windfall for him. What did he care about Level Twenty-Seven?
They stored raw materials there for a long time. It was a graveyard for unwanted goods. Apparently, no one recorded the total removed. Big deal. Losing stuff over time is natural. He did it all the time.
The Company, however, wanted an accurate assessment. Upper management in Mr. Leion’s corporation was also troubled. They didn’t want to violate either a toxic waste law or an old Disarmament Treaty provision. Everyone knew the Pontibus Council didn’t behave like First-Surface forums; nobody wanted them involved.
The discrepancy compelled immediate action. Bigwigs contacted Mr. Leion’s subdivision. His section chief’s private agenda fit in well with a certain subordinate’s absence. Mr. Leion got orders to hold off further work until cleared by headquarters. He complied perfunctorily, never seeing his principals in person.
Fiber optics and the compuphone transmitted most job facts and decisions. Mr. Leion could have face-to-face, live meetings, if he so desired; the job paid for his electric vehicle. He felt no desire for formal interaction. Not privy to complete information, Mr. Leion received word to observe the situation first hand with the accountant. Kidnapped, beaten, and pondering his fate on a cold floor was a high price for that ignorance.

Mr. Leion’s memory failed him in response to that last vignette, and he returned for relief to his task. The water testing ended, and the man glanced over at his domicile a few yards away. It seemed so typical today. Flowers, vegetables, dwarf fruit trees, grapes, mushrooms, etc. grew in abundance; bees, ducks, and fish were thriving. He possessed no chickens or goats.
Chicken personalities can be sweeter than those of ducks, but normal chickens and goats are very destructive. Such destructive domestic animals were rare on the bridges. The domesticated vulture, gaipira, ate roaches, carnivorous ants, and other gourmet entomological delights. It was welcomed everywhere, despite its chicken-like proclivities.
Strawberries and daffodils grew along Mr. Leion’s path to the pond platforms. Dwarf fruit trees reverberated with pleasant healthy sparrow chatter. The birds were fat as a result of ripe grain feasting. The swiped cereals came from a farm platform 2000 feet further out (higher). Having weathered a winter brush fire, the owner sowed wheat, now harvestable.
Travel over the communal paths of the Pontibus edifice was common and pleasant. Yet, as Mr. Leion, most preferred to work electronically, staying close to their gardens and animals. Many employees knew peers and superiors via their individual tele-monitors and holograph transmitters alone. The Company built informational system cables into the structural piers. Actual person-to-person contact was superfluous. Some looked upon those who insisted on closer contact, than electronic, as pathological bores.
Mr. Leion’s other near neighbor worked for a major communications concern. That concern held the Company’s fiber-optic transmission & maintenance license. He apprised Mr. Leion once about the contractual cost of the license his company needed just to service the Pontibus. Since the first lines went up over the equatorial ocean, they paid The Company (Lester) upwards of two thousand trillion dollars.
Other services like transportation, special construction, prison management, etc. paid similar fees. Lester did not live in high style. Even with procurement taxes, his calein extraction too was profitable. Modules sold at an exponential rate. Yet, Mr. Frye was broke.
(His initial bribes to prevent himself from going to jail, after the king fell, came to over $1000 trillion. Given his annual income, it does not take genius quality analysis to imagine what subornation cost him in all. Whatever the figure, bribing all the venal politicians necessary took the man’s entire life from him. Democracy’s feeders-at-the-trough raped Lester to death. They used him more and rendered him less than they did the most common welfare scamp. Just letting the state support you & your family paid better than did everything for which Lester sacrificed himself & his family.)
Mr. Leion’s neighbor in communications also knew about the third factory on Level-Twelve. He said it would soon make Corporate factories larger than the entire former U.S.A. They were already greater in area than the European continent. There was no longer any incentive to work on the First-Surface. Educated & affluent people didn’t want to live down there. Towns and cities below were contra-selection ghettos.
Everyone now even considered it inhumane to confine prisoners on the First-Surface. The First World was in the sky. Due to the Pontibus’ mineral needs, however, the Company still gave out procurement contracts. Hence, people from outer levels sometimes took lucrative temporary employment on the First-Surface. They watched their clocks until they could get back to their sky farms. Even momentary contact below left people needing replenishment of their diminished peace of mind.
Lester said. “The notorious Jewish homosexual, Jesus F. Christ, once said. “The meek shall inherit the Earth”. He was right, if we define meek as deficient.”
A few places existed, where the foregoing description did not pertain. Mineral search teams mapped out future calein-stone quarries. Their washed transported rocks later entered Level-Twelve slurry lakes. The Company felt the social & demographic character of potential quarry sites to be future factors of importance. A team leader recorded the following observation in his examination log.
“Well-insulated medical research facility islands exist here. They obtain livelihoods of dubious value. Doctors, Christians, and other myopic masochistic compassion vultures flit about. Parasitic hypocrisy is still in vogue here. It appears that feeding upon the entrails of Nature’s hopeless disposables will always be profitable to some. As long as deranged Homo exists, Christianity-democracy-socialism swindles may never completely disappear.”
21st Century Third World areas, primarily southern hemisphere, like Maranhao, Brazil still contained a smorgasbord of pristine sub-humanity. The uneducated, malingering, and irresponsible natives looked ever outward. New emigration strategies found ready attention. The current headquarters of the Newer Society situated here. Just the “Group”, (and Pontibus resident wannabes), located in Andirobal.
The new “heaven” was the Pontibus, prime territory for 3rd World parasitism. Bridge Communities alone welcomed the unborn and the over sixty age groups. Libraries and computers tend to render older people obsolete. Lester gave these perspective-donors jobs as special librarians. He said. “These people are repositories of valuable experience; we must cherish them…until they get sick.
The OG called their trash bins for the aged, “nursery homes”. The politicians, having squandered the pension funds on Rothschild, “biological” welfare & junkets, were desperate. They obviated most financial burdens from these expensive way stations with their Abortion and Aged Law. No such inhabitant could enter a First-Surface hospital. Therefore, what the Company wouldn’t take, the OG neglected to death. Nobody wanted the sick old farts. The one exception, private organ-transplant hospitals, craved them, (and their dollars), very much.
The old-government still promised citizens enforcement of the Clean Air & Water Act. Nobody held his or her breath. Workers descending to the First-Surface brought their lunches, gas masks, earplugs, and toilet tissue. They took water from their own potable water condensers. The alternatives were just too risky. Nobody wanted immediate dysentery, monster offspring, or malignant tumors in 5 years.
Acid rain cost dearly. Until calein came along, corrosion repair of temperate-zone Pontibus Al-Con structural members was a major maintenance expense. Company executives worked hard to force First-Surface compliance with all the Clean Acts. The Corporation did have some influence on the Midwest OG coal fired plants’ operation. Their advantage grew out of the old-government’s near inability to support itself without Pontibus’ resources. High sulfur coal was now used in the Midwest in a different capacity than as fuel.
The First-Surface’s Truth-in Media law was a joke. Most people saw through the puppet media’s misleading tactics. Truth on the bridges was wearing away at it, showing the anachronisms. The phenomenon proved how an entity unable to withstand truth’s heat wouldn’t stand time’s furnace. Rothschild’s old-government mendacity never succeeded in the sky.
Mr. Otorp said to Mr. Frye. “Pols are fighting hard, all the way. Democratic savagery, and their part in it, cannot triumph in a climate of truth. They know it. The Company prevails everywhere but with the fanatic religious and other irrationals.”
Lester replied. “Martin Luther, a religious, said, “Reason is the greatest enemy that faith has.””
The Concern predicated its own perspective on harsh facts. Their endeavor would win biological sustainability or experience economic failure forthwith. When the Company instituted their system, people waited and watched. It took time. Now, once again, people were trusting technology and leaders. The Corporation, like Nature herself, could be cruel. People acknowledged that.
The one alternative was the unacceptable old-government. Even the Trilateral Commission’s members lived most of the year in the sky. The Rothschilds did not. The extended family could not leave their gold, and Lester would not let it come off the First-Surface without making provision for its mass. The Rothschild family could never let anyone outside the family know the true extent of their wealth.
First-Surfacers were believers in God & democracy, socialists who sold their votes or didn’t vote at all. Those living at public expense went from 50% at the 20th Century’s turn to 95% by fin de siècle 21st. Disclosures of scandalous policies benefiting State employees or industrial recipients of public funds were diurnal. Special interest groups made the old-government estranged, debilitated, ineffective, and catatonic.
Lester once queried. “What decent body can long exist, suffering from the democracy disease?”
Rav Aloirav answered. “None. J.H. Christ, Bolivar, Marx, Engels, and Lenin all made the same fatal mistake. They underestimated the time necessary to change monkeys into gods.”
“All five were commies, Rav!”
“The principle holds consistent throughout, Lester. All had faith in sub-humans just because they “appeared” human. Simon Bolivar dedicated his life to freeing them. In the end, he said those who fight for democracy but plow the sea. He called himself, Christ, and Don Quixote all great fools. In a democracy, majority rules. The majority are the most demented, ignorant, uninformed or the misinformed – the monkeys. Democracy allows monkeys to rule men.”
“It’s absurd, so hard to reckon!”
“The Greeks were the 1st Eco thugs. Giving us democracy, the one great crime vs. the planet, it allowed subs to control custodianship. Democracy impoverished & destroyed the ancient Greeks & Romans, early practitioners. It corrupts all people in authority or ceases to exist. Old-government pols wallow in their pus-filled cumbersome nonsense and petty treacheries. Yet, belief in the survivability of republics survives to bamboozle ad infinitum!”
Pandering to all the people for so long, the old-government became oppressive for everyone. Moribund institutions ossified into solitude. The sick beast now lolled unconscious; infested parasites consuming its last bits of flesh. Everyone suffered. Well…perhaps not the lawyers, the unmotivated, and MMIM.
The revolution was not yet total bloodshed. The situation just changed. It evolved into defined Surfaces. People left the First in droves, as in past great emigrations. The first New World colonists must have felt the same, leaving dying diseased Europe. Other analogies were not so glorious. Transportation of convicts also returned.
The Pontibus promise delivered. Sanctioned old-government style sycophancy, violence, and political manipulation disappeared out there. The Company advanced its own people on the merit basis, as Council membership. Mission was the sanction. Responsibility was the currency. The Corporation and Pontibus grew ever stronger, as the structure expanded inexorably out into space.
Its elegance stretched starward, penetrating further into the stratosphere every day. Its hypnotic manifested beauty knifed through the ether. The bridges seemed suspended in the heavens like high cirrus clouds. Walking on the sky paths among the vapors dazzled first-time visitors. Crystalline reflections off diffractive surfaces struck people breathless.
They were diamond-like whenever impinging on their vistas. Early Pontibus pioneers told of rare blinding illnesses striking those who dared to stare too long at the beauty. It was like staring in the Arc of the Covenant or at the Face of “God”. It was a kind of snow-blindness. Ancient artic explorers recounted sometimes experiencing it, walking too long in the bright reflections off snow. A few days indoors, recovering from the vistas of paradise, cured it.
Lebensraum, without its negative 20th Century connotations, drew individuals forever outward and upward. Freedom and bio-space for a clean, healthy, and satisfying life existed. It was there for all to see. Pontibus citizen sponsors encountered difficulty returning prospective buyers to First-Surface homes to await their closing date. They called their wetbacks “sky-jumpers”.

No one can expect a majority to be stirred by motives other than ignoble. Norman Douglas

Chapter Fifty

Mr. Leion, like most Pontibus’ residents, owned his own module. His home and billions more like it made up a green milieu which sprinkled the sky. Through the Corporation’s maintenance fees, everyone helped maintain communal pathways and roads. A moral issue developed, however, to prevent fee increases. Residents cooperated with their neighbors in keeping shared areas of the Community green.
It became a culture. Fifteen minutes a week, neighbors enjoyed Nature together. They assisted maintenance crews. The activity brought pleasant side effects in its wake. Many spent more than an hour communicating and interacting.
The pearl – white opalescent outer Pontibus network contrasted with its inner and lower-level green surfaces. They in turn demonstrated distinction from the blue sky. From a distance, the effect appeared like dichroic crystals. Semitic descriptions of the “Promised Land” abetted the Aramaic “heaven” of “many mansions”. Distant views gave the impression of staring at shining emeralds, set in platinum, on blue velvet.
Reflected, refracted, and transmitted green light dispensed enjoyment all over the communities and beyond. Edgar Cayce said green light would cure most cancers. Was it that or Lester’s chemical – pharmaceutical – medical doctor interdiction that protected higher denizens from such miseries?
The Company located a major magnetic levitated train station, called a foot, on Cape Cod Bay off Provincetown. A spur connected Boston’s Back Bay with the rest of the Atlantic bridges. The Esplanade, near the Hatch Shell, became a Pontibus foot ferry landing too. First-Surface access points to feet were centers of pedestrian trade. They functioned as riverbanks and crossroads did in days of yore. Luz now reached from Nova Scotia to Tierra del Fuego. It crossed the Atlantic Ocean 20 times and averaged ten miles high.
Excluding sky jumpers, 900,000 people left the First-Surface, forever, every day. Construction crews never stopped laying new bridge anchorages in the Pacific. The Pontibus there would one day surpass the Atlantic side in total cubic meters. The Pacific magnelev was the longest and fastest levitated train system of all the seven greater sea Pontibi. It moved 150 million people every minute.
The Company planned four more to handle current demand of 300million per minute. It expected employees of the various ozone-generating stations to fill one of the trains alone. The Grand Central Station of all the magnelevs was over Las Canarias, Espana. All regular trains stopped there at least once every day. No matter where you were on the Pontibus, you could be anywhere else on the bridges within 24 hours.

People were no longer just a global epidemic, planetary cancer. By helping to increase habitat for all, many now benefitted the planet. To succor and save humanity ceased meaning a commensurate proportional biosphere destruction and death. The perpetual curse of the malignant medical profession would soon be history. It was becoming ever harder to be a “devil in disguise”.

Mr. Leion’s cantilever visitor light indicated there were people at his entrance wanting attention. Tomas’ looked out the porthole and saw it was Lopez and Fredo. He let them come up the path. They were there to supplement Mr. Leion’s module with off-site listening devices and surveillance equipment. Which equipment would spy on Mr. Otorp and what was there to spy on Mr. Leion himself was debatable.

Bacon entered the General’s new office in the Andirobal Hotel Aloirav and said. “Boss. Somebody ya’ needa’ meet, when you return to Luz.”
“Who, Bacon?”
“Name’s Andy. Buddy of mine. Been in the cantilevers 6 years . . . burglary. Yoos’ta work close to Cinza. Cinza set ‘ím up.”
“That’s an old story, Bacon. Why’s this guy special?”
“He’s got a phenomenal memory. The last job he did, before his bust, was for Cinza.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware Cinza did those kinds of jobs.”
“It seemed odd to me too, at first. But ya’ gotta’ listen to his story. He says Cinza was to pay 8 figures for some numbers and locations sleepin’ with Mike Hodges.”
“No shit!?”
“’T’swhat he says.”
The next time he was on the Pontibus, General “doctor” Aloirav visited Andrew Wilks’ cantilever prison. “Nurse” Bacon was with him. They brought “patient” Wilks in for a “physical examination” prior to “transfer”.
Bacon said. “Boss, Andy Wilks.”
“Pleased to meet you, Andy.”
“Pleasure’s mine, sir. Hope I can be of service.”
“Tell him the numbers, kid.” Bacon urged.
“746-2, 840-1, 420-1, 569-3”
“I recognized two right off, Boss. How ‘bout you?”
“All of ém, Bacon. You’re right. Andy is special. Does he want to join us?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Any special reason, Andy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you tell me?”
“Cinza.”
“Ahhh. I understand. Perhaps we can indeed be of assistance. We too would like to show him our appreciation, wouldn’t we Bacon?”
“For all his help.”
“Yes.”
Rav Aloirav knew there might be traitors in his re-formed ranks. It was in the nature of his business. MMIM was not a Sunday school group. Foreign interests would be watching him. Regaining men, money, and position didn’t come without risk.
That was why he relocated to one of the most dangerous areas in the world. Andirobal was in the planet’s wildest State in a Country, respecting no law for hundreds of years. It was the nearest thing to hell on the Planet. Like most places religious superstition rules, the morality was currency, not current. The people were savage, ignorant & treacherous. In the early part of the 21st century, these citizens once took a dislike to a soccer-match call. The situation started a brawl, and when it was over, the losing side was decapitated & dismembered. The head, the reformed teams used as the replacement soccer ball. This little paradise of atavism was now home to the Newer Society.
Gold and diamond ex-prospectors, their women and progeny, were the Newer Society’s neighbors. No social group in the world is more untrustworthy or violent than a collection of bank-washing prospectors. Here came or grew the world’s poorest pariahs and leftovers. Thieves, swindlers, prostitutes, murderers, Christians, or some combination thereof was the common bond.
Poor-pandering Brazilian politicians beat the middle-class so hard that most bourgeoisies cheated everyone else to compensate. Not 1% of Andirobal could claim possession of anything resembling a sense of higher values. Church attendance and never speaking the unvarnished truth sufficed. The concept of integrity was unknown. Persuasion took the form of subornation. The word of an Andirobalero was not worth a wet cigarette butt. Thoughts like loyalty, responsibility, or friendship were unknown. Political office was license to rape, murder, and pillage. Gratitude, courage & economy require a minimal degree of intelligence. For that reason, the mid-level ape (Homo) does not practice them. These too were virtues considered silly aberrations in Andirobal.
General Aloirav described the situation to critical Bacon. “Like politicians, garimp whelps (miner’s children) use the trappings of higher qualities to betray & aggrandize. Perhaps their poverty is the reason they cannot rise to understand higher values. These people do exemplify the weltanschauung of the poor, ravaging themselves into poverty. Squandering and destroying all bounty until want comes, they blame the resultant suffering on some fantastic God or the rich. The poor have no sharply defined sense of either identity or private property. Individuals merge into the tribe to a much greater extent than do humans. They’re heirs to the Yanomami hunter-gatherer. Yet, in their favor, it can be said that they are not beset with the totalitarian technological tyranny of the old government.”
Bacon said. “They are poor, Boss, very poor. Andirobal’s mayors are so poor, they need to steal school children’s lunch money.”
“Just to put his son in State office it became necessary to sell all the textbooks and pencils.” Another “Group” member added.
Most locals hated learning and learned people, referring to them as demented, despite ample rhetoric to the contrary. They embraced only witchcraft, religious superstition or anecdotal gossip as acceptable erudition. Ridicule rewarded anyone attempting to use proper diction. Lack of proper educational facilities and books was their disease’s most charitable explanation. Politicians pillaged and sold whatever instructional material they discovered. There was a genetic indisposition to pay attention or even listen. It went a long way toward explaining the appearance of profound stupidity.
General Aloirav said. “Great poverty, as well as great wealth, is prima facie evidence for great irresponsibility, Bacon. The very poor have no real sense of personal dignity, no heart. They have a beating stomach in its place. Minor things shame them and true worth escapes them entirely. Being ostensibly clean & well-dressed substitutes and is enough to warrant respectability. They never approach a spiritual age or level of consciousness above 16 years. Never will they feel, or be able to exploit, conation. If they appear to accept you, it’s a sham. If not indeed false, it means you’ve given up all claims to being upright yourself. Never try to make friends with these macaques. Attempts at such endeavor will meet with deep exploitation. They call it “exploration”. Irresponsibility here condemns males to brutality, drunkenness, or some other addiction. It mandates women under 30 to have little or no sexual control. After 30, females also lose command over tongue & other behavior. Menopause leaves them but effete castrati. License persists for all.”
“Folks here are so damn ignorant!”
“That’s true, Bacon, but do you think it’s better in areas controlled by the OG? You forget the U.S.A?”
“Yeah. Sure, but these people don’t know when they’re well off. Every one of the bastards tries to cheat us. For peanuts! It burns. They think they’re so smart. They’re so cheap! I heard one the other day intimate we’re all obtuse fools. They’re just assholes!”
“I think you’ve forgotten some things in your assessment.”
“What, Boss?”
“The other day you called them all cowards.”
“Yeah. I remember. The yellow bastards are afraid of EVERYTHING! So what? You disagree?!”
“These people are free, Bacon! Pure democracy. That means they live in constant fear. Freedom is the process of adjusting to that fear. They fear their neighbors, police, pols, witchcraft, God, Christ. You name it. No one can remember Brazil ever having had any law. They reserve crime prosecution and prison occupancy just for gringos.”
“I don’t understand, Boss. I thought freedom was supposed to be a good thing.”
“It is. But, everyone is free here, Bacon. Not just you. Anything goes. It’s a real enigma.”
“How? Why?”
“Remember, the 1st decade of 21st century USA, before the Pontibus? Everyone lived in fear, because there was NO freedom. Taxes, police, law, prisons, drones, cameras, microphones, and government spies everywhere. Snitches and crimes were ubiquitous. I heard about a guy who had a friend for 20 years. The guy broke the law, ran, and started a new life in Brazil. For ten years, he would infrequently call his former friend, sometimes asking for a return call. He never got one. The USA resident was too afraid of going to prison to even associate with a free person.”
“I believe it. So freedom as well as no freedom means you live in fear?”
“I think so. That’s why it’s a riddle to me. Society here doesn’t punish or even discourage crime. Everyone is free, even unattractive criminals. People do what they please. Brazil discriminates only against foreigners.”
“I see.”
“Locals are free here to be as ignorant and brutal as they wish. And they choose to maximize both behaviors.”
“How can they handle that?!”
“They’ve purchased their freedom with corruption and poverty.”
“And got what it’s worth. I’ll bet there isn’t a 13 year old virgin in the town.”
“No bet! I see 12 year olds walking around at 2 or 3 AM with men 40 years their senior. They’re all free. Dad & Mom have no right or wish to interfere. A 13 yr-old can order a weak Mom & Dad around, and everyone accepts it.”
“The police and courts are powerless.”
“They’re just parasites. Most people who laud lack of restrictions’ are unwilling to accept that freedom and private property are antithetical. The OG poor still aren’t free. The U.S.A. is a consumer society. It destroys the very poor and the very best.”
“Leaving just the middle class to foot the bill.”
“Yes. As everywhere. The rich pay nothing.”
“Why is that?”
“Poetic justice. Bourgeois consumer society discriminates against the very poor and the best, more than any other groups. Very poor can’t afford even the most basic of consumer goods. They must give up all value searching and integrity in their endeavor to obtain. They steal, cheat, kill, etc. and go under. The very best people experience survival stress too. The creative souls that want to make the world a better place. They can ignore the drive to useless possession. Shampoo, hair dryers, fancy cars, discos, etc…Who needs the shit? Their problem comes from peer pressure. It’s agony to be different – a prison in a way. Peace, a component of happiness, requires protecting personal eccentricity. One needs money & courage to do that or the mob will eat you alive. Society always gets its revenge – as you well know.”
“No shit. They aren’t very smart but they sure are dangerous.”
“The best men want women too. Their sex-drive equals that of subhumans. Sex and softness from a woman are desires common to most males. Except for “love”, most female values are superficial. It’s a very rare female that can resist the shallow incentives of the consumer society. Women have no use for men of virtue. Men must pander to her trivial & inane desires in order to obtain sexual favors. A common woman might seduce one of the better men. Unlikely, but you know their subterfuge – it is possible.”
“I’ll go along with that.”
“Inconsequential, trifling, she understands; profundity bores and scares her. Facades comfort her, nauseate him. She will never appreciate her mate, and he will never satisfy her. They will be unhappy. She will destroy him with her frivolous obsessive-compulsive consumer appetite. He may destroy her, as you did your heartless bitch, but it’s highly unlikely. The consumer society will retaliate with the same consequences – revenge & destruction, right?”
“Yeah!”
“Most men will not fight gold-digging women because of two reasons. Their wives always get filthy fiends called lawyers to extort money out of the man in return for being allowed to retain a small piece of his former fatherhood. The second reason is that the women, media, agricultural industry, and government all conspire to emasculate and render innocuous the fathers.”
“I think I understand.”
“I hope so. Don’t judge these poor people. They’re just as much an accident of birth as is being born a common woman. I’ve heard people say that there are quality people here, even some U.S. Civil War rebel descendents. I’m anxious to meet one. It’s tough living in a free society, especially if it’s your first experience with it. Give it time. I still haven’t been able to determine where to place the weight.”
“Weight of what, Boss?”
“The preponderance of value. Whether living among the free & ignorant here beats coexisting with slavery and an opportunity for an education in the old government, 21st century USA.”

Andirobal was Dodge City, Kansas – at its worst, without Matt Dillon. Criminals of all flavors fled here to the world’s last bastion of pure freedom. The local police department didn’t even own a bicycle. Withholding use of his bugs in sympathy, the General needed to resort to crude housecleaning methods, at times. He couldn’t be bothered with either legal niceties or Lester’s squeamish conscience, and corpses accumulated.
Newer Society’s traitor’s corpses were not the sole nutrient the fish in Rav’s aquaculture ponds consumed. MMIM and old-government agents sometimes found their way there. The smell of floating rotting bodies was not altogether conducive to amicable community relations. Buzzards and minnows were the only happy beneficiaries.
Bacon, ever vigilant to snoopers, was concerned. Buzzards were flags to a near-death condition. Stench came with post mortem. Both attracted curious snitches. He got to thinking about how vultures can discover carrion from far away. Smell, of course. Yet, he didn’t believe it to be the odor. He explained to General Aloirav the problem he faced.
“Sometimes agents haven’t even begun to stink, more than their normal stench, and buzzards appear. Could it be position changes, Boss?”
“I’m sure that’s a factor, Bacon. Darwin said vultures can’t smell – did experiments to prove it.’
‘Never met him.”
Disparate carrion quantities & categories seemed to have cohesiveness that also dissipated as putrefaction progressed. (Recently killed agents, floating in the pond’s water, seemed to be attracted to each other. After rotting for a few days the attraction ceased.) Bacon remembered Mr. Frye once telling him.
“Perhaps, Bacon, dead & dying protoplasm changes its electromagnetic (em) energy frequency from that of the live healthy material. Light would reflect off that new energy level at a different wavelength (color) than its counterpart.”
Bacon’s curiosity made him want to design an experiment that would control for position, smell, or electromagnetic (em) frequency. He believed carrion presented a distinguishing (em) wavelength that living flesh did not share, and vultures could see or sense. He explained his theory to the General.
“I think corpses change their aura, Boss. As living flesh approaches becoming dead flesh (dying agents), the aura changes color.”
“That would be the electromagnetic frequency changing, Bacon.”
“Mr. Frye said something like that, Boss. Electromagnetic frequency is the same as aura?”
“More or less, in this case.”
“Urabuh (vultures) approach dying agents. Position and smell both may attract ‘em, or it could be the aura. Position changes when agents are dying and, of course, smell changes after they die. I’d sure like to know why the buzzards come, alerting the entire world. It’d be neat to know too if it was the changing aura they see, wouldn’t it Boss?”
“It would indeed be an interesting fact to know. Design an experiment and bring it to me. We’ll collaborate.”
“Right. Will do.”
Another characteristic of the birds’ behavior was that they abandoned submerged carrion. Bacon built some iron cages for the agents. They inserted and sank new inductees in the anchored metal enclosures. Bacon discovered that keeping the agents submerged also stifled their noise &post-mortem odors. The new procedure drew no buzzards. Was it instinctive fear of water predation (alligators or piranhas), loss of smell, or an unknown underwater (em) frequency change?
He could also sense that something correlated the cohesion of disparate carrion pieces, the eating of meat, and early death. But he did not know what or how it all fit. He didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, believing that stereotypes are usually incorrect but not always wrong. One must reason how much good or bad can be done, or ill avoided, by using them heuristically. Of course, agents’ final audio frequency vibrations were barely discernable under water, to either man or beast. The quiet was pleasant but did nothing to satisfy Bacon’s curiosity. He was no scientist and did not understand how to prove hypotheses. His experiments lacked adequate positive and negative controls.
Sulfides, mercaptans, ammonia, putrecine, cadaverine, phosphine, methylguanidine, and other amino-acid decarboxylation products dissolved away spontaneously.

Nevertheless, his alligators made a timely addition to the ponds. These animals are exceptionally fond of DEA and treasury agents. The reptiles must feel a certain kinship. Their presence also helped reduce the fresh nitrogen load. Neighbors soon breathed less odiferous-filled sighs of relief.
The Newer Society settled in to the altered life. Their 22nd Century technology in a pseudo-19th Century town made them virtual emperors. It was time to take the initiative. Equipment now on site, Rav Aloirav began retrieving all his remaining hidden bugs from freezers and arctic fastnesses. Anyone ever having concealed something in plain sight, within another’s property, or in wilderness settings knows how difficult can be its retrieval. That was another side of his new problems.
General Aloirav believed that no more corrupt gaggle of pols existed than IBAMA, unless perhaps it was the US DEA. Neither could see the right path or refused to take it for pecuniary reasons. Like their US counterpart, IBAMA were ostensibly conservation officers. The General felt them to be typical missionless bureaucrats. Not the slightest idea of purpose, other than lip service, occupied their thoughts or lives. Early in his Andirobal sojourn, the General found himself annoyed by their behavior.
Politicians, desperate to counteract mounting pressure from the suffering communistic poor, allowed increasing habitat destruction. Loss of jungle homes brought many animals into jeopardy. Hungry men will eat anything. Finding discarded placentas, cancerous organs, and other hospital refuse insufficient alimentation, Andirobal residents turned to habitatless animals for sustenance. Some creatures found themselves offered for sale to Rav Aloirav as an alternative to collation. He paid their lives’ ransom and protected them from an Andirobal repast.
His land in Andirobal held monkeys, capybaras, tree sloths, parrots, alligators, turtles, numberless plants, etc. Protecting the non-human weak and helpless, due to habitat loss, gets a frown from all the world’s bureaucracies. IBAMA was no exception. Capturing those whose humanity is obvious or those who believe in their custodial responsibilities is easy. Those caught harboring habitatless fugitives of comestibility make lucrative businesses, a source of additional income and retirement nest eggs. It was inevitable. One day his reckoning would arrive.
When it did, IBAMA demanded he pay an exorbitant bribe in lieu of arrest and shame. Police accomplices stood by with their hands also figuratively outstretched. Threats and demands by authorities irritated the General almost as much as disallowing his protecting of the creatures. He endured a quiet arrest.
Anticipating big money, the accosting officers dispensed with the usual gringo-softening prolonged stay in prison without trial. In a month, he received a hearing. Standing before the judge, the General refused to pay the now-doubled demand. He gave as his defense his habitat replicating efforts and protective action against native cruelty and destruction. The judge was unimpressed, saying.
“Your gringo ideas don’t sell here. You broke the law. We don’t catch Brazilian residents with these animals. It’s always you gringos. Why should you be an exception?”
“I just explained to you why. You do not catch your people with these animals because the animals disappear into bellies. I’m successful with them, and they do not die. I’m being asked to pay a fine for my success in aiding the spirit of the conservation law.”
“Anyone could use that as an excuse.”
“I am not looking for an excuse, sonny! I need none! How dare you, a pol, question me or my motives?!”
“How dare you speak disrespectfully to this Court?!”
“You merit no respect!”
“Pay the fine!”
“I will not!”
“Whatever. I intend sentencing you to a year in jail! I demand you pay the fine. If you do not pay in a year, I will add an additional year. I shall continue to do so, until you do pay it. I am much younger than you are. If you persist in your stubborn willfulness, you can safely expect to spend the rest of your life in the cadeia.”
“You and your compatriots are hindering a planetary benefactor. You are either too stupid to see the law’s exceptions or are too corrupt to benefit from your observation and act accordingly. Whatever. I intend sentencing you.”
“Are you threatening me, gringo?”
“Take my answers anyway you like. I demand you release me immediately or pay the consequences.”
Bacon visited the General in the Santa Inez “cadeia” the following day and said. “They say you called the judge a pol, stupid and corrupt, threatening him.”
“Mentita! I called him a pol, stupid or corrupt, threatening him.”
“Ah, therein lays the misunderstanding.” Bacon quipped. “What’chu want us to do?”
“Get scheisters and spring me.”
“OK.. It’ll be expensive, Boss.”
“Since when did we get so economical? Are you saving for retirement, Bacon?”
“Well, I did have my eye on a nice piece of real estate near Simi, Boss, and . . . “
“Fuck you, fatty. We’ve got it on hand. Spring me!”
“Right, Boss.”
The General soon left the jail. As he walked away, the sentencing judge watched and said. “It would have been much cheaper for you to just pay, gringo, when I ordered you to do so.”
The judge then patted his chest where, presumably a wallet rested. He smiled, turned, and walked away, leaving the General to a supposed discomfiture.
“I want that young punk judge before the others, Bacon.”
“Gotcha, Boss.”
“The bastard was looking to kudos from pols or a bribe. Either way, he’s scum and a parasite. Use 247. Don’t kill the slime. I want to visit him in the hospital. Two micrograms with fourteen cc’s of vaccine and 10 grams altretamine. Use agarose as oxidation protector. Do it tonight. Put the 10 grams altretamine in his evening meal.”
“And the others?”
“Same.”
“They’ll never smile again.”
Over the following weeks, court personnel and IBAMA functionaries took sick. Many left the planet. The General entered the Tereszhina hospital for wealthy communists to visit the young judge. When he could see that the judge recognized him, the General said. “It would have been so much cheaper for you to just release me when I ordered you to. I’m much older than you, but you can safely expect to spend the rest of your life in this cadeia.”
One particular Newer Society lawyer, a friend of many influential politicians, also received a 247 gift. He was the major recipient of the legal fees guaranteeing General Aloirav’s recent release. Before the man left the hospital, all the General’s legal fees returned.
The boss returned to his placid existence, protecting helpless wildlife. IBAMA never again got the chance to put him in harm’s way. General Aloirav’s crew was ever vigilant. Each time a threatening bureaucrat came to Andirobal, the individual caught a cold before leaving. The war chest of legal fees grew stronger than ever.
It grew commensurate to the number of ex IBAMA officials & judges. The income also subsidized a new crew of search and destroy experts. They hunted down bureaucrats who made it a practice to extort gringos for minor offenses that locals skated. These additional proceeds set up natural preserves and habitat enclaves for unprotected wildlife distant from the Pontibus. The entire pacification experience made the boss look harder at the trabalhista-communist politician.
He spent hours planning their eradication, saying. “Poverty follows the Christianity – Communist ideology like stink on sweat. I will not abide extreme poverty and powerlessness anymore than I will extreme wealth and democratic authority. Both are evidence of dementia and serve but as planetary menaces.”

It is probably as good a time now as any to relate how General Aloirav met Elboruh Lebensrau. Elboruh Lebensrau was not his real name, but it stuck. Everyone that knew him called him Elbo. Wherever Elbo went, politicians and lawyers went missing. He was a regular pol vacuum cleaner. Law enforcement agencies, around the world, tried for years to pin a murder on him, but he had an uncanny way of avoiding such entanglements. Responsible for hundreds of thousands of lawyer and politician murders, he was only convicted once and sent to prison. He escaped within a year and continued to rid the world of parasites for the rest of his life.
Bacon met Elbo first at an alligator products convention. Both men were interested in some of the same problems and concerns. Elbo’s farms were located in semi-tropical areas around the world. Bacon’s were only in Andirobal and a private jungle near Buriti. Elbo’s net worth grew almost as fast as did the former New Society’s.
Such success stories merit attention and General Aloirav’s interest was not exceptional. He sent Andy to investigate and learn what he could of the man. Andy worked very hard, using 20 Newer Society operatives at the task. No one, practicing their art on the nether side of the law, can withstand scrutiny of numbers. Soon, malefactors make mistakes, errors in discretion. Someone sees.
Elbo had a great weakness for Cabernet Sauvignon. When he drank more than a few liters, his heart responded with candid remarks not conducive to anonymity. As Andy learned of indiscretions, he brought them to the General. Their strategy changed, as did their tactics, to compensate for each weakness in Elbo’s armor. It gratified the General to learn that Elbow was a vegetarian except when it came to alligator flesh.
While bathing his palate in fine Bordeaux bouquets he would expound on other culinary delights. One particular repast he enjoyed was the white reptilian flesh, baked or sautéed, in coconut milk & hand-pressed babaçu palm oil. Its compatibility with a coo shah garnish and Portulaca salad was strictly Elbo’s own contention.
The General knew that such dishes were not usual tastes. Alligator meat is sweet & delicate while coo shah leaves are acidic. Babasu oil is harsh & strong. Such robust opposites do not commonly make for delectable cuisine. The gourmand must have known how to modify the coo shah pH with a few grams of Portland cement. To learn such gourmet secrets, the man was probably an anthropophagia cognoscente of Aloirav vintage.
The General wanted to see the man and confront him directly as to his politics. They agreed to meet in lawless Roraima, Brazil. While swimming nude in Agua Boa’s crystal stream, amid the most beautiful girls the General could acquire, he learned the truth. As General Aloirav suspected, Elbo was a cannibal without a fond taste for human flesh. The General was in a similar position. Both preferred their corpses run through alligator bodies first.
The General shared secrets with Elbo and received quid pro quo. The Newer Society became privy to one of the best-kept secrets of the time. It was as great an undisclosed crime as was 21st Century hawala government.
Elbo was a professional politician hunter. He made a vast business of what, to the General, was just an enjoyable avocation. Using what additional secrets General Aloirav learned from Elbo at Agua Boa, Andy ferreted out a nearly complete story.
After a life of tribulation only Lester Frye’s could equal, Elbo learned to view lawyers and politicians with white-hot hatred. Elbo initially tracked, hunted, captured and killed individual politicians and lawyers, alone, in almost every corner of the globe. His survival depended on the cash he could wring out of his victims and anonymity. He never left tracks behind because he never left a trail of corpses. In every country, where he discovered unprotected prey, he pounced and devoured. Since he found human flesh unpalatable, he dismembered his victims and delivered morsels in various comestible stages to his alligator farms. His first farm was a small fishpond in Venezuela near Caucagua, Miranda.
He rented selected buildings in various countries for processing his raw material. As his fish food augmented his fish population, his alligator population responded in kind. Soon he was exporting alligator products and cacao. He even recycled fishmeal sacs, filling them with cacao beans.
As he became richer and more proficient at his profession, he acquired employees. The phenomenal feat of organization started here and is still legendary. His minions not only helped him acquire victims but they also were able to protect him from all types of legal interference. Goethe said. “A noble person attracts noble people, and knows how to hold on to them.” Elbo was such a noble beast. No one but the licensed thieves & silk-suited embezzlers wanted him stopped.
His 2000 vans and 400 stake trucks delivered thousands of desiccators, comminuters, and other reducing equipment months prior to any incursion. Huge lyophilization freezers and blending machines left millions of kilos of raw meat unrecognizable. He shipped only bags of 27% protein fish ration to his depots, prior to its export to jungle farms. 20,000 henchmen in cities around the world brought him news and prospective feed livestock (politicians). They also helped him lure hopefuls to unlit & unobserved locations for eventual acquisition (capture), fund extraction (robbing) and recycling (butchering).
One particularly gruesome success story made Elbo $40M in one week. It started as a simple extraction & recycling of a Young Democrat leader. Elbo’s girls lured the popular young politician to an obscure location where Elbo incapacitated him. An unmarked van brought the boy to a warehouse. Before they reduced him to assorted pieces, Elbo advised him to make a phone call to his alderman father. They acquired the alderman with two henchmen en route to a non-existent address. Before extracting & recycling the three, the alderman was able to lure two other council members to their doom. Accompanying the latter duo was a banker anonomie. The banker controlled a number of anonymous slush fund accounts and did some hawala business, amounting to (year 2000 AD dollars) 38M. Upon his animated suggestion, two other aldermen in another state also became acquainted with Elbo’s warehouse that week. The entire haul amounted to 600kilos of meat (reduced to 84kilos of fish ration) and $40M. The banker’s wife, meanwhile, was putting horns on her well-healed husband with a lucky Congressman. The two lovers were able to donate $2M to Elbo’s retirement fund in addition to bequeathing their organs to a fish charity. Elbo reinvested his gain in quality alligator pedigrees and additional equipment.

When the General confronted Elbo with the crimes Andy discovered to be of Elbo’s creation, Elbo was justifiably dismayed, looking upon his accusers in despair. General Aloirav put him at ease, immediately, but used the man’s discomfiture to widen his own repertoire of recycling techniques. Elbo was gratified, of course, to learn of his good fortune, so rapidly after the disaster.
The two renegades eventually became fast friends. Elbo’s hatred of democracy and politicians aided the General’s own political inclinations. The synergy in the union of these two great freedom fighters augmented the science of democracy eradication. Technologies involved in philosopher-king government likewise grew exponentially.

One evening, General Aloirav, Andrew Wilks, and Bacon were sitting together having dinner. The repast was in the large salon of the Rav Aloirav Hotel’s second floor in Andirobal. The General just learned that one of his local subhuman employees brought a labor suit against him for paying insufficient wages. Lawless Brazil’s Trabalhista Laws made it a de facto crime to hire indigenous people. Locals were so lazy they considered giving someone a job was an attempt at enslaving them. The Newer Society men were discussing the various ways of dealing with the problem.
“I can’t just pay the bastard.” The General said. “I paid what we agreed and owe him nothing. It’s blackmail, because we’re foreigners and not poor.”
“The people I talked to say it’s easier just to pay and forget it.” Bacon said. “Ya’ jist need’a get a good lawyer.’
‘A good lawyer. Good!? That’s an oxymoron.’
‘He was using the “good” word with a Nietzschean connotation, Boss.’
‘It’s what the local middle classes do.” Bacon continued.
“I’m not gonna’ cut myself just to prove I have blood.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The General is thinking about the precedent he’ll set if he pays, right sir?”
“Yes. Andy hit on the problem, Bacon. That other case is coming up too, remember?”
“The guy that fell in the hole?”
“Yah. He’s asking 4TReales for disability, and he’s working every day! It’s more than a question of money. Forget for a minute that it’s an insult and a travesty. If I start paying these leeches, their lawyers will keep us in court forever. I’ll end up paying commy Brazil’s national debt!”
“But yer’ a foreigner, Boss.” Bacon advised. “You might lose, good chance of it. Brazil has always been commy country and gringos get the full measure of the law thrown at them for infractions. The only law & order in Brazil is to gringo detriment.”
“People tell me the attack is simply because they think we can pay, and their people cannot. If I pay, we’ll never see ourselves free of the scum. When will we be able to work? We gotta’ start making some headway against MMIM. I promised Lester & Gloria.”
“If ya’ lose, ya’ll pay more.”
“Might the situation worsen, General, should you lose?” Andy asked.
“I don’t know. Nobody here seems to have their finger on any pragmatic way of dealing with these socialist bastards. In the old USA, that maniac McCarthy killed communism. He scared the ignorant little people into staying away from it. Brazil never grew a McCarthy. They say these judges are easy to bribe (to wet). I’m thinking of our long-term survival.”
“So. What do you want us to do?”
“I don’t like bribing judges. It’s just another way of voting. It’s bestial! Only sheep vote.”
“Ya’ wanna use bugs, Boss?” Bacon asked.
“Yeah. I don’t see any alternative. Take a ride with that bastard that’s a taxi driver now. Have him catch a cold, Bacon.”
“Right, Boss. And the others?”
“Take out every last one of the bastards that are suing me. Don’t stop until all their damn lawyers and judges are sneezing.”
“There’s that fat dyke bitch, Boss, Maria Josepha.”
“The one that’s motivating the jerk that fell in the construction hole.”
“Yah.”
“Maria Josepha, hunh?”
“Yah.”
“I want something special to happen to that cunt. She’s excessively greedy. She needs to set an example.”
“What?”
“Let me think about it. I’ll let you know.”
“Right, Boss.”
“I wanted to avoid using BWs on Brazilians, ya’ know? But, these bastards are just too much! We need’a survive. Leave some skulls of small animals around the areas where you introduce “bugs”. Put a cross on each one.”
“Why, Boss?”
“Macumba.”
“What?”
“Witchcraft. These yoyos are superstitious. I don’t mean just normal religious rot. They’re all voodoo freaks too. When their neighbors start dyin’, after fuckin’ with us, they’ll think we’re super witches. Leave us alone. I’d like to humiliate that damn pederast padre too, but no one ever mentioned him saying anything bad about us. Punishment is not our style.”
“Gotcha. We finished talking business?”
“Yah, Andy. What’s on yer’ mind?”
“I was thinking. It might sound crazy, but I’d like to know something.”
“What’s that?”
“Are there aliens or not?”
“Who knows?” The General answered. “Pols might be. They sure aren’t human.”
After the laughter finished, Andy renewed his question and asked for some serious treatment of it. General Aloirav said. “I know about that Roswell incident. Not much more.”
“People here say they see space men and flying saucers.” Andy replied. “They call them “other world people”. Do you think because they’re so simple & uncivilized they see things we can’t?”
“You sure they weren’t lying or drunk or smoking something that ain’t tobacco.” Bacon asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve often wondered about aliens.” General Aloirav said. “I’ve never seen anything so strange myself. But, that means nothing. The Bible mentions them a lot. Says Noah spoke with them before he built his boat. Lester named the Pontibus “Luz” after an alien ladder about which the Bible talks. There might be extraterrestrials right in front of us all the time. They could be hiding in our retinal organization’s blind spots. We might even design an experiment to prove it.”
“Really?”
“Think about this, first. Only 2% of mammalian DNA translates into proteins or RNA products – us. That leaves 3 billion base pairs without a known function. We call it intron DNA. Why is our genome 1000times greater than bacterial – yet it codes for but 50 times more goodies? The principle of economic simplicity (Occam’s Razor) demands throwing it out. It isn’t. Why?”
“Don’t know, Boss. How come?”
“I believe it codes for alien products & functions.”
“Their using us like cattle?”
“Yes, or perhaps we ourselves are aliens and the real world is a universe of chemicals with optically reverse rotation.”
“I don’t understand, Boss.” Bacon replied.
“Everything we are, our living state, comes from an electron, a photon of light. Our Sun God. An enzyme turns light into sugar. We are basically made of a type of sugar called D- (+)-glucose, not its mirror (chiral) image L- (-)-glucose. Light rotates right for our sugar and left for the sugar we can’t use. Nature may have picked the D type in a random event. It was too long ago for us to know. But, the chirality of enzyme active sites has perpetuated the choice and extended it to other catalysts, as well. We are dexterotatory creatures.”
“So what? How does that make us aliens?”
“Light is necessary to see. Other life might be levorotatory and thus invisible to us.”
“Maybe that’s why southpaws always cold-cocked me. Never saw ‘em comin’.”
“Who knows? Maybe other dimensions exist. If Time Machines ever occur, time cycles will change present conditions. Nature’s evolutionary caprice may not be so fickle. Universal truths may get harder to determine. At present, if we’re to possess the clairvoyance necessary to comprehend our future history, it must be through our imagination and will, i.e. our dreams. Society conditions people to believe just what they think they see and hear, disbelieving what they can’t get in other experience. Disbelief is also an effective invisible. People do not give enough credence to what they think, feel, or imagine. Very few pursue a suspicion. “Aliens” may have a different way to get here than we do. Birth & Death may be intron DNA positioning us to enter & exit via an Einstein-Rosen bridge. “Aliens” may use those same portals or others for regular passage.”
“Have another beer, Boss. I like to hear you talk.” Bacon joked. “I don’t feel like such a flake when I hear you supposin’.”

Ditmar Hanks was a 2nd generation product of the Confederate States of America. Not much of a scholar, at 14 Hanks operated a swindle in former rebel towns. His bribing of southern sheriffs allowed illegal carnivals to fleece without harassment. Ditmar went west with his profit to become an Oklahoma hoodlum. He acquired a stable of carnival girls, a bar, and a small Las Vegas casino.
A few well-planned murders and Hanks branched into pawnshops. Here he discovered the money available in gun dealing and diamonds. Convicted of income tax evasion, Ditmar skipped out on an appeal bond. The colorful pimp showed up again in Brazil as a diamond buyer, “Diamond Dit”. Plunging into the local political sewer, he found an even better living selling bogus immigration documents.
Hooking up with some NY – Miami – Brazilian Jews, Ditmar started laundering money. As a global facilitator & fiduciary his profit became enormous. The profession brought him into contact with the CIA, prominent war criminals, and … Mr. Aloirav. The “boss” made friends and even gave him some “tea” on occasion. For a while, after the New Society collapsed, Lester supplied him with the tea, enough for his whole family.
Like all small men with big bellies & large inferiority complexes, Hanks was a blowhard. Fond of puffing himself up, he arrogated the appendage Dr. and changed his name to Cinza. Using that appellation, he began acquiring luxury Rio hotels. When the New Society Empire disintegrated, he helped relocate many of its members, making another fortune.
Prison tends to limit respect for former associations. Communication, as before, with his old friend Rav soon ended. Undefeated, Ditmar stayed on the First-Surface in Brazil. Getting on in years, awareness of his mortality began to assert itself. In time, attempts to acquire more “tea” from Lester failed. Dit did some soul-searching.
Heretofore, his entire life an obscenity, he felt it but right to continue it so beyond the great divide. Hanks wished to publicize that fact. He therefore fought his hometown to have an indecent monument placed over his future grave. It amazed and delighted his former enemies. Deceiving him, they started a well-publicized phony battle over the issue. Hanks assumed that they didn’t want the gravestone there out of a sense of decorum. He fought them in all the courts and papers. Dit never knew what a monkey he made of himself. Before he met his end, the entire town was ridiculing his backside.
His two eldest sons were involved in the illegal drug trade. Like father – like sons, they expatriated. Free of that business himself, Dit knew how jealous the DEA & Treasury were of their turf. He never dipped his hand into that miasma. Cinza’s fear of government retribution, public and otherwise, was legendary. He found politician corruption lucrative enough without drug dealing too.
“First-Surface old men in government enjoy making war and organizing mass homicides.” General Aloirav told him. “Disposing of poor, ignorant, and violent young men keeps them and the girls happy. The theory goes that surviving poor, ignorant, and violent young men, so traumatized, will make good husbands. Depredations also decrease numbers dying unsightly of hunger from economic inequality. The playful media colors winners as heroic celebrities.”
Ditmar contradicted him, throwing Viet Nam veterans at him as proof. To which he replied. “We were not winners, Dit, deserving of fame. We were very lucky. Usually, the media paints losers with the epithet “war criminals”, designating them “individuals in need of castigation”. Being of the most powerful criminal organization in the world, they but ostracized, ridiculed, and spread malicious gossip about us. The joke has continued for years.”
His theory on war intermeshed with Dit’s GF profession. The brutal pimp waxed powerful ingratiating himself with war unfortunates…if wealthy. He found them new identities and safe havens in Rio, fancying himself a “freedom fighter”. Calling his acquaintance’s attention to it, Cinza presented a bit less glamorous truth.
Dit took pride in having eradicated every vestige of morality from his life. It was no idle boast, because along with morality, he washed away just about everything that made him human. Growing older, he made another fortune betraying friends. Many left money on deposit with him. Most never reclaimed it. A word here or there was all that was required. An itsy bitsy mistake on a phony passport, and old “friends” went off to jail.
Fiduciary Cinza took over their bank accounts. He hired agents in stir to kill those clients he could or those poised to complain. Ex-amigos died in prison, committed suicide, or waited for a chance to repay. His life was a lark, a charm, seeming to be without any fatal mistakes.
A veteran of numerous heart bypass operations, very little shocked the chubby cherub. That is, until one day he did a job for the Aloirav-free Company. Lester was not, as yet, aware of the man’s complete moral vacuity. When he did learn it, the Founder almost didn’t get off the First-Surface alive. The lesson was expensive.
Instead of discharging Frye’s business professionally, Cinza cut some overhead. He gave an employee of one of his drug-dealing sons, Dubbin, the job. The 38 yr.-old adolescent mixed business with drugs, bungled things, and found the DEA at his door. True to form, the thugs beat a bogus confession out of him.
The boy would have sold his mother’s heart, still beating, to stop the government’s fun. He dropped the biggest name of which his little brain could think. Through swollen and bruised lips, the unhappy clown told a big fib about Mr. Frye, who was in Brazil at the time. Saving himself at Lester’s expense, he later lied about everything to his employer’s father. Placing liens against Dubbin’s house, the old government, once again, hired Brazilian Federal Police to kill Lester.
Sensing betrayal in Dubbin & Cinza’s words, Mr. Frye fled the First-Surface. Once on the Pontibus, Company guards kept Mr. Frye free from physical harm. On how he got to the Pontibus, safely, the Founder remained reticent. Much later, commenting on the ordeal, all he would say was. “I felt I was dying alone, far from family and friends, in a strange land, hearing just strange tongues, eating strange food, in a small dirty room.”
The Company prohibited government agents of every country in the sky, so the corrupt Brazilian Federal Police never collected their blood money. They failed in their assignment to assassinate him. In retaliation for the lost graft, they went after Cinza & Son. The entire family sang for their lives.
Except for taking some ready cash and fancy guns, the Police spared them. Cinza, always the entrepreneur, seized the moment. He used it as an excuse to embezzle $100 trillion of Company cash. Lester objected. Cinza said the money would reappear in Company accounts only under certain conditions.
Lester inquired about those conditions. They were as follows: Delivery of all the New Society biovectors, with vaccines, to Dr. Cinza. Demonstrate their use to an MMIM subsidiary in the Middle East. They would appreciate a 10-year supply of Hesperides apple tea to accompany delivery. Frye refused to cooperate. Cinza and MMIM each put out a separate contract on him.
He needed to live with his bodyguards in the Pontibus’ wilderness areas until a truce could take effect. Before General Aloirav left the halfway house, Lester apprised him fully of Cinza’s treachery. It was not the first time the former hotelier heard about his ex-friend’s treachery. That and repaying the OG for their mischief were major quandaries engaging him since his release.

General Aloirav, Bacon, and Andrew Wilks were drinking a few beers together in an Andirobal bar. In the background, they could hear the sweet enchanting music of a caged bird’s moan. Brazilians love to cage birds.
“Hear that music, Bacon?” The General asked.
“Yah. It’s beautiful isn’t it?”
“No orchestra could do it better.” Andrew added.
“Do you know why?” General Aloirav asked.
“No, why, Boss?” Bacon asked.
“The caged bird’s song is the song of death.” General Aloirav said. “It strikes at our souls.”
All three men knew the meaning behind the words. No one said anything for a time. Andrew broke the silence by saying. “I like the company of drunks.”
“Why is that, Andy?” Bacon asked.
“Can’t say, really.”
“I think I can answer that question for you, Bacon.” General Aloirav said.
“Be my guest.”
“The basic character of the human race is much more discernable then.”
“But men are beasts when they’re drunk, General.” Andrew said.
“My point exactly.” The General replied.
“That’s why women don’t like drinking men.” Bacon said.
“Why?”
“Drunken men behave like sober women.”
“Not always, Bacon.” Rav riposted.
At that moment, a whore stopped by their table, inquiring if she might join them.
“Speaking of beasts…” Bacon answered, and then replied in Portuguese. “No Sonja. We don’t want any company.”
The whore left, and Andrew asked. “What’d you say to her, Bacon? She left fast.”
“Told her to get lost.”
“Why? She wasn’t that ugly.” Andy queried.
“Depends on your definition of beauty.” Bacon replied. “Promiscuity doesn’t always make a woman more beautiful.”
“Sometimes it’s a moral test.” The General said.
“But whores are necessary, Boss.” Andrew said. “It’s infinitely more difficult getting rid of a mouthy woman than can be expected from the effort expended to obtain the new piece of ass.”
“The bitch is pure scum.” Bacon added.
“Just because she’s a piranha?” Andy asked.
“She’s a whoremaster, a madam at the brothel on BR316, between the village and Marata.” Bacon added.
“So? Everyone has to make a living.” Andy countered.
“Heard something yesterday. Started asking around.” Bacon said. “It was true.”
“What was?” The Boss asked.
“You know that big guy they call Ceygo?” Bacon replied.
“Moreno with the kid & stick, pretends he’s blind, begs, cons free intercity bus rides on the BR…when he’s not riding his moto?” Andy asked.
“That’s the one, real name’s Manuel somethin’.” Bacon said. “You know that little girl, Gallega, says hi every time she sees you go to the corner? Must be 9 or 10.”
“Yah. Pretty little thing. Dirt poor.” Andy said.
“Right. Her mother, Antoinia, used to be the town pump. Never took money for sex, just got a little food when hungry. Let anyone in her pants that wanted it. Screwed anything. She died coupla’ months before we got here. Drunk all the time, had every disease in the book. The Boss remembers her, right Boss?” Bacon asked.
“Yah. I do.” The General agreed. “Sad. She had two little kids, girls. Gallega and Samantha, both born in brothels. The poor broad wandered all around the village. Filthy, not right in the head, talking to herself… Died a few weeks after I arrived here. TB or AIDS related shit.”
“Did you ever see her with the kids?” Andy asked.
“No, never knew she had any till just a little while ago.” The General replied. “I remember seeing Gallega though. She’s everywhere. The little orphan wants a mother or a big sister. Used to see her hanging on various women around the town. Couldn’t seem to find anyone steady though. A local dyke adopted Samantha, but nobody wanted Gallega. Too pretty. Normal women don’t want to take in pretty girls, especially 9 or 10 years old, like her. Sure way ta’ lose your mate.”
“With the type of males available around here, it’s not hard to understand.” Bacon interjected.
“Ain’t that the truth?! Andrew said. “Drunks, fags, or philanderers, all of ‘em.”
“Or worse.”
“Anyway, there just wasn’t anybody to make her feel like a person, help her to grow up. Wants people to see her as somebody having value. Must hurt like hell being just another street animal… kicked around or fed, indiscriminately.” General Aloirav added.
“Someone befriended her the other day.” Bacon said.
“Really? That’s great!” The General exclaimed.
“Sonja.” Bacon said.
“Sonja!?” The General asked.
“Yup. People said the little girl was overjoyed, running around telling everyone she was going to live with Sonja.” Bacon added. “At last she found someone to care about her.”
“I’m sure she was pleased.” General Aloirav said. “Someone to validate her, at last. I can’t say her future will be much with Sonja.”
“You’re right, Boss. It won’t be.” Bacon replied. “Sonja & Ceygo made a deal the same day.
“What kind of deal?”
“Business.” He continued. “Sonja gave Gallega a room in her brothel and told the kid to wait. She locked the door. Then she let Ceygo in. The guy’s hung like a jackass. The kid’s terrified. She yells for Sonja. Sonja turns on the stereo. Ceygo gets Gallega’s clothes off and starts fuckin’ her. The kid is terrified, starts screaming in earnest. Sonja turns up the stereo. The kid screams louder. Sonja turns up the stereo to full blast. Ceygo finishes, gets on his moto, and leaves. A happy & bloody man.”
“I see. Glad you didn’t ask Sonja to stay.” Andy said. “She’s no better than the men here.”
“Aren’t you judging the men here a bit hard, Andy?” The General asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Why, Boss?” Bacon asked.
“Imagine growing up here. The women are beautiful… and hot!” He replied. “Brazil has an 8:1 female to male ratio. Even higher if you work in the fag factor. There’s no statutory rape prosecution. All a man, of any age, has to do is smile or say hello to a female here, and she’s fighting to get in his pants.”
“I suppose.” Andy said.
“Suppose, nothin’!” Bacon said. “Just buy one a soda and see if she don’t grace yer’ bed. She’ll never leave you either, as long as you still have the strength to get your hand in yer’ wallet. And, faithful? Why… as long as you don’t let her out of yer’ sight, she’ll never ever betray you.”
“Bacon isn’t too bitter, is he Andy?”
“Naw. He’s a real cherub.”

Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters: who maketh the clouds his chariot: who walketh upon the wings of the wind. Psalms 104:3

Chapter Fifty-One

“I have but one criticism of Salem, in fact of all witch trials.” Bacon said.
“And what might that be, Bacon?”
“They burned men too.”
After everyone stopped laughing, the General asked. “How many women put horns on you, Bacon?”
“Every one I ever fucked.”
“No!”
“I’ve had one or two, for such a short time. It’s possible they didn’t get the chance before I went elsewhere.”
“Why is that?” Andrew Wilks asked. “Why do they all cheat on you?”
“I guess they don’t like me. I know I don’t like them. I like cunt & tits but not the rest of the package. When they want me to leave their bodies, I don’t do it fast enough for ‘em.”
“I think I know why so many men are cuckolded.” General Aloirav said. “Men believe women respect virtue as much as men do. Women never think about a man’s virtue when they’re choosing one.”
“They want a stallion, regardless of his religious affiliation.” Andy said.
“Right.” The General replied. “Another reason is head size.”
“Head size!?”
“Yup.” The General replied.
“Just what “head” are you speaking of?” Bacon asked.
After the general mirth subsided, the General continued. “There is a belief among most educated people now that brain size is irrelevant, meaningless. It’s a women’s lib residual. The dykes attacked 20th century men most cruelly with their strident shouts of sexism. It colored all subsequent research. Since women outnumbered men in the polls, you had to conform, be politically cool, worship “cuntism”, and deny male supremacy in intellectual matters. As a result, male scientists disregarded sound research data and accepted the company line. The fact is; women’s brains are not equal to men’s brains. Nature has specialized each anatomically for Her needs. She geared female brains to raising children and hand agriculture. Men’s brains are good at providing rapid action and conceptualizing for the hunt. That’s why many couples fight. Each sex is miscommunicating based on unshared values. Women can’t understand the big picture, distant goals, or quiet reason. Men can but don’t have the vocabulary or will to explain it a hundred times to an impatient screaming woman. But, using the same reasoning, women are looking for quality offspring. They may not even realize it themselves, but their uterus does. A beautiful woman may fall for a man others consider without any good qualities whatsoever. It’s because the good qualities he lacks may be fidelity, industriousness, sobriety, etc. Her uterus is looking rather to skin tone & texture, strength, kindness, power & money, penis size, etc.
“I don’t think the problem lies just with women.” Andy said. “Bacon tangles with a lot’a trash. There are better examples of females out there.”
“I always mistake for love a woman’s need to be a slave.” Bacon added. “Most women are too weak to come right out and leave the gravy train. They need a fight first to prove to themselves they’re not in love. My wife was at best a jailer and at worst an inquisitioner. She ridiculed my strengths and despised my virtues. Lower class women want to do nothing but eat, talk drivel, and watch TV. They cheat on their husbands as much as upper class women. No man deserves the wife he’s got.”
“Married people never deserve each other, until one day, bang, they do… with a vengeance.” The General said.
“Women lead such passive parasitic lives, just waiting to be acted upon by men. They’re like gonorrhea. Penicillin is divorce, but the needle’s square.” Bacon said.
“It’s square, because gutless judges are too scared of the voters, (spelled w-o-m-e-n), to be fair.” General Aloirav added. “Most problems women cause men are because of that chemical thing women call “love”. When they can’t find “love”, they become bestial.”
“Really?”
“I believe so.” The General said. “The worst virago can become an angel with that medicine. Ever wonder why some women fight harder to destroy a mate in court than others?”
“No.”
“It’s terribly unjust but it’s a fact.”
“What?”
“If a woman’s husband truly loves her, or another man does, a judge will often give her more than an unloved woman. Do you know why?”
“No.”
“A woman who feels loved is more beautiful, more attractive, and more …sexy than an unloved woman. Judges see the beauty and forget justice. The bastard judges forget the children, the means, even the guilt just trying to genuflect to the sensual aspect.”
“Women weren’t satisfied with the misery they created in the home, they had to get the vote and destroy the entire world.” Bacon said.
The General changed the subject, asking. “What do you think of Andirobal now, Andy? It’s better here than old-government controlled areas, don’t you think?”
“I do like it.” Andy replied. “There are compensations for no male companionship.”
“The males here are complete monkeys.” Bacon agreed.
General Aloirav agreed too but replied. “No traffic jams, no law, no female hostility.”
“Yup.” He affirmed. “It means a lot, and those pink mangoes are a paradise fruit.”
“Kilo mangoes are good too.” Bacon added.
“What impresses me so much here is how these young girls throw themselves at me.” Andy said. “I can’t get over it. It’s not just me. I understand 14 & 15 year old girls regularly sleep with 50-year-old men, considering it normal! You’ll never find that in civilization.”
“True.” The General agreed. “You won’t ever find a 12 year old virgin here. Just get your hands on a motorbike or a car. 90% of the girls 12 and over will give you whatever you ask just for a ride.”
“And no prosecution for it afterwards.”
“I have a theory.” General Aloirav said.
“What about?”
“Around the world, land costs and woman costs are in a direct proportion.”
“Land is cheap here.”
“But take care. Don’t get to thinking there is no price. There is.”
“Clap & other VD are almost universal.” Bacon added.
“And even here, just quacks and pimps can contemplate the beauty of young developing breasts with impunity. Not everyone is a child-molesting satyr, but you still have to fight your curiosity & desire.” The General said.
“Just because you don’t have a license.” Bacon added.
“To legitimize or profit from it.” Andy added.
“Touché.” The General said. “In Roraima, Yanomami territory, the under 13 year olds run naked. It’s a great place to visit, if for that reason alone.”
“Why do we have laws like statutory rape?” Andy queried.
“Damn, Andy!” Bacon exclaimed. “Think of all the perverts out there.”
“I don’t think it’s got anything to do with child abuse, Bacon.” The General said. “It’s to protect Society from Nature. There are very, very few 12-year-old virgins. The whole “too young to fuck” argument is bogus! Guys that like young pubescent girls are not child-molesters. The two types are different birds altogether. There’s no reason why a girl old enough to bleed isn’t old enough to breed. It’s bourgeoisie economics. Statutory rape laws are our modern answer to resistance to arranged marriages.”
“Yah? Boss.” Bacon replied. “Why do those SR guys get so maltreated in the joint?”
“Everyone is maltreated in the box, Bacon.” Andy said.
“You’re generalizing on cons too much, Bacon. Remember when you were in stir. Cons who abused SR cons were the lowest shit in the penitentiary. The cons that beat up old ladies for booze money or rapos, parricides, etc. They did it because it made them feel there were cons still lower than themselves. The statutory rape criminals are true victims of the system. Both ends punish them for satisfying a normal sex drive. Heterosexual child-molesting laws exist to mollify older women. Envy of the younger woman competes with desire to punish connoisseurs of human corporeal beauty. Heterosexual pedophilia prosecution is a crime against men, at best a nonsense word. Why not love children? Can’t recommend sex with them. Size differentials between the adult penis and young vagina are too large. But, that problem ends at around 11 years-old. The Yanomami and many older cultures marry at 11 years-old. A guy loves his daughter and kisses her, strokes her, maybe touching her genitals in affection. He deserves, then, to be arrested, shamed, beaten, deprived of his freedom, brutally raped, tortured, and force-fed feces by the lowest scum in prison? Talk about priorities! Heterosexual pedophilia wouldn’t even be a crime if the human race got smart and ate old women and pols instead of listening to their drivel.’
“Heterosexual pedophilia is a crime because the HR is too squeamish to eat pols and old women?”
“Of course, Andy. Use your head. It’s natural. Tierra del Fuegoans knew the mischief old women cause. Darwin said, in his travels with the Beagle, that they ran the old women down, killed and roasted them. However, there’s more to it than that. I used to think that heterosexual pedophilia was just that, pols pandering to the female-over-40 vote. What virile male could possibly prefer a dry, sagged, screeching, thin-skinned, balding, painted hag to a beautiful, firm-titted, high-breasted, juicy 13 yr.-old? Just some sick bastard that can’t get it up with any broad. Nevertheless, now I believe it’s a general reaction of an overburdened planet to achieve lower population numbers by casting fear into virile males.”
“A conspiracy!?”
“Not a de jure crime but it is de facto.”
‘Scaring us into abstinence.’
‘Right.’ Bacon added. ‘They use a man’s decency to convict him.’
‘How can you say that, Bacon? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It doesn’t, Andy. You’re right. However, Bacon’s right too, to a certain extent. If a child has been seriously hurt, she will repress, remembering nothing for which to give testimony in court. If she can give testimony sufficient to convict, she’s not been hurt, merely having had a learning experience. The perpetrator deserving punishment absconds. The innocuous perp goes to prison.”
“A perp can slide by killing the kid; a decent guy won’t do it and takes the bite.”
‘You two sound like pedophiles.’
‘That’s the second thing then I have in common with J.C., Andy. Not such bad company to keep, hunh?”
‘It’s a very special woman who has not be-held the same penis as has her mother.’ Andy quipped.
‘Touché.’
‘Met a guy in stir.’ Bacon supplied. ‘In the box for 20 years. They sent him up at 18. At 17, he and his 16-year-old girlfriend fucked. Her father presses charges and ruins the guy’s life. He gets out, decades later, a drunk and a $20/night gas station thief.”
The General continued. ‘To summon strength, sufficient to go on, the human race needs scapegoats – Molochites, Palestinians, Jews, Arabs, Christians, niggers, honkies, commies, Tutsis, pedophiles, etc. The list goes on and on, all the way to genetic engineers in Queenstown, Massachusetts. Why not just put a general taboo on everyone and wipe out the whole sorry lot?  Or, alternatively, get the stomach to risk capital punishment – eat pol livers.’
‘You sure do hate pols, Boss.’
‘With good reason, Andy. They give me cause for concern.’
‘How so, Boss?”
‘Pols are a non sequitur to my Weltanschauung. They appear human yet do tremendous damage to the species. I should love them.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Democracies are created to produce criminals. It must come as no surprise that there is not one shred of evidence linking government to an actual positive use for it. There is no type of government that has any value. All are simple parasitisms.   There is no reason to believe that those who profit directly from government (pols, judges, bureaucrats, etc.) or those who derive their rights from government to exploit citizens for their own  aggrandizement (lawyers, subsidized bankers, bondsmen, bounty hunters, etc.) are not equally parasitic.  Why should they not be treated (as  in other venues) parasites are always treated when discovered? Is there some reason to suppose that the subhumans must be protected? Of course not! With democracy come pols. With pols comes the need to kill them, yet killing these simians is considered criminal. The only reason there is not open-season on these miscreants is due to treachery, nepotism, or human pusillanimity – cowardice.
“I guess I should’a said you sure do hate democracy.”
“Either way you would be right, Andy. I’m sure you’ve heard it said. . . “Democracy is the best of alternatives even if not good government.” “
“Sure.”
“Well. People who maintain such nonsense have never read Plato. The only reason democracy is not considered as bad as any other tyranny is that voters are part of the corruption. These ignorant, demented and cowardly brutes suborn the blanket state eradication process. There is no animal more stupid than is the human. I believe in the incorruptible stupidity of the human race.”
“I don’t understand why.”
“But you do see now why I should love pols?”
“Yah. They squeeze subhumanity as much or more than you would like to do if you were not you?”
“Yes. You still need an example of incorruptible human stupidity?”

“Yah.”

“Written Law.”
“Written Law?”
“Yah. In virtually all cases of abuse of power, privilege, or circumstance, Written Law has been of no use in producing a remedy. With poverty, war, pestilence, abuse of governmental power, etc. , (and the few instances  where Written Law might possibly be of service), it is precluded from doing so by corruption. Not 0.0000000001% of the applicable cases demonstrate where lawyers & judges are of any use in alleviating negative social pressure.  In fact, the truth is, these legal vermin have but rigged the system to aggrandize themselves and limit human excellence. Written Law also abets the ascendancy of more democracy and worse pols – the worst government and the worst of subhumanry. Laws were enacted, seeking to limit narcotics’ use. Prior to such interdictions, only the weakest & unfit let drugs destroy them. Attempts to limit drugs, using Written Law,  have now  resulted in everyone’s destruction and all authority corrupted. Likewise, prosecution of heterosexual pedophilia has led to the exploitation, slavery and murder of innocent children.”
“I guess I got my example.”
“When is the human race going to learn that constraints on harmless natural propensities twist into bizarre and cruel affects?”
“Never?”
“The world shit on the Boers! Why? Boors bought the birth control bullshit. Limit your reproductive facet. Have fewer kids. Get richer. Blacks, not listening or buying the propaganda, acted naturally. They out-fucked the Boers, gaining superiority in votes. Majority rules in all democracies and nothing good ever comes from a majority or unanimous vote. The very best human beings, by definition, are in the smallest minority. How can the human race improve in democracy? No one hears the voice of excellence. Rabble noise drowns it. Democracy insures savagery, dementia, brutality and ignorance will continue to increase until our demise. Enlightened souls, like the educated & civilized Boers, must pursue their light in the face of such opposition. Women now diminish the market value of male substance.”
“How?”
“Women outnumber & out scream males. Democracies create, interpret – administer written law. Nothing in the world is more cruel & savage than woman. Without male restraint and civilization savagery & cruelty are ascendant. Heterosexual pedophilia prosecution is just another example of majorities twisting the human race into justifying its natural penchant for cruelty.”
“Why those ignorant bastards ever gave women the vote is beyond me!” Bacon quipped.
“Getting back to naked girls, why is it we so fear someone seeing us viewing true loveliness?” Andy asked.
“Yah. That is a good question.” General Aloirav replied.
“No fear exists pretending to find value in phony beauty: painted women, bleating Italian tenors, “modern art” (creations monkeys can do).” Bacon added. “You can vote, go to church, or “rap” chant till you drown.”
“You can find nauseating word collections like Ulysses, Portrait of a Lady, or Portnoy’s Complaint in most bookstores.” General Aloirav said. “Hypocrisy of the highest order, yet no shame attaches. We instead reserve our horror and shame for looking at a naked human’s beauty, sexual acts, a child being born, etc.”
“We insist on covering a woman’s tits, just when they become aesthetically pleasing.” Andy said. “If you show the least interest, they label you a sex deviant.”
“It’s so twisted!” General Aloirav said. “Tits must remain obscured till age removes the allure. Then it’s okay to expose them again.”
“I’ve been thinking.’” Bacon said. “Men love women’s bodies. We agree on that.”
“Sure do.”
“Do we care much for the rest?”
“There’s love, Bacon.” Andy said. “You probably won’t agree, though.”
“I hear talk about that romantic shit.” Bacon said. “You’re right. I don’t believe in it. It’s a female scam.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve seen too many marriages. I’d wager not 1 in 1000 men stay married for love.”
“What do they stay hitched for then, the kids?”
“Yah. That and other assets. If you don’t put up with the bitch you lose your money, car, house, and kids.”
“So, I’ve heard.” Andy replied. “I don’t think it’s just that.”
“It’s enough!”
“I mean not in all cases.”
“No?”
“No.” He said. “The Boss is always talkin’ ‘bout how he only ever found God in a wild cunt in the jungle.”
“So?”
“I think he’s got a point.”
“How?”
“A cunt brings forth children, and people say children are from God. Paradise is being near God, they say. Babies want to get to tits immediately after birth. It’s because they miss paradise. Tits are near cunt. Simple logic. God’s a cunt. Tits are paradise.”
“So you feel women are heaven and men stay with them to be near paradise cunt?”
“Yeah. More er less.”
“Yer’ fulla’ shit, Andy!”
When the laughter subsided, General Aloirav tried to get off the subject of women again, asking. “What other “compensations” do you see here, Andy?”
“You never see a cop.”
“Nor a revenuer.”
“The women. I’ve never seen ‘em like these, anywhere.” Andy answered. “So damn beautiful. Those café du lait’s are angels! And they don’t look at you with suspicion in their eyes like the OG women do.”
“They are something, aren’t they? There are women’s rights advocates here, but they’d revert back into women in a heartbeat if a man paid attention to them.” The General said. “OG women need drugs to give them the courage to face existence. Here in the 3rd World, women still use men for that purpose.”
“I don’t get that damn lonely feeling here, when I see a woman.” Andy said.
“Why not, Andy?” Bacon asked.
“They’re all available here, for one thing. None you can’t touch. What with all the fags, drunks, and maconheros (druggies), men are scarce.”
“Not scarce enough.” Bacon interjected.
“What do you mean, Bacon?” The General asked. “You don’t like any of ‘em?”
“Nope. Sure don’t. I haven’t met one worth a bullet. Brazilians believe that if they cheat you, it proves they’re smarter than you are. They believe good credit is the badge of a fool. If a Brazilian believes he’s smarter than you, he’ll try’n cheat you.” Bacon answered. “Even their women find these monkeys disgusting.”
“That’s true.” Andy agreed. “The girl I was with last night told me pretty much the same thing. She also said there’s a common dream among Brazilian women. They all believe if they catch a gringo, they’ll find paradise. They think that all gringos are tall, white, rich, cultured, educated, stable, affectionate, and have large penises. She said she looks at a man’s feet right after his face. When she saw my feet, she said she knew my dick was big. All their men have small feet and …”
“Bacon buys shoes twice as large as his foot size, just for that reason, right Bacon?”
“Damn, Boss. I didn’t think you knew my secret.”
“Everyone knows it, Bacon.” Andy quipped. “We were just saving yer’ feelings.”
“Fuck you, Andrew.”
“They don’t fear us here, for another.” The General added. “Love won’t grow in fear soil. OG men & women are terrified of each other.”
“No “kill the baby – blame the man” dykes either.” Bacon added. “Women want your baby here. It means a big pension for ‘em.”
“That’s true.” The General added. “But be careful.”
“Of what?” Andy asked.
“A woman easy to get is not necessarily one easy to keep … or get rid of. My second wife was easy. I made a big mistake, marrying her. She made me feel so small, on so many occasions, that sometimes I thought I’d just disappear. One day…I did.”
“Took off, did ya’?”
“Yup.” General Aloirav replied. “Let her scream at me to an empty room.”
“You can’t argue with most women.” Bacon added. “They’re so savage that, even if you win the argument, you’ve lost the battle.”
“Why?”
“You’ve lost the woman.”
“When a woman knows or senses she’s losing her love’s love she tries even harder to retain it.” Andy said.
“And she does just the opposite of what’s necessary.” The General added. “They’re relationship junkies.”
“Women have little vision.” Bacon said. “Affection substitutes.”
“Be careful in letting any woman know, if you feel affection for her. Many of them make the same mistake my second wife did. She assumed my love was weakness. Because I seemed childlike to her, I was a child.” The General added.
“I’d take off too.” Andy said.
“Nevertheless, no matter how much you hate their mother, you shouldn’t stay away from your children.” The General said. “They need you too. It was tough, nearly impossible, in those old dyke-controlled countries for a man to be responsible for his children and yet avoid their mother.”
“Dictatorship of the mother.”
“Absolutely.” Bacon concurred. “My wife was a back-stabbing coward. I put up with her toxic face paint, until it made me vomit. I forced myself to see just her, beyond the stench and clown behavior. She then accused me of sexual aggression. How could I win? She nagged, belittled, shrieked, and whined. The castrating bitch undermined my authority, everywhere, regardless of merit. She took the part of others against me and destroyed my creativity. She treated me like a bastard son.”
“On the suicide track?” Andy asked.
“Yah.”
“A man should be loyal to his children, his dream, and his pregnant women.” The General said.
“In that order?”
“I’m not sure where I’d place the weight. I can say this: When the day, the hour, and the minute come when I feel I can no longer be of use to my children, I will die.”
“You can’t just have kids and then not support their upbringing…” Bacon mocked his amicus curiae.
“The law demands you pay their mother to turn them against you.” Andy added.
“Damn straight, Andy!” Bacon said. “Wives are uncooperative, unappreciative, and unwilling to give credit where credit is due. You have to drag them, kicking and screaming, up the ladder to decency. All my wife’s thoughts, words, and actions made me want to hate myself and fail to fulfill my promise as a human being. Women are irrational, irresponsible, unaccountable, and myopic. They’re superficial, uncivilized, mendacious, masochistic, and vengeful.”
“There’s a genetic basis for all that, Bacon.” The General said. “Nature made women so to support species survival. A woman not that way did not survive conquest. Imagine how long a conqueror would put up with a woman feeling accountable to a former mate. Our values are mainly economic now, not physical. Just because children are no longer Man’s priority is not Nature’s fault.”
“Ignorant bitches just want a man to feed & clothe them – all want to return nothing but indiscriminate sex.” Bacon added. “They get pregnant by any man that fills the slot. They’re lazy, purposeless and without virtue. The one justification for their existence is child rearing, at which they’re incompetent. Yet, judges think they make the best of parents.”
“You’ve met just bad women. Imagine what they could say about our violence.” General Aloirav said.
“Women rarely have the imagination to do much violence, General.” Andy said.
“For that they need men.” Bacon said.
“You were not in Viet Nam, Andy.” The “boss” replied. “The female was much more deadly than the male.”
“They can’t handle themselves and need us to do it.” Bacon said.
“They could say the same about men.” General Aloirav added. “Men need women for the release of tension caused by the pursuit of women.”
“Mainstays of doctors. I never met a woman who in truth valued her health, though.” Andy said. “All wanna’ be anemic. They feel it’s proof they bleed well, and heavy bleeding makes ’em feel more feminine. They’re proud of losing a lotta’ blood.”
Bacon said. “Women are stupid enough to believe that men respect female intelligence and taste.”
“Men will indeed admit, agree, and submit to anything, to get at that cunt.” Andy agreed. “Men are so weak!”
“At least most of the time, teenage women get shown respect just because they have tits.” Bacon said. “The most inane female gets attention because of them. Most men, those successful with women or not, know women are all mental defectives. They intellectualize the abuse women blather about because they know it’s the downside of the creature’s nature. How much time don’t we waste, acknowledging, legitimizing – talking to women, just to get a piece of ass?”
“You don’t enjoy their company at all, Bacon?” Andy inquired.
“Company?! You’ve got preconception written all over you, Andy. We spend a fortune on tailored inanities & go to parties or meetings fit for retarded children. Why? Just to get a chance at a shot o’ leg!”
“I’ve often wondered why we wear that silly garbage and go to those gatherings.”
“I can’t believe it’s all just sexual predation, Bacon.” The General said. “There’s some social twaddle involved in the madness.
“Show me a woman that is not slavish and shallow, and I’ll show you a corpse.”
“Gloria’s not dead, Bacon.” The General said, getting a bit annoyed at Bacon’s misogyny. “She’s got her faults, but I never found her to be that way. She can be irrational and myopic, perhaps even a little masochistic. We can be too. I’ve never known her to be unaccountable, slavish, or shallow. I wouldn’t want her too civilized. I like her vengeful side. I find it speaks to her honesty. When she falls short, she compensates for it in other ways. She’s more loyal than a dog and incredibly generous.”
“Gloria’s an exception, Boss. Everyone knows that.” Bacon answered.
“There are a lot of exceptional women out in the world. You just like bad ones, Bacon.” Andy said.
“Wha’dya’mean?!” Bacon riposted. “I hate the bad ones!”
“You’re too harsh in your generalizing.” Andy replied. “You pick bad ones. When they fuck you over, you feel justified in your universal condemnation.”
“Naw. All the bad ones hit on me!” Bacon replied. “Never met a good one. And, they don’t get any better with age. A woman over 30 is a bitter know-it-all. She can’t listen to reason. Friends and family mean more than a husband ever will. They think they own their children, and fathers have no rights to them. If you hook up with one that has a son, you’re really fucked. She will side with him against you in EVERYTHING. No matter how much a man bleeds for his children, their mother and her pandering pol judge consider them her property.”
“Vote whores.” Andy replied. “Too many women constituents.”
“Judges are worse than other vote whores.” Bacon replied. “They’ll destroy a man, just to get a smile out of that man’s wife or her cunt lawyer.”
“Women’s lib casualties are families.” Andy said. “I’ve seen that myself.”
“Lester Frye’s wife was ashamed of him and his dreams.” General Aloirav said. “Over the years, I saw that take a lot of steam out of his motor. At times, I knew he was as mad as Bacon, but he never vocalized it.”
“I didn’t know that, Boss.” Bacon said.
“Yah. It’s true.” The General said. “I tried talking to Lester about it, but he was too quixotic. He never was much help. Even so, he used to say that women couldn’t dream big dreams, but they had great capacity to destroy them in men. About the worst he’d agree with me about women was that. He called women dream wreckers, but admitted that if it weren’t for his wife his dreams would have been much smaller. He said she destroyed them all and forced him to dream ever greater and more outlandish ones.”
“That’s why I don’t go to marriages or funerals; I hate seeing anyone in a cage.” Bacon said.
“Ya’ really don’t think much of marriage, hunh Bacon?” Andy asked.
“Hell, no!”
“Marriage.” The General replied. “Now there is another study. Two terrified people, holding one another clear from drowning in fear. That’s its function. Annihilation, along with ones progeny, is not just terrifying but also inevitable. When two people manage to buttress themselves against collapsing into the horror of oblivion, or the fear of freedom, then marriage is useful. For sex, love, children, home, God, or country, or any other excuse, it serves little purpose. It just deludes and mocks. One valid purpose exists for it. Two lonely people, each part of a two part psychosis, living, lusting, and vainly hoping against extinction’s ultimate power to separate them.”
“Love.”
“Yah.”
“I think it’s bullshit! You ever watch old married couples?” Bacon said. “Old men bullied & dragged around by their wives … like dogs on a leash. The old lady could never get anything more’n a one-night stand with another man. The old geezer wouldn’t want anything but a one-night stand from another woman. They glorify a lifetime of mutual abuse by remaining together as a testament to their lack of spontaneity. The weakest spouse suspects the other’s motives, accuses the stronger of deception and willful manipulation. They exist to create mutual disgust.
“One using the other?”
“Yah. Friends and enemies at once.”
Andy said. “I don’t agree with Bacon’s monomania against women, Boss. I don’t know how I feel about your assessment yet. My one complaint against women is they’re not keeping their own counsel. Not thinking for themselves. They’re at the mercy of other woman. Why do you suppose they’re such opinion respecters?”
“They worship the herd’s morality, Andy.” The General said. “It’s evolutionary & protective. In that regard, women want more control over their bodies.”
“In what way?”
“Abortion rights, “date rape prosecutions”, etc.”
“Oh.”
“These desires are not volitional. They’re Nature’s way of cutting population down if something scuttles natural selection.”
“Another conspiracy?”
“Perhaps, de facto.”
“Women love burdens, conformity, and smiles.” Andy concluded.
“Mine don’t.” Bacon said.” They worship money & misanthropy.”
“Nothing wrong with the last one, but I disagree.” The General replied. “Women need company more than men. The price of self-actualization is herd security loss. It’s too expensive for them. Fear of ostracism overwhelms desire for excellence. They seem shallow because their spirit usually breaks before they come of age. A man’s isn’t broken until much later. His wife and Society grind it into the dirt. It’s a rare man who survives marriage with his spirit intact.”
“There are many abusive men, Boss.” Andy said.
“It’s a miracle there aren’t more.” Bacon replied. “Women are easy to abuse and so deserving of it. They have energy. I’ll give’em that. In a heated discussion, long after the need for speech is over; they can keep it going strong. A woman’s tongue does as much damage to a man, as his fists do to her. Yet, his fists are considered criminal weapons and unusable on her. She can destroy whom she will with her tongue. Why is that?”
“Asshole judges.” The General answered. “Like those two we wasted for you. Pols & judges let the women run wild for their vote. Men end up paying the bill.”
“Most men in trouble for heterosexual child molesting are driven to it.” Bacon complained.
“Why do you say that, Bacon?” The General asked. “That’s a pretty strong statement.”
“I’m not talking about yer’ natural pervert. That’s another animal altogether.”
“I guess you lost me.”
“Guys I know, got hit with that rap, were royally fucked. They were carrying a lotta’ the guilt on their own shoulders for a sexually tired, over 35 yr.-old woman. She promised to love him to death … until other things got to be more important to her.”
“I understand. You’re not blaming women for child molestation. You’re just saying that all the guilt a man must carry for it should be shared by his disenchanted wife.”
“Yeah. That, and all those framed by their ex’s.”
“I’ve never been married, like you two… just thought about it.” Andy said. “You don’t paint a pretty picture.”
“Don’t marry an OG girl, Andy. It’s still, pretty much, the USA.” The General said. “Those women all wear pants and can’t handle the independence they’ve opted for. They made laws, forcing men to support them. It’s a huge subterfuge; they’re living as dependents and yet throw their weight around as if independent. Beware of exposing the lie. Marry a Pontibus girl.”
“It doesn’t matter from where you pick ‘em. All women betray.” Bacon said. “It’s sex & luxury they care for. Women lie, cheat on their husbands, and steal for it. As they age, they do the same for what they call love and luxury, even selling their children to the meat-grinder to obtain them.”
“I can’t agree with your assessment of women either, Bacon.” General Aloirav said. “They piss me off at times too, but not so much as they have you. My first wife was an angel, my second wasn’t. Gloria is everything I could ever want in a woman.”
“Your 1st wife was still a child, 12, wasn’t she, Boss?”
“Yah. So was I, 18.”
“If she’d a lived…”
“Perhaps.”
“Can’t live with’em…blah, blah” Andy added. “The kinds of things, Bacon talks about, always scared me off. I’ve heard similar things from many men. It appears to me that marriage is an equilibrated state of reciprocal extortion.”
“Many men stay with women out of fear of the financial or social ruin that goes along with the alternative.” The General added. “I’ve seen that.”
“Mr. Frye told me once.” Bacon said. “If your woman is against your idea, you can be pretty certain it’s a good one.”
“You’re right about one thing, Bacon.” Andy said. “All women overvalue their cunts, beyond all tinge of reality.”
“After giving birth through that sacrosanct part of their anatomy.” The General said. “They believe its fruit is likewise so endowed… untouchable, and untainted by anything resembling a possible malefaction.”
“Especially their male children.” Bacon said.
“Yah, that’s true.” Andy said. “Strange, isn’t it?”
“Tell us again about how we came to get women, Bacon.” General Aloirav requested.
“You guys will just mock me.” He replied. “Ya’ don’t believe in God.”
“No, but it’s funny.” The General said and got up to use the bathroom. “Wait’ll I get back.”

Mr. Otorp left his office at Company headquarters and went to see his mentor.
“Mr. Otorp to see you, Sir.” The nurse said.
“Send him over.” Mr. Frye replied, looking up from his staring out over the ocean vastness.
“Yes, Sir.”
Mr. Otorp found Mr. Frye seated on a chaise lounge chair on his garden platform. The Founder did not appear much different physically from usual. He was thinner and paler but as frail looking as ever. What didn’t show was how little of his spirit remained.
“Good morning, Dr. Frye.”
“Good morning, Mr. Otorp. Nice to see you.”
“Thank you.”
“How are things on Level-Twelve?”
“Fine.”
“How’s the new antenna coming?”
“Very slow. I’m afraid.”
“Too bad. Anything else?”
“Aloirav came to see me.”
“I’m glad. What did he have to report?”
“Oh, not much. He’s spending a great deal and appeared to come by just to cast aspersions on Adam Quake.”
“Were his reasons solid?”
“I didn’t give him much of a chance to explain, I’m afraid. He was so rude to Adam and I that I had to send him on his way.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He came in making noises about how you’d given him power to save the Company from MMIM, and I was not to stand in his way.”
“I did indeed ask him for his assistance. As I said. I want you to help him. He had nothing to report?”
“Nothing we didn’t already know. Weapons missing from the Twenty-Seventh Level and such…I told him we were on to it. He mentioned something about a prison’s involvement, but nothing more. He just used that as a way of trying to drag Adam down. He has some idea Adam is an MMIM sympathizer.”
“I see.”
“I don’t know how Aloirav can help us. I wish you had talked to me pr…”
“And how was he rude?” Mr. Frye interrupted him.
“He left our meeting, angry because I was querying him about his heavy expenditures.”
“Just that?”
“Said I made him wait too long too, wanted me to drop everything just to see him.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Make him wait?”
“A few minutes, I suppose. Accused me of being disrespectful too.”
“Were you?”
“Perhaps a bit. He is a serial killer, and an incorrigible, after all, Mr. Frye. I don’t know what you want me to say. You seem to be accusing me!”
“I want to know why you and he can’t work together.”
“I’m trying. I had to call to him in the hall to get him to return to face me.”
“I thought you said you sent him away?”
“Later. Hearing my voice in the hall must have concerned Adam, because he came to the conference room to inquire. Aloirav then accused him of eavesdropping, came close to calling Adam a thief.”
“I see.”
“I hope so. The man is insufferable.”
“That he is. Would you leave us now, Mr. Otorp? I’m feeling a little weak.”
Mr. Otorp left and returned to his office. Lester made a few holophone calls. The headquarters’ receptionist told him that General Aloirav did indeed wait about an hour for an audience with Mr. Otorp. She mentioned that the General made numerous phone calls, prior to his visit, but Mr. Otorp avoided taking them. Adam Quake confirmed the shabby treatment of himself by the General. Mr. Frye returned to the lounge chair to rest.

“Bacon.” Andy asked, as General Aloirav moved out of sight into the bathroom.
“Yah.”
“Y’ever notice how kids and animals follow the General around?”
“Yah. Kinda neat, ain’t it?” Bacon replied.
“Never saw anything like it. Yesterday, at the park.” Andy continued.
“Yah. The capybvara.”
“That thing wouldn’t give the guy a minute’s peace, always under his feet!”
“And now that little girl.” Bacon added.
“You saw?”
“That mother needed to get up and get her child before the Boss could use the can. He had to chase her out twice.” Bacon answered.
“It’s almost creepy.”
“What is it they see that we don’t, hunh?” Bacon asked.
“Wha’dya’mean? We follow him too.” Andy replied.
“DEA, CIA, NSA and Treasury too.”
“That’s true too!” Andy said, laughing.
“I remember. The same thing used to happen with Mr. Frye.” Bacon said. “I once went with him to John Ball Park Zoo in Grand Rapids. There was a children’s section. He liked to go there and watch the kids play with the animals. We had to leave because the kids, ducks and geese, goats and rabbits followed Mr. Frye wherever he went. The park management even once accused him of feeding the things.”
The General returned and Bacon said. “Boss.”
“Yah.”
“I was just telling Andy about how kids & animals used to follow Mr. Frye around.”
“It’s true Andy. He was a regular animal magnet. We were at a farm on the Amazon once. The fazendero (farmer) caught these big box turtles, jabuchee. As wild as any other jungle animal. When they saw Lester, they turned toward him and wouldn’t turn away. Everywhere he went, there they were, at his feet.” Shaking his head, he repeated. “Wild animals. Never saw the like. But you were gonna’ tell us how we got women, Bacon.”
“O.K. Right. Well. It was like this, see. God made man and loved what he made. Man loved life and didn’t want to disappear someday. He asked God to make his life eternal. It took God by surprise. He knew that eternal life came at the price of great unhappiness… living with the Devil. Nevertheless, God was soft, and he gave Man that for which he asked, life eternal. Along with it, though, came an enormous condition. Man must help God live with the Devil. Man would pay for his eternal life with the terrible knowledge of true misery in the company of the Devil incarnate. Man agreed.” Bacon replied, and then waited for a strategic second.
“But Man doesn’t have eternal life, Bacon.” Andy asked, as Bacon expected.
“Yes, he does. Children. God gave Man children…life eternal. Their mothers were the price he had to pay. Woman…to bedevil, betray, torment, and plague him. They’re the price God exacted for granting man immortality.
After the laughter dissipated, the conversation turned to other business, and Andrew said. “We’ve looked everywhere we had leads, General. No one knows what became of Cinza.”
“He couldn’t have just disappeared, Andy!” Bacon said.
“Another family is occupying his Cabo Frio house near Buzios. He, Dubbin, and the Brazilian minions are gone.”
“What about his other sons?”
“His two Brazilian sons and their mother disappeared too. Nobody knows where. Swain’s gone too.”
“Swain’s the one did time.”
“Yah. OG, 5 years, possession of cocaine.”
“Where have traces, you’ve made, shown possibilities?” General Aloirav asked.
“Scotland, Luxembourg, Nassau, and Simi.”
“What about them?”
“Simi’s just a small Greek island. Easy to check out. He was never there. It was a dead end.” Wilks answered. “Nassau. He was there, but not for long. He’s stamped out of the country.”
“Scotland?”
“Looking for a needle… I went in and out of one town so many times, I felt like a penis. But there’s some hope in Luxembourg.”
“Really?”
“Yah. There’s a small chateau on a mountain in Kautenbach.”
“Cinza don’t like cold. He’s always lived where it was warm. Luxembourg’s cold.” Bacon said.
“It’s not real cold.” The General riposted. “Not like Boston. Kautenbach is like spring year around. What made you go there, Andy?”
“Had a Brazilian woman, Djani, gave me a son. She did some work for Cinza once, phony marriage and phonier divorce to get a guy Brazilian citizenship. Paid her peanuts. After the bastard set me up, he killed our son. Shot the kid in her arms. The round went through her tubes. Told her he didn’t want any kids coming around someday looking for revenge or money. She nearly died, could never get pregnant again.”
“You went to see her?” General Aloirav queried.
“Yah. She lives on Level Eleven now. Has a nice guy. Shared a few glasses o’Merlot with them and explained my problem.”
“You told them everything!?” Bacon asked, alarmed.
“Enough to get Djani’s help.”
“She wants to know if he dies. Said she’d be very interested if he dies sooner than later. Thinks about our son a lot. She cries and can’t get to sleep sometimes thinking about him, dreams about him. She remembered Ditmar once told her he had a summer residence in Kautenbach.”
“Where is the chateau?”
“Haven’t found it yet. Got four men wandering the roads and trails… You seem to know the place?”
“I’ve been there.” The General replied. “If you hit another dead end, Andy. Remember. He’s rich. So, he’s weak. And what’s more, he understands other people’s weaknesses. So, be careful.”
“Okay.”
“And another thing. Don’t get married to that Nassau exit stamp. Dit worked in the phony identity trade for years. He could have had IMM cops stamp him out for a few guilders and still be jumpin’ black Dutch cunt.”
“Right.”

A few days later, the General and Bacon were at a favorite Pontibus airstrip restaurant. A bottle of pinot noir, two glasses, and some sautéed mushrooms shared their table. The holophone called for them, and Bacon went to take it. Andrew was at the other end, reporting to the General.
“We found him, Bacon.” Andy said.
“Where?”
“Kautenbach. Small chateau in those high hills near the Gare.”
“Just a minute. I’ll get the Boss”.
The General took the connection, asking. “Gare side of the Sure, Andy?”
“Other side.”
“You watch the place round the clock?”
“Yah.”
“Be careful. The train guys can see you crossing the tracks to get to the bridge. If you make a lot of trips…”
“We’re taking the long way around, through the tunnel.”
“Must get cold at night.”
“Every minute. It isn’t easy. We use binoculars. Except from above, we can’t get too close. There are trees near the place, and he almost never leaves it.”
“He’s no military man. Trees close by, built on the side of a mountain.”
“Easy place to take.”
“Yah. Never leaves? Interesting.”
“We thought so too.”
“What about his sons?”
“There are people with him. I couldn’t be certain if they were his sons.”
“He’s weak, but I don’t know if he’d give us their whereabouts if we beat him. He might be tough to crack. I want Dubbin too. Watch him longer, Andy. Don’t let him leave.”
“Right, General. And if he tries to?”
“Cut all the wires and take the place. Be quiet. Use gas. Call me afterward, pronto.”
“Right, General.”
“And Andy.”
“Yah?”
“Don’t kill him yet. We want him to tell us where he’s holding our money.”
“Good. He’s worth $5 billion to me, plus interest for ten years.
“We feel he owes the Company and the New Society $370 trillion, plus interest.”
“We wouldn’t want to lose him.”
“No, we wouldn’t.”
The General left the holophone and returned to the table. He expected Bacon to be excited with the good news, but the heavyset man seemed subdued.
“Boss?”
“Yah, Bacon?”
“Why can’t I find a good woman like you did? Andy finds them. As easy as women are in Brazil, I still find just the hapaeggas. I remember you’n Gloria. You were so happy together. When that shit in Omaha, with Francis and your family, hit you on the chin. She was right there to comfort you. All that consolation and sharing of life’s vicissitudes you got with her. I see Andy with it, with the girls he gets. I can’t get it. Never could. Is something wrong with me?”
“Maybe, Bacon.”
“What? What can it be?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I think you have found some good broads, and you lost them.”
“How?”
“Maybe you think too much of them.”
“No. That can’t be true. They’re rotten!”
“I think it is. Before you’n I turned 100, I had a good friend. He had the same problem you have, messed up every relationship he got into.”
“Yup. Sounds like me.”
“It does. He once told me that women were born smarter than us.”
“Sounds like a smart guy.”
“Oh, he was. Real smart and as unhappy as you.”
“So why did he have so many problems with cunt?”
“Bacon. The whole human race is glorified dogshit.”
“Yah, more’r’less.”
“Why should one sex be any better than the other?”
“Didn’t say they were.”
“Yes, you did. A while back, we were discussing women with Andy.” We were relating some of the problems we see and have with them. You got descriptive. Your pejoratives were very heavy.”
“I remember. You told me it was Nature’s way of saving their lives in the event of a conquest raid.”
“Yes. I did. Bacon, you never even breached the surface. They’re human! Much worse than you described. Your enumerating just a few of their faults puts them on a pedestal over us!”
“You think so?”
“Yes. I do. Except biologically, they’re much weaker than we are. They can’t control themselves or their emotions fer shit! They need our help for that.”
“No?”
“Yes. That’s why they don’t like us when we’re drunk. We act like them, feminine.”
“Uncontrollable.”
“Yes. We’re more important to women than just for ‘ar pekkers and pesos.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“I didn’t think so. I remember you asking Andy & I if we love them more than just for the obvious reasons.”
“I did.”
“The answer is yes. That’s what we love about them more’n their bodies. Their weakness. You want that weakness, that softness.”
“I do?”
“Yeah! It brings out the masculine in us. But when it hits you, you fight it!”
“I guess maybe I do.”
“That sharing something that comes from mutual help with complementary bumps and depressions. It passes you by, because you want them to respond like men. They can’t.”
“That’s true, I do.”
“Once Gloria and I were having a fight. I accused her of being much the way you described them. She shouted back at me. “Those are my faults! Jealous, Aloirav? You turn’n fag on me now?!” It stopped me cold. I just laughed. Then she laughed, and our fight ended. Don’t give them so much credit, Bacon. Kick ‘em off that fuckin’ pedestal. Understand their faults & weaknesses. Compensate for ‘em or let them pass as if unnoticed. Love ‘em for ‘em. I find it amazing that they can love us, despite our faults. I’ve known countless men with qualities much worse than those of the women of which you complain. They had women who loved them. Don’t feel so inferior. The classes of dogshit are not sex specific.”
“Speaking of Gloria…”
“She’s holding up. The first years in Hess’s old cell were tough. She even refused the elixir for awhile.”
“Why don’t you get her out?”
“She wants to help us now and feels she can do more where she is. I’m not convinced. I need her. I want her near me…but it’s her own wish.”

Neither with you nor without you do my sorrows find relief.
With you, because you kill me. Without you, because I die. Gypsy Ballad

Chapter Fifty-Two

Andrew Wilks was on a Luxembourg holophone, saying. “He tried to leave, boss. We stopped him, cut the lines and took the house. His son Swain is here with him, but Dubbin isn’t.”
“Where is he?” General Aloirav asked from his Hotel Aloirav office.
“They won’t say. I didn’t want to start persuading them, until you arrived.”
“We’ll be right there, Andy.”
“We’ll be waiting.”
From the Andirobal hotel’s third floor, the General shouted to his friend in the pool.
“Bacon!”
“Yah, Boss.”
“Get packed. We’re going to Luxembourg.”
“Andy took Cinza?”
“Right.”
“Payback time.” Bacon muttered to himself, as he lumbered off the chaise lounge chair.
The two flew to Fortaleza yet that day. They touched down there and immediately took the ferry to the South American Pontibus’s entrance foot. There a magnelev took them to Gomera Island in the Canaries. (Isabella almost caught Columbus a ’dallying here 6 centuries prior.) Another train brought the two to the French cantilever at Brest.
After sundown, they arrived at the Luxembourg Gare. Catching the last train to Kautenbach, a Newer Society member met them at the depot. They crossed the Sure River and walked together to the chateau. It was a 15-minute jaunt along the river’s bank and up the mountain pathway. As they approached the house, Andrew Wilks’ voice told them to halt.
The three identified themselves, and Andy passed them into the building. Ditmar was sitting in a chair, well secured with furnace tape. Swain mirrored his father’s condition. Ditmar’s wife and Brazilian descendants were not in the house. Swain’s wife and progeny were also elsewhere.
General Aloirav thought it fortunate. They need harm no ancillaries until necessary. No witnesses. Two dead men lay on the floor near the rear door.
“How’d that happen?” General Aloirav asked Andy, indicating the two bodies.
“We took Cinza as he left, General. He tried to run, but then helped us subdue Swain, the single occupant, without gas. We kept the noise down. I didn’t feel right having the neighbors involved in our party. Uninvited guests are such drags. The cordwood back there came in later.”
“I’m listening.”
“Swain wanted to fight. We discouraged him, without any publicity, as far as we know. He’s so old, it meant just pushing him down into a chair. The fellow sustained the fat lip and promising black eye during a later discussion. Cinza’s free of wear & tear.”
“And the cordwood, Andy?”
“Both came in at the same time with coffee and croissants. We let them set the food on the table, before we sent them on their way.”
“Bacon.”
“Yah, Boss.”
“Get a detail. Bury the cordwood before dawn. We may be here awhile.”
“Right. You find anything, Andy?”
“Not much, Boss. Papers, a bunch a’ blank Brazilian passports, but no bank statements as to where our money’s hidden.”
“Take the gag off Ditmar. If he misbehaves, let him feel pain. Not too much. He’s had bum tickers all his life, and he’s old.” The gag disappeared, and General Aloirav continued. “Well, well. How are we today, Dit?”
“You fuckin’ bastard, Aloirav! You’ll never get away with this!”
“Already have.”
“I got friends!”
“Yah. In the box thanks to you.”
“They were trash!”
“Hear that Andy, Bacon? Dit says you’re trash.”
“He’s an expert.”
“They were never friends!”
“Hey, Andy. Dit says you were never his friend.”
“Cheap, isn’t it? Denying your friends when you’re so well situated.”
“T’sa shame, dirty shame!”
“Heard ya’ got out, Aloirav. Never expected it. Sure took me by surprise.”
“I’m sure. Where’s Dubbin, Ditmar?!”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes, I would. It’s been a long time since he rolled his van.”
“What!?… Asshole!… Oh, that Cabo Frio thing? I forgot. That was some time ago.”
“Yes. You’ve been very busy, I hear. Building up quite a nest egg with our money.”
“Lost, Rav, all lost.”
“Really?”
“You think I’d be hiding here, without a security army, if I was well-heeled yet?”
“Have no idea.” The General replied. “Where is it?”
“What?”
“Our money, Dit?”
“Oh, yah. Crooked bankers took it all. You know how it is in the world today.”
“No. Tell me how it is, Dit.”
“The economy.”
“What about it?”
“World economy is nothing but wholesale theft. Money is just an accounting tool. You never took an economics course, Aloirav?”
“Sure didn’t, Dit.”
“If you had, you’d know.”
“Bullshit! You never took a course in your life, that wasn’t inter, you fat fuck!”
“Economics is the study of legitimized theft. All types of it – robbery, extortion, fraud, embezzlement, etc. Why do you think there are lawyers?”
“Bad examples?”
“Ya’ don’t know, do ya’?”
“Point of reference for depravity? The negative limit to sub-humanity? Enlighten me.”
“Ya’ really don’t know!”
“I suppose yer’ gonna’ tell me, aren’t you, Dit?”
“Sure. It’s to arrange the details to conform to the exigencies.”
“What details?”
“Everyone steals, Rav. Status depends on how you steal your living and from whom you steal it. Women are amoral and don’t give a damn about where the $ comes from, as long as you spend it on them. It’s the milieu you desire that judges you on your victims, and it’s there you must focus your mendacity.”
“I see. Robbing a little old lady in the supermarket of 25 bucks makes you a low-class thug. Bankers and pols robbing a 100 bucks every month from her pension check or grocery bill makes them upper class.”
“The lad’s learning.”
“You, I presume, are in the banker box?”
“You got it!”
“No. You got it, and I want it back!”
“Ya’ jist don’t get it do ya’?”
“I guess not.”
“I don’t have it!”
“Where is it?!”
“Look. Between friends and acquaintances financial matters may have a moral nature. I don’ no. Between individuals and institutions, morality is but a cynical collection tool. There is no morality to business. You never could understand the dynamics.” Ditmar explained. “And you a biologist too.”
“What’s that got to do with you stealing our money?”
All life is struggle, Rav. You and your fancy biological theories and tricks. You think they only work on animals? You sure never learned how they apply to humans.”
“Are you gonna’ educate me, Dit?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you live so long? Lester said he gave you no more elixir after you set him up and robbed him.”
“The elixir was great, but there are other ways to stay alive. Modern medicine is not as good, and it’s expensive as hell, but it works. I’ve had lotsa’ transplants. I’m 90% someone else. Swain’s over a hundred too. So’s Dubbin.”
“Where’s Dubbin?”
“You’re getting repetitive, Rav.” Ditmar replied. “You should get some new material.”
“I’m listening.”
“Right from the get-go, your mother conceives you because Daddy’s sperm stole her egg from some other sperm. You were born stealing your mother’s blood. Later, you steal her milk or a cow’s to grow. Ya’ get sick and the bugs steal yer’ blood & energy. The government steals your father’s blood in taxes; he steals the government’s blood evading them. You let yer’ guard down and a mosquito steals your blood. Malaria steals your equilibrium. Neighbor kid steals yer’ mother’s tomatoes. Your daughter’s in dreamland and some SOB rapes her, steals her cunt for a while. If she gets pregnant, he steals rent on her uterus. If she doesn’t let a quack steal the fetus along with the grana, the father steals a large measure of her life’s freedom. Drop yer’ soap in the shower and …whoops – lost yer’ virginity! The mechanic takes your wallet by cheating you on your car repairs. The car dealer cheats you when you buy the lemon. Every shopkeeper in the world gets you, takes an obscene profit, when you don’t know something they do. The government stole part, maybe all, of your life when you went to Viet Nam. Whatever you think you own, if you don’t nail it down, or hold it real close, you lose it. There’s always something poised to pounce on or exploit a weakness. In the end, you get cancer and steal your own life. Wise up Jack!
“Everything’s a scam.”
“You got it!” Ditmar said. “The lad’s wakin’ up.”
“And I owe it all to you.”
“Yup.”
“Nothing more. Just take until ya ’get taken?”
“Yer’ still livin’ in morality land.”
“Guess I’ll have to move, hunh, Dit?” The General replied.
“Yup.”
“I’ll run & hide from people, wanting to kill me, like you.” The General mocked.
“Who says I’m hidin’?”
“In the mountains, Dit?! No broads? No life, existing like a fuckin’ commy.” General Aloirav continued the derision. “Aren’t you ashamed? Isn’t the price a tad too high for enjoying amorality?”
“You don’t know nuttin’, Aloirav!”
“Hear that Andy, Bacon? Ditmar’s lost our money.”
“T’sa shame, bitter shame.”
“Whatever shall we do?”
“The problem is this, Dit.” General Aloirav explained. “I know you’ve spent your life wallowing with pols.”
“So what?!”
“So what?! My, my. Such ingenuousness.”
“Get it out, Aloirav!”
“Bacon.”
“Yah, Boss?”
“What is a pol?”
“Boss?”
“A pol? Define Ditmar’s mud-loving friends.”
“I can’t, Boss.”
“Yes. It is difficult. I’ll grant you that, Bacon. Let me do it for you?”
“Please do.”
“A pol is a legal miscreant who makes false friendships to betray community trust for personal gain. Understand?”
“Yah.”
“Good. Now we know the basics. Ditmar is a pol, and he likes pols. But, he’s such a sophisticated pol, betraying the community no longer has zest for him. He just betrays his friends. Dit’s a low-class pol, cuz’ he’s chic and won’t endure the boredom of being but a run-of-the-mill public traitor. He’s stepped out of the closet, and will never again rise to exalted pol status.”
“In yer’ ear, asshole!”
“Dit’s one of those who feels life is nothing more than a series of trust developments with subsequent betrayal for gain. “Why hide it,” he asks. “It’s just biology.” Dit got to thinking that way as a kid on his daddy’s farm. He worked with animals, chickens, pigs, other pols, etc. You use food to get them to trust you. Then, when they do, and approach to eat, you pounce. Works every time, doesn’t it Dit?”
“It can.”
“Makes life so much fun, such a meaningful existence. That what you did to Frye, too?”
“Look Rav. The DEA, FBI, NSA, and Treasury beat and tortured my son Dubbin’s friend. They stole his $ and sent people to kill Frye in Rio.”
“Frye was an innocent babe. If they went after him for something, it was a frame.”
“Don’ know. Maybe the guy invented too much.”
“They didn’t get any info outta’ you, did they?”
“Nothin’!”
“D..i..i..i..i..t…”
“Well, …I …might have …explained a few points of business … but nothing that … hurt nobody. Dubbin didn’t say nothin’ to ‘em at all.
“Then what did they want to damage Lester for?” The General asked.
“I donno’. I tol’ ya’, maybe Dubbin’s friend said somethin’.” Ditmar answered. “When they were givin’ him a dustin’. Ya’ know how it is, sometimes ya’ say things…”
“I see.” The Boss replied. “And the cash?”
“I took all the $ Frye left in keeping with me.” Ditmar continued. “I admit it.”
“To protect it, right?”
“I used it. Had to. I hadda’ get Dubbin free. What good would it do Frye? He was on the DEA’s hit list.”
“Because of Dubbin!”
“They were gonna’ put’em in the box!”
“You didn’t need’a drag Frye into it! Asshole!”
“I wanted to make him desperate.”
“Why?”
“Son of a bitch wouldn’t sell me any of that youth serum, the elixir.”
“There was more, Dit. You tried to get my bugs, you bastard!”
“I thought if he cracked, my Arab friends might get him to accept $10 billion, and we’d split it. Just business. You were in the box. Doido. Yudda’ done the same.”
“You took trillions from Lester & I.”
“Really. Was it that much? I’d forgotten.”
“Why would Lester want to accept money from Arabs?”
“It was time.”
“Time for what?”
“With all the shit the US gave him, we expected he’d want revenge. Who wouldn’t? Frye. He was different.”
“He didn’t crack?”
“Hell no. Frye turned us down flat. The Arabs wanted to hit the OG with more than their usual bombs n’ shit. They wanted a virus to destroy the US. One a’ yers’.”
“He wouldn’t play, so you sold him out?”
“I had no choice. They were after me, damn it!”
The General continued with a subdued tone. “Betrayal surprises you the first time, Bacon, Andy. As you grow older, you discover it surprises only by its absence. Rich men, like Dit here, need money like humans need food. They love it beyond the norm. Their extreme weakness precludes the usual controls. Knowing no other way to show worth, thinking it proves their personal value, they eschew the fold. It doesn’t even give an indication of worth, but, like cocaine, they get addicted to its pursuit.”
“Fuck you, Aloirav!”
“Quis qui quod, I’m afraid we need to talk to Dubbin, Dit. He likes to tell everything he knows, and then some.” The General said. ”He’s supposed to be a real scream.”
“You’ll never find him.” Ditmar said.
“Oh, yes we will, but we can start on you two.”
“Swain won’t talk. DEA discovered that after they put him in the hospital for 2 weeks.”
“That was over a hundred years ago, Dit. And he’s not had any youth elixir for 16 years, if ever.”
“If you hit me, my ticker’l give you more trouble than you want. It’s my twenty-first.”
“You’ve never heard about thiopental or scopolamine, Ditmar?” Bacon asked.
“What’s ‘at?”
“Andy. Do you believe your ears?” General Aloirav riposted. “Ditmar doesn’t know about Sodium Pentothal and scopolamine! Do you suppose he hasn’t been keeping up with the old movies?”
“I don’t know, Boss. If he’s been so remiss, he might not even know about the new replacement items.”
“Ya’ reckon?”
“Ah, yes, Boss.” Bacon said. “They’re even better. They leave your brain all mushy afterwards. Like a nice soufflé.”
“Nooh?” The General replied. “You mean those new replacement items that won’t tickle his ticker, before he spills his guts?”
“Yah, those new replacement items.”
“You’re all bullshit!” Cinza riposted, shaken.
“His baby boy here doesn’t have a bum ticker. We can start on him the old-fashioned way. What’say, General?” Andrew Wilks asked.
“How right you are. Andy. Please proceed.”
“He’s old too, Rav.” Cinza riposted. “He’s on his 7th ticker, and it ain’t so good either.”
Andrew softened up Swain some. It did little. The old man had done time and was tough. It became necessary to use the drugs to get Dubbin’s address. They got the region but nothing else, no Cartesian coordinates. Cinza would not give up anything, the money’s location, son’s address, nothing, even with the drugs. After getting the information on Dubbin, Swain was unimportant to the men of the Newer Society. Nevertheless, as a potential First-Surface prosecution investigative witness, his negative importance grew.
General Aloirav said. “Dit. I am not one of those who seek revenge for stealing my money. I just want it back. I won’t torture you in reprisal. I don’t even care about how you betrayed Lester and me. You did it because you’re a weak pathetic piece of shit. I can’t punish the whole world for dishonorable conduct, even if I thought it would help. But, the betrayal of my people…I can’t let that go. I’m sure you understand. It’s a matter of survival. Swain is going to a better place than this hell in which we live. You may also need some encouragement to remember where yer’ holding our money. So I’m gonna’ let Swain leave Earth, if you have nothing further to say. Anything you want to tell him?”
“No. Fuck you Aloirav!”
“You sure? Once the needle goes in, I won’t stop.”
“Goodbye son.”
“No, Dad. Tell them!”
Ditmar Hanks turned his head to the side as General Aloirav began applying the drug.
“Andy!”
“Yah, Boss.”
“Twist that fucker’s head back this way!”
Andy did so. They let “new replacement items” kill frantic struggling Swain in front of his revived father.”
“Please, Dad.” He wailed. “Don’t let them kill me!”
“I’m doing it for your kids, my boy.” Cinza replied. “See you in heaven.”
“This is what you were talking about, right Dit? Struggle!? Swindle!? How about rip-off!? Bye. Bye. Swain.”
“You will never understand the value of money, Aloirav!” Dr. Cinza said.
“Oh, yes, I do.” General Aloirav replied. “In my system there are things money can’t compare to, can’t buy.”
“Like what?” Dr. Cinza asked.
“The lives of my children, for one.”
“Bullshit! What else?”
“There’s not enough money in the world to compensate me for my 2nd greatest desire.”
“Which is what, Boss?” Andy asked.
“Having the entire world of sub humanity hate and fear me. So much so that they would want to kill me at any cost.”
“You’d want that more than love, Boss?” Bacon asked.
“Yes.”
“You are a bigger monster than I thought, Aloirav.” Ditmar said.
“And you’re much cheaper than I ever dreamed, Dit.”
The General sent Bacon back to the Pontibus to get the other son, Dubbin. The region Swain divulged, while under the hypnotic, was on Luz over Nassau. On the way, Bacon collected four more members of the Newer Society. They found Dubbin and his small security force drinking at a local pub near his module. They removed his security to the edge of the cantilever platform and gave each one their first flying lesson. Then, they took Dubbin home.
None of Dubbin’s descendants lived with him. There was no need for ceremony. Bacon did remember that the General mentioned how “the flake invented information” with too much applied pressure. Dubbin gave them what information he could remember after moderate force. Bacon contacted General Aloirav.
The General said. “Make a recording of Dubbin confessing everything he knows. Keep all evidence of persuasion out of it, but escalate the force necessary, until he becomes another Mother Goose. Make the ending real exciting for Ditmar, Bacon.”
“Right. What then?”
“We won’t need him anymore. He can join his brother. Record his conversation, until he expires under your caresses.”
Bacon complied with the orders. Candid videos of Dubbin with his frightful screaming went on the digital recording for Ditmar’s edification. Although the storyline was subdued, the special effects were intriguing. Dubbin didn’t need the application of drugs to leave the planet. He died under the “persuasion”.
Bacon went back to Luxembourg. They played the graphic recording at the chateau, and Cinza’s appreciation was impressive. A replacement crew of Newer Society people took over Dr. Cinza’s care and keeping. The others, except for Bacon and Andy, went back to other tasks. Every one of the surviving old “Group” soon learned how the Cinza story was unfolding. The Aloirav charisma grew.
“You want your other kids to go the way Dubbin and Swain did, Ditmar?” The General asked.
Ditmar said nothing, so General Aloirav continued. “Let’s see. We have some grandkids and great grandkids too, don’t we, Ditto?”
“You’d do that too?”
“No. You would, if you don’t tell us where you put our cash.” Andrew Wilks answered.
“I told you, it was all stolen.”
“And we told you; you’re a liar.”
“No. I swear. The bank took it.”
“Ditmar doesn’t drink, Bacon. Did you know that?”
“No, Boss. It comes as a complete surprise.”
“I was afraid of that.” General Aloirav said. “Bacon, Bacon, Bacon. What am I to do with you?”
“Andy.”
“Yah, Boss.”
“Did you see Bacon listening to Dit?”
“I did, Boss.”
“You were starting to believe him now, weren’t you, Bacon?” General Aloirav queried.
“No, Boss. I swear. I’d never do that.”
“Who can trust a man that talks of tea totaling as some kind of virtue?”
“Certainly not I.” Andy, slapping his chest, added to the farce.
“Poor, poor, Bacon.” The General moaned, then turned to Ditmar and said. “Greed is often mistaken as intelligence. Isn’t that so, Dit?”
“Fuck you!”
“Now, now, Ditty. Let’s not get testy. What bank?”
“BIL. Banque Internationale A Luxembourg, 69, route d’Esch, L-2953 Luxembourg.”
“Who was the banker?”
“Vanderschrick.”
“Fiduciaries?”
“STEVENS, THOMAS & PARNERS – Marc & Ben Smet. Father & son team. A woman named Julie was their secretary. Beautiful blond Flemish bitch.”
“They stole it all?”
“Every cent.”
“Did you chase them?”
“Yah. They disappeared. When I found them and started asking questions, they thought me too aggressive. Threatened me with the law. I made an appointment with them at Brussels’ Airport Sheraton to talk. That guy that hooked me up with them, Richard, from SCOPE. He set it all up. Said he’d talk to them, and I’d get my money back. Just before the meeting was to begin, I got a bad feeling. I left the hotel and went to the parking lot. Watching from there, with binoculars, I saw some eastern European’s get out of Smet’s brown Jag. I didn’t need anyone to explain to me why those automatics were in their hands. They were hit men. I knew it. Marc Smet got out and looked around the hotel. When he couldn’t find me, he left with the hit men.”
“That it?”
“Later, they sabotaged my plane in Apiau.”
“Brazil?”
“Yah. I just about died in the explosion.”
“So. They were hunting you?”
“What do you think? I went to visit someone in Bucharest, later. I took the Orient Express through Salzburg & Vienna. As the train entered the Budapest depot, they almost got me again.”
“How?”
“They threw me off the moving train. I had a heart attack. My bodyguard killed two mechanics, but I never made it to Bucharest. The Hungarian police arrested me. They kept me, and my bodyguard, in the Budapest hospital until the monkeys vanished. When you grabbed me here, I thought it was Smets again, until I recognized Wilks.”
“Mr. Wilks, you son of a bitch!” Andy said, helping himself to a tasteful bit of revenge.
“Andy. Please refrain from striking Dit. He has a bad heart. We wouldn’t want him to leave before he helps us find our money now, would we?” The General said.
“No, Sir. I’ll try to be more polite.”
“Where’s your bodyguard now?”
“How the fuck should I know? Mr. Wilks killed him!”
“Where do we find these Smets?” The General asked.
“Mol, Belgium. They have two offices. One in Brussels and one in a little town near Antwerp called Schilde. There’s a mail drop In Luxembourg. Are you going to kill my other kids?”
“Maybe. Won’t that round out your life, making it a perfect obscenity, in keeping with that gravestone of yours in Oklahoma?”
General Aloirav left the chateau in Mr. Wilks’ capable hands and returned to the Pontibus. Over the following weeks, his men searched. They had no greater success than Cinza in locating Vanderschrick or Marc Smet. Both were long dead. The woman Julie was also dead.
Fat Ben was aged and on life-support. He committed suicide in Mol, Belgium rather than give the whereabouts of his descendants’ money. His woman banker, a Frau Reise, was senile and of no help. Ben’s brother, also old and obese, died attentive to Bacon’s persuasive technique. He did let out, before dying, that fat Ben called two places home.
He spent winters on the island of Antigua and summers in Inverkeiting, Scotland. Scrutiny of their papers, phone records, and mail yielded nothing useful. General Aloirav kept six men searching dead end leads for 3 weeks. Nothing turned up, so he returned to Cinza. The General entered the door, and Cinza asked.
“D’ya find anything?
“Nothing. Every lead runs to a dead end.”
“Cinza didn’t smile but didn’t show displeasure, and General Aloirav said. “Can’t wait any longer.”
“No, please, no.”
“Tell you what, Ditmar. I’m satisfied you’ve told me everything. Andy will watch your other kids to their dying day. Says his revenge is satisfied, but he still wants his money. He doesn’t need more blood than that of Swain and Dubbin. He needed payback, ya’ know, for his son you killed…”
“I didn’t, I didn’t… don’t know what the fuck yer’ talki…”
“Lyin’ cunt!” Andy shouted, throwing the words at Cinza along with a fist to the nose.
“Don’t fib, Dit.” General Aloirav said. “Ya’ want us to lose confidence in you, just before you leave us?”
“I know you did it, you son of a bitch. Djani told me.” Andy shouted. “I saw the scar on her belly.”
“As I said. Andy’s satisfied with your oldest boys’ blood. He believes, as do I, that you lost the cash. If indeed we find you’re telling the truth, we’ll leave your other kids alone, for a while. I never enjoy offing children or collaterals. Give us their whereabouts and everything you can remember about your banking details. I want to know all about the bugs and vaccines you acquired too. Those you stole from Hodges and any others you may have acquired. If you do that, we may leave the kids alone, for a while. Your fibbing a minute ago is unsettling. If you make us work for the information, anymore, like that…”
“What?”
“We’ll find the kids, kill them, and find the money in time.”
“What about me?”
“You’re dead either way.”
“Please.”
“Now Ditmar. You know better than to beg. Couldn’t leave you around now, could I?”
“Please Rav. I haven’t even enough hatred left to pay my taxes. I have to buy canned humanity. I spend my money on packaged encouragement. Why do you want to take such a life?”
“Why do you want such a life?”
“Let me live?”
“Bad for business. What will people think? Permit someone to do to me & my friends what you did, without a payback!?”
“Rav, no.”
“I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, please, Rav.”
“How many times over the past century don’t I remember you saying you were not concerned about dying? You said your ticker could go at any moment. You weren’t worried about anything. Now you have one last chance to save something of your obscene life and you fall apart. Come clean. Otherwise, you’re time on Earth will have been a total waste. Play fair, and I’ll even slip your carcass under that Oklahoma gravestone you built to commemorate your prurient life.”
“Why do you need to know where my kids are?”
“We can’t very well let them enjoy the Pontibus life now, can we? They are your progeny, subhumans, fit but for the First-Surface.”
“That’s not your only reason!”
“No. Yer right. I want insurance you’re telling everything and…”
“And what?”
“I don’t approve of gratuitous torture, but I do want you to go out with doubts on your mind.”

Surviving the New Society’s collapse, and later battles, took all the profit from Lester’s share of the Pontibus fortune. When bills to support fatherless children started arriving, Mr. Otorp thought the failure would be enormous. Old-style orphanages and state-supported orphan asylums were now passé on the Pontibus. Father Flanagan child exploitation centers were anathema. Children without two parents required special treatment to compensate for their lack.
Lester bought into Rav’s penology theories long before the “Group” even collapsed. Both believed in scientific child rearing to obviate crime. The old-government still allowed birth control via womb infanticide. Mr. Frye didn’t. He put unwed mothers to work, helping them build their own domiciles and gardens. They even did community maintenance, children in tow.
In time, an end to Lester’s struggle appeared. The one-parent work occupied people’s time and minds. The foolhardy-appearing decision made the Pontibus grow faster. The expected liability, incident upon the young mothers, turned out to be an asset. The situation no longer just broke even. The increased production brought in more resources.
In time, Lester’s generosity made a large profit. The young women acquired much-needed pride and self-esteem. Children, working alongside their mothers, also benefitted. The self-respect, generated in the young bastards, obviated many disciplinary problems. Statistics showed far less repetitive criminal behavior grew on the Pontibus than did so on the First-Surface.
The abortion battle cost Mr. Frye much more than money. He did gain a great deal of respect and power by his victory in addition to the profit. Nevertheless, it took spiritual energy from him, and he was almost broke. He knew his days were numbered. At a recent incorrigible honoring, Mr. Otorp overheard General Aloirav say.
“Lester. I hope you aren’t stewing over leaving a few debts in your wake.”
“I am, Rav. You know I am.”
“Stop it then. In this world, if you die rich, feeling other than a failure, your dreams were too small. Nobody can fault you in that area. Not even me, and it’s me that will end them.”
“Most of them were caused by you.” Mr. Otorp remembered angrily interjecting.
“How right you are, Mr. Otorp. How right you are.” The General replied, laughing.
“And how do you propose to pay them?”
“We’ll just have to see, Mr. Otorp, won’t we?” General Aloirav answered.
Mr. Otorp saw the abortion battle leave Mr. Frye looking beaten for a time. How the Founder’s former friends fled his corner in droves back then. The struggle to survive took a great toll on an already overburdened spirit. Mr. Aloirav saw the damage now. Mr. Otorp did not. Perhaps, he didn’t want to.
Before Mr. Otorp’s, General Aloirav’s, and Adam Quake’s hostile meeting, Mr. Otorp was walking with Mr. Frye along an arboretum pathway. They got very near one of the Founder’s favorite spots, and Lester became contemplative. Turning aside, he asked. “My friend, do you ever ponder on our efficiency? Whether or not we did all we could have done in the time we’ve had?”
Mr. Otorp replied. “I suppose not, but we’ve done a lot more than most, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”
Mr. Frye continued. “I’m looking for edification not consolation or adulation. If we’d known ourselves more we might have been of greater use to planetary life. I sometimes wonder if we could have been better people if we’d had better instruction.”
Before any reply could voice, not caring if a different thought existed, he resumed. “Of course we could have been! We could have done much more. How presumptuous of me to question that! Rav was so right!”
“How could that murderer have been right?!”
“He felt it was time, long overdue, to look for ways to reorder the human biochemistry. Time to make more productive and life-dealing human beings instead of always pandering to the alternative.”
Mr. Otorp asked with pointed sarcasm. “How are we to do that, pray tell? Or, maybe I should ask how Aloirav planned to do that? He was such a life-dealer, he was.”
Lester replied. “I know you and he don’t see eye to eye. He & I didn’t either, for years. The fact is. We now employ ourselves in trying to make our existences goal-oriented. A teleological premise that we are life affirming. We cannot resign ourselves to any grade of death affirmation. Is that not so?”
Mr. Otorp thought some eugenics propaganda was coming. He preempted it, he thought, by saying. “Life-affirming! Now there’s a real Aloirav strong point!”
Mr. Frye ignored the criticism. He was referring to the knowledge gained from past battles they’d won. The abortion and integrated pest management conflicts engaged soon after establishing the Pontibus. Mr. Otorp was embarrassed and didn’t know where the conversation was going. He continued to respond, anyway, with his Gatling gun verbosity. “…But will we succeed every time? I don’t think so.”
Lester replied. “Of course not. We may not see success in certain areas for long periods. We, at least, won’t blame our failures on God or some vague word like “evil”. The reason I’m asking your thoughts here is simple. We intend to continue accepting such a precept as a part of our new “religion”. Opposing superstition and pedantic esoteric doctrine will equip us better to conform to natural morality. That is the one ethical standard to give us true principles. The tenets are here, which one-day will make us a sustainable society. Therefore, we must prepare to hold to a very difficult and demanding existence.”
Mr. Otorp thought, “I knew it! Here we go again with the perennial Eugenics speech.”
As usual, however, he replied as one would to a religious proselytizer, holding short of speaking his mind. “You’re saying nothing new or nothing we don’t already know, Mr. Frye. It doesn’t matter at this stage of the game.”
The Founder changed his tack, saying, “Nature is a very cruel and exacting taskmaster. She forces altruism to carry a double price tag. An unselfish life is an obscene life. Nevertheless, it’s better far for Nature to act as the arbiter than man. If we kill, it’s an admission of defeat, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“We display weakness vis a vis our planetary existence. The more we worship life the better we will fare in a symbiotic mutualism with the planet. Struggle, although in order, is not for everyone. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” He replied, intrigued to hear Mr. Frye seem to backpedal or display inconsistency. Wondering at the apparent change of heart, nevertheless, he let Lester continue. “I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking the last few years on the issue. I feel what I’m saying now is not what you believe me to believe or what you believe. You’re my friend, and I know it won’t go any further.”
Mr. Otorp was nonplused. “What’s he saying this for? Does he know I somewhat agree with his latter statements? Is he testing me for some reason? Has he found out that I’ve differed from him on his “Natural Arbiter” issue all these years? Does he want to hear my reasons? Why is he approaching it now?”
Keeping his thoughts to himself, he said nothing but tried to feel for any semantics. There wouldn’t be much time before being pressed for a reply. Mr. Frye must have felt doubts arising as to his own continued capacity to judge. Many were losing faith, beginning to doubt his apotheosis. He himself appeared to be unsure as to the explicit qualities triggering the “continued existence privilege”.
Mr. Otorp thought. “He’s not near my way of thinking yet. I’m still not sensing any feelings from him of real compassion for the genetically weak & unfit. He’s not talking about killing them anymore. That, at least, is a step in the right direction.”
Lester misread silence for tacit agreement and said. “Right?”
Mr. Otorp replied. “I’m not going to tell anyone you’re changing your mind, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“No! That’s not what I mean! Do you agree that we should let our unfit alone? Alternatively, do we intervene to protect, repair, or destroy? Just answer me that?”
Even after all these years, Mr. Otorp did not know about Mr. Frye’s first child. He remembered enduring Mr. Frye and Rav Aloirav’s eugenics haranguing in silence, for years. He always wanted to say, but never did. “I challenge you to confront yourself with your own child needing a neonatal unit to survive. I’d like to see how you react to insure your unmet needs for eternal life.”
In the sky, much later, Mr. Otorp would return to his domicile, after Board Meeting speeches, fuming. There, in hindsight, he composed beautiful retorts and responses to Mr. Frye’s Natural Selection tirades. Honing them to perfection, Mr. Otorp waited for the day, when he would acquire the wherewithal (courage) to deliver them. He liked one in particular. Rehearsing it repeatedly, with light variations, he proclaimed into his mirror.
“I would venture to say, my good man, with a high degree of certainty. If you should confront what I did, you too would elect to save your own child. By such, you too would choose to usurp the directing of your evolution, contrary to your philosophy. Let’s see how well you avoid dishonoring yourself in your own eyes. I am sincere, believing in the righteousness of my actions. I find it an act of principle to consider myself wiser than Cruel Nature. So to hell with you, sir!”
Mr. Otorp trammeled his brain, trying to remember that well-rehearsed speech. He couldn’t and said. “It may come as a surprise to you but for many years I’ve disagreed with your thinking on the issue. My sentiments are too strong in the direction of compassion. I couldn’t do obeisance to anything like your draconian Eugenics policy. I cannot be that hard, unfeeling, cruel, strong, or whatever else it takes. My name is not Rav Aloirav. I can appreciate that spending vital limited planetary resources on keeping the unfit myriads alive is wrong. Such behavior deals the death sentence to fit and solitary-standing individuals. I know that. But, compassion, like reason, is also a part of my humanity. I cannot deny it. I don’t feel adequate to playing “God”. It isn’t a deficiency, as I see it, but an aspect of my nature, my humanness. To deny it, I would have to deny a part of myself. Perhaps if I were not so personally invested I would feel as you have all along. I am, and I don’t.”
Mr. Otorp stopped. Lester said. “Perhaps you’re just defining your humanity differently than Rav defines his.”
“Defining myself as other than a monster? Yes. That is true.”
“Lao-Tzu said, “He who loves the world as his own body may be entrusted with the empire.” I know of no one who better fits that description than Rav Aloirav, but you haven’t answered my question.”
“I think I have.” Mr. Otorp replied. “I said so, in a great many words too. Up to me, I would intervene to protect and repair.”
Mr. Frye asked. “Have you always felt that way?”
Mr. Otorp answered. “Ever since my second son was born, I have.”
“And when was that?” He asked.
“1973.”
“I’d forgotten, I’m sorry.”
“Look at me, Mr. Frye. I’m a perfect example of one of Nature’s freaks. I was born with just about everything wrong. How could I not be anti-eugenic?”
They continued walking along the Pontibus’ beautiful vegetation. The silence was palpable. Then, in a voice that seemed to chill Mr. Otorp’s blood, Lester said. “How I wish you’d shared that with me long, long ago. I remember asking your opinion, but you never gave it. I don’t know why you decided to do so now. I’m glad you did, but it may not make a difference now, for you anyway.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve come to accept the monster’s point. I was looking to you just now for some solace. Justification for some of my past doubts, beliefs, and actions is what I was craving. Rationalization, perhaps, leading me to believe I wasn’t such a fool for so long. You did that, and I thank you.”
Mr. Frye did not give him a chance to respond. Changing the subject, once more, Lester pointed to a pine and said. “See that ugly little tree over there.”
“Yes. It’s a bristlecone.”
“Right. That pine grows at elevations over 11,000 ft. It survives 4900 years. With the exception of the Cro-Magnon cave paintings & dolls, Man’s oldest creations don’t go much further back.”
“Atlantis could very well have existed, even other Atlantis’s, all records being lost.”
“That’s right. Nothing matters, Mr. Otorp.”
“Sir?!”
“Have you ever read the Elder Eda, my friend?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“It was the equivalent of a Viking newspaper.”
“I see.”
“A phrase I read there once took hold of me. It said, “Moderately wise, each man should be, not over wise. For a wise man’s heart is seldom glad.”
“I can understand that.”
“I didn’t, I guess. The sadness just crept up on me.”
“I can’t understand that.”
“Success is only a barometer of how well your mission sold, not the value of your mission. This world will, in the end, belong to the wildest. Be that simians, cockroaches or microbes. Look down there. A wasted crack head and a man who has tried his utmost to make the world a better place – both soon to rot in some dirty hole. Neither accomplishing anything in life. Such a meaningful world!”
“When you hear about the panaceas mentioned by the educated and the anti-comments by the democracies and religionists, it can make you want to re-evaluate all your former values and morals.”
“Yes, Mr. Otorp. Imagine how much re-defining of yourself you’d need to do if you assisted in removing 90% of your fellow travelers, as Rav contemplates.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You should. I speculated, described, and carried to logical conclusions just what I now observe happening. I still am. What kind of hell will we see if population, religion, democracy, and ignorance continue unabated?”
“I’m sure I have no idea.”
“I don’t know where Rav finds the will. Nothing is worth the effort. Our existence is futile, futile, futile! A drowning cry in the ocean. Questions of conduct are but vanity. We’re fallen angels, here to burn. Life is mere hell.”

In truth, prosperity tries the souls even of the wise.                       Sallust

Chapter Fifty-Three

“How can you say that, Mr. Frye?” Mr. Otorp riposted. “The Pontibus will last forever, saving all life on the planet. Your new anti-caedere religion will turn the tide for us. You accomplished very much in your lifetime. How can that be worthless vanity?”

Lester didn’t respond to Mr. Otorp’s apparent encouragement cum flattery but jumped to change the subject, saying. “We’ve got to find ways to stop the warehousing of unfortunates. The First-Surface still locks them up, cages ‘em. They forget about them until a bond issue comes up for new and more expansive prison space. They then get to vote their pique. We wind up taking the problem’s brunt in “Carcel Communities” and contract prisons, or the First-Surface sells them to the prison slave trade.”

Acting as if assuming Mr. Otorp was indifferent, he went right into his next question. “What will you do when I’m out of here?”

“What are you talking about?” Mr. Otorp asked, shocked at the turn of subject. The feeling Mr. Frye demonstrated was not mundane. It was also not the sort one expressed who was just planning a business trip. Mr. Otorp got a distinct perception of finality.

“I’m serious. What are your contingency plans?” He repeated. “I’m not staying much longer.”

“Why should I need contingency plans?” Mr. Otorp replied.  “I’ve nothing to fear. Neither do you. Your policies are sound, and the Company’s making money.  The Pontibus is growing.”

“The Company is broke! And you know it!”

“We’re experiencing heavy indebtedness, it’s tr…”

“Broke! Otorp. Broke!”

The planet gets healthier every day.”

“I know that.” Lester replied. “But are you prepared to handle the responsibility after I die? I’m going you know. I’ve got just as much right to go as anyone else. I’ve lived long enough.”

“That’s transient negativity speaking, not you.”

“It is me! I’ve done my duty, and I’m tired. I’m taking the first opportunity that presents itself to me.”

Mr. Otorp answered. “Well. I’ve done enough for the planet too.  My responsibilities now are to my family, my friends, and myself in a more provincial aspect. If you aren’t around anymore, I’ll retire to my domicile. I’ll live out my remaining years with the plants and animals. I’ll tinker around my lab some, do a little gardening, and keep my hand in with the wetlands. I’ll be fine.”

“I hope so.” He said. “I can’t believe you will be able to retire in the manner of which you speak. I may be wrong, but I doubt it. The Company may perceive you as the spiritual heir apparent. Should you find yourself in a position of responsibility in the Company, don’t take it lightly.”

“Of course not!”

“I know you don’t like our new Chief of Security, my old partner, General Aloirav.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“I want you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“When I’m no longer here, give him as much of your cooperation as you can. There are many things of which you aren’t aware and many things for which we need him.” Lester said.

“Nothing with which I’d want to be involved.”

“Perhaps not, but I think there are. The Company is facing the greatest threat of its existence right now. Rav has consented to spend the rest of his life protecting it. I paid a very high price for his cooperation.”

“That’s for sure!”

“More than the money! That was a pittance…to me. I’ve bet my past, everything for which I’ve worked & sacrificed, to save our planet from an ecological disaster. With your help, he will not fail. Tell me you will cooperate, if you can.”

“How can I not, after such a plea?”

“Tell me you will help him, not oppose him, if he needs you.”

“I will not fail you. Against all my instincts, nevertheless, if he needs my aid, I’ll give it.”

“Thank you.”

The two walked on together without saying anything for a time, until the Founder said. “Look around you, Mr. Otorp. Everything you see is the result of a humble little mussel worth 70cents a pound in 1987.”

“It is indeed hard to believe.”

They walked on and Mr. Otorp asked. “Ever think about those days back on Tremont Street, Mr. Frye?”

“It was a struggle, wasn’t it? Our days in the Massachusetts Avenue lab. You fighting me over ESP, Aloirav demanding results, me struggling to hang on to reality . . . day after day.”

“Yes, it was a contest.”

“To be sure.”

“Something I’ve often wondered, Mr. Frye.”

“What’s that?”

“Why did you leave MIT to do your mussel research? Couldn’t you get funded?”

“No. They told me to leave.”

“No!? Whatever for!?”

“Back in the 1980s, MIT was running a racial & funding scam with the US government.”

“I can’t believe it!”

“It’s true.” Mr. Frye replied. “MIT was so big and so well-thought-of that nobody would believe it.  But, it was a fact just the same. Students, maltreated, were too embarrassed to come forward. The National Science Foundation (NSF) gave fellowships to brilliant creative young undergraduate scientists. I received one for a cloning technique I discovered while doing nitrogen fixation research at Michigan State University. NSF also funded original research grants in most or all Universities. The US government required institutional recipients of their NSF research grants to agree to certain conditions. Universities needed to accept an annual number of NSF fellowship recipients as 5-year graduate students.”

“NSF funds most original research?”

“Yes. NSF required granted universities to admit students to graduate studies but mandated nothing about how long. The glitch may have been by bureaucratic omission or by design. I never investigated. I was too embarrassed and traumatized. In most Universities, it’s immaterial. Not MIT. MIT is driven! Entering innocent, starry-eyed students were unaware of MIT Biology Department’s bigotry & avarice. The NSF fellows spent the 1^st year of their scholarships in MIT’s academic section. MIT then threw most out before the 2^nd year began. Second year students take researcher attention. That spells money & time taken from research. Researchers don’t like that.

“But you said they told you to leave?”

“Yes. If I tried to stay, they said, they’d embarrass me by actually throwing me out, refusing me matriculation, and putting the police on me.”

“You believed them?”

“Yes. They needed room for more 1^st year NSF students to draw more NSF research grant money for MIT. NSF monitored just the number of acceptees and not their success.  MIT’s remuneration from NSF continued unabated, and the school was free to take on others.”

“How could they get away with it, just expelling you without reason?”

“Oh, they found reasons, legitimate and otherwise. MIT was a major supporter of SDS (Students for a Democratic Society) against the Viet Nam War. They discovered I was a combat veteran with children. MIT frowned on both handicaps. They also made all testing requirements essay style, i.e. race-professor subjective. NSF students, not racially or MIT culturally gifted, managed to get a “C”.”
”They considered a “C” a failure?”

“Yes. C is mediocre – not MIT material. I got one via an essay exam. Then they met to make it understood by all professors that they were ejecting me. A professor that gave me a “B” changed it to a “C”, making it definitive.”

“You couldn’t continue elsewhere?”

“Transcripts follow the student, making it impossible to use the remaining scholarship in another elite institution. The excuse of student academic failure, two Cs, deals with any complaints. Universities are familiar with that one. They blackballed me on the qui vive. I was a creative scientist, not talented with an MIT acceptable paradigm, an analytical mind. Racial students represent, overwhelmingly, analytical minds. MIT told me in private they didn’t like the way I thought, so they must expel me.”

“What did you do?”

“Nearly killed myself.”

General Aloirav left the holophone of the Pontibus airport café. The information was sound. It came from Gloria. The man was a former director of MMIM. Gloria saw him fraternizing with Mendoza, and he matched the photo in the Company’s Board of Director’s file.

He was a friend of Adam Quake. One of the Newer Society spies also saw him at the weapons depot. The information gleaned from Company headquarters was not encouraging either. The Company directorate authorized an ad hoc group to investigate misappropriations. He was not on that committee, so had no authorized excuse to visit the prison.

The man always voted for the First-Surface taxes and against Lester Frye’s initiatives. All circumstantial evidence put him on the General’s probable traitor list. Now there were over twenty such names with which the “boss” needed to deal. General Aloirav thought Mr. Otorp either a fool or so weak as to let personal antipathy blind him to the facts. The Company’s star scientist did not seem to know what to do.

Of course, the General knew such a set of associations & circumstances should not seal one’s fate. Such behavior did not indicate guilt beyond doubt. Then, General Aloirav was operating in the dark and must choose the lesser of evils. He knew not the luxury of selecting between certainties. He must resolve the issue.

Were these people MMIM lovers or Company lovers? They were not acting like loyal Compatriots. Allegiance was the issue. The Company needed to survive. Directors were cheap. Human life was cheap.

“Bacon.”

“Yah, Boss.”

“Gloria just confirmed another name. I think we should get started cleaning.”

“Mr. Otorp come around yet?”

“No, and I don’t feel like waiting any longer for him to do so.”

“What about Mr. Frye. Should he have any input?”

“He’s told me it’s in my hands. His one reservation was that I work with Mr. Otorp, if possible.”

“And Mr. Otorp’s not getting any friendlier.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“I think we’ll use our old New Society criteria as a 2^nd selection factor. We can beat it against the suspect list. Those that come up on both we send off. What do you think?”

“T’sa plan. Who do you want to do Francis job?”

“Looking into lives?”

“Yah.”

“Wilks?”

“I was gonna’ suggest him.”

“Okay.”

Her name was Doris O’Brien, a Company Director & First-Surface lawyer. She was on the traitor suspect list and liked to hunt. Ms. O’Brien held stock in Washed Beaches, the First-Surface environmental reclamation company, a super polluter. Her CV showed her having experience in a number of State environmental quality engineering regulatory bodies. Honorable Doris’ current employment was as a regulatory judge in Boston’s Department of Environmental Protection (DEP).

“This is just what we were looking for, Andy.”

“Does she seem to be a good candidate, Boss?”

“Yes, that she does.”

“I’ll have another five for you on Monday.”

“That’s good. I’ll get right on this one.”

“Bacon.”

“Yah, Boss.”

“I want ta’ take this bitch out today.”

“Right. Where is she located?”

“Some regulatory courtroom in Boston.”

“Ya’ want a female “needle” to do it in a restroom?”

“No. Use an old hand. Do it right in the courtroom.”

“What about collateral deaths?”

“No problem. Most of these environmental regulatory vermin are just lawyers that work with ecothugs and other polluters. That Washed Beaches bastard wrecked New England water for centuries. He did it with the blessing of Massachusetts DEP. If a regulatory bureaucrat or two goes, nothing human is lost.”

“Okay, Boss. Any special bug?”

“I’m not sure that cascavel clone is still viable. It’s been over 20 years since we last used it. Try it. If she dies tonight, we’ll know it’s still viable, and we can go into production.”

“T’s done.”

Bacon chose a man named Gill to be the “needle”. Gill did 2 years of a ten-year sentence for smuggling. It seems he brought a parrot into California from Tijuana in a shoebox. Customs caught him at the border. The federal judge, an amateur taxidermist of rare stuffed birds, gave him the stiff sentence.

The hotelier got Gill out and taught him how to inoculate sub-humans. His first job was the stuffed-bird collecting judge that sent Gill to prison. The taxidermist judge’s symptoms began when he found his words slurring on the bench. At lunch, he urinated on himself in front of his new girlfriend. It appeared he’d been drinking that lunch, until his eyes crossed.

His tongue fell out of his mouth and his knees began knocking at the afternoon session. With some quick bailiff help, the jurist got back to his office. Before leaving his gavel, he assured all in the courtroom of his rapid return. He did not return, ever, and his gavel and a few stuffed birds joined him for eternity. The judge’s strange appearance that afternoon made all his tried cases suspect. Another judge reviewed them all for that past month.

The inoculation made such an impression the papers were replete with pictures of the fallen enemy at bench. One published photo captured the California State seal in the background.  The shot displayed the jurist’s strabismus and lolling tongue prominently in the foreground. It was good therapy for Gill who felt his revenge adequate. He went on to become a star “needle” in the “boss’s” medical bag.

Gill next did 16 years in a First-Surface prison after the New Society fell. The love he felt for judges, prison personnel, and the democratic legal system never changed. When Bacon gave him the chance to renew his craft, the man jumped at it. Hearing about a judge that required departure assistance piqued Gill’s interest. General Aloirav said later, selecting Gill was an act of sheer genius on Bacon’s part.

Gill helped Doris find that great injection well in the sky. He also aided, that same day, three lawyers and a “sitting in” judge find peace. A licensed landfill entrepreneur also sped away due to Gill’s expertise.

Mr. Otorp never concurred in public with stories portraying his cynosure as autocratic in the extreme. Nevertheless, he knew the accounts were true. The frail-looking Lester Frye was very strong and ruled the Company by fiat. Ex cathedra pronouncements and orders seldom encountered questioning. His dictums proved right, or he changed accepted history to make them appear so.

Before construction began on the Pontibus, the visionary Mr. Frye tried starting a new religion. He hoped to institute a non-violent neo-Jihad, a bloodless holy war. He told Mr. Otorp about certain structural entities dedicated to the economic status quo that must go. They exploited without renewal and expansion of biomass. Lester knew eliminating them wouldn’t be easy. Unfortunately, the task devolved upon the hotelier and a revamped educational system to terminate them.

Biography indicts the human race. The Founder’s strange ideas gained few adherents. Once people saw his domiciles and the Pontibus network’s success, opinions changed. Many began accepting his new religion. Mr. Frye saw the hypocrisy and said. “An unfortunate fact of existence is how people worship self-made men. They make the logic jump from believing that if a man’s rich, he’s also smart.”

Mr. Frye’s ideas did not change, but his religion gained further support with his increasing success.  He never sought to discover how far that gratuitous benefit went. During one of their private talks, Lester said to Mr. Otorp. “Immense caedere wealth, concentrated in individual hands, is acquired through much suffering and death. You don’t eliminate power and privilege arising from that definition without battles that involve tenacious defense. These anachronistic leviathans are no different from their predecessors. They too are capable of dealing death and destruction with impunity for their personal interest.”

He added. “Recycling, renewable energy sources, wetland and forest maintenance are fine. We must control population and gas emissions, too. These are all fine goals for the present. They are all products of small vision, however, and not enough. We think we see how the evolutions of life forms appear telocentric to excellence. However, it may just appear that way due to our own hubris.  Man considers himself the apex of evolution to date. The species Homo sapiens sapiens, left to its own devices, tends to the exact opposite. It resists excellence.  We tend to worship youth, yet ontogeny’s recapitulating of phylogeny does not end at birth. Like the neoteny phenomenon, it continues well past 29 years old. Most men are still troglodytes. That’s just one factor mediating against our successful evolution. Homo chooses for our species rather a provincial nepotistic compassionate state. Man loves himself, his family, community, or nation-state system. The brute finds it impossible to think very long on the exigencies of global life.”

Hearing such talk brought no immediate resistance.  Mr. Frye’s opinions prompted no more than a grudging “ho, hum” consensus. It nevertheless made Mr. Otorp feel very uneasy. He knew what was lurking there in the shadows, waiting to spring. It was Lester’s’ perennial Eugenics speech masked as “Natural Selection” doctrine.

Lately it was different, more metaphysical, and he said. “The universe is gas and a bunch of hot rocks, Mr. Otorp. A slime called protoplasm covers some. The purpose of that slime appears to be perpetuating slimeness. The raison d’ etre of an individual life is adjusting to a senseless universe. Other functions, beyond what we give it, are but speculation. It may be just an influx of evolutionary positivity beyond each man’s conceptualization. Nature may not even consider us a positive.”

“The Pontibus will make Her see our value.”

“Perhaps.” Mr. Frye continued. “Each day I search for an underlying principle but fall asleep disappointed, though no longer disillusioned anew.”

“Why?”

“Man is anomalous in that he can see the absurdity of his existence. His biologically engendered survivability forces him to continue facing that absurdity. What vile mind could create such a meaningless dream and expect a determined existence to emerge from it?”

“Some crazy God?” Mr. Otorp asked.

“No.” Mr. Frye answered. “There can be no supernatural.  Once something in the world manifests – it becomes natural, not supernatural.”

“What Man needs is a relevant god, one appropriate to an evolutionary “progressive” ethic?”

“Yes.” The Founder agreed. “A media-proof, evolution-consistent, morality symbol that Man created, as before. It may hold society together.  The new god must destroy old society by exalting our evolution.”

“Should we imitate famous people?”

“Emulation of the great is not a way to species survival, happiness, or wisdom. People become great in idiosyncratic milieus by compensating for skewed upbringing or genetics. We cannot extrapolate from them.”

“But it contributes to the excellence of the species, doesn’t it?” Mr. Otorp asked.

“It can, but to our own ideas of excellence, not Nature’s. Nature, under Man’s auspices, tends to select against human excellence. The wise have but poverty and simplicity to adorn their lives. The Natural noble must struggle against overwhelming odds. Even should he conquer, he gains nothing that warrants money, fame, or mendacious biographers. The materialistic bias of his society blinds Man holistically to a compelling value in existence, which might be evolution.”

“Where does one turn to know for sure?” Mr. Otorp queried.

“Inward, Mr. Otorp.” Mr. Frye answered. “Virtue, like beauty, is in the eyes of the beholder.”

A few days after Judge O’Brien passed away, Bacon said. “How many of these others, Andy researched, you gonna’ waste, Boss?”

“I don’t know yet, my friend. I was hoping Otorp would come around.”

“Doesn’t appear so.”

“I guess I’ll have to continue on my own. You got any more arrows in your quiver like Gill?”

“Lots. But we might not be so lucky next time.”

“No. We may not be, Bacon. We accept life that way, making our decisions in vacuums or in the dark.”

“I suppose.”

“Life’s an overdrawn account, Bacon, not a balance sheet with posits and minuses. It’s a system of interactions, and no one ever makes it to 100%. Vicissitudes come and go. Just individual decay remains.”

“Yah, until we die.”

“Much further even.”

“What?”

“The distinction between living and non-living is a control issue. The after-death situation, spirit gone, entropy guides central control into local. Rigor mortis and beyond is decentralization, perfect democracy. Organism population numbers change. 100 thousand trillion little creatures compete for supremacy. They remove the calm horror of stiffening. More conflict and a new personality emerge. One becomes many.”

“Yah?”

“Yah.”

Mr. Otorp opened the door to his office and entered. He started thinking about how he constructed the shaded story about his meeting with General Aloirav. It didn’t make him proud. In fact, the entire phony scenario now began to sicken him. He said to himself.

“What am I trying to accomplish by destroying Aloirav in Mr. Frye’s eyes?”

Before he could begin to castigate himself too much, Adam Quake entered the office. The door was open, and the Pontibus governor entered without a knock, saying. “Got a call from Frye. He was concerned about the treatment Aloirav gave me.”

“What did you say?”

“Told him the truth, that Aloirav was rude and slanderous.”

“I told him the same. I’m beginning to believe perhaps I was a bit too harsh.”

“Impossible! The man’s a menace! He should be in prison!”

“I suppose so.”

“Suppose nothing! He’s a criminal! The very worst. A serial killer. Frye was a fool to get him out.”

“Frye’s old, tired, and sick.”

“And a fool.”

“Please Adam. Don’t talk like that. He’s always been a good friend. I don’t like to hear people speaking badly of him.”

“Okay. So what’s the plan?”

“About what?”

“Aloirav.”

“Frye wants me to help him.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“I think you should ignore him.”

Adam Quake left to contact Mike Hodges. Mr. Otorp sat down and thought. His recollections took him back to the First-Surface lab on Mass Ave, Boston. He remembered once, when the three were alone together. It was just he, Mr. Frye, and Mr. Aloirav, before even the first bridge evolved.

“Gruesome Aloirav always brought Mr. Frye back to his own eugenics obsession.” Mr. Otorp said to himself, remembering their conversation. “The bastard must have known how such talk affected me! He knew my physical shortcomings. Aloirav was twisted even back then.”

“Literature & culture are replete with tales of how we protect and defend our weak & unfit.” Mr. Aloirav would say. “It speaks of how we expend millions, if not billions, of dollars per year doing so. Saving our society’s hopeless members appears fine and dandy on the surface. Appeals to our vanity, making us seem so God-like in our aspirations. King Arthur bullshit. Meanwhile neonatal units, asylums, organ transplants, nursing homes, welfare lines, etc. proliferate unchecked.”

Mr. Otorp remembered asking what was wrong with such things, and Mr. Aloirav ignored him, saying. “I hear all this rubbish about the courage of handicapped people!”

“Why is it rubbish?” Mr. Otorp asked. “It takes a great deal of courage to struggle on with such deficiencies!”

“It’s rubbish, Otorp, because if they weren’t there a healthy person would be in their place! A better person! Helen Keller was an obscenity and Ann Sullivan a wasted life! Freaks can’t be happy people, all twisted around themselves! You were born a freak and look what it did to you? How long weren’t you a useless drunk?! Imagine how you’d have handled being a dwarf? The handicapped exist to the detriment of the sound. Because we spend to maintain their malfunctioning, we disallow millions of dollars of resources to children with possibilities. Twenty-seven pennies a day gives whole children healthy and normal development. Instead, because of our sick runaway compassion, they will starve into kwashiorkor, marasmus, unproductive or criminal adult lives. We elect to spend untold millions on incarceration of misfits, produced because of environmental disadvantages. Instead of building men from children, we create miscreants in need of repair. Then we refuse to repair. Everything beautiful and pure, we cover with our compassion feces.”

Lester would counter with, “Criminality and the definition of crime change with generations. Society can’t change as fast as that. You make it sound like a conspiracy, Rav.”

“Isn’t it? Allowing women so much power over the raising of the young shows that Society has insufficient regard for socialization and the unsocialized (criminal) product. We are no longer in the jungle; women raising children they produce with no alternative. I never met a woman who listened to the criticizing of her young with dispassion, intending to correct them later. They all say they listen; yet none does. All defend the beast in the child. Men accept their children’s inadequacies and strive to correct their social defects. Contemporary Society prevents men from producing men from their male children. Child abuse laws make men afraid to discipline. Drug ‘em is the cry. Ritalinize! Then we wonder why there are so many drug addicts. Male irresponsibility in governing their women & children makes men, fathers, responsible for crime. They fear the democratic nonsense, choosing not to control the power of their savage females. We all must live with the criminal reality.”

Mr. Otorp never cared to offend Lester by disagreeing with either of the scientists. Should the desire to do so pop up, discretion kept him from it. Failure to object wasn’t from fear, he believed, but from knowing how he felt. He would find unobtrusive ways to make his exit. After many years, he still did not like Rav Aloirav.

Mr. Otorp’s personal experiences opposing eugenics precluded changing his views, despite the opinionated Mr. Frye. He knew from where Lester was coming. There was no point in provoking him. Mr. Otorp’s own problematic birth and three darling defective children made an overwhelming argument for him. His friend was childless.  Too bad Aloirav’s progeny were all genetically sound.

Mr. Otorp wasn’t unaware. He knew Mr. Frye was right… that is, also right.  The ambivalent knowledge caused Mr. Otorp much pain. It hurt almost as much as did the aftermath of his participation in the Viet Nam War. Invested in both, he felt wrong every way he turned.

Compassion was the current morality. It was a part of contemporary culture. There was safety in numbers, outside the Frye lab. It was too painful to think of a rational way off the horns of either moral dilemma. The facts spoke very clearly, he felt.

“Nature must change the human race’s thinking here.” Mr. Otorp said to himself. “People don’t often volunteer to change.”

He knew Lester was above compassion. If it were up to him alone, Lester would change the status quo.  Lester and Rav Aloirav were both on the moving side. They felt people would continue misplacing altruistic behaviors, until forced otherwise. Mr. Otorp stood with the “safety in numbers” group.

It was not of much comfort to him. He wished to claim no moral stake in it at all. It’s always easier to support a strong personality if you can do it mindlessly. Ignorance is bliss, until you hit the ground.

Just the two of them, and a glass of his homemade cranberry wine, Mr. Otorp might share his thoughts. However, Mr. Frye acquired people in his organization now that also believed in the eugenics concept. Though many were not, many felt very much invested in his philosophy. The organization was big. So big, no one knew where the true sentiment line lay. Mr. Otorp felt, regardless of his organizational position, it was poor form to argue with Lester in public.

 A wise man will not leave the right to the mercy of chance, nor wish it to prevail through the power of the majority. There is but little virtue in the action of masses of men. In the long run men hit only what they aim at.                      H.D. Thoreau

Chapter Fifty-Four

It was not just the situational and intestinal difficulties for which Mr. Otorp held his tongue. He didn’t feel himself a coward. Lester did much for the Planet, the Human Race, and Mr. Otorp himself. He did so without the slightest hope or possibility of any personal eternity. Mr. Otorp agreed with most other aspects of Mr. Frye’s aspirations.
Mr. Otorp’s equivocal nature meant they could collaborate. The first principle of Lester’s new religion, without being too mystical, was to believe life precious. Not just some particular life, but all life held value. To that end, they would endeavor together to preserve it. It must show compatibility with life’s’ realities, however.
One sees the difficulties for both men. Growing a garden without poisonous chemicals or culling out the overcrowded is just foolhardy. Getting one’s daily bread, without becoming the pesticide-using farmer’s silent conspiratorial partner, is next to impossible. Having reverence for all life meant making many decisions without the agony of uncertainty. It also indicated a certain acceptance of the unrealistic. The state of mind was not easy, not even possible at first. It became their goal, their aspiration. They were soul mates.
Other Directors were also steadfast in adhering to these impractical appearing concepts. There was intense opposition at times. The two scientists remained united as comrades-in-arms. It took time for others to see their methods were practical. When propounding the above agricultural issue, they asked each other. “Do we use pesticides on the Pontibus or not?”
The second question out of their mouths was. “Do we kill indiscriminately or not?”
The forthcoming answer was. “We do not.”
Their simplistic behavior exasperated the other, less idealistic, pragmatic Directors. Nevertheless, Mr. Frye was indeed the Law. Mr. Otorp, his Sancho Panza, always backed him. The next question was. “Now we must find a way to grow our crops. We will do so without despoiling our apparent planetary enemies with toxic chemicals.”
Many in the organization pushed for integrated pest management. They proposed using it until technology would allow peaceful co-existence. Lester called it contracting with the Devil. Mr. Otorp and Lester said they could not countenance it. Mr. Otorp said it was compromising with death. The solution proved more difficult.
They struggled with the answer together to the question. “Can we do it?”
Mr. Frye said to his detractors. “Food shortfalls call to us for pesticides. Food dearths mean but one thing; Human population numbers are too large for the Pontibus growth rate. Abortion is not the answer. Tightening eugenics constraints is the only alternative. Are you prepared for that?”
As he surmised, the majority was too squeamish for the draconian solution he proposed. The variety and mass of the vegetation grown on the Pontibus increased along with the pests. Mr. Frye learned an important principle during that period. It made him respect the hotelier and his asocial cohorts more. Natural wisdom smiles upon all types of theft, deception, and murder. It soon became painfully and poignantly obvious to him. Humanity’s moral gutter is Nature’s aristocracy. He learned why the upper crust, Haute Society, always seemed to be bullies, thieves, cheats, murderers, or beggars.
Until pest’s natural enemies and better protection methods came along, agriculture on the Pontibus languished. Bankers and First-Surface lawyers on the Board fought them all the way. Mr. Frye prevailed, as usual, but at the cost of more enemies. The greater biomass cost much in additional superstructure hexagonalization necessary to bear the increased weight. Profits dipped and continued a downward slide for a long time.
A vacation-returning Director brought a Brazilian toad to Lester one day. The man showed how adept the creature was at catching and eating cockroaches. Lester was most impressed. He commissioned special shallow ponds in the wilderness areas for their reproduction. The near-blind amphibians were always falling off the platforms. It took much propaganda to save the hideous creatures. Subhumans tend to want to destroy ugly helpless creatures. Being closer to the cave than humanity, the brutal behavior may be evidence of a reaction to archaic geological epoch prey fears.
One day, the amphibians caught on to the aerial nature of their new existence. The comical organisms continued to proliferate on the bridges. The long-legged gaipira vulture-chicken was another success story in the war on insect pests. The wisdom of the Founder’s anti-pesticide decision, ultimately, became apparent. There was sufficient food for pests as well as produce. Pest predators multiplied – everything benefited except the weaker – pure biology.
No one questioned the increase in total cruelty. It was Nature’s cruelty. The one permanent loss remained forever unknown, an unspecified quantity of short-term discretionary accumulated capital. Without the expensive petroleum based pesticides, Pontibus crops ultimately became much cheaper to produce than did those on the First-Surface. Pontibus net exports rose. Rich new varieties of life resulted from the decision, producing an additional beauty. Even fewer people descended to the First-Surface to seek medical care. These incalculably valuable commodities pleased the Pontibus bankers.
Strange, Lester’s enemies remained. Success but increased the animosity. Perhaps that, more than just the ethical questions involved, brought the Company to the threshold of disaster. A question, once plaguing First-Surface residents also confronted the Company. “Shall Pontibus residents destroy young children for economic reasons…essentially, for female pleasure prospects?
In an attempt to make a better lifestyle, will they allow abortion upon demand?”
For Lester and Mr. Otorp, the answer was simple. “Do we kill indiscriminately or not?”
Alone in his office chair now, Mr. Otorp remembered the force with which he answered. “We do not! Leave such butchery on the First-Surface!”
His private experience with genetic and ontogenetic deficits, plus childhood diseases requiring kindness, helped little. Reasons were ambivalent. Indiscriminate compassion appeals to weak natures. Shrouding abortion’s realities behind a curtain, allowing an anonymous avaricious medical butcher to handle everything, is tempting. He experienced no trouble with the choice but tried keeping a reclusive silence during the subsequent debates. Why expose private reasons?
The First-Surface enjoyed womb infanticide, abortion upon demand, for many years. The fight embroiled Mr. Frye. Conditions appeared to prime the two scientists for defeat. Savage societies, right up to the present, have always destroyed a percentage of their own children. The argument is sound. Simple economics. When conditions demand homicide…supply it…murder your young. Kill them or starve yourself. The weaker always lose. Human hypocrisy is a scream.
Human population numbers below were around 9 billion. Even with MMIM’s convenient organized democratic mass homicides, numbers were still too heavy for the land to support. Fires, hurricanes, floods, skin-cancer, famines, energy dearths, erosion, rising sea level, and resource exhaustion below continued unabated. There was extreme hunger, thirst, and misery on the First-Surface. The pro-eugenics group above was not without defense.
Neither scientist would condescend to accept religious “Right to Life” alliances. When lawyer-Directors suggested it, Lester shouted. “No one, nothing, anywhere has a life-given right to ignorance! I’ll never drink from the glass of folly, superstition and irresponsibility!” Shaking his head, he continued. Abortion is not “reverence for life”. It is fear and not allowed in my new religion, period!”
One First-Surface lawyer, a tool of the First-Surface banking cartel, who had a great deal invested in the Pontibus, asked. “How do we rationalize these contradictory concepts?”
Mr. Frye replied. “What are you talking about?”
The red-faced director almost wished he’d said nothing, but he knew what Lester’s outlawing abortion on the Pontibus would mean. It would be unwritten law, regardless of what it cost investors. Taking a deep breath, he replied. “Abortion seems the answer where its opposite brings a worse pain for both mother and child.”
Very angry, Mr. Frye invested in the argument and said. “It’s luxury & lucre you want, not loss of pain. You want to feather your nest and buy comfort with a child’s life. Because death is less painful than life? How can you compare the two? Is death of an innocent less painful to the planet than a caedere woman’s deferred pleasure prospects?”
The red-faced fellow crumpled into his seat without replying, and Lester shouted after him. “A woman capable of murdering her own flesh & blood in utero, a helpless child, is also capable of slaughtering you in your sleep!”
Mr. Otorp remembered hearing about the recent demise of a female director, Dr. Doris O’Brien. He recollected how she stood up at that battle, very angry, and said. “Council Law doesn’t allow life-support systems for any terminal medical condition. They proscribe neonatal units. I see an apparent contradiction here. Genetic, and possible congenital, complications mandate termination of the pregnancy according to our present Eugenics Policy. Do they not?”
“No!” Mr. Otorp replied.
“Of course they do!” She countered, looking toward Lester for confirmation.
His patience was wearing thin, and he was very slow to respond. Perhaps her exposing his blatant inconsistency bothered him. The room became very still. Everyone waited for his answer. When Mr. Frye replied, he was ashen-faced. “Society is mad. Most men, acting like most mammals, will not willingly support their children. They make their victims desperate unless forced to their knees. Women are not civilized creatures, never will be, and if you give one even the slightest opportunity, she will kill her unborn child. Once born, there is hope. Women are savage relationship addicts and fear to kill their friends. The children here will be born and, if need be, die … in their mother’s arms! Nature will aid or murder the freaks without my help. I’ll … have … no … crotch-butchers on my Pontibus!”
While Doris cooled down, other directors fidgeted in their chairs. During the tense moment, a vacuum appeared at the head. Mr. Otorp felt the need to take the floor. Very flustered and not coming across well, he did show some calm decorum. They listened, as he said. “We’ll do our best. We’ll fail repeatedly. Life does not present us with the easy task of choosing between good and evil. We like comprehensive rules but are always confronting relative goods and relative evils, never absolutes. To act responsibly we must choose between and betwixt, sometimes willy-nilly, but we must choose.”
Mr. Otorp looked around the room. Nobody seemed to want a turn at speaking, so he continued. “It will be difficult, refusing medical care to children born defective. It is still preferable to draconian womb infanticide. Remember the pesticide issue. If we’d chosen the death-dealing option, we’d have lost the battle at the start. We’d have elected to fail without even fighting. We must continue to suffer & struggle. We’ll get to choose again. Maybe it will be a final positive. Maybe it’ll require further thought. That’s why we have a cortex.”
Mr. Otorp looked at Lester, as if to elicit support. The other man was noncommittal, saying nothing. Encouraged by his silence, more people felt strength return. They started talking amongst themselves. Another female director, also a First-Surface lawyer, got up from her chair. She appeared to be leaving the room.
Mr. Otorp failed to see her turn around. He was about to continue, when she interrupted him, braying. “What about the normal children, issuing from the unwanted pregnancies, you don’t terminate. Who’s going to be accountable for them, or do we neglect them, as does the First-Surface, into the usual run-of-the-mill petty criminal classes.
Mr. Otorp said. “We’ll find a way to help mothers make a life for themselves and their infants. It’s time we gave life the high sign on the issue. The alternative hasn’t worked. I don’t have the latest statistics with chemical abortifacients factored into the equation. Before they were ubiquitous below, conditions were much more imperative than now. I remember by 2008 the First-Surface womb-killing was up to 50 million babies. Fortunately, most were babies of Christian and Jewish mothers.”
They didn’t discuss the issue over a woman’s’ right to choose. Everyone in the room saw the one-sided injustice of that silly democratic argument. Another basis would have to decide the question. Someone mentioned the certain appearance of back-room abortion doctors and how the burden would fall on the woman. A pro-eugenics director said female irresponsibility prevents their avoiding irresponsible males wishing to “father and flee”. Nature does not forgive irresponsibility, neglect, or incapacity.
The female director would not relent on her side of the “accountability” issue. The word itself can be a two-edged sword, conveniently both condemning and exculpating an aborting woman. Walking back to the meeting table, the lawyer put both her hands on its glazed calein surface. She stood there, glaring forward at Lester, until Mr. Otorp said. “The hypocrisy is untenable. There is an important concept to keep in mind. We cannot ever give up and admit defeat. We can’t rationalize it by saying it’s what we wanted all along. Choosing the path of cowardice and weakness, we elect to debilitate our race. We sentence ourselves to species death.”
Murmurs and grumbling went all around the room. He didn’t even convince the biologists in the Boardroom. Dr. “Accountability” wasn’t satisfied with Mr. Otorp’s words. She stood uncompromising & silent. He finished his speaking by saying.
“It’s time to somehow find better ways of raising unwanted children. We must create more space to make it easier for mothers to raise them. We can build more domiciles, more platforms, more schools, and more gardens to raise food and milk. Accept the premise that prison is no longer an option for them.”
The woman leaned over the table, coming ever closer to him, and said. “Who’s going to pay for all of this?”
Loud applause erupted, in response to her remark, from the rest of the room. It knocked Mr. Otorp off balance. He stared back at the woman, nonplussed. Looking around the room, Mr. Otorp confronted the many faces gazing back at him. There was both hostility & pity there, and he saw it all.
Pocketbooks were at stake. The question of abortionists’ collective greed, cruelty, and irresponsibility was a moot point. All present recognized that any answer to the question was cruel. The issue was pure evolution and yet simple survival too. The success of the Pontibus was due to having economics on its side. Unless the question was to be decided on maudlin hypocritical criteria, a genuine crisis existed.
The question’s resolution could change everything. It meant real trouble. Mr. Otorp opened his mouth to say something. Nothing came out except frustrated disconnected platitudes. His discomfiture was complete and obvious.
The tension continued mounting in the room. Emotions were boiling. Again, Dr. “Accountability” demanded. “Who will pay?!”
Nobody was looking in his direction, when Lester said. “I shall”.

The last conversation Mr. Otorp enjoyed with Lester was the one demeaning General Aloirav. His pejorative & untrue portrayal of the Head Security Officer’s visit would lie in his mind forever. Mr. Frye developed a boil on his back sometime before that visit. He was still in a weakened state following his last major battle. The microbes breached the protecting inflammation and were arrogating his energy as their own.
Antibiotics, from over a century of misuse, were almost all ineffective. That same afternoon septicemia ripped through the Founder. Spinal meningitis set in soon thereafter. No one sent for General Aloirav, or told him of Lester’s turn for the worse, until the coma. Mr. Frye’s failing immune system gave up, entirely, and he did not languish long.
At last, he could lay his children down. The entire World mourned Lester Frye. His impact on the planet, friends and enemies alike, was immense. His passing touched all. The most obtuse alone could stand unmoved by a spirit as great as his, moving into oblivion.
His ashes stayed on the Pontibus. General Aloirav arrogated charge of the cremation and other funeral matters. The Company didn’t seem to mind. It wouldn’t have mattered to the General how disconcerted they were. He did, however, keep in the background during the entire affair’s public aspects.
When the festivities ended, the Founder’s remains entered a shallow platform grave near the spot he so loved, his arboretum. It overlooked the Atlantic Ocean from Level-Twelve. Rav Aloirav and a few Newer Society members built a memorial there to receive their friend. While waiting for the funeral to end, General Aloirav stood alone there, composing Lester’s epitaph. He shed not one tear. His grief was still too great to waste energy on somatic display.
For a week after the event ended, no one could find the Company’s Chief of Security. He seemed to have vanished. The man did not disappear completely however. Residents of Queenstown, Massachusetts often saw a large but nondescript form, walking Genemsco Beach. They never saw the weeping man’s tears or when he left the oceanside.
In Boston, the General paced the empty rooms of the Roxbury brownstone near the City Hospital. He stood motionless, for hours, staring at and through an upstairs bay window. The week’s end found him sitting in a small room at his Grand Rapids South Division Hotel, mumbling to himself. “Oh, Les, Les. Did you ever know how much I loved and needed you?” Tears dropping from his sobbing face carried with them nothing to assuage his terrible sense of loss.
Now he had only Gloria with whom to share the hidden pity in his soul. He returned to the Company offices with an even greater sense of responsibility. He was determined never to let Lester’s dream die. He found an engraver and showed him what he wanted. Mr. Frye’s epitaph went on the memorial, as the General felt would have pleased his friend.
The stone was a piece of calcified conchiolin, over a meter in size, weighing 24kilos. The quality of calcium deposition was equal to the very finest South Sea pearl, 24,000 of them. In 2000 AD dollars it would have been worth more than the Hope diamond or priceless.

Mr. Otorp now stood, staring at that memorial. After a long time, he turned and walked back down the pathway toward his own domicile. All the way home, he thought about his past association with Lester Frye. Mr. Otorp never regretted the greatest influence in his life. Unbeknownst to him, Mr. Otorp thought he alone benefited from their association. He assumed his influence just amounted to the work done for the Company. The fact was not apparent to Mr. Otorp how he also influenced his mentor.
People thought well of Mr. Otorp, despite years of First-Surface media-flaying. The ordinary people saw him as much more than an apparatchik. To them, he was almost a co-Founder. Mr. Otorp lived incognizant of it. He got little feedback from other Company employees for stands taken. He never asked for any.
Natural humility and slight social contact with co-workers, other than Mr. Frye, contributed. It protected his reputation from the perception of familiarity. People often admire those who stand apart. Liberal educations seek to make heroes of monkeys. They often succeed in making men, but Mr. Otorp boasted of no formal education.
Nevertheless, most Company employees saw him as a great man. He was co-Founder of a New World, a role model, and a hero. It took courage to speak your mind, never hesitating to defend yourself. Due to corrupt First-Surface media manipulations, people perceived Mr. Otorp out-of-place at times. There was nevertheless universal respect for his having the courage of conviction.
Walking among them, making limited contact, the man was always the picture of dignity and kindness. What he felt, thought, and did were not just consistent but congruent. Despite all the media’s vilification and unjust trashing, people trusted him. It helped that truth always seemed to vindicate him in time. Mr. Otorp went around, living his life, doing his job, oblivious to his aura. He was unaware of his peers’ estimation.
Although Mr. Otorp couldn’t identify it, a foreboding now developed in his mind. No real concrete reason seemed to exist for the feeling. Wending his way back home, he attributed it to mourning. It couldn’t be anything else, he felt. It couldn’t be an unnatural chemical depression. No drugs roamed his body, other than coffee and last night’s cranberry wine.
His genetic engineering duties rested with collaborators now, and he felt less pressure to perform. His resulting limited Company work was going smooth. It couldn’t be job quality concerns making him feel uneasy. Knowing it must be something else, he thought. “Maybe blood pressure. I’ll check it when I return. I did drink those 3 glasses of wine last night.”
Machiavelli said it is Man’s nature to hate those he’s wronged. The First-Surface media never forgave Mr. Otorp for allowing them to persecute him. As if he had a choice. Most people never hear the truth. As a result, many still considered him a crank. He told his family it was impossible for the media to print the truth.
“The desire for certainty is universal,” he said, “but the desire to be deceived is also ubiquitous. It’s like our desire to survive co-existing with our death wish. In addition, the process of wealth acquisition runs counter to the spirit of Man’s seeking. Freedom of Speech is a mirage. To spread the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, requires extreme wealth & power. The wealthy & powerful have no interest in spreading such veracity. Except as a means of expanding an existing con, it’s counterproductive to vested interests.”
Mr. Otorp was not wealthy, and misconceptions followed him up the Pontibus. Political enemies also accrued as a consequence of his age, personality, and esoteric ideas. After Lester’s death, he got himself relegated to constructed wetland inspections instead of Company labs. As the main thrust behind the calein breakthrough, his decision was not popular.
The Company would have liked him to remain as an old icon, a grandfather, a guiding light for the young executives. Mr. Otorp preferred to spend his latter years with plants and animals. He felt wetland alligators to be more civilized than his peers. In the new wetlands, or in his workshop, Mr. Otorp could dream constraint-free. Politics and ceremonial duties would have kept him enthralled away from his own interests.
At Company headquarters, they would see an aging personality with a sinecure, he felt. Knowing many people would never hold him in high esteem, he thought. “How else would anyone treat an emeritus?”
Mr. Otorp wasn’t just an idol. Many considered him a crackpot, a nut with enemies. Thoughts of causing possible trouble in the Company, his friend started, made him uncomfortable. He remembered Mr. Frye confronting such attitudes, ignorance, and contempt but growing above it to success. Mr. Otorp wasn’t the same type of person.
He didn’t have a similar personality. People hardly listened to his words, holding him in high regard only after he said something that angered them. When they got angry, he got defensive. Battles engaged, hostility endured. Many remembered.
Mr. Otorp was seldom wrong. For his opponents to maintain their fragile egos, they ridiculed him. He handled the ridicule well. His effectiveness dissipated, however. The cycle continued.
The man was also a genius, like Frye, so he slept with trouble. The ridicule stage was the latter phase, after the dangerous period terminated. It was “comic relief” for him. Mr. Otorp fought the temptation to agree with his enemy, General Aloirav, who frequently said. “People are shit in a sewer. Why swim with them?”
Mr. Otorp’s’ curious ideas didn’t help him make new friends either. Even his family couldn’t understand them or him. He made sure those thoughts persisted. The man changed them very seldom. Others needed to force him to think otherwise, using overwhelming reason, before he would relent.
People saw Mr. Otorp as stubborn and eccentric. That was not to say anyone took his “No!” as frivolous. His character was among the very strongest, a rock. The quality showed, when he felt correct, while undergoing pressure to bend. Nothing, but nothing, made him move one inch toward compromise. It was a quality that people look upon, in the aged, as a detriment.
Mr. Otorp was fair, but he was also the longtime student of a biologist. Such a statement may mean little to the average person. To one schooled in the science, it means understanding Life’s aristocratic nature and the justice parallax. It also presupposes cruelty not very often encountered in polite circles. The more succinct expression is “survival of the fittest”.
“Natural selection” was sacrosanct in his mind. His heart was elsewhere. The dichotomy in his thinking was why he seldom agreed with his family or others. He was about as much out of place as a philosopher in church. After Lester Frye died, Mr. Otorp lost much influence in addition to his beloved friend. His life became harder almost overnight. Appearing in the Company laboratory became less important to him. That was the main reason why he resigned his position and asked for wetlands’ work.

Mr. Otorp finished washing his hands and dried them on the mussel-fabric towel. Looking out his porthole, he saw a seagull ripping apart a cracked mussel. Another was picking one off the side of Mr. Leion’s mariculture pond. Flying up 30 feet, the animal dropped it. The mollusk hit the interdomicile path, the bird close behind it.
The gull knew just where to drop it. The spot hit was hard enough to break and expose the mussel’s soft inner flesh. After consuming it, the bird flew away. Its partner followed. Mr. Otorp resumed tinkering at his home laboratory workbench.
He was working on an antenna coating for a special type of superheterodyne receiver-transmitter master oscillator. He hoped to one day modify it into accepting and translating cerebral-cortical vibrations. An ordinary superheterodyne master oscillator could then convert these waves into standard radio frequency (RF). Later, audio would result. His research objective was easier communication with other life forms.
Post-Lester Company directors possessed limited vision. They found little future in Mr. Otorp’s brain wave hypothesis as a life-protection measure. The Pontibus produced such an abundance of life. They saw such ideas as without remuneration. Mr. Otorp disagreed and proceeded with his avocation.
Mr. Otorp’s research wasn’t yet a total success, but he did merit kudos. Calein, of course was a great achievement. He also developed telepathic control for stratocars. That too was an astounding feat. Animal communication still eluded him.
Radio waves controlled stratocars, as before, but with an added Otorp feature. Instead of just manual manipulation, the operator now could use a mental control box. It reduced reaction times to less than ¾ of a second. Lester funded the research as a reward for the calein achievement. He kept his word on the promise made Mr. Otorp back in the 20th century.
Mr. Otorp’s success in the electroencephaloperative work intrigued Mr. Frye enough to continue subsidizing it. Mr. Otorp’s home workshop was a maze. Electroencephalograms, AM/FM signal generators, oscilloscopes, powerful magnets, spectrum analyzers, recording devices, chemicals, and animal subjects cluttered his module. A large pile of Chondrus crispis seaweed covered a corner of the floor. Charred remains of kappa carrageenan, (types I, III, & IV), extracted from the seaweed, splattered over the workbench. Everything hinged on his new antenna coating.
Capturing & deciphering a living subject’s brain emission was his goal. He sought to tune zero beats, with signal-generating machines. If successful, he would amplify the clarified result. An oscilloscope would detect animal subjects’ amplified brain waves. From there, audio would be easy to produce. Then, communication…
Before he died, Mr. Frye said. “A discovery of how wave pattern changes occur might help biosustainability. The world of animals, plants, and synthetic organisms will come closer together. Just imagine the paradise we would have if all life could communicate, using a similar language.”
A more custodial stance vis a vis the planet would result. Developing another type of communication with foreign DNA might bring a completely new world to our species. Extinct life might return via molecular biology and give insights into existence heretofore denied us. He imagined exploiting phylogenic memory for 4 billion years, writing more profound musical compositions. It might relieve unknown suffering in humanoids and depressed prison inmates. The latter was the Founder’s special obsession.
During the last century, Mr. Aloirav too thought about Mr. Otorp’s ESP mania, even funding some of it. The hotelier’s interest centered on its military and mind-control possibilities. Knowing an organism’s cerebral-cortical tuning harmonics might facilitate it, he thought. The “boss” was too astute to mention anything, at the time. Later, he listened to the news of Mr. Otorp’s breakthroughs from the prison cell.
The Company feted and paraded Mr. Otorp for days after breaking the telepathic stratocar development news. It left him replete with fame. Lester Frye opened another factory for fabricating tetrahedral subassemblies out of cured calein. The two men stood together for the photographers at the christening. 214-69-62 watched that too from his prison cell. He buried the pain of not being a part of it along with his other failures. His irrelevance in prison troubled him. It was his work, risk, and sacrifice that made it all possible. He suffered alone, without hope, and in silence.
Mr. Otorp continued to work on the first big chore, a remote-receiving antenna. Its particular capacity was to receive both extremely low frequency & voltage signals. His stratocar mental telepathy control box resulted from that research. Development was an offshoot. The breakthrough made perambulators safer than ever.
Waves could now enter a receiving machine, emulating an electroencephalograph, to be amplified. Head-electrode non-attachment, hitherto impossible, was now unnecessary. Specific thoughts directed into the stratocar receiver produced rudimentary stops, goes, and turns. Superimposed brain waves modulated the stratocar’s existing radio frequency control apparatus. The actual mechanism of modulation was still a mystery. Brain waves themselves remained elusive.
He sought to decipher the emanations from various species and translate them into languages. Entertaining a brain wave hypothesis, Mr. Otorp believed interspecies – interplanetary communication possible. He was also a frustrated Christian. The man hoped, one day, to use what he discovered to investigate the “God” myths of the subhumans. Suppose some demented but powerful monkey monster was indeed responsible for the agony in life. The wave-receiver control box made the search for the special antenna even more exciting.
Finding the right combination of physical and chemical stimuli was imperative. Wave patterns, once obtained, would allow detection & exhibition of communicatory vibrations. Mr. Otorp would then develop a way to convert these patterns into a cerebral syntax. Later, perhaps a translating machine, analogous to a protein synthesizer, could do the whole job. Its development was to be his last great gift to the planet.
Mr. Otorp constructed his first EEG (Electroencephalograph) from scrap. He salvaged electronics from old computers and obsolete molecular biology research equipment. They supplied his transistors, capacitors, resistors, cables, and other parts. Lester Frye showed him where Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) in Cambridge, Massachusetts dumped their obsolete equipment. Mr. Otorp’s son, a current employee of the institution, got laboratory equipment replacement dates for him.
On occasion, Mr. Otorp visited the salvage rooms of that First-Surface Institution to bid. His perambulator returned full of outdated salvaged MIT equipment acquired at a pittance. The Company’s own laboratory junk also served in his home workshop. Many accused him of eccentricity and having no common sense. Like Lester Frye, Mr. Otorp felt common sense to be little more than impacted prejudices, ossified by adolescence’s end.
Mr. Otorp’s greatest opportunity came with helping Mr. Frye get the Pontibus concept “off the ground”. That success alone, among all his many ventures, paid off well. It carved him a place in history. The lucrative endeavor secured him a module, garden platforms, and financial comfort. His non-Jewish son was able to secure employment at Rothschild’s great MIT. Non-Jews were virtually never allowed access to its hallowed old halls. Otorp grandchildren attended other elite schools and enjoyed possibilities for comfortable futures. There was even sufficient square footage in his module to have a workshop and office.
How it all happened, when it did, came as a surprise. He never pursued the reasons or complexities behind his unexpected financial security. Mr. Otorp accepted it, as he did his previous insecurity. Mundane pragmatic matters such as groceries, electricity, heat & water bills, etc. concerned him little. Mr. Otorp left those matters to his poor wife, now deceased, to decipher.
Mr. Frye’s resources facilitated everything Mr. Otorp accomplished. Mr. Otorp couldn’t get bank loans. He was credit unworthy. He knew what was wrong with the lending industry. He could speak volumes about it, should you ask him. The principal problem, he felt, was its shortsightedness. Bankers did not understand their institution’s myopia.
Most banks lent money for trite irresponsible reasons . . . cars, TV sets, snowmobiles, furniture, etc. Small dreams & consumer goods obtained backing. Large dreams did not. As payback time increased, he believed, lending reasons prove less capricious. Home mortgages came to mind.
Trust organizations always ran on a defined payback time. They operated with caution, as they must, for the culture in which they lived. If any banker, (other than a Rothschild affiliate), had a modus operandi any different, he couldn’t compete. Small dreams and circumscribed vision are at a premium. Short-term survival is paramount.
He said. “That’s how governments excuse translating children’s futures into huge national debts. They buy quick political goals that, as a rule, terminate in war.”
Mr. Otorp thought the culture in which he lived estranged big dreamers and people of great vision. The four lending C’s (credit, character, capacity, and collateral) are seldom present to the banker’s satisfaction in a dreamer. Visionaries cannot know when their visions will become reality. They borrow, expecting to repay in the time allotted but feel closer to their visions than to the banker’s constraints.
As a result, Mr. Otorp knew, dreamers often fail to get good loans. If they succeed at obtaining one, they pay more penalty interest and fall short of maintaining good credit ratings. Society, wherein they regress, calls their character into question. People give them names like “crank”, “strange”, “eccentric”, “erratic”, “unreliable”, deadbeat, weirdo, etc. The very best people, of whom the human race is most in need, are often the most despised. The “despicable” moniker, when used in a financial context, does not correlate with either value or its absence.
Visionaries do not repay with the same rectitude, as do others, nor should they, he felt. Important aspirations may take hundreds of years for payback. Most dreamers know the repayment day will come. It may not be they or the banker who receives the reimbursement. Something more esoteric controls their success. However, the return will arrive with greater interest than their loans ever contemplated or charged. Others, Society as a whole, will receive the recompense. Pragmatic conditions anesthetize bankers to these proceeds.
Mr. Otorp believed incomplete credit reporting, and time shortfalls, precluded the visionary from enjoying his reward. Should he survive and become successful, governments extract punitive taxation. Others earning an equal amount, but in regular increments, are experts in avoiding tariffs. The law abets them, discriminating against the dreamer. Should successful visionaries not genuflect, governments disenfranchise them and take all.
Lester supposed banks, like Rothschild’s IRS, conspired against visionaries. He felt they wanted people to lie on paper. Easily proved lies gave institutions more advantage. They could force payment by threatening jail terms. He maintained that big bankers & governments were the natural enemies of better people. He was, however, non-committal in respect to Rav Aloirav’s friend Elboruh Lebensrau.
Believing salvation rested only with the Pontibus and his new religion, Mr. Frye said. “Species true needs are prohibitively expensive for simple bankers to fathom. Governments finance wars and other political nonsense, gambling with borrowed capital. The struggle for our existence grows ever weaker. The human race is retrograde. It pays for its myopia by borrowing on its progeny. When the bill falls due, we will disintegrate.”

Life has no meaning except in terms of responsibility. Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope. Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love.                                          Niebuhr

 

Chapter Fifty-Five
As far from the ordinary as he was, Mr. Otorp did have a good heart. He could drop anything in a second for his surviving child & grandchild. It didn’t stop there. He couldn’t step on an ant. It took him five minutes just to decide whether to swat an annoying fly.
Mr. Otorp was a sweet but stubborn old man. Much confrontation made him grave and somewhat tactless. He was also a veteran of many battles; his latest was just last week. That last battle occupied his mind right now.
As a result, he couldn’t concentrate on the antenna coating. The Chondrus crispis gel contained the correct weight of carbon black and kappa carrageenan. Mr. Otorp was sure of it. Nevertheless, results were not what he hoped. Feeling that another day lay wasted, Mr. Otorp sat motionless at his bench, wondering what to do.
Looking to see that all the soot washed off his hands, he stood up. Getting a cup of coffee, he returned to the bench. The compuphone rang. It was the foreman for the new wetland job on Level Twenty-Four. He wanted to say thank-you for some previous advice.
The suggested changes last week were correct. The young rhizomes were shooting out as desired. Before closing the conversation, the foreman said something else. He confided that many people were talking about last week’s incident on the First-Surface. Mr. Otorp felt an explanation was in order.
He described some of the events and conversation that occurred. The foreman seemed satisfied and asked no more embarrassing questions. Mr. Otorp got him off the phone and went back to the bench. Thinking about the whole situation again made him writhe. He exploded into his signal generator.
“Damn! Why can’t I learn to keep my big trap shut! Here I am, an old man. Still haven’t learned to control my tongue!”

Resin-coated Al-Con, used in prior building trusses and connecting intersections, left with pain. Substituting tetrahedralized matrices of silicate and carbonate impregnated fibrous proteins took time. The change maintained the Company’s leading position in the building market. It also preempted the eventual obsolescence of Al-Con and fossil resins. Much more rapid outward colonization resulted. Mr. Frye’s foresight brought more markets into the Company’s sphere of influence with their ever-expanding technology base.
Carbonate-rich First-Surface seawater or rock washings met freshly-secreted calein material. Contact “cured” the sticky exudate after extruded in the form of tetrahedralized matrices. The process required special molds. Those, Mr. Otorp designed for his organ culture products, worked well right from the start. They cured ten subassemblies worth of calein micro-tubing per hour.
The Company was growing faster than ever, however. They were now testing newer designs developed by Mr. Otorp’s students. The Company produced fifty subassemblies per minute in the two new Pontibus factories.
The factories required many skilled people. Activities, required of individuals, working in calein factories, were complex. Shipping and receiving work, of course, never ceased. Experience in model building, to show molecular structure paradigms, helped. Special organ culture maintenance people and zoologists worked with the super mussels.
Research continued to produce better calein. Microbiologists and molecular physicists experimented to develop improved bacteria. The Company needed people to purify DNA, immunize mice, and maintain bioreactors. They must know bacterial and tissue culture. Serum collection people supplied Ouchterlony detection devices for application in the labs.
A past student of Mr. Otorp, just last month, developed a new type of bacteria, using synthetic chromosome fragments. That microbe turned out to be a better calein producer than the original organism discovered by Mr. Otorp. It would soon act as the host to new calein DNA sequences. A 2nd generation of superclam would result. Calein production would triple.
That brilliant student was not without a sordid past. The woman came from a poverty-stricken Jewish family in a First-Surface New York ghetto. To escape her degraded and superstitious upbringing, the woman put her body to rent. She thus acquired enough money to travel, moving to Michigan. There, she became a forger, got caught, and went to DeHoCo. A murder there got her saddled with even more time. The hotelier liked her style and got her out 20 years early.
She was now one of the rehabilitated New Society members. The “needle” no longer wished to be a biological weapons’ wielder. The “boss” and Lester gave her a chance. From superstitionist, prostitute, forger, convict, assassin, and serial killer to human benefactor in one lifetime was no minor accomplishment. It delivered the final blow to Lester’s earlier preconception about ex-cons.
Another former inmate worked in the paper industry before going to prison. He was also a past member of the New Society. When the “medical personnel” approached him, the imprisoned serial killer manifested similar distaste for returning to “needlework”. He knew how some disenchanted former affiliates caught colds and died. The ex-murderer didn’t want to share their fate.
Bacon showed him how to receive a reprieve from the General without a resumption of his former duties. The General arranged rehabilitation and found him work with Mr. Frye soon after his release. Lester passed him over to Mr. Otorp. The decision was appropriate. The former incorrigible improvised a machine capable of producing, from old paper production machinery, superior calein sheets. The new material replaced old hydrocarbon fabric coatings on module exteriors. Just a few days earlier, the Company honored him from one end of the Pontibus to the other for his exemplary work.
His fete came right after the Jewish scientist’s parade. Mr. Otorp returned from retirement for the ceremony. Two incorrigibles, so honored in one month, made even accolade-shy Rav Aloirav proud. As the Pontibus grew, those honored accumulated. While Lester was still alive, the Company built a museum in which to display the beauty of their contributions. All Pontibus residents could see the inspiring work of former outcasts.

Somewhere around this time, Rav began his avocation in sculpture. Before prison, he experienced a vision of life’s beginning and end. While still 214 6962, the man often wished to return to research in hopes of understanding it better. His time was so limited now, it was not convenient. The General did, however, put special ex-cons to work on the subject. When they made advances, Rav wanted to share what they learned. He felt it would help explain our mission as special life forms.
The man said death sends our souls (celestial DNA) to another planet. Birth returns them. Like salmon, souls at death travel through the same wormholes (Einstein – Rosen bridges) from which they enter at birth. .
‘What is the mechanism whereby the genetic apparatus creates access to these transport lacunae,’ Rav wondered.
He found out that intron DNA’s source is in large part extraterrestrial. It contains energy expenditure controls on the path toward extra sensory perception. Much of it holds death-throe response program information. Auras change structure under impending death stresses, reflecting lowered energy, triggering final nucleic acid rearrangement. Rav discovered how the new wavelengths activate intron DNA. The rearranged exon DNA forms RNA messages and thus the protein transcript. The soul transcript commandeers existing enzymes. These reoriented enzymes expend about 21 grams of protoplasm’s chemical energy to propel the soul into a wormhole. A “unique force” travels through the ether.
He discovered that the anatomy of the soul’s protective shield facilitates aperture penetration at crucial moments. Such moments exist at birth and at death. The phenomenon of convergent evolution gave clues to the mechanism. All biological reproductive anatomy conserves the mechanism if not the structures. The degree of conservation reflects its success.
Intron DNA ultimately transmogrifies the incarnate soul’s covering into a distinctive energy form. The soul’s new phallus-like presence exfoliates the organism analogous to a bacteriophage. The peripheral entrance energy of the Einstein-Rosen Bridge attracts as a vulva. Cosmic magnetism draws them together. The bridge vagina opens into interstellar space.
“All these chemical reactions must take time.” He thought. “What happens to beings that are poisoned or blown to bits before the changes can take place?”
The General discovered that death does not take place until all is in place or the dismembered soul wanders, forever. These are the source of our, much disputed, “ghost and goblin” lore. Rav felt even the poor and missionless possessed such instructions. Something defective occurred in, or subsequent to, their transport of manifestation. Returning them expeditiously via anthropophagia would repair such defects and enhance human evolution. . A people that cannot or will not send back their defectives is uncivilized. Adapting ourselves to Nature as best we can is mandatory. Any other behavior is flagrant disregard of what we now enjoy. Survival is not the end all. The question is whether we will want to survive.
Rav Aloirav was also Hotel Aloirav’s architect. Becoming concerned with a particular area that needed more vertical support, he built a new tetrahedral column. Inside it, the man put a representation of his vision along with his metaphysical research discoveries. Rav called the sculpture alpha & omega, (beginning and end). Therein he showed his concept of an Einstein Rosen bridge and the use to which the masters have put it.

In spite of his former alcoholism, Mr. Otorp did not look aged. His body appeared that of a man half his age. A near-vegetarian most of his life, he showed small trace of his unfortunate start. The Otorp family always ate fruits and vegetables they grew themselves. Except for that life-long limp, there was a decided spring to Mr. Otorp’s step.
Even Lester Frye, also a vegetarian, never in life exhibited such an eye-sparkle. Except for iron-gray hair, Mr. Otorp’s physical condition was as healthy as it was at 40. Keeping his body thin never allowed toxins to enjoy permanent residence. Hesperides apple tea gave him even greater desire to live beyond a normal lifespan.
His troubled mind couldn’t forget last week’s encounter on the First-Surface. He remembered that imbroglio vividly. After his MIT scavenging ended that particular day, he went to visit his son. The MIT lab where the man worked was located in the old biology building on Main Street, and the Khazar Jewish biometrics scanning machine was defective. Mr. Otorp smuggled himself in to his son’s lab. A Whitehead Building scientist was asking a question about the work on which he & the younger Otorp collaborated. Holding an Erlenmeyer flask in one hand, Whitehead was pointing to its contents.
Mr. Otorp was very interested, too interested, it appeared. A resulting awkwardness transpired, betraying the fact that the collaborating scientist was unaware of many things. For one, he didn’t know who the stranger with the eccentric sentiments was. All but the Whitehead scientist knew Mr. Otorp’s identity. Nobody felt subsequent introduction necessary or appropriate.
The cynosure of the men was in apoptosis elements – programmed death genes. The Whitehead man was working on one aspect of an oncogene. Mr. Otorp’s son was researching a different DNA fragment downstream of that same sequence. Mr. Otorp too used apoptosis genes in his calein work. Except for the elder Mr. Otorp, the men were interested in apoptosis genes for their destructive effects. They felt such elements might be useful against neoplastic cell growth – cancer.
Mr. Otorp’s sequences facilitated certain terminal differentiation steps. These different levels were necessary to develop his multicellular pseudo-organism. It was like using a scissors (apoptosis) to cut a paper doll (cistron).

Tailoring such a complex ultimately produced calein in large quantities. It was a major breakthrough. Both sides of the apoptosis route needed life-support systems to work with their special DNA.
Since the 21st Century began, tissue culture advanced a great deal. There was very little monolayer flask research anymore. Monolayers now existed in clinical settings alone. Mr. Otorp’s son and other scientists were using modern tissue culture in their research. Organs and organ systems were now an everyday fact. There were Wall Street companies that manufactured & sold human leukocyte antigen (HLA) neutral organs for transplantation.
Having no formal education, Mr. Otorp’s expertise came from reading & watching. Working for years in the field with his employer and friend, Mr. Frye, helped. Famous for furthering tissue culture science, he nevertheless felt certain reservations. The inventor entertained serious doubts about some of the advanced aspects of biotechnology. There were also natural self-educated gaps in what Mr. Otorp knew about biotechnology. Notwithstanding, he always made his personal feelings very vocal.
Lester Frye, in his commanding demeanor, cushioned Mr. Otorp’s knowledge breaches. That was no longer possible. The Whitehead scientist, collaborating with Mr. Otorp’s son, was unaware of them. He was cognizant just that the elder Otorp used advanced tissue culture technology to build the calein-producing super-mussel. The Whitehead scientist read everything the father wrote on the subject as well as the recombinant DNA techniques he published. Working with the son was a great honor. He would have been the father’s humble disciple… if he knew.
Asking an antagonizing question, Mr. Otorp’s sentiments became obvious. After a bit, he left his son’s lab for a short time. Upon returning, Mr. Otorp learned the group dispersed. He asked his son why the collaborator left without saying goodbye. His son informed him that the man took offense at the gratuitous comments.
The younger Otorp relayed the exact words. “…Playing God with organ culture? That old man is really off the wall, isn’t he?”
“That “old man” is my father.”
“Really?! The famous guy himself?!”
“Yup.”
“Why did he attack me?”
Mr. Otorp thought everyone was aware of all aspects of his life, including his eccentric ideas. That shortcoming, because the media is always in their face, is common to many famous people. His ingenuousness left no room for appreciating another’s ignorance. It wasn’t as though there was no precedent for thinking such. The media latched onto his every statement, misquoting him at times on purpose. They created cause celebre’ after cause celebre’ at Mr. Otorp’s personal expense.
He now appeared certifiable, crazy. Only freaks and demented people believed in some “God” monster. His son felt Mr. Otorp was in error, and he wasn’t reluctant to declare it. Mr. Otorp apologized to his son for the embarrassment, and the younger Otorp accepted it. Mr. Otorp noticed how the apology got ready receipt, instead of polite protest. Young Otorp wasn’t taking his father’s side. Mr. Otorp began, right then, berating himself for his big mouth. He left and was soon out of sight. His son vented to an empty lab.
“A stranger, he speaks directly against the man’s work! So unprofessional! Unfeeling! How can he do that!? Particularly, after he’s published so much material on his own tissue culture. He’s making critical observations of a moral nature – so unscientific. He knows Rothschild is a devil-worshipper, and yet he brings up some “God” nonsense in Rothschild’s own University! What could I say in reply?”
As often happens in such matters, it didn’t end there. The fallout from his statement went much further. From a disagreement between “family” members, it escalated. Within hours, his gauche remark became public knowledge. The repercussions increased beyond undoing (their effects) with a simple apology.
The offended scientist wasn’t friendless. He knew someone on the Twelfth-Level. That friend was a Company executive. The particular official wasn’t Mr. Otorp’s fan. That acquaintance soon apprised all Company Directors of the events, considerably shaded.
Most of the other executives also heard but one side. The biased executive’s commentary concerning the misstatement carried the day. Within hours, even Company ordinary people were slanted-story aware, believing Mr. Otorp to have said. “What right do you have to be doing organ culture? You feel you have the right to play “God”? Who do you think you are?!”
Mr. Otorp’s version of a possible positive slant never got consideration. He returned home that evening to his answering computer’s barrage. It hit him full-blast with how hypocritical, insensitive, and unscientific was his dotage. Mr. Otorp, once again, appeared to go out of his way to appear foolish. His own eccentric sentiments defamed him.
Few brave souls summoned up sufficient political courage to ask his side of the situation. Fortunately, brave souls appear from time to time. Without them, it would be impossible to disseminate truth. Sanctioned untruth would overwhelm us. Regarding such disregard for truth, General Aloirav once said.
“The human race fuels its daily opinion vehicle on half-truths and rumors. It’s the main reason why democracies function at all … and will never function well. People seldom ponder how often they base their support or opposition on misconceptions. If so, there wouldn’t be as much surprise at either treachery or unexpected loyalty encountered. As democracy couldn’t survive without corruption, so human injustice can’t survive without ignorance. The very fact that society can judge some as fit only for prison means that all are unfit for democracy. None can be trusted with self-government. Democracy is a felony vs. Nature, a pollution of Eden. The human race is incapable of reorienting its priorities into a survival cathexis. There is just too much venality and concupiscence. Modern democracy dooms us to extinction. It’s an age-old question. What to feel for the human, pity or disgust?”
Mr. Otorp was old enough to know not to expect “fair”. Nevertheless, speaking his mind caused reactions disproportionate to statement value or intent. Situations became so bizarre at times, they appeared too ridiculous to countenance. Mr. Otorp compared it to touching a damaged nerve. It seemed so twisted.
Mr. Otorp made public, many times, in the 20th Century his true feelings about biotechnology, saying. “What scares me about the science are not its objectives. Most are benign. It may advance, however, to where the accidentals become objectives and visa versa. Excuses may even surface to create an underclass of humanoids.”
Such statements made him appear foolish & unbalanced, undermining his credibility. He tried diminishing such impressions by arguing. “This will not occur all at once but in a slow, measured, and legal way. The story goes about heating a frog in a saucepan, using very small temperature increases. Those in the field say the animal cannot detect small increments of temperature gain. Not jumping to safety, it cooks to death unaware. Tissue culture creatures’ humanity also may be unrecognizable until too late to prevent torment.”
Some said his statements were within probabilities but far-fetched. Mr. Otorp countered criticism after criticism, saying. “Involuntary servitude is still practiced in places and is common in all farm animals. In all countries saddled with Rothschild central banks, the citizens are little better than slaves. All decent people, yet they must pay 95% of their lives in taxes to that miserable excuse for a Jew! Why, even today, one could program a transgenic human, using another species brain DNA. We could raise it in a lab for experimentation in lieu of a lab animal, avoiding antivivisectionist criticism. The technology necessary to do so has been available since the 20th century. The human race is unable to use its moral judgment in critical areas.”
The First-Surface media jumped on that last statement, and the Founder came to his defense, saying. “Your First-Surface biological misfits are perfect examples of the humanoids to which he refers and they display just how you’d react to their advent.”
Events seldom proved Mr. Otorp incorrect in his chemical – biological issue assessments and pronouncements. In support of this, the First-Surface was now rampant with humanoids. Philosophically, however, his position was unusual and that spelled w-r-o-n-g. The First-Surface media took him as a lightweight, since he flaunted no advanced degrees. They never aired his statements without it accruing to their benefit or the Company’s detriment. He didn’t have sufficient capital or aggressiveness to appear credible. Mr. Otorp also seemed to revel in self-contradiction and controversy.
HLA-neutral organs for transplant were common in all but nervous tissue like the brain. First-Surface people were living to ripe old ages. It was a major problem for those able to afford the surgery. They wanted to prolong their lives, knowing it meant eventual senility. Caring for the wealthy demented down there became a growth industry. Those with the means to affect world contingencies were becoming ever older & more non-compos mentis. The world was filling up with George IIIs. There were justifiable concerns about organ culture beyond Mr. Otorp’s theoretical objections.
Whatever. The public is unkind in such matters. They accept apparent contradictions as actual contradictions, discounting or ignoring the perceived perpetrator’s intent. The populace spared him no punishment in these indiscretions. An example is in order.
Mr. Otorp replied in the negative, when they asked if he was anti-biotech.
The First-Surface media then wanted him to explain some of his statements in light of that denial. Mr. Otorp made the mistake of complying. He happened to mention his reservations about tissue culture. The next day they “quoted” him as a mendacious, anti-organ culture & anti-biotech fool. To make the story more colorful to their readers, Mr. Otorp appeared to be as indecisive as a politician. They made him look the exact opposite of what he was.
He also said. “I believe every child should be aware of the science. How else will people understand how to deal with laws affecting those who do understand it?”
That statement, offensive just to academics & scientists, completed the First-Surface media’s case. A word added here, subtracted there, and only Mr. Otorp knew he wasn’t a child molester or spoke using different words. Media retractions aired when but one person, dead drunk, was watching. They made Mr. Otorp seem to be a mass of confusing contradictions. He always went on to give them more clay to mold.
Answering criticism concerning the Founder’s 20th Century Cloning Kit, Mr. Otorp helped further his own self-defamation. He spoke about the entire science, saying. “Our race faced a most dangerous time with respect to survival on the planet. Genetic engineering seemed to be our only hope. In the hands of so few, like witchcraft, hamstrung us. We couldn’t benefit by preventing possible solutions.”
Such quotations disenfranchised him from ever finding friends in academia. Professors do not care for people who call them witches. So, people misunderstood him. Similar situations convinced him to be as First-Surface media shy as Lester Frye. Each man believed the First-Surface media to be perverse tools of government and Rothschild. They both saw a gorgon whose nature created monsters. That gorgon made devils of angels, heroes of nonentities, nonentities of heroes and angels from devils. Its religious and sports time spots gave spineless sexless subhumans refuge from accepting a responsible real world.
Mr. Otorp felt the fourth estate was out to vilify him. They would print just what made him seem wrong. Exceptions were even worse. They presented him as evil, lacking in judgment, replete with self-hatred for contributing to biotechnology. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
The problems Mr. Otorp luxuriated in with the First-Surface media began in the late 20th Century. Back then, as many others, he believed the USA enjoyed freedom of speech for all. That dangerous error got him involved in a battle with Queenstown, Massachusetts. The fight involved a long and unsuccessful campaign to educate the populace. The community’s Water Commission misled the citizens as to the quality of their drinking water. Municipal engineers felt residents couldn’t both pay for the water’s clean-up and heavy political graft too. So, the town’s politicians & engineering contractors collaborated in an unhealthy deception.
It started after Mr. Otorp became ill with a serious bout of ulcerative colitis. He wanted to find the cause of his malady to avoid continuing with the drug sulfasalazine. To obviate that regimen, Mr. Otorp used the process of elimination to discover the alimentation responsible. He alternately fasted and fed his way to the cause & cure. He drank and cooked with distilled water. It took some time, but he discovered that blame rested with community tap water.
If not the entire cause, then it was a proximal or precipitating cause. Following his discovery, Mr. Otorp took some of the offending substance to Mr. Frye’s well-equipped laboratory. They found very high heavy metal levels therein. The two deduced that the indirect culprit was acid rain.
Midwest high-sulfur coal furnaces produced acid (sulfur trioxide) smoke for decades. Wind brought clouds east. Rain fell to leach buffering carbonates from New England’s aquifer. Winter snows were as acidic as battery solution and, in time, all buffering carbonates entered the sea. Future rains found no carbonates and maintained their low pH (high acid) as they percolated into the soil. Resulting town well water thus was still very acidic.
New England plumbing is virtually all copper-lead tubing. The acid leached these dangerous metals out of home pipes as sulfates and deposited them into drinking glasses. Sinks, clothes, hair, etc. turned green from the heavy copper concentrations. (After copper sulfate touches soap, it turns into a green precipitate from the carbonates therein.)
In addition to Mr. Otorp, other people became sick with heavy metal caused diseases. Nobody knew why or how except he. The battle began by making of him a somewhat controversial hero. His crusade didn’t really start until Mr. Otorp set out to win election to the local Board of Health. With hard facts, Mr. Otorp countered the other politicians every move.
Whenever they tried to upset him, he blew them away with erudite arguments. Residents polarized quickly as pro or contra Otorp. He won by a comfortable margin against his opponent’s 666 votes. With that mandate behind him, Mr. Otorp stepped up his crusade.
Unbeknownst to the local citizenry, the water cartel retained the services of an expert manipulator. The people panderer was an avaricious and amoral real estate developer who specialized in defamation via newsprint half-truths. He was, of course, also a personal enemy of integrity-rich Mr. Otorp. The ecothug saw obvious substantial potential gain from future political liaisons. He mustered all the cartel’s forces to rid the Town of sincere and dedicated professionalism. The townies followed him like sheep.
The developer also enlisted the financial aid of his wealthy associates to suborn laboratories, media, doctors, and engineers. As most other inventors and scientists, Mr. Otorp was no politician. He behaved as any political novice (decent man) would behave in a similar situation…ineptly. The following events ensued:
Meinholtz, a local church deacon, raped and murdered a 12-year-old girl. Out for blood, the residents turned into a lynch mob. Revenge was all they would consider. A small Jewish woman dared to hold up a small flag of reason. She asked if the reason for the horrible crime might be in the water.
Her question received prompt ridicule, and the gaggle labeled her a kook. Imagine! Believing crime to be something other than EVIL. The courageous creature didn’t run and hide to hang her head in shame but brought her evidence to Mr. Otorp. Hearing her statement and reading her material, he decided to investigate. The man didn’t think the amount of copper & lead in the drinking water could have done it alone. At most, he felt, it would have produced schizophrenia.
Mr. Otorp discussed the matter with his mentor and hero, Lester Frye. Mr. Frye thought there might be a possible synergy involved. He remembered something that occurred three weeks prior to the brutal sex slaying. The State of Massachusetts Department of Public Health, against his advice, indiscriminately sprayed the entire region aerially. They excused their possibly venal (and definitely asinine) behavior as an attempt to eradicate the Eastern Equine Encephalitis virus. The insecticide was Malathion, a recycled derivative of the organophosphate nerve gas Sarin.
Lester said. “In a misguided attempt to save 1 or 2 human lives that summer, they caused immeasurable collateral suffering. They never considered the destruction of bees, birds, frogs, dragonflies, or other small animals, including manifold mosquito predators. Following years’ EEE threat will be even greater. The extent of democratic stupidity & official irresponsibility boggles the mind.”
The two scientists speculated that in addition to the metals and Malathion there was more. The murderer’s flesh contained other contaminants. The deviant admitted to being an obsessive chronic smoker & masturbator. That meant high levels of cadmium & mercury in addition to surplus testosterone. It would all be there. A prodigious amount of the sex hormone would result from testis over-stimulation and hypertrophication. The two men felt the perpetrator’s steroid degradation capacity was at maximum.
Smoking unbalanced his nicotinic acid vs. pellagra homeostasis. Very low alkalinity water made his P-450 liver enzymes perform unsatisfactorily. A sick liver couldn’t detoxify all incoming chemicals. The guy even used saccharin, so his other detox systems reduced output too. These kinds of chemical assaults do most of their mental damage subliminally.
They’re latent and cumulative. Visible outward symptoms don’t show immediately. They won’t appear, until it’s too late to remedy the situation. Lesions may form in the brain. The psychological stress appears as a schizoid condition from zinc deficiency due to high brain copper & lead levels.
Papers quoted Mr. Frye. “Compounded symptoms manifest like answers to prayers. Prayers, as ideas, take various forms. Answers, however, are not from “God”. Their nature objectifies in material, psychological, or symbolic shapes.”
Malathion, a carcinogenic organophosphate acetylcholinesterase inhibitor, breaks down inhibitions. As a psychotomimetic, it irreversibly removes the most important neurotransmitter in the brain. It forms stable and irreversible covalently bound complexes with serine residues of acetylcholinesterases.
So what replaces an inactivated enzyme?
Neuron-neuron, neuron-muscle, and neuron-gland functions, mediated by cholinergic neurotransmitters, go bananas with initial depolarizations. Canalization mechanisms force some neuron-neuron and neuron-muscle synapses to stumble along. Others go at top speed. The guy’s neuron-muscle activity alone still functions. Why? Hypothalamic necessity or some unaffected acetylcholine receptors and esterases may have located there.
He’s walking and talking like normal but he’s not. His cortical capacity and cogitation are numb. Testosterone and other male hormones are involved. He’s a stimulated “sex machine”. Raw fear of retribution alone holds such a drive in check.
His endocrine activity is beyond even the rudiments of inhibition! All stops pulled. All circuits go. All postsynaptic cells depolarize. Copious amounts of testosterone float around in an already overburdened system. A disaster made to happen.
Affects on destructive and power motivating centers could swamp benign procreative and sexual aspects. It could last years not months. Perhaps it caused just a momentary increase in homicidal tendency over the norm. Norm for the man himself, that is. The two Mass Ave. scientists asked themselves the same question.
“What is the half-life of a perhydrocyclopentanophenanthrene nucleus in the system under optimal conditions?”
They knew it was high or steroid poisoning wouldn’t be such an issue. In a malfunctioning liver system, vis a vis zinc-deficiency-induced schizophrenia, tragedy incubated. Malathion was the trigger.
Where do you draw the line of responsibility here? Was he alone responsible? Is he culpable for his actions plus his inactions, in effect, excusing venal pols? Is he guilty for allowing a toxic water supply to continue? What about an unchecked aerial application of organophosphates? Was he even aware of these facts? If so, was he aware of a responsibility to stop these things? Isn’t contemporary society compelled to accept accountability for such tragedies?”
As a member of the Board of Health, Mr. Otorp felt constrained to do something. He relayed his thoughts to the other members. They feared him and his stand against the Water Commission, so their response was non-committal. They wanted no part of it or him. If the man wanted to pursue it, they would voice no objections.
Their acquiescence was conditional on his leaving their names out of the issue. Political implications of entering a hornet’s nest of adverse public opinion held no attraction. As politicians, their concerns were grave. They must not ever have to accept any responsibility. Suppose someone accused them of integrity!? In addition, freedom to explore all possible opportunities for subsequent treachery or gain must not be impeded.
Mr. Otorp sent off a letter to the State of Massachusetts undersigned with just his own signature. It gave his qualifications and asked prison observers to test the perpetrator for heavy metals. So little time passed since the event, they might find interesting biochemical aberrations or even a lesion. Nerve gas breakdown products – derivatives in blood, hair, and cerebrospinal fluid might still exist. The questions were scientific, geared to discover the truth.
It was a quiet, measured response to an opportunity for preventing similar future occurrences. Never was there motive for self-aggrandizement or an attempt to exculpate the villain. His request was pure searching. He cc’d a copy to the brave Jewish woman. The developer and political courtesans lurked. They were poised, waiting for just such a “catalyst”.
The Police Chief’s friend in the State office advised him of the letter. The Chief, an accomplished rapist himself, later convicted, took it to the local cabaret (political establishment). They got their hacks together to twist the letter against Mr. Otorp. Nonentities said some well-rehearsed and politically damaging things.

Life always gets harder toward the summit. The cold increases, responsibility increases. Nietzsche

Chapter Fifty-Six

The media received what they needed to produce sensational nonsense directed against the innocent request for information. The populace became incensed – out for Otorp blood. False, inflammatory statements surfaced, all very much directed against his character. They misinterpreted the letter to make it seem as if of nefarious or venal intent. The sensitized townspeople soon thought him both. Such is often the result of a “free press” in an enthralled democracy.

They wanted to believe he accepted financial remuneration to prove the perpetrator mentally ill. A jury might find the culprit not guilty by reason of insanity. In days of prison overcrowding whoopla, the “fiend” might go free. Propaganda of such a nature re-circulated for months. Even the Boston Globe’s, South Weekly, got involved. Hundreds of thousands of dollars entered the war chest to find any possible shred of evidence linking Mr. Otorp to venality of some type.

The unfortunate politicians found Mr. Otorp guilty of using his office irreproachably and nothing else. They needed to continue being creative to warrant the expenditures. Town schoolchildren tormented the Otorp progeny mercilessly. In a pristine example of demented democracy in action, the citizenry destroyed his reputation, recalling him from office. The Board of Health never received the information he desired and requested.

The man sought but to learn what future steps to take for precluding similar tragedies. Instead, he became the unwitting protagonist of Ibsen’s play, Enemy of the People. After a long delay, testing did occur. Scientists found Malathion adducts to be still observable in Meinholtz’ flesh, nearly a year later. Too late for the perp, prison doctors extracted the heavy metals from his body using chelation therapy and zinc.

Schizophrenic episodes ceased but it was small consolation for all the victims. One prison scientist, hearing about Mr. Otorp’s request for information, became curious and ran some tests. The Wall Street Journal reported later that he discovered a heavy metal induced lesion in the deviant’s brain. A responsible media & populace could have avoided great tragedy. They might have obviated future misfortune with a measured response.

Some good might have come out of the tragedy. As it was, nothing beneficial happened, and it destroyed many lives. The best excuse the herd mustered for their vile behavior was to continue blaming him. They said that Mr. Otorp did the right thing but in the wrong way, whatever that means. Willful media prevarications, small crimes, can be very damaging.

A year later, the EPA forced the Water Cartel to adopt Mr. Otorp’s water-supply proposals. He was the first to suggest limestone treatment to counter acidic aggression in glacial moraine aquifers. It was the correct and successful treatment. Earlier implementation could have saved countless lives and relieved much suffering.

Responsible for 20^th Century New England’s’ toxic tap water antidote, Mr. Otorp never received public retrospection. Nor did he get an apology for the entire Meinholtz affair. A brief news media acknowledgement vindicated his correct analysis. It did not mention his name. Mr. Otorp’s request for information, about the brain lesion research, from the Wall Street Journal, received no response.

Mr. Otorp remembered how the Founder tried to coerce Queenstown into showing appreciation of their mutual employee. However, the town was still accountable to Mr. Frye for destroying his home lab. They refused to concede to the request. Although he failed, the stern man himself gave Mr. Otorp deserved recognition. All Company employees knew him as friend and contemporary of the near-legendary Founder. Later discoveries and years of further accomplishments increased his fame.

 

General Aloirav awakened early in his Andirobal hotel. Pouring a cup of coffee from the thermos, he thought about the last few weeks work. Six directors in six weeks were insufficient. MMIM grew stronger every day. Their democratic First-Surface wars produced considerable humeal. Yet, the price they charged the Company went up with the demand.

He needed to act faster. At such a rate, the Company would fall. His soul mate was in a contract prison, risking her life every day for him. The frustration brought tears to his eyes. How could he continue with the delay, waiting for Mr. Otorp to wake up?

Then the neighbor, Camofella, who owned the abutting Andirobal property, started giving him trouble. Every time Bacon left the Federal Agent depository, Camofella jumped the fence & stole a pig or a chicken. The man’s kids robbed Bacon’s rose mangoes. Just annoyances, perhaps, but allowing it to continue was unwise. Suppose the thief accidentally found evidence regarding the Federal Agent recycling program General Aloirav subsidized?

It would mean many additional removals. Andy discovered, from a local woman, that Camofella and the General’s local enemy Maria Josepha ran a lucrative illegal business. Brazil rewarded its old farts, for surviving so long, (as cheats & porch gossips), with large pensions. Ordinarily enough, when dead, they entered graves. As is often the case, I.D.’s and relatives survive dearly depart-eds. Andy discovered that the General’s enemies bought surviving Federal Aged Assistance I.D.’s from relatives for a pittance. Brazil did not issue death certificates. The miscreants collected money from the government, using the ID’s & a few trusted cohorts. Parties below ground being unknown to the pension funds’ cash dispensers.

Since Brazil has never thought much of legal pretenses, and Maranhao even less so, no one ever prosecuted. The silly middle class continued paying their Rothschild taxes, getting nothing in return. The entire legal process nauseated General Aloirav. He abhorred the thought of filing a legal complaint. Earlier, Maria Josepha attacked the General without any other cause but her greed. Local people termed such behavior “Big Eye”. How to get even, augment his survivability, and accomplish a simultaneous coup for the environment, beleaguered the “boss”.

Then it happened. Bacon heard that Camofella just finished slash burning a small remaining jungle preserve off the BR316 highway. Maria Josepha mortgaged her mansion and other assets to help the thief buy grass seed and Charolaise calves. The new grass, they planted, was almost ready for cattle introduction. Vaqueros were standing by, ready to herd the 2000 new yearlings.

Beef was not the mania it used to be. Most people learned from the Company’s news service how dangerous it is to health of both people and environment. With the coming of the new palm worm sauces, Pontibus fungal meat substitutes were more flavorful, cheaper, and healthy. Nevertheless, a few die-hards still bought genuine steaks and hamburgers. The poor will probably never relinquish a taste for it.

“Poetic justice?” Some might ask.

Awaiting the miscreant’s cattle’s arrival didn’t find the General loafing. He made a quick trip to the last ice shelf remaining in Greenland. There he retrieved his mutant cultures of Sclerotium rolfsii, Phytophtera infestans, and Piricularia oryzae. Always before, he refrained from using biological weapons to ruin enemy food supplies. The need to do purposeful destruction to non-subhuman animals never arose. He felt he could minimize suffering and insure a long-term benefit without using such methods.

Now, he saw no alternative. Maria Josepha and Camofella were planetary pestilences that needed a cure. General Aloirav expanded his clandestine laboratory in the new Andirobal Hotel. He would fight fire with itself. Domestic animal disease vector’s populations occupied a large part of his following weeks’ stay in Andirobal. Then, one day, they were ready.

“Bacon”

“Yeh, Boss.”

“How many urabuh do you think the area boasts?”

“Damn! I don’t know, Boss. Never counted more than 100 at the farm.”

“Neither have I. We may need to leave here when those cattle begin dying. The stench will get heavy without a sufficient number of buzzards.”

“I’ll get things ready.”

“We don’t want to leave too soon, or we’ll look guilty. They’ll think it’s our macumbah.”

“I thought you wanted them to believe you’re a witch?”

“I do. Just not a great big witch.”

“I see. Enough to make ‘em keep away but not burn you.”

“Now you understand.”

“Others will leave too, Boss.”

“You’re right. We’ll get everything ready for a month long absence and leave when others do.”

A few days later, Andy saw the vulture population growing, and said.

“The cattle are dying.”

“Is everything locked with triple locks and chains?” General Aloirav asked.

“Everything except the hotel, Boss.”

“We’ll live in the lab if the smell gets too strong, until we see others leaving.”

“Why, Boss?”

“The HEPA filters will take out all but the strongest odors. It’ll get no worse down there than the rotting body stench does after an earthquake.”

The General never bothered to build vaccines for the non-subhuman animal diseases. His own pigs and chickens caught the diseases too and died along with his enemies’ pigs and cattle. Collateral damage is to be expected. Bacon found lodging for the General’s dead pigs and chickens. They roomed with the government agents in the acouge (pond) as fish food. Most local people ate fish, beans, and rice for months subsequent to the General’s education initiative. The price of fish skyrocketed, and the Newer Society made a handsome profit. Recycled Federal Agents & other carrion was a growth industry in Andirobal.

Some slander of the “Group” as being super-witches did arise. Bacon discovered who the leaders of the gossip were and told the General. He went and explained to those disparaging few how unwise such blather behavior was. The sources were still uncooperative, but they dried up anyway, and other citizens buried them. Maria Josepha and Camofella discovered themselves bankrupt.

Not one steer survived. Maranhao rangeland was of small worth, and the bank didn’t elect to foreclose on it. Maria Josepha lost all her pledged assets, however. Sufficient funds to pay everything, including police bribes, no longer existed for either beef entrepreneur. Federal Police were unsympathetic.

While practicing his former occupation in Maria Josepha’s mansion, Andy found hidden I.D. cards of deceased pensioners & other documentary evidence of large-scale fraud. He, unfortunately, lost it on a table while still in the premises. Unfortunately for Camofella and Maria Josepha, minutes later Policia Federal began their search of those same grounds. Incredibly, the cops found it. The guardians of law & order became noticeably displeased with the misbehavior. To bask in an indigent condition, after allowing exposure of such interesting history, is unwise.

Brazilian men discriminate against women. Prejudice extends even to opportunities to be homicide victims. Maria Josepha joined other miscreants in the Santa Lucia prison. Her kept husband was somewhat reluctant to spend limited pension money to obtain his lesbian wife’s release. A “friend” of Bacon’s helped Mr. Josepha maintain his strong resolve. Maria continued incarcerated.

Camofella was not fortunate enough to find sexual bigotry. They presented the bullet-riddled carcass to his grieving widow. It was a few hours after the bank took her house and other belongings.

 

Mr. Otorp discovered himself having stared at his failed antenna for over ½ hour. His mind returned from remembering all his First-Surface mistakes. No room for rationalization, guilt ravaged his mind. Concentration was impossible. He prodded the soot-gel material without enthusiasm and thought.

“I hope I didn’t make any real trouble for the boy. I should be more careful, when I visit. I’m just too dangerous to him. Why don’t I see that before it’s too late? My fame must aid him. I know it does, but it appears my notoriety is also helping to break him.”

Standing up, the man said aloud to the EEG before him. “I feel like I’m in a glass house.”

Hearing his own voice, he started. “Now I’m talking to myself! Maybe I should go for a walk.” A moment later, Mr. Otorp banged his hand down on the bench and said aloud. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”

He finished putting his equipment away while continuing to berate his big mouth. After leaving the domicile, he began remembering those boardroom battles, endured with Mr. Frye. It became a pleasant respite from guilt. The May morning was bright and sunny. The beautiful ivory-colored Pontibus’ tetrahedrons, dazzled against the blue sky, cheering him even more. Starting up the communal pathway, Mr. Otorp headed toward the Company arboretum.

He walked thereon for hours, just enjoying the sky and nature. Responsible, in part, for the wildlife encountered along the way, Mr. Otorp almost forgot his problem. The Pontibus elevated everything, and his spirits were no exception. Much of the time, he chose just to listen, not even thinking. The birds, other animals, and wind rustling through the plants gave ample auditory stimulation.

When he did think, it was. “This behavior could get to be a habit.”

His footsteps sometimes inspired a momentary silence among the creatures. During those times, Mr. Otorp’s troubled spirit returned. Nearing Lester Frye’s memorial on Level Twelve, he became pensive in a different way. Thinking of his missed friend took Mr. Otorp’s mind off his inadequacies. Overlooking the Atlantic Ocean’s splendor, he stared at the commemoration & read the calein marker:

EPITAPH:

It took him a long time to learn an effective way to deal with his imagination. It seemed that all his dreams came true, the positive with the negative. They never materialized quite the way he envisioned them. When he became a man of vision, he started following them with courage. He did his best to keep the ones he considered positive foremost. Effacing the spurious or negative took effort. Through all his time here, he couldn’t understand how he survived as long as he did. He was strong, but his life seemed to be charmed, nonetheless. He made many mistakes and took many wrong paths. Life tormented and frightened him. He was cruel, thoughtless, base, untruthful, and mad many times. Only true affection ever brought him the extremes of both joy and sadness. He always tried to make the people, whose lives he touched, richer for the experience. At times, he did things, which he did not feel were right for him. But, because his vision demanded, he acted.   He asked a great deal of life and got most of it. Life made him suffer in recompense. He never ran from risk. The one consistent principle in his life was the struggle to make a better world for life in general, his children in particular. As all men whose dreams are not too small, he died feeling he was a failure. He never failed me. The kindest and most honorable man I ever met.

Mr. Otorp silently thanked Mr. Frye for “finding” him so long ago. He thought. “I would like my epitaph to read some of the same sentiments. Maybe I should get Aloirav to write mine too. I’ll have to ask him to add another line though. It’ll say.”

“The crooked-headed little cripple with a ruthless imagination made it all the way to the end.”

Mr. Otorp remembered the Vet Outreach Center on Boston’s Tremont Street. There, in 1987, Lester took him in tow. Both were semi-despondent guilt-ridden Viet Nam veterans. Together, they tried to wash away war-guilt and resignation to become whole men again.

The contingencies and vagaries of Fate continued to manipulate Mr. Otorp. Now, there was no one toward whom to turn for solace. He was too stubborn to make friends with his long-term enemy, Rav Aloirav. Mr. Frye’s maintaining peaceful coexistence between them was no longer possible.

Mr. Otorp passed a large constructed wetland, as he wended his way home. Large phragmites reeds waved nearby. The hydrophilic plant pricked him into remembering the supervisor’s earlier words. Replaying it in his mind, he stopped in his tracks. Dissecting the conversation, Mr. Otorp reached out to feel the weeds.

He examined the hardness of the bamboo-like plant. Rolling his fingers around the shaft, Mr. Otorp repeated the supervisor’s words.

“Are you planning on letting it go? Are you planning on letting it go?”

“What am I to let go or not let go?” He wondered, releasing the plant’s shaft from his touch. “Why should it matter to him? Why would I want to do anything? What could I do anyway? Fait accompli. It was my statement. Can I take it back? Wish I could. Why should I care what the Company brass says about me? My concern is how my conduct affects my son, isn’t it? I don’t have to do anything to protect my job. What do I care about a few lost pounds of prestige? My words aren’t grounds for dismissal, even stretching it! Even if they did can me, the module’s free & clear. Brenda & I don’t need much to live on.”

Nevertheless, Mr. Otorp’s uneasiness wasn’t without justification. That faux pas, affecting his son, acted as a catalyst. His experiences on the First-Surface conditioned him to expect the unexpected. An enemy there and a recent experience with Mr. Leion reinforced such presentiments.

Mr. Otorp’s grandchild, Brenda, a girl of twelve, was friendly with his neighbor, Mr. Leion. A few days ago, nearing his module, she teased him by withholding some bauble of his. Recovering his object, and letting her go, would have been proper under the circumstances. Instead of playing along, keeping everything in perspective, Mr. Leion overreacted in an inappropriate way. He grabbed the child’s arm and squeezed, until it hurt.

She objected, but was quiet about it. Brenda later used more noise when relaying the episode to her grandfather. Mr. Otorp took it all in, pondering it with discomfort. Not wanting a confrontation, neither could he allow such interactions to continue. The friendship became less jovial.

Strain didn’t yet show, but the change was there. Mr. Leion made a needless enemy of a young girl. His consistency at wrecking friendships with all acquaintances made his world grow ever colder. Still on the communal path now, Mr. Otorp approached Mr. Leion’s domicile path cutoff. Ruminating on the telephone conversation with the foreman, he murmured.

“Probably asked me that, because he thinks that if it were himself, he’d be insulted and demand a reckoning. Yes. That must be it. Thinks I’m angry with them, portraying me as a loose cannon. Expects I’m upset.”

A human voice interrupted his thoughts. Mr. Leion stood on the far side of a blueberry bush near their communal path divergence. He was still in the process of readjusting to his new life as a part-time spy. It wanted tailoring, not yet a well-fitted suit. His uncomfortable voice shouted.

“Hey, old man. What’s happening in your world?”

Mr. Otorp lost concentration. Turning to look from whence the voice came, he saw Mr. Leion. The fat man stood up from kneeling over a young dwarf peach tree. There was a piece of string in his hand. His ponderous back threatened rebellion in its standing position.

Mr. Otorp replied. “Not much. Just been out for a walk. Went around the early part and up to the Company arboretum. ‘Bit a’ shade n’ sun. How ’bout yourself?”

“Not much change. Heard about the ruckus you stirred up last week.”

Mr. Otorp’s face darkened in asking. “Really? From which direction?”

Mr. Leion answered. “Maintenance man at the office read about it. Said a lot of people are angry.”

Concerned, Mr. Otorp thought. “Incredible how much interest my smallest statements elicit from the First-Surface media! When’s it gonna’ stop?!” Aloud, he asked. “Why, I wonder? It was just a personal feeling, an observation of my own. How could it have made other people so angry? Are there so many people working in organ culture out there to offend?”

Laughing at such ingenuousness and lack of prescience, Mr. Leion replied. “Hell! I don’t even know what organ culture is! I couldn’t say who’s mad at you. I didn’t hear about that in what the guy told me. Lots ‘a people without lives ‘a their own. Yours’ll do, meanwhile, as a substitute. He did leave me with the idea you were rip snorten’ angry at ‘em all, though. ”

“Who are they all?” Asked Mr. Otorp in surprise.

“”Them’s” those who continue mis-portraying you in the First-Surface media. H’said people are saying you’re going to get to the bottom of it.”

Now Mr. Otorp got concerned, thinking. “Who’s making these wild statements about my feelings & intentions, and why?” Not intending rudeness, he nevertheless felt so concerned, no vocal response evolved. Mr. Otorp turned around to leave. He never considered what paranoid thoughts might be floating about in another’s troubled mind.

Mr. Leion took Mr. Otorp’s preoccupation and reticent behavior as abrupt impudence. It surprised Mr. Otorp to hear a belligerent shout. “Tell your granddaughter to stop coming here. I don’t want her on my property anymore. I have enough to do without babysitting.”

“Why, Mr. Leion! What’s she done?” He turned to ask.

“She’s becoming a typical bitch! Probably telling all her friends, (and you), stories. Giving a twisted version of the way she behaved last week. No doubt making me look like a fool.”

He was referring to Brenda’s expressing her negative reaction to another one of his misbehaviors. It was a small thing, just a little out of line. Mr. Leion wrote an improper comment on a Company-library-lent DVD cover. He thought it playful, to impress the child by surprise at his irreverence.

Though a minor illegality, they would never catch him. Indeed, even caught, he knew the Company would not chastise the minor vandalism. Mr. Leion’s small transgression, if discovered, would never become confrontational. Except from a child. A FEMALE child! She should have let it go, he felt. Everyone else was cynical, weren’t they?

Brenda rebuked him, however, for defacing the Company property. That there could be such pure people in the world baffled him. Mr. Leion felt she should have understood. If Brenda were an adult, she would have. It could have remained just as a peccadillo on his character. She didn’t see it that way. The resulting shame, Mr. Leion felt, made it even worse.

Mr. Otorp understood and tried to explain things, as it appeared to him, saying. “Mr. Leion, Brenda’s a child. Children don’t understand gray. She told me about your disagreement. The child’s too ingenuous to create a negative image of you over it. We’ve taught her, since she was first able to learn, about respecting private property rights. To her there’s black or there’s white. No shades of either exist. What you did, according to her precepts, was black. Brenda treated you like one of her young friends. Don’t judge her so harshly.”

“I don’t care! Just tell her to keep away from me!” He replied. “She really threw it all away!”

Mr. Leion referred to refraining in the future from his habit of buying her little trinkets. Useless items he picked up on his peregrinations around the various Pontibus antique shops. Mr. Leion would apparently resume the practice, if she apologized for her behavior. He was tendering a non-verbalized bribe, Mr. Otorp felt, trying to turn her into a prostitute.

He knew how to read between the vocalized lines. Mr. Leion wanted to control the child, as he tried manipulating everyone in his life. Angry, Mr. Otorp would not betray his feelings by venting his spleen in return. Leaving, he said. “I’ll give her the message.”

Throwing up his head in a self-righteous manner, Mr. Leion returned to his domicile. He mumbled how all women, too stupid to demonstrate appreciation for a man’s gifts, were prostitutes. Mr. Otorp entered his domicile and saw his granddaughter in the foyer. He looked with affection on the pretty child, feeding her guinea pig. Long curly light brown hair fell around Brenda’s shoulders. She was playing tug-o-war with the little animal over a piece of vegetable.

Patting the top of her head, Mr. Otorp said. “Hi, honey.”

He walked on past her, and she replied. “Hi, Grampa.”

“What’s up, Little One?”

“Watch. Grampa.”

“OK.”

Mr. Otorp stopped his walk to watch. The child let the small animal get a good grip on the piece of vegetable with its teeth. She then lifted it by the chunk. The rodent, surprised at each iteration, hung suspended. Brenda thought it great fun, and the animal didn’t seem to mind. It always came back for a repeat performance.

Suspicion existed that the creature was just interested in the food, the acrobatics being gratuitous. However, a moment later, readjusting its food grip, it approached the carnivora threshold. Brenda’s shriek of pain brought her grandfather running back. Mr. Otorp observed the minor cut, let it bleed clean, then washed and bandaged it. While so employed, he relayed her henceforward “persona non grata” status at Mr. Leion’s domicile.

“I don’t care.” She responded. “I don’t like him, anyway. He thinks he’s so smart, but he’s really not, Grampa. An’ I saw him be mean to a seagull yesterday.”

She described his chasing a wounded bird, poised to fish-swipe, from a mariculture pond. Mr. Otorp listened with sympathy. He then mentioned the cause of her rejection. Brenda knew it was her manifested concern about the DVD cover. Mr. Otorp explained that her eliciting punishment was of no consequence. The eternal banishment was not because of having done something wrong. He told her not to worry about it, and she didn’t.

The child was indeed too mouthy to Mr. Leion, at times, though he asked for it. Mr. Otorp didn’t think she was out of line. Brenda was always very polite with other adults. Being a bit too mouthy seemed to run in the family. Mr. Leion was wrong, and all three knew it.

Why he chose now to be so unreasonable and show such curtness, made Mr. Otorp curious. No longer angry, Mr. Otorp just pondered. Why offend me needlessly? He must have hurt me in some way I’m not privy to, as yet. Should I be concerned? In Mr. Otorp’s opinion, any grown man, unable to take criticism from a child, lacked substance. “Brenda bought the man cheap.” He thought.

Weeks passed before the neighbors spoke again. Having changed in so many ways by then, Mr. Leion forever precluded rapprochement. It was doubtful a friendship ever existed. On that latter occasion, both were outside their domiciles working on pathway gardens. Coming within speaking distance by accident, they exchanged pleasantries. Not too unpleasant, yet they were without their former geniality.

Mr. Leion spoke about a mutual acquaintance. Both agreed a particular comment was an astute observation. While describing something else, he gratuitously called Brenda a shithead. Mr. Leion intended the term to serve as an interjected crude analogy. The effect showed his ill-disguised attempt at disparaging description in lieu of her name.

Not pleased but trying to remain civil, Mr. Otorp said. “Look here, Mr. Leion. You’re in the advertising business. Perhaps rules of proper conduct get somewhat plastic there at times. It never looks that way to a child. Maybe, because you have no children, you don’t appreciate or understand what that means.”

“You do?”

“Yes. You’re too cynical about how the situation appears. It’s a question of right or wrong to a child. Don’t mistake childhood innocence for female waspishness. You threw away, by your overreaction, I imagine, a much-valued friendship. Such behavior accrues but to isolate and limit your world.”

Mr. Leion replied. “I’ve known a lot of them. If it weren’t for their crotch there’d be a bounty on ’em. You have some redeeming qualities, but she doesn’t. I don’t care if I am cynical, or overreacting. I’ll never let her in my domicile again. She’s a cunt! She sure threw it all away.”

“You’re wrong!” He replied, holding his anger. “You can’t handle a simple rebuke. You’re embarrassed at her reprimand, and now you’re behaving very badly. She’s throwing away nothing.”

“That may be so, but I’m sticking to my sentiments.” Mr. Leion said, missing the inadvertent insult. “No woman can treat a man right. They’re all out to destroy, whether it benefits themselves or not. They live but to give & experience pain.”

“You’re making a big mistake.” Mr. Otorp said, with a finality they both knew was going to stick.

“Mebbe so.”

It took all Mr. Otorp’s self-control to have that limited intercourse with his acquaintance. Reacting without violence, he found difficulty knowing what to do under the circumstances. The gardening continued but not the conversation. Soon afterward, Mr. Leion got up from his pruning and went into his domicile. He didn’t return.

During prior weeks, continuing into the present, Mr. Otorp got silent steady indications of change in his neighbor. The new personality was ever more inquisitive. During the last Century, people termed such behavior “nosy”. If they should happen to meet outside on the path now, it was cause for immediate dissembling and separation.

Suspicion resulted. Growing uneasiness between the neighbors brought more apprehensions to continued association. That fear bred further dislike. Strange people visited both men these days. Mr. Leion’s guests presented a low-class First-Surface’ish appearance. On occasion, Mr. Otorp hosted Company wetlands’ people.

Mr. Leion’s new avocation obsessed him. He assumed a position necessary to perform the sordid business. The new General at the helm of Pontibus Security was making everyone jumpy, and some would venture to make their concerns known to Mr. Otorp. Mr. Leion’s surveillance equipment, focused on the Otorp module, recorded the increased activity.

Mr. Leion stood unaware that the denizens of the prison cantilever held him in low esteem. Their highest opinion of him never approached his lowest personal dignity assessment. The man would never have understood their considering him just a common coward. As such, they intended a ruthless using of him until no longer necessary. A bitch bred to a wolf is still a dog. One does not have to be a devil to sleep with demons.

The cabal hierarchy, however, could not but consider the new minion of value to their organization. He assured his new employers of productivity, if nothing else. So great was Mr. Leion’s hubris, he blinded himself to his true position. He felt they could find no alternative but to hold his service indispensable. His employment, therefore, as one of the “cohorts”, went along quite well.

Mr. Leion’s corporation informed the Company police, when the murdered accountant failed to return. They did not yet suspect foul play, but investigators questioned Mr. Leion anyway. He was indeed a former First-Surface denizen, and it was rife with sexual predators. Thousands of women disappeared daily down there. Police questioned his neighbors. One asked Mr. Otorp if he could remember ever seeing the woman in the vicinity. Mr. Otorp answered in the negative and let the incident pass out of mind.

It would have been helpful if those questions came but a few weeks later. Other comparative information would have sensitized Mr. Otorp. Queried then, possible interconnections with his own situation might have made him more point receptive. Perhaps not, but subsequent facts about stored toxics misappropriations would have dovetailed. Police never felt the need to tell Mr. Otorp any particulars.

He therefore knew neither her job nor her Company connection. More important, the man didn’t know how she fit in with Mr. Leion. Police knew only that the two separated at the auxiliary magnelev station stop. Attendants confirmed that much. She just disappeared after that.

Police upgraded the accountant’s absence to suspected foul play. They checked and rechecked Mr. Leion’s story. Taking what they knew was true; detectives placed it next to corporate subjective consideration. After considering his term of service and his character, they removed him from the highly suspected individual’s list. He didn’t have a murderer’s fit presence.

Just once did the detectives give Mr. Leion a real fright. They returned unannounced and almost caught him intent upon his espionage. No search ever happened, and the cops never found anything that could be termed suspicious. Life returned to “normal” for him.

His peers disliked Mr. Leion, but one doesn’t arrest people just for unpopular personality possession. That was First-Surface old-government behavior. The Company didn’t stoop that low. Mr. Leion continued to perform his regular legitimate function. His clandestine avocation under Sr. Mendoza’s tutelage also went on unabated.

As time constraints developed, Mr. Leion worked less with his ponds and plants. Neighbors noticed his paths no longer seemed as beautiful. His fishponds became less productive. Sludge beds needed more outside maintenance. Weeds replaced turf. Life passed by him more & more.

He told Mr. Otorp as much on a chance contact. A few weeks after the “shithead” incident, Mr. Otorp was on one of the communal pathways. He and Brenda were playing with their genetically rich, and not altogether handsome, dog “Zeus”. They appeared to be having a good time of it.

Zeus frequently interrupted the fun. He couldn’t focus very well. The little hereditarily impoverished bitch across the Avenue on the next Level up distracted him. Zeus felt compelled to give chase. When he did, Brenda followed. The merriment became less enjoyable each time.

After one particular romp interruption, Mr. Otorp sat down to rest and wait. His seat stood near the public sewage-polishing path. He was watching butterflies on a purple loosestrife weed, when Mr. Leion left the module. Unshaven and disheveled, he ambled toward Mr. Otorp. It was quite apparent he’d imbibed too much.

Mr. Otorp pretended not to notice. They exchanged terse greetings. Mr. Otorp always found it difficult to maintain his civility vis a vis intoxicated persons. Not many people are as insufferable as are reformed drunks. Nevertheless, he was a gentleman and prevailed over his inclination to ignore. A strained conversation ensued.

 

… Must start with assuming that all men are bad and ever willing to display their vicious nature, whenever they may find occasion for it.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Machiavelli

Chapter Fifty-Seven

 

The happy miscreant mutt, jumping around his intended, ignored Brenda’s entreaties to return. The two neighbors remained separated from dog & child. Despite the limited interlocution, Mr. Leion mentioned how much he envied Mr. Otorp his progeny. Mr. Otorp looked up a Level at his granddaughter and said. “I wish she’d study her math a little harder. But, she does put music in my life. That’s for sure.”

Mr. Leion replied. “I can see that. It’s good for you. I can but feel, seeing you together, that life somehow passed me by.”

Mr. Otorp didn’t know what to say. He pitied but didn’t know how to respond to the naked plea for help. To Mr. Otorp, neither envy nor pity were very useful emotions, except perhaps indirectly. The pathetic statement served as a warning flag to the scientist. Deafening silence ensued.

Mr. Otorp was no neophyte. He knew how dangerous envy was and how envy that was unexpected & unrecognized could become even worse. The scientist believed it the hidden motivation behind the scourge of those twin First-Surface religions, Christianity and Socialism. Brenda returned with the recalcitrant canine in tow. Mr. Leion saw her coming and ostentatiously went back to his module. Inside, he put his nose to the snooping equipment.

The short conversational exchange obliterated Mr. Otorp’s joviality. The begrudging ill will his neighbor just exhibited brought back painful memories. Another person, long ago, also focused venomous envy on him. The ensuing destruction almost followed him from the First-Surface up onto the Pontibus. It was unsettling, and he shuddered, just remembering it.

It came about in the following manner. Mr. Otorp bought some property on the First-Surface in the 20^th century. It was south of Boston, very near the Jones River, and quite beautiful. That very small piece of land became his home and sole asset. He lived there very happily with his wife and their three small children. It was the same town that earlier drove Lester Frye away and later crucified Mr. Otorp.

One day a large local welfare-recipient female noticed Mr. Otorp. As an unpaid minor functionary in the community, she was over-impressed with her bureaucratic importance. The woman found neither happiness nor contentment within herself or social position. Accustomed to seeing Mr. Otorp enjoying his family and property, she became increasingly distraught. Focusing on him as the enemy, she bent all her powers to his chagrin.

He appeared to have all the happiness she lacked. The man became her bête noire. The world contains far too many pressures leading to such attitudes. Succumbing to some, Mrs. Serpere called and introduced herself. Mr. Otorp barely found time to say hello, before she tore into him.

She ranted allegations, accusing him inter alia of parking his car too close to Queenstown property. The woman assumed unreasonable protective jurisdiction over civic assets. It appeared to Mr. Otorp that her meaningless existence was also blessed by dementia. He could conceive of no possible value to himself in further attention. Assuming no real grievance existed, Mr. Otorp ended the conversation.

He felt that hardened masochists alone would care to continue it. Not of such a persuasion, the man did not wish to learn the trade. The woman’s motivations, known but to her, were obscure at best. Swift truncating of the one-sided conversation, however, did not end the association. He soon discovered the hatefulness of her vengeful nature.

The woman lived but for the chance to hurt. Receiving welfare benefit charity as her sole means of support, she held no meaningful employment. Mrs. Serpere found ample time to pursue her spiteful avocation at taxpayer expense. Landed persons in the town were well aware of her position. Some used it accordingly.

Whenever a “townie” incurred a gripe concerning another townie, she entered the fray. Personal vendettas were her specialty. A community newcomer might speak out on a forbidden subject. If so, the townies called in the sadistic instrument to vent their poison. All knew that to do so would drive a deep wound into a stranger, enemy, or former friend.

The wretched woman’s depressed self-esteem led her to believe such behavior useful. She felt honored by vile requests. Mrs. Serpere never ascertained small-souled people were but using her. During town meetings, she made a complete spectacle of herself. Such behavior gave Mr. Frye reason to call such assemblies “vestigial remains of democratic insanity”.

A typical scenario opened with Mrs. Serpere at the gathering place’s attention center. Her weapons were a quiver-full of hearsay evidence, conjecture, lies, and truth. An unfortunate erstwhile friend or neighbor soon fell victim. Her barbs portrayed even drivel vehemently.

Broadside casualties relayed afterwards how she appeared to speak the most shocking of gospel truths. As the denigration gained momentum, the entire town ridiculed her ample backside. An uninitiated person might attempt to dismiss her as a common lunatic on a frolic. Such a rejection would translate into a most egregious mistake. Too many learned the veracity of that fact too late.

The town terror or joke, perspective dependent, did have a flair for investigating. That penchant made her treacherous. Loquacity amplified her dangerousness. Having four close relatives on the police department made her cruelty nearly invincible. Privileged access to information rendered her opportunities for blackmail. She became adept at it. One paid tribute or fell to her knife.

Extortion, so the woman and suffering injured felt, was her forte’ and most praiseworthy gift. Means stood at her disposal, any time she felt it necessary. That machinery always gained further respect and attention from her “friends”. When Mrs. Serpere was not out crucifying, everyone ignored her. Her survival accrued to the discredit of the community and species. No better statement in support of Tierra Del Fuegoan social security measures could be made.

Potential targets were plentiful. In general, our cherub found them wherever people expected to live in peace. She never hesitated to stoop to ever-lower levels of the most unimaginable abasement. Defaming, punishing, destroying, or digging up filth about her victim’s past delighted her. Select town residents considered releasing her on an enemy to be great fun.

Mrs. Serpere always rose to the occasion, pursuing her unfortunate prey with relentless abandon. Stalking her quarry and never hesitated to lie in wait under some symbolic rock. When Mrs. Serpere struck, her venomous fangs sunk deep into the hapless mark. Few survived an attack unscathed. The harridan was better than cancer. Her slander turned the smallest speck of poison into full-blown infections in short order.

Colluding in the effort (to make an enemy squirm in discomfiture) made for enjoyable theater. It was better than a banana peel. Mrs. Serpere never lacked for helpers. Her displays, to no good purpose, always elicited a desire to collaborate in the shameful performance. That they were also reprehensible employment for the faculties, few ever would accept.

She focused on finding bruises in people that she could deftly turn into raw gaping wounds. To initiate an inexorable persecution was abecedarian. Call Mrs. Serpere, drop a poisonous message in her ear and watch the blood flow in ever more varied directions. Before very long one could read about a misery befalling a fellow human being. Viper sheets are ever vigilant, poised to prevaricate.

Her particular brand of derangement would not allow much neglect. If no one were around to exploit this unfortunate enthusiast, she did not languish. Mrs. Serpere would make persistent searches for an opportunity to do some cruelty to someone, somewhere. Should potentials fall to wanting, she used her skill like an unattended garden hose. Flailing about, exclusive of purpose, she threw envenomed water everywhere indiscriminately.

At the ready position, the steadfast resolute community waited. Whoever held at their disposition sufficient financial persuasion need never fear. The integrity of their First Amendment civilities was safe. It was the USA. Only the unpopular, inconvenient, or unfunded idea need ever quake from lack of accurate representation. The citizen majority was far too sensible a gaggle to stumble into offensive opinion embracing folly.

Historical truth needs no war to begin its demise. It is a resource exploited or suppressed at the greater influence’s whim. Countries controlled by Rothschild economics, (organized & legitimized theft) as is the USA, market it along with other commodities, such as, beans, bread, widgets, or integrity. The subversion begins locally with implements facetiously referred to as “newspapers”. It deteriorates from there.

One finds, confronts, or prevails against degeneracy every day. It is crucial, de rigueur, in countries possessed by demon democracy. Most learn to oppose its onslaughts. Mrs. Serpere elected not to engage. She accepted the battle for decency as a contest not worth fighting. Others struggled, lest wickedness overwhelm. Mrs. Serpere cherished depravity, held it close to her ample bosom. Opposing her were all those forces rendering comfort to unfortunate creatures. She spent every waking moment locked in mortal combat with kindness.

Mr. Otorp inadvertently permitted that matron of misfortune to witness his happy home. The incarnation of absolute ugliness focused her basilisk gaze upon him. She was comfortable distilling to purity the very darkest facets of human nature. With her own colostrum, Mrs. Serpere nurtured malevolence in a passionate mother’s embrace. Then she concentrated these horrors of unspeakable corruption. That narrowed cathexis channeled into a beam, and the crone directed it at him.

That acquaintance was the closest he ever came to knowing a completely base heart. Mr. Otorp could not conceive of a more tormented miserable nature. A perpetually pursued death-camp guard or post-hostility Third Reicher, hiding somewhere, might approximate such a tormented soul. He never felt Mrs. Serpere would hesitate to destroy anyone of moderate means on whom her mind set. She would always discover someone momentarily weaker or more vulnerable than herself. The ruthless woman would find a shortcoming, and then exploit it.

Town history told that an unfortunate childhood caused her lunacy. In younger days, Mrs. Serpere’s mother was the proprietor of a successful brothel. The unfortunate child grew up and worked there. In turn, while in attendance on premises, she reared her own resulting issues of illicit sexual liaisons.

Frequent molestation of she and her brothel-conceived children occurred. Such trauma caused their minds to but parody those of normal individuals. One son, the town’s Police Chief, incurred a 14-year penitentiary sentence for serial child rape. The debauched woman vowed never to rest, until she destroyed Mr. Otorp. She kept her vow, never resting from persecuting him. Her death alone, from a nice cancer, intervened to grant him some peace.

She wreaked havoc in his life over the toxic water war mentioned earlier. In that bloody encounter, the shameless woman interpreted his efforts to be without any honorable intent. She caused Mr. Otorp’s wife, neighbors, and the media to react in numerous adverse ways toward him. He survived many atrocious attacks, but it embittered. Mr. Otorp tried to find redress-relief in the courts from her invidious attacks. Here too, he discovered she held full sway to his detriment.

Mrs. Serpere destroyed his small political aspirations, vilifying him in the media. She made his name virtually synonymous with child-murderer. Her special relationships, with persons who control the contingencies in ordinary people’s lives, were essential. The usual legal vermin and caedere crooks were the usual opening salvo in the war on her fellows. With the vendetta against Mr. Otorp, it was the sine qua non.

She only made one large judgment error. Incredibly, three of her police officer relatives would not assist in her attack on Mr. Otorp. She destroyed all three. Two died from the viciousness of the assaults. The Police Chief, her son, assisted the move against his uncles. Perhaps that heinous aid brought foreign law enforcement to bear against his sexual depravity, resulting in incarceration.

Until her convenient death, Mrs. Serpere tried to annihilate Mr. Otorp. Her status as a welfare recipient saved him. Lester Frye’s sky was welfare free, and Mr. Otorp escaped to it. Nevertheless, her harassment continued most of the time Mr. Otorp lived on the First-Surface. After his repositioning onto the sky community, Mrs. Serpere discovered there was no chance to touch him further.

Losing contact, her efforts diminished. Outliving the harpy, Mr. Otorp spent his remaining years free of her on the Pontibus. Now his “old friend”, Mr. Leion, was exhibiting the same signs of incipient envy. There was just cause to shudder at a naked display of that terrifying emotion.

 

It was General Aloirav’s belief that those having the most disgust for the human race, ironically, do it the greatest benefit. The rest of the world tended to disagree with him. The issue often waits centuries for a decision. He possessed the courage to define himself; they didn’t. So, except for his use in defense, their opinion mattered not to him.

The “Group” finished smuggling into Brazil the equipment & chemicals left in Grand Rapids. Some freight came up what remained of the drying Amazon. A smaller portion arrived via the Orinoco. The General rejuvenated his “bugs”. The lab in Andirobal ran smoothly, and the Newer Society settled in to a placid life.

Sea level was much higher than in the previous century. There were no more floating glaciers in Antarctica. All melted. Great rains inundated temperate South America. New brackish rivers around the world formed in the dry basins of extinct fresh water streams. Night traveling boats could bring many goods in from the sea. Arriving goods landed almost at the “Group’s” front door.

Very little natural fresh water existed. Higher density salt water drives sweet water upward until it evaporates. Maranhao, like most of the world, was becoming a salinated desert. Most people drank brackish water, with the consequent effects, or saved frequent floodwaters and rain. The Newer Society saved rainwater to drink and cook with or distilled municipal water. The General knew that the town’s water supply was too brackish and otherwise polluted to take straight.

Andirobal locals gave the Newer Society its deserved respect. Camofella and Maria Josepha’s defeat convinced most to refrain from bothering General Aloirav’s gringos. Everyone considered them witches of the highest order. Even the prefeito (mayor) & vereadors (councilmen) came and asked “Group” permission before stealing municipal funds. After the bichos (creatures) died, nothing was the same.

Maria Josepha caught an Aloirav “cold” in Santa Lucia prison and returned to Andirobal. Her death marked the return of domestic animals to the town. The clandestine Federal Agent Recycling Program decreased, dramatically, the cost of fish food at the Newer Society farm. The General hired donkey drivers to build him more açouges (fish ponds) to handle his fish flesh supply & demand.

He found donkey drivers to be very cruel. He couldn’t stomach their methods. Values were values to him. He knew where worth grew, and it was not with subhumans. After two new basins, General Aloirav stopped the work. Having planned two more ponds, he made do with but a total of four.

 

A Guanabara passenger bus stopped at the Andirobal microbial fuel alcohol station on highway BR316. Two men disembarked. Within 5 minutes, General Aloirav knew that there were two strange gringos in town. A minute later, he heard they were asking directions to his hotel. Fifteen minutes later, the two men were at the reception desk.

The town knew in advance of every gringo that would want to stay in Andirobal for a few days. The General always heard well beforehand of any other foreign visitors arriving. If the newcomer was not a Newer Society member, it was cause for concern. Government agents always thought they were smart and well-disguised.

The General said. “Andirobal is so isolated; they stand out like worth in a politician.”

These two were more circumspect than those others, now resting comfortably, in town bellies. Their I.D.’s were not DEA, CIA or IRS. Nevertheless, the General knew no gringo would want to come to his armpit of the world. If they did, it was with nefarious intent. He sent a woman to investigate.

She soon brought back the news. The men wanted to purchase some raw dope. They would pay cash. General Aloirav got on the holophone to Bacon. Bacon was out on a pond, snagging an alligator for a customer.

His helper, Raoul, answered the call in Portuguese. “Sim, So Rav, So Bahcohn esta ocupado agora.”

“Diga com ele, DEA caras quer falar com ele.” The General replied.

“Sim, Padrone.”

When Bacon got to the holophone, the General said. “There’s two of ‘em Bacon. Can you handle them now?”

“Give me ten minutes… to prepare a proper welcome.”

“You got it. I’ll have Celia give them a treat. Expect them at your door in thirty minutes.”

“Right, Boss.”

Celia was a tall, long-legged, blue-eyed blond with an angelic face and café au lait skin. There were not many more beautiful women in Maranhao, or the world, than her. She left the General’s quarters and went down the circular stairs leading from the hotel’s sun deck. Her translucent dress left only consummation to the imagination. The gringos were facing the street but noticed her before she got off the last step.

The darker heavyset one, with poor taste in clothes, immediately got up and asked her to join them. Celia complied. The thinner hook-nosed one with a cadaverous complexion asked if she wanted a drink. Celia said she would like lemonade. It soon sat before her, accompanying the two men’s drinks.

“Can we get you anything else, Ma’am?”

“No. I don’t think so.” She replied to the man staring at her breasts. “You’re not from around here are you?”

“No. We’re not. We’re here looking for someone who might help us locate a man named Aloirav. This is his hotel isn’t it?”

“Yes it is. That name on the marque is more than decoration.”

Unaware she was toying with him, the thin agent asked. “Do you know where we can find him?”

“Oh, yes. He’s out at the farm.”

“Where is that?”

“On BR316. Anyone can show you.”

“Not you?”

“Would you like that?”

“Yes. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Not at all.”

“Do you remember another man, a week ago that came down here looking for him?”

“No. I can’t say that I do. Maybe Dora does. Did you ask her?”

“Who is Dora?”

“The receptionist.” She answered, and shouted to the other woman. “Hey, nega, do you remember another gringo, awhile back, looking for So Rav?”

“Sim.”

“She remembers him.”

“What happened to him?”

“Nega. They wanna’ know what happened to him.

“He got sick. Policia Federal took him to the hospital.”

“What happened to him after that?”

“Don’t know.”

“It’s okay.” The thin man said. “We’ll ask Mr. Aloirav himself when we see him.”

“Okay.”

The two left the hotel when Celia finished her lemonade. The farm was just two minutes away by moto-taxi. Bacon met them at the front gate. Celia asked. “May I leave you gentlemen now?”

“Certainly, Celia. Thank you very much for your help.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

The fat agent asked. “Will we see you at the hotel, when we return?”

“Oh, yes.” Celia replied. “Should you return, I’ll be there.”

Bacon ushered the men into the farm office and asked them what he could do for them. They replied that they were looking for a man named Aloirav. Bacon informed them that the “boss” didn’t wish to speak with just anyone, asking.

“Why do you wish to speak with Mr. Aloirav?”

“We’re federal agents of the United States of America.”

“Old government cops.”

“That’s vulgar bridge slang.”

“It fits the picture.”

“Our government wishes to ask him some questions about his business.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“Questions that are between he and the US government.”

“Do you have some identification?” Bacon asked.

“The agents showed their real badges, and Bacon said. “I’m Rav Aloirav. What would you like to ask me?”

“We’d like you to come with us, Sir.”

“Why?”

“We’re conducting an investigation into the disappearance of numerous federal agents who have been interested in your business.”

“What business? I’m a tourist on vacation.”

“We’ve heard otherwise. And, your name on a hotel marque speaks otherwise.”

“Ya’ got me there.”

“Yes. We do.”

“Why can’t you do your questioning here?”

“We’d rather not.”

“I’d rather not leave.”

“It will go better with you if you come along with us without a problem.”

“Am I being charged with something?”

“No, not yet.”

“Then I’d be stupid to go with you and get so charged, wouldn’t I?”

“It would be smarter to come now than to have us send for the Federal Police. You know what that entails.”

“Yes, an annoying expense.”

“Perhaps you can tell us what happened to one of our fellow agents?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“He came down here about a week ago, looking for you.”

“Oh, yes. A man named Holbrook.”

“Yes that’s his name.”

“He found me. Poor man. Got sick, and the police took him to the hospital.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. I assume he left there when his people came for him.”

“That is strange. No one, but you, has reported seeing him since he left the office. He didn’t return to San Luis.”

“Is that so? No one here appears to have seen him again.”

“Strange.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. You were the last person to see him alive, apparently.”

“You’re saying he’s dead?”

“We do indeed suspect foul play. Did you have anything to do with his illness?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“You were once a convict. Is that not true?”

“Yes.”

“A serial killer?”

“Some say that, but I prefer other appellations, like necroextirpation specialist.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t want to come along with us and prove your innocence.”

“You’re absolutely right. You’ve convinced me. I’ll get my things.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Aloirav.”

“Yes, it will be. I’m not going anywhere until I’m ready.”

The agents pulled out guns and told Bacon he was under arrest. Bacon remained motionless and said. “You know you can’t do that. Brazil is not the USA.”

“Brazil is signed on to the Federation of First-Surface Rothschild States. As such, she allows us to pursue Federation criminals on her sovereign territory. Brazil is no longer a non-extradition country.”

“I see. Are you going to handcuff and embarrass me in front of my neighbors?”

“I’m afraid so.”

There was a knock at the door and the agents’ guns went in that direction for a second. They soon came back to Bacon’s direction. The knock came from Andy, who asked. “Everything okay, Bacon?”

“Yah, they’re DEA, Andy.”

“What d’ya mean, answering to Bacon. You told us you were Rav Aloirav!”

“I lied. The Boss doesn’t like to talk to sub-humans. I don’t mind slumming”

“Why you…!”

“I meant only disrespect, Sir.”

Andy spoke again. “It’s been thirty minutes, Bacon.”

“Give it 5 more, Andy. They’re getting there.”

“Okay.”

“Whad’ya mean, we’re getting there?”

“Well…It’s a bit embarrassing.”

“Why?”

“It’s all on account of Raoul.”

“What is?”

“Yah. Weak stomach and all.”

“What!?”

“The Boss felt sorry for him and gave us permission to use a different bug.”

“Bug?”

“Yah. T’others made you assholes vomit before leaving. Raoul always had ta clean it up. He complained, and then we complained for him. He’s a good guy, ya’know?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, turkey?!” The thin agent asked, moving closer to Bacon, raising the gun as if to smash it down on him.

“Ya’ made it clear when ya’ arrived that you were DEA.”

“So what?”

“You guys are special to the Boss. He said we could use the “neurobugs” on you. ‘Lots more painful way to go but no vomit. Just look upon it as your parting gift to Raoul. I thank you too for coming out here to see me. You saved me a trip into town to collect you. Your friend Holbrook was much less accommodating.”

“Are you threatening us?!”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sure sounds like it!”

“I don’t understand that. I never threaten. It’s so rude. Must be the delay has me preoccupied.”

“Delay?”

“Yes. Don’t mean to change the subject….”

“Yeah?!”

“Aren’t those guns getting a little warm?”

“Come to think of it, yah. Why?”

“Well. They should seem hot by now.”

“Damn! The thin man shouted and dropped his gun on the floor. You’re right!”

Soon the other man’s gun also followed its neighbor, and Bacon said. “It’s okay Andy. Come on in. They’re safe.”

Andy entered the room and looked at the agents’ hands. They drooped forward like wings on penguins. He said. “Bacon. I don’t know how you do it. You got some nerve!”

“Aw, shucks, Andy. T’aint nuttin’. Just experience. I was with the Boss when he field-tested the bug 25 years ago.”

“Wha…wha…what’re you guys talkin’ about?” The fat agent asked.

Bacon answered. “Pardon me. How impolite of me not to explain, hunh? The Boss heard that you mentioned you were looking to buy some dope.”

“So what?!”

“The “boss” doesn’t sell dope. Never has. Only a cop would be so stupid. The bug, Dora gave you guys, was 567MNT. It has cistrons for two neurotoxins that express rapidly under certain conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“High testosterone and epinephrine. Remember Celia?”

“Yah.”

“Bingo! The bugs savor your blood. The heat you felt from the guns is imaginary. The guns are not even warm, see?” Bacon picked up the two pieces and twirled them around his fingers. Your central nervous system is now in the process of falling apart. It’s all confused because of the apoptosis elements ligated to the neuroactive peptide genes.”

Not to be outdone, Andy said. “Forgive Bacon his techno babble, won’t you guys? You’ll be dead in 5 minutes. Before you go, you’ll get headaches that just won’t quit. Don’t be concerned. It’s just yer’ imagination still workin’ overtime.”

 

The types of fish General Aloirav enjoyed were the short-toothed piranhas. These fish were of two varieties. Tambakee was the darker. Paku was faster growing but less tasty. Both gave around a kilo of flesh in six months with proper agent supplementation. Tambakee & tilapia preferred DEA agents, but accepted some Treasury and CIA flesh when the favorites were not available. The ponds contained sufficient alligators and turtles to handle the surplus when fish became satiated. The late decrease in overhead bothered Bacon.

“Boss?”

“Yah, my friend.”

“We haven’t bought humeal for the fish in over 6 months.”

“The non-subhuman deaths’ news got out, I’m sure.” General Aloirav replied.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“I think someone is letting MMIM know about us too.”

“Shouldn’t we be concerned?”

“It’s getting tiresome?” General Aloirav asked.

“Yes, sometimes I need more help than just Raoul in submerging so many carcasses. But it’s not that that concerns me.”

“I know. It concerns me too. Gloria has been sending all the information she can.”

“It appears we have a leak she can’t discover?”

“It does. Andy swept my office on Level Twelve three times. He never found more devices after that first time.”

“Boss.” Bacon said. “Something I’ve been thinking.”

“What?”

“Mr. Otorp isn’t a friend.”

“No. He isn’t.”

“And he’s the guy discovered the ESP shit for the jumping cars, right?”

“Yah.” General Aloirav answered. “You think maybe he’s behind our leaks?”

“Could be, no?”

“I’ll look into it right away. I’m due to return to the bridges tomorrow night.”

“There’s another thing, Boss?”

“Yah.”

“It’s the reptiles.”

“What about them?”

“Well.” Bacon answered. “Alligator and turtle meat is accumulating faster than fish.”

“The price per kilo is the same as fish. What’s the problem?”

“The alligators bite!” Bacon riposted. “The tails and feet are dangerous too.”

“I see.” The General replied, laughing. “What do you think is causing the problem?”

“I think it’s the food.” Bacon replied. “Fish don’t prefer fresh meat like the reptiles do.”

“I know. They just eat rotten and corrupted flesh. You’re thinking we’ve got another problem?”

“It appears our agent inventory is changing. We’re getting fewer DEA agents.”

“And the reptiles are eating more than the fish. You may be right, Bacon.”

“It could be serious.”

 

Two helicopters and two vans, filled with Brazilian Federal Police Swat Teams, swooped down on Andirobal. A chopper and a van emptied, contents entering the hotel, to take up their positions. The other chopper and van went out to the farm, repeating the behavior. Everyone but the Newer Society felt sufficiently impressed. Bacon walked up to the senior officer and asked.

“What’s up, Smitty?”

“Where’s Mr. Aloirav?”

“Venezuela. Left this morning.”

“He leave anything for me?”

“Yah. Said you’d be by. Just a minute. I’ll get it.”

A few minutes later Bacon came back with a package containing two large, 2 kilo each, tambakee.

“He said to tell you they were stuffed the way you like them.” Bacon said.

The senior man blew his whistle. The police reformed into units and left Andirobal. Bacon returned to his work on the farm.

 

Company Directors and executives gathered for the annual meeting of the Board. First on the agenda was the latest edict from the First-Surface. The majority of the executives were in a frightful uproar. Just one day earlier, the old-government informed the Company once again of raising procurement taxes. They charged the levy against First-Surface rocks the Company needed to make calein. These were the “dirt taxes.” The Pontibus would now have to pay more.

The Company’s interim Chairman said. “My fellow Directors. The latest attempt to extract monies from our Company is a most important issue. Before deciding on it, I invite comment. I want to go around the table. Each one of you will have a chance to register your opinion. Please give your reasons. In order that no one is unduly influenced, my decision will come after you’ve all spoken.”

Loud responses began on the chairman’s right. They continued halfway around the table. Acquiescent responses came from Directors associated with inter-organizational trade. They needed the corporations connected to the old-government. Virtually all First-Surface companies were so connected.

Coupled groups bought inter alia clean air & water, electrical energy, plastic resins, and food from the Pontibus. The Company extracted minerals from First-Surface stones. The Corporation could defend itself by stockpiling rocks for a war of attrition with the First-Surface. The Concern often contemplated it, First-Surface companies acting as intermediaries.

One of the oldest Directors, looking at Mr. Otorp, said. “I vote no.” (Old men seldom feel reluctant to wage war with young men’s lives.) My reasons are sound. Those neither convinced nor committed to my way of thinking need but remember. Our Founder, Mr. Lester Frye, opened every Board meeting with an entreaty. Annoying us all, nevertheless, we kept silent out of respect. We’ve not done it even once since his demise. We should. I don’t know if you remember it, but I have a copy here. I’d like to read it as my argument against accepting the new levy. It will clarify our doubts on these proceedings. Perhaps it will show the Chairman the course we feel he should take. It reads.

“Being New World guardians of the disadvantaged obligates us. Because blessed we must bless in return. Let us be ever vigilant when using our special capacity to turn abstract into concrete. The only creatures possessing this gift, we must not use it for the sole purpose of exploitation. Such is the stuff of religion & prostitution, not worthy of us. It is savagery, unenlightened brutality, and accepting less of ourselves. Let us use our twin sparks, imagination and will, to light greater fires, and illuminate higher aspirations. Cultivate our planet with love. The small green jewel of a half-billion years ago is gone. It grows, purposeful, into an ever greater emerald of the sky, our Pontibus.” He paused to look around the table before continuing. “I question not a better economic system. They’re all euphemisms for corrupt governments and Rothschild misappropriation. Capitalism will do. It’s the easiest brigandage to swallow. I blame not some fictitious “God”, “whites”, “blacks”, “rich”, or “poor”. Problems and questions fall away after accepting that our purpose is but to make the world more lifeful. We must take control of the planet for the planet’s sake. Our forefathers have made our mother sick. Our generation’s fate or doom is to make her healthy or die. Recycling our encroachments and using renewable energy sources will aid her. Reducing hunger and subhuman injustice will comfort her. Protecting forests & wetlands, focusing all our energies on expanding habitat, will save her. The watchword is biosustainability.” After a quick glance at Mr. Otorp, the venerable Director persisted. “Every thought must increase lifefulness. Familiar spirits need more than belated protection. They need assistance… habitat. Resist anything that tends to decrease it. Impel anything tending to increase it.”

 

Despotism…absolute power, is the same in a majority of a popular assembly…and a single emperor.                 John Adams

 

Chapter Fifty-Eight

 

He waited while an anti-confrontation Director distracted the group with coughing. When the counterfeit spasm ended, the old man raised his voice and finished reading. “The Pontibus must not allow anything to decrease lifefulness or habitat, directly or indirectly. Pray for wisdom to determine how actions affect planetary fecundity. These, my principles, are why I developed the Pontibus, for which I’ve dedicated my life.”

The old man looked at the chairman and said. “Someone once told Mr. Frye that his new religion was too negative and against everything. He asked that person to explain. The critic replied, “anti-medicine, anti-religion, anti-written law, anti-democracy, anti-tax, anti-caedere, etc.””

“Lester replied. “All those anti’s you mentioned are attempts to describe pro-life positives using their opposites. They’re explanatory terms. New cultures require new languages. The old language is deficient in biosustainable positives. They sound negative because our thinking is still backwards. Our language has no alternatives, yet. There are no affirmative terms existing to portray them. Our new language hasn’t yet got around to making new words without the “anti” prefixes. My religion is Biological Sustainability. If an action isn’t sustainable, it’s caedere, and it’s a sin. If it isn’t positive, it’s anti-positive. We are anti-anti-positive.””

The old man slapped his hand down on the paper before him and exclaimed. “This edict is not anti-anti-positive! It is my opinion we resist it! The Founder’s foregoing appeal, and the mission he bequeathed us, emphatically opposes it.”

His was the last for confrontation for a time. The Chairman listened to many opinions for obeisance. Then it became Mr. Otorp’s turn to speak.   Because of past mutual support, he appeared as Mr. Lester Frye’s alter ego. Mr. Otorp wasn’t aware, as he might have been; other Directors waited for every word.

The Scientist-Director, uninterested in a power position, said: “You remember when they asked Lester if he would allow wheelchairs on the platforms?”

All nodded, and he continued. “He was, at that time, “biological” neutral. His reason for denying them was indirect. He felt their owners took more lifefulness from the Pontibus than they brought to it. Not until individual cases showed him wrong did Mr. Frye relent. He needed proof that a particular owner was more habitat positive than negative. As the rule, we still prohibit them. The Council must approve all variances.” Mr. Otorp looked around the table for nods of agreement before continuing. “Do you remember when they asked about allowing Down’s syndrome phenotypes and Huntington’s chorea genotypes on the Pontibus?”

Again, many nods, before he said. “He denied them bills of sale i.e. access. We still do not allow them access. No matter what you may feel about it. The policy continues, expanded now, it includes an entire list of genetic diseases, prohibited sub rosa, most of them. You know the list. Am I wrong?”

His fellow Directors showed no disagreement, and he answered. “No. You know what I’m saying is true. Mr. Frye never made a secret of his later distaste for the “biologicals”. It cost us plenty. Lester was a hard and very cruel man. He used to say Nature was hard. He even told me, many times, he felt unworthy to be any softer. Said he hadn’t earned the right. His children seemed to have taken his compassion with them when they died.”

Mr. Otorp didn’t notice what happened next. His last reflection on Mr. Lester Frye’s personality and character made a great impression. Eyes in the room looked around at each other and then back toward him. Many feared he was about to disavow his former allegiance to the Founder. They waited, expecting Mr. Otorp to embrace the old-government’s side.

The room grew very still, as he spoke. “Mr. Frye was just as hard and cruel towards himself as he was on others. Towards the goal of making the planet biosustainable, he would sacrifice anything and anyone. Most of you disagreed with us on the pesticide issue. Audits were equivocal. Computer analysis gave no help. Pesticides are poisons for whoever wields them. Mr. Frye denied their use. He said the chemicals would become a greater eventual cost to habitat than the alternative. We listened and acquiesced, because it was He that said it. It was a FACT. Lester was right. Despite the cost, he proved his point, and we made money. The Pontibus is unsurpassed in agriculture today, because we do not allow them.”

Mr. Otorp looked around at the faces before him and said. “You disagreed vehemently with us on the abortion issue. Un-aborted children proved good for habitat. They brought more custodians and much needed mental energy to solve tremendous habitat problems. Those un-aborted children today are some of our best residents. They seem to feel an unusual gratitude for life. One helped me in my efforts to rediscover calein.”

Looking around the room, Mr. Otorp saw strange relief on many faces. On others, he saw increased hostility. Directors either nodded their heads or stared straight forward, and Mr. Otorp continued. “He promised wealth on the Pontibus. He cared little how much money anyone made on his ideas and life. He insisted only that the money made result in more life, long term, than the opposite. Just that. Following his precepts made us money. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

No one did, and Mr. Otorp said. “He never wavered. He never censured anyone for wealth as long as they showed a greater positive benefit to lifefulness, for their effort, than the converse. It was his one economic formula. Very simple. It was the only reason he prohibited Rothschild interests on the bridges. What he thought was what he did and what he made the Company do. He never failed to risk or spare himself.”

Looking at one Director in particular, he asked. “Dr. Fargen, you’ve become a multi-trillionaire insuring our domiciles and platforms. Did Lester ever once criticize your wealth?”

The Director shook his head while Mr. Otorp turned and asked. “Mr. Gras, you’ve lent your bank’s funds for Pontibus construction since the very first days. You now hold some of the paper on the mortgage that released our new Chief of Security.” Saying the latter, he looked over at a non-descript man named Harcourt and continued. “Your bank will make hundreds of trillions on that deal alone. How many times in the past were you censured for your gains by Mr. Frye?”

Mr. Gras brought his hands together, whipping them apart, signifying never, and Mr. Otorp continued. “That’s right! Neither one of you, ever heard a word of criticism from him on those issues. Mr. Gras, lending the Pontibus funds hasn’t been unprofitable, I venture to guess. You needn’t tell us how profitable. I don’t think you’re as well-heeled as Dr. Fargen, but I’ll bet you’re close.”

Mr. Otorp continued after the loud burst of laughter attenuated. “Remember when the old-government increased First-Surface welfare taxes? They said they were for charities to assist their deformed, doomed, and demented. He fought like the devil, spending more fighting than it would have cost us in years to pay. “No damned Rothschild welfare moms on the Pontibus and no support for them elsewhere!” He said. The Company never paid the tax, did we?”

Getting no response to his rhetorical question, he answered it himself, saying. “No. The power to tax contains the power to destroy. If we genuflect here, our new world will crumble. This list of proscribed genetic infirmities, (waving the paper before him), will disappear. All manner of ugly First-Surface freaks and welfare scum will inundate our abode. Remember after the old-government admitted they were still indirectly in the insane heroin and cocaine interdiction business? They cried they would be bankrupt without allowing proscription to continue. They demanded He outlaw narcotics as they forced all countries in the Rothschild Federation to do. He fought the I & I (Imperialism & Interdiction) tax, intending to prohibit that commerce. Many old fools thought him wrong, until he showed imperialism unsound and proved interdiction a gross error. MMIM’s profit was in narcotic prohibition. They wanted the Company to forbid drugs on the Pontibus. Lester said, “No, I will not deal in death to increase my income. I will never proscribe your “Title 21 controlled substances” on my bridges.” MMIM now get more of their drugs for the First-Surface addicts from us than they do from South America. It’s a great boon to our farmers.”

“There are some who would say that income is blood money!” A First-Surface medical doctor countered.

“That’s true.” Mr. Otorp riposted. “And we all know the self-serving hypocrisy behind that First-Surface drivel, don’t we?!”

Nearly everyone’s head nodded, as the doctor slumped down in his chair. Mr. Otorp said. “How would the republics continue to keep their “biologicals” & socialists from revolt without narcotics? Appetites of such subhumans are insatiable! Cocaine and heroin are bread & circuses! The tax to increase negative exploitation of the First-Surface’s environment? Remember? They wanted to continue the injection-well toxic-waste disposal method. He didn’t pay that one either.” Mr. Otorp sat down saying. “I hope you can appreciate my point. I vote a firm “No” to the old-government. They can go to hell!”

Directors stimulated by the last comment gave him an ovation. It was short-lived, as many were still for capitulation. Commenting resumed, when the Chairman called for renewed order. Opinions continued to surface around the table. It got back to the Chairman, who said.

“I remember a conversation between my father and Lester. Mr. Frye cautioned him on something I thought would never occur. I even thought our Founder might need a personal reality check. Strangely enough, it happened, as he predicted it might. He spoke about our anticipated construction, saying.

“It occurs to me that we might encounter difficulties with governments. What will the future construction of Pontibus communities require? How will the labor, we intend to employ, come about? Will it appear because of mobile-property based and market-driven capitalistic methods? Could it require a thalassocracy and coordinated hydraulic methods of corvee agro-management? Initially, the construction will be capital-requiring, market-driven, and digitally integrated.”

The Chairman, puffing himself up, then said. “Most of us hardly knew what he was asking. As you know, we are still on a market-driven basis. Mr. Frye’s prescience was most evident to those of us who knew him well. But, when he said, “Anachronistic governmental regulations might force us onto the high seas. If we seek refuge under Maritime Law, hydraulic methods may prevail. That could prove as dangerous and pernicious as oppressive taxation. Bureaucratic strengths and weaknesses all fit under the rubric of weaknesses. They are the constitutional democracies’ administrative machinations undertaken to support the welfare state’s horrifying propensities. Except for organizational features, required for such immense tasks, bureaucracies serve no purpose. We must be careful and ever vigilant….” Well, let me tell you, I became a life-long believer in him. Everything he said was before he’d done much more than build models of the envisioned Pontibus.”

Pausing to look around the room, the Chairman gauged the mood as against genuflection and said. “At the time, they called it the “U.S. Government”, deciding environmental and health issues politically. Unwise. The Rothschild pawns are still so imprudent on the First-Surface. You will remember that most environmentalists in the late 20^th & early 21^st Century were little more than political opportunists. They saw their purported ideals as mere stepping-stones to shed at will in return for power & profit.”

An uncomfortable quasi-silence filled the room, as agreement faltered. Oblivious to it, the chairman still felt a need to choose for the perceived majority. He wanted to convince himself and others of reasons, beyond political, for his fiat. One heard a few throats clear and a muffled cough or two. Failing to notice, the Chairman continued. He put his right index finger on his left palm and said. “Their level of consciousness was lower than their educational level. Laudable goals, lip service alone, just rungs in a ladder ascending to possibilities for higher-level corruption. These pseudo-environmentalists fought the Pontibus from the grass-roots arena on up the political ladder to full corruption. They knew no scientific or empirical basis for their anti-Pontibus stance. They used the old 35 foot building height limit to proscribe our construction.”

The Chairman looked around the room and reported. “You know, as He foresaw, we did indeed seek respite under the International Maritime Law. During Luz’ erection, it looked very much as if conditions would pressure us into bureaucratic methods forever. Fortunately, we obtained corvee labor from an unexpected source.” The chairman looked at Mr. Otorp and at the nondescript Mr. Harcourt. “A digital circulatory system prevented excesses from developing.”

He made a slight concession to those who would oppose him, saying. “Mr. Frye always liked thinking his was the side the angels took, even when not. With that, he was right on target. I’m choosing the way Mr. Frye would want me to go. I’ll ride Mr. Otorp’s train and deny the old-government our concurrence!”

A great deal of buzzing and whispering filled the room. Directors all made their position clear, prior to the decision. One said. “I don’t know why you are using Mr. Frye as an argument to negate this tariff. You speak about his refusing to pay levies. I distinctly remember him paying the dirt taxes. This is a dirt tax. Mr. Frye would have moved to pay this initiative!”

Many agreed with the latter dissent, but the decision stood. The Chairman ruled that the Company would oppose Rothschild. The old-government’s quasi-ultimatum failed. It meant possible war with the First-Surface.

Once again, the Chairman spoke. “We’ll inform the old-government that we do not intend complying with their demands. Before I conclude the meeting, I want to discuss the declaration’s wording. What do you think we should put in the draft to the First-Surface signifying our refusal to submit?”

Before they could discuss anything else, a rebellious contingent usurped the floor. Using the letter, these Directors twisted and pressured. Timid Directors writhed. All but the courageous failed to capitulate. The mutineers deposed the current Chairman and installed a new interim figurehead. The moving Directors discussed a new letter for another hour. The final version contained many clauses geared to placate the old-government.

Reading that letter somewhat later, General Aloirav remarked. “There’s enough bullshit here for a love-letter! Maudlin nonsense like “all men are created equal”, references to some hypothetical “Creator”. It’s a “Declaration of Dependence”! There isn’t one plausible pre-response to forthcoming old-government threats.”

Responses were unnecessary without the deposed chairman presiding. The old-government’s imminent receipt of the letter would bring no rancor. It would humiliate the Company. Threats having proved effective, the 162 member Board relinquished control of Company destiny. Democratic principles gained the upper hand.

The vote was 98 to 64 for submission. The entire situation then became as rehearsed and bogus as a New England town meeting. The major stockholder never exerted his authority.

They tabled another order of business. That brought less of a consensus. It concerned the demands necessary to level against a particular corporation. That company was responsible for the Twenty-Seventh Level weaponry and toxics storage. It contracted with the Company long ago. A few years back, coincident to MMIM’s purchase of much of that company’s common stock, they changed course. A great deal of management, and the new board, allowed losing ever-larger quantities of inventory through misappropriation.

Letters of remonstrance from the Company did not stem the flow of contraband. Top management appeared to still be cooperating with the Company. Many lower-level executives and newer directors were not. The problem was a concern for the Company, and it wanted answers. Weapons, sent to the depot, must be secure.

Disarmament Treaties needed upholding, as old-government weapon systems were volatile items. Rothschild shell companies paid in gold for serviceable weapons. The responsible company must find the stolen goods and return them, apprehending the perpetrators. The defalcating corporation must somehow account for lost weapons if it could not actually return them. The unacceptable existing situation couldn’t continue. All the directors knew it required action.

Some Company Directors objected to tendered solutions. They complained of feeling that certain demands the Company proposed were excessive. The concealed reason for recalcitrance was their positions as co-directors in the culpable corporation or MMIM itself. Tabling “disposed of” the problem. Business moved elsewhere.

It went to a defined “intimate” or intra-Company matter. Mr. Otorp looked up as the new Chairman spoke his name. Feigning concern for truth in the impending discrediting of the man, the bogus Chairman continued. “Mr. Otorp, it gives me no pleasure to mention the next order of business. There are allegations that you have been making public statements out of line with Company policy. These alleged statements also run counter to current Company projects, some of which are your very own. To make the situation even more intolerable is that they run contrary to current scientific theory and decorum. What do you have to say to those bringing these charges?”

The abruptness of the not-entirely-unexpected attack surprised Mr. Otorp. Prepared for something similar, he wasn’t anticipating that exact manner of delivery. The man hoped for more deference, perhaps a letter of reprimand. Nevertheless, he was composed in answering the attack, saying.

“I assume what you are referring to is a private incident of some time ago at MIT.”

“Mr. Otorp.” Another Director said. “You can hardly call such an incident “private”. You were allegedly INSIDE a Zionist institution, MIT, without permission, disturbing the peace, and embarrassing the Company! All the major First-Surface media have run stories on it. You are not some common laborer. When you speak, what you do, has a similar affect as that of a Company spokesperson. Surely you are aware of that?”

“I see I am to be punished for my work at the Company by being disallowed a private life.”

“There is no need for rancor, Mr. Otorp. Please explain yourself.”

“It appears someone overheard me mention that I was not a fan of wanton organ culture. I am supposed to have also said it was, in effect, arrogating prohibited powers to ourselves. Powers which would indeed be more acceptably placed with a supernatural being, assuming one exists.”

“That’s more or less what we’re referring to, yes.” He answered. “How do you plead?”

“Why, guilty, of course!” Mr. Otorp replied.

The Boardroom heard murmurs as well as some snickers. The bogus Chairman himself suppressed a small smile at Mr. Otorp’s’ iconoclastic arrogance. There was, however, definite displeasure manifested among some of the Directors at the brazen response. Director Hernan Castillo was one. He was at the ceremony when Lester Frye honored Mr. Otorp for his calein breakthrough.

The man appeared unable to contain his anger, saying. “You make light of such an egregious error!? Have you no respect for the Company at all?! You have the temerity to say you don’t agree with organ culture!? You yourself vascularized mussel tissue cultures in order to produce calein. Isn’t that the most unabashed barefaced hypocrisy? More than arrant, it’s almost, I hesitate to even say it, … stupid!”

“Hypocrisy? Stupid?!” Mr. Otorp replied. “Harsh…Perhaps you have a point.”

“Of course it’s harsh.” Mr. Castillo riposted. “And you know I have a point!”

“I prefer to think of it as paradoxical. I can’t deny I joined tissue cultures. Nor can I deny I vascularized them. I did indeed play the same game that you accuse me of decrying. I concede your point. I have but one excuse… or defense. I used the technology, because I found it necessary for our survival as a species. We searched our souls to decide whether it was our sole hope. As but one of many other species, equally endangered, we felt it worth the risk.”

Hernan jumped on the last phrase, raising his voice. “The same rationale was used to develop the atomic bomb! You’re defending it!”

“Yes!” Mr. Otorp riposted. “Now who is “almost, I hesitate to even say it, … stupid”, Hernan? One can hardly agree that the destructive nature of the atom bomb compares to the survival attributes inherent in calein. The natures of the two disparate objectives are in no way similar. Evolutionary and habitat benefits alon…”

“How can you deny to the Company what the Company gave you?” He interrupted. “How can you, all by yourself, decide against taking that same risk now?”

Mr. Otorp waited, until Hernan finished shouting, before he replied. “I deny the Company nothing, certainly no risks it wishes to undertake. I never intended to embarrass anyone or influence Company policy. I have always been opposed to unnatural acts. I even opposed, as many of you know, the calein organ culture development. Mr. Frye overruled me.”

Heads nodded around the room in agreement. The bogus Chairman writhed and showed his restless and uncomfortable position. The scientist continued.

“My words on the First-Surface were directed against such technology being used in cancer research. An entirely different sac of cells. I but queried the offended individual, my son’s friend and collaborator. I wondered if he had given thought to the expensive possible repercussions of his success.”

Hernan replied. “That’s not what you said! You interrogated that poor researcher mercilessly!”

“I did not!”

“You didn’t ask…”What right do you have to be doing organ culture? You feel you have the right to play “God”? Who do you think you are?!” Mr. Otorp…do you call such questions uncritical?!”

“Were you there, Hernan? If you were then you know that I never said …asked…those things…at least not in such a manner! You will know that I inquired if he thought that such a use of organ culture might substantiate a charge of playing “God”. I sought his opinion. I did not mean to criticize.”

“What you meant and what occurred are somewhat disparate.” Hernan argued.

“Please, keep in mind.” Mr. Otorp continued as if Hernan’s words were unheard. “I did not put nephrons and alveoli together with digestion, before I vascularized the result. I never countenanced neuronal networks in my organ culture. Life is a stochastic enigma. The only control we have is through our aspirations. I developed the barest of rudiments necessary to accomplish our goal. “

Hernan said. “What has that got to do with anything? Just a question of degree.”

Mr. Otorp replied. “Perhaps, but where are controls and limits to come from, if not from ourselves? I stumbled along, hoping that what I pulled out of the ether would always return to help those I love. Always the dread exists that in time the good we think we’ve done may indeed not be so. As we have seen with antibiotics, pesticides, chlorofluorohydrocarbons and genetically modified food plants, it may very well result in a curse to our progeny. Very responsible behavior, in persons with advanced levels of consciousness, may appear to some at times irresponsible (and visa versa). Persons from lower levels of consciousness or from succeeding generations come to mind.”

“Are you now attacking me, Mr. Otorp?!”

“Do you feel attacked, Hernan?”

“You were not just referring to posterity, Mr. Otorp!”

Mr. Otorp saw how the man was trying to draw him into a side issue and bridled it. “Equal crimes or good deeds in different environments do not necessarily merit equal responses from society. A jailhouse killing may have in it the blessing of angels, and a justified homicide by a policeman may have been a callous and diabolical act of murder. Who can limit the use of our power if we don’t? God?”

“You now dare to insult this august body by accusing it of an inane superstition, Mr. Otorp?”

“No.” He replied. “It was just to make a point, Hernan. At present, a non-sentient mass of compartmentalized and vascularized protoplasm produces calein. It is little more than a chemical machine. What I find difficult to accept in contemporary organ culture is its ultimate unleashed capacity. What will it mean? The faculty exists for creating something, which will one day incur unavoidable pain or its semblance. The suffering will be mental, physical, and spiritual. We market organ culture for blind experimentation. Its purpose is to avoid anti-vivisectionist scrutiny.” He stopped and looked around the room. Few sympathetic faces stared back. Hostile ones were plentiful. Mr. Otorp resumed his defense. “The First-Surface uses the same technology to produce graft-rejection-free transplantable organs. Senility makes greater inroads down there every year. The First-Surface is becoming a demented swamp. Where do we stop? How far do we go? Will the Council protect us? Some paper?! The old-government made a mockery of its Thirteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Democratic constitutions are pure horseshit! History made that painfully evident. The pols dismantled them, systematically, whenever they felt it necessary. The US Constitution never even survived the Nineteenth-Century intact. Rothschild killed and buried it well before the end of the 20^th. All that did survive was corruption, injustice, and an outlaw country, the USA. Generic non-sentient political manipulators easily circumvent laws, other than natural ones. But, we cannot put the blame on just these greater rapists. The base, brutal, demented and ignorant hoi polloi of the USA voted for the scum, usually on the grounds of personal aggrandizement. No, we must police ourselves if we are to survive. Platitudes and rules are just patinas. The substance runs deeper, and the majority can’t even rule themselves! What or who will protect these creatures, we create today, if not ourselves? Have you ever seen them? Involuntary servitude and suffering we can never understand?”

The Chairman took Hernan’s side and said, “Who can say they really understand suffering? We can’t even understand the pain of our own children, whom we’ve created. You’re asking too much. It’s not your place to make these conjectures for the Company.”

Mr. Otorp replied. “My position exactly! I made no directive! I gave my private opinion in a conversation between a member of my family and his friend. I never expected it to leave that room.”

“Now he’s denying responsibility for it!” Hernan said, feeling himself losing the initiative.

The Chairman, taking great care not to include himself in the description, said. “Some feel the press gives your sentiments much more weight than other Directors. You must be aware of that.”

“Yes. Are you now accusing me of grandstanding, playing to the press?! I doubt anyone here is unaware of how “inaccurately” the press portrays me.”

“No, but are you not aware of your responsibility?”

“No. I guess I am not!”

“How do you think you made the Board appear when you said those things?”

“I don’t know. How did I make you appear?”

Growing ill at ease, the bogus Chairman circumvented the subject, until another Director spoke up, saying. “You made us all look just like Mr. Frye did.”

Mr. Otorp was now very surprised and said. “I don’t understand. How did I make you look the way Lester Frye made you look?”

No one offered a response, until he repeated his question. “How?! I want to know how I did that.”

The bChairman recovered some of his aplomb and said. “He’s right. Like you, Mr. Otorp, Mr. Frye was very progressive, with many discoveries of a scientific nature to his credit. Nevertheless, he was also reactionary.”

Mr. Otorp interjected. “You mean my opinions are making you look ultra-conservative?”

The bChairman replied. “Yes.”

“You’ve never been embarrassed or mis-portrayed by the media before?” Mr. Otorp asked.

“Not personally.”

“Then you’ve never done anything either.”

“Just look at how many lawsuits in which Mr. Frye got the Company embroiled!” A man next to Hernan said. “Why, that wheelchair issue alone cost us billions in legal fees, punitive awards, and settlements. It took years, before we found a way out of the problem. You know how adamant he was about proscribing the handicapped from the Pontibus. The man never considered our “public image”. He would not allow us to sell them modules. We still can’t account for how he attained the resources to pay for it all!”

He stopped speaking but continued looking at Mr. Otorp. All the Directors were doing that now except Hernan. Hernan watched the bChairman. He scrutinized every detail of the man’s face before re-adjusting his gaze. Then it went around to the rest of the Directors.

Hernan brought it, along with the rest, onto Mr. Otorp and said. “Do you know what they’re singing on the First-Surface now about our discriminating policies?”

“No.”

“It goes. “Oh, we can’t get past those pearly gates. Don’t know what it takes. The poorer ya’ are, the more you bleed. It doesn’t matter what ya’ need. Cowards, cripples, and Christians need not apply. Life sucks, then ya’ die.””

Another Director, agreeing with the bChairman and Hernan, (and paradoxically with Mr. Otorp), said. “He’s right. Without Mr. Frye here, we’ve a chance to outgrow that cruel image the Company fostered in the public eye. Do you want to reiterate that all? Must we embark on another negative, futile, and expensive battle with the media? Is the environment-eugenics issue so important?”

Before thinking the ramifications of his question through, Mr. Otorp asked the bChairman. “What is it that concerns you about Mr. Frye’s ideas? Are the ideas problematical, how they make you look, or the implementation cost?”

Genuinely interested in the man’s true concerns, Mr. Otorp was not Lester’s apologist here. Mr. Otorp also didn’t know where the Board’s current favor stood. Notwithstanding that, the Directors never considered his ingenuous statements as a benign search for truth. They took them as willful insults to the bChairman’s vanity, diffidence, or parsimoniousness.

On the defensive, the unflattered bChairman answered. “The ideas, of course! I…I mean some of them.”

Without Mr. Otorp appearing pro-eugenics, the bChairman put himself in the anti-eugenics camp. He couldn’t backtrack now without also looking indecisive. In addition to his other shortcomings, that would compound his error. If he desired to force commitment, Mr. Otorp couldn’t have coerced bias in the bChairman any better.

“I understand.” Mr. Otorp smiled and said. “Considering his ideas were profitable, we must now question your reason. Including Hernan, there are with us two Directors who never should have been allowed access.”

The board all laughed at the discomfiture of the two Directors. Contradicting himself, at full risk, the bChairman said. “It’s not the ideas themselves but the cost of implementing some of them.”

“Ah!” Mr. Otorp pounced. “We’ll forget for a moment that you are changing your criticism.” Continuing, he almost lost his position of strength by asking. “Are you referring to the wheelchair situation or the whole eugenics thrust?”

Before the Chairman could answer, a pro-Otorp Director saved the situation, interjecting. “It’s immaterial, Mr. Otorp. The First-Surface has the “biological” burden of both now, and it costs them exponentially more.”

The bChairman’s lack of poise now clearly presented an adversarial situation to the Directors. If not for that, Mr. Otorp might have found partial meeting of minds with him. The bChairman now took the questions as naked aggression and character assassination. The sentiment was due, no doubt, to his fear of Mr. Otorp’s influence with others in the Company. He felt a direct threat to his new position from that direction. Mr. Otorp’s naïve barbs appeared as a continuing series of well-placed insults. Concerned and ill at ease, the bChairman declined to answer any more questions.

He grimaced, shook his head, and looked away while changing the subject. Mr. Otorp couldn’t understand it. Nobody else shared his problem in that regard. Everybody knew the cause of the bChairman’s sudden taciturn behavior. Having lost much nonexistent charisma, the bChairman felt no alternative but to retreat, saying.

“I didn’t bring it up to engage in debate. I do not wish to take up anymore of the Boards’ time on the issue.”

Mr. Otorp glanced around the room, and said. “I stated my opinion. I have that right yet on the Pontibus. The First-Surface prohibits de facto harboring of unpopular opinions. Rothschild killed freedom of speech down there even before the 21^st century began. My mistake was in forgetting I wasn’t on one of our bridges at the time. I’m sorry for any inconvenience my negligence may have caused the Company or the Board. It was unintentional.”

The bChairman replied. “Of course your rights are intact here. We never meant to give you any indication to the contrary.”

Mr. Otorp said. “I’m glad. It’s good to hear.”

Many took Mr. Otorp’s’ statements as well-deserved insults directed at the bChairman. That group supported Mr. Otorp. If he knew such support existed, he would have repudiated it. Mr. Otorp often made statements without much forethought, giving no attention to syllable emphasis or word nuance. He never considered how they affected other Directors or the bChairman.

The bChairman took great care now not to antagonize supporters of Mr. Frye’s eugenics ideas. Earlier, he was circumspect in couching his opposition in terms resting on his “public image” concerns. The man made no ethical or Company culture statements, ex cathedra. He didn’t want to take an immediate stand on that issue. Changing Company culture was on his long-term agenda.

The bChairman was a typical politician. He knew where the general sentiment preponderance was but not where he stood himself. Mr. Otorp reflected the Company culture, and its sentiment on eugenics, by accident. Unaware of Company disposition, he did know his own position.

A consummate bureaucrat, the bChairman would never swim countercurrent on any issue. The fact that his inept responses to Mr. Otorp did not exhibit that was also accidental. Company mores were pro-eugenics. Only under the rubric of cost-containment dared he phrase the opposition opinion. “To save legal costs of First-Surface opposition” was their pusillanimous catch phrase. Some Company people believed they allowed certain decisions, excusing them as “obfuscating the public image” endeavors.

There were those who felt the Company eugenics culture and their will under attack. These latter now saw Mr. Otorp as their standard-bearer. They focused on the idea, weeks prior, after Mr. Otorp’s anti-organ culture statement. The group now interpreted his statements “to the bChairman” as “at the anti-eugenics bChairman”. In their eyes, Mr. Otorp confirmed their conception of a leader. He became Mr. Frye’s heir apparent by fiat, association, and accident.

They saw his statement to the bChairman as a courageous insult, garnering even more silent support. It was endorsement he neither realized, nor looked for, nor wanted. He was indeed oblivious it even existed. Perhaps Lester Frye knew it would occur.

Mr. Otorp’s reactionary organ culture beliefs intertwined inextricably with Lester’s eugenics crusades. Fate, once again, manipulated Mr. Otorp. By the time he discovered it, he could not escape the historical vortices. With his last statement, Mr. Otorp left the Board’s agenda. He survived Hernan’s concerted assault, and the meeting concluded. When Mr. Otorp got up to leave, the rest of the Directors followed his lead.

 

Whatever happens at all happens as it should; you will find this true, if you watch narrowly.         Marcus Aurelius Antoninus

Chapter Fifty-Nine

“They capitulated, Sir.” Mr. Harcourt said. “As you thought.”

“I wasn’t sure, Mr. Harcourt. I needed to give it a try.” General Aloirav replied.

“We have all the instigators, Sir.” A member of Mr. Harcourt’s crew added. “Walker took the names of all those genuflecting. I took the names of the strongest MMIM sympathizers.”

“You’re sure of these names, Mr. Harcourt?”

“Yes, Sir. There’s no mistake which members are in the enemy camp, Sir.”

“Do they know what your business was there?”

“I’m not sure. We were new, you know?”

“Yes. I couldn’t delay any longer. I needed to risk it.”

“I suspect the deposed chairman and Mr. Otorp are suspicious. Mr. Otorp saw me in your office once. The deposed chairman and Mr. Otorp were talking before the meeting started. I saw them glance in my direction a few times. They gave me strange looks when certain points came up.”

“What about your crew?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Nor do I, Sir.” Said Ames. “All three of us kept friendly conversations going with the enemy during the entire meeting. Two of us have invitations to social functions later.”

“That’s encouraging.” General Aloirav said. “Continue to keep a distance from your crew in public, Mr. Harcourt. Don’t give the enemy any chance to suspect if they don’t already.”

“Right, Sir.”

“That will be all for now. Leave those names with Andy, as you leave. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Harcourt. Stay available.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The new “Directors” left. One delayed a bit with Andy, to explain some additional notes made, and then he too left. Andy brought the list over to the General. They matched it to the traitor list coming from Gloria. There was a near perfect match. Around 20 names appeared to be hard-core enemy.

“These same names continue popping up, don’t they?”

“Sure do, Andy. How many have we taken out already?”

“Twelve, counting the one who left this morning.”

“I think we’ll take it easy for a while on these obvious traitors. I’m arousing suspicion, I know.”

“Right, Sir. Anything else?”

“Investigate the recent genuflectors. I want just as extensive a profile on them as you got on the hard cores. Piss-weak are worse than or as bad as solid enemy.”

“Right.”

“Bacon.”

“Yah, Boss.”

“When Andy gets the info on the genuflectors, look it over well.”

“And?”

“Take out all those that satisfy our New Society criteria.”

“Right, Boss.”

 

Mr. Harcourt took leave of his men and departed the Security office. Each man left using a staggered schedule. It appeared they were on separate & unrelated businesses. They entered the office earlier in a similar fashion. Mr. Harcourt went to the airport café to wait for the “boss”. He ordered a cup of coffee. When it came, he took it over to a table. After a bit, he remembered how the two became associated.

Mr. Harcourt was a former employee in a Massachusetts Department of Social Services orphanage. His job was in health services & psychology with a degree in economics. Overqualified for the First-Surface job, he could find no other. Enjoying children, he felt a responsibility to help those without parents. The job stuck. He was married with one child, a 7-year-old little girl. He loved the little girl and showed his affection in many ways. Some envied both their mutual sentiments.

One in particular was an orphan named Scott Andrews. Scott came to the orphanage after a history of juvenile crime. His record read like a war story. One day, Scott ran away from the orphanage and flubbed up a robbery. The attempt to finance his drug habit failed. Unable to obtain enough money to secure his drugs left him other than charitable.

Scott’s caseworker was a Leon Vadeker. In addition to his position of trust in the institution, Mr. Vadeker moonlighted as a movie director. The skilled child molester started and ran a lucrative business with a medical student friend. They used orphanage children as actors in their porn movie house.

When Leon criticized Scott’s behavior, the lad erupted. “Fuck-you, Leon! I know all about your little sideline! So don’t give me any o’ yer’ morality bullshit!”

“I’m sure I don’t know to what you refer!”

“In yer’ ear, asshole! Sally told me what you had her do last week with Freddy.”

“Sally is a disturbed little girl. You shouldn’t be listening to her. Her Ritalin prescription needs some readjusting.”

“Yah, right. And so does Freddy’s, right?”

“Freddy has a history of aberrant behavior. I would expect vengeful nonsense from him.”

“Fuck with me over this and you’ll be sorry, chump!”

About the same time, Mr. Harcourt’s little girl started to put her fingers in her vulva whenever she stopped playing. Mrs. Harcourt, very busy in her job, asked her husband to watch the little girl for evidence of the behavior. He did so and confirmed his wife’s observation.

“Why is she masturbating?” He asked. “Isn’t she a little young?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I don’t remember when I started.” He said.

“I never did such things, ever!” She replied.

“Maybe she has pruritus or a fungus infection.”

“I suppose it’s possible.” She replied.

“What do you want to do? Take her to a doctor?”

“I can’t take off work right now.” She said. “I’m up to my neck in inventory.”

“I can’t take off either.” Mr. Harcourt said. “A guy at work, Vadeker, is after me for some reason, criticizing everything I do.”

“Well, put something on it, and we’ll see what happens. You’re the health professional.”

“Okay.”

Mr. Harcourt gave his daughter a bath with a liquid medicated soap and then put an antibiotic & fungicidal cream on her vulva. The procedure was what one of his medical textbooks suggested. The treatment was successful. The little girl stopped touching herself. Everyone was happy.

Everyone except Scott. He couldn’t control his envy of the little girl. Her good fortune in having a loving father was more than he could bear. He also wanted to do things to her that others did to him. Mr. Harcourt discovered that Scott exposed himself to Miss Harcourt when she was at the orphanage visiting. He told Scott how improper such behavior was.

Such behavior merited demerits and loss of some privileges. Mr. Harcourt reported the incident to accomplish that object. When no action resulted, he repeated his thoughts. Scott complained to Mr. Vadeker. Mr. Vadeker criticized Mr. Harcourt. Mr. Harcourt asked.

“Why are you criticizing me, Leon? I’ve done nothing wrong. Scott is the miscreant.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Scott says you are too close to your daughter, and that you are immoral.”

“Immoral?! How?”

“Scott says he heard you say there is no God.”

“That’s not immoral! That’s an opinion, perhaps a fact!”

“I don’t agree.”

“It’s a ridiculous accusation.”

“That’s not all he said.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said you often imply that Lester Frye does more for people than Jesus Christ ever did. You know speaking positively about Second-Surface matters is frowned upon . . . career-wise.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. That’s real immoral, isn’t it?!”

“Get off his back!” Mr. Vadeker’s conversation ended, leaving Mr. Harcourt feeling threatened.

Mr. Harcourt was angry. He tried to do the right thing and help the delinquent child become a responsible adult. The system blocked his efforts. He repeated his action, but made his inquiries higher up in the chain of command. When he arrived home after work, he discovered just how right his earlier presentiments were.

Two lesbians waited for him at his front door, and one said. “Mr. Harcourt?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Bobbi, and this is Jo. We’re from Massachusetts Department of Social Services investigative arm. May we come in?”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“We think you may be in need of help. Do you have a daughter?”

“Yes, I do.”

“It has been brought to our attention that you have stimulating discussions at the dinner table with your daughter present. Is that true?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know to what you refer.”

“It has been alleged that you talk politics & religion at sup! What don’t you understand?! You aren’t deficient. What are you trying to hide? TRUE OR FALSE?!”

“Yes. We do indeed have family discussions at the dinner table regarding many subjects.”

“And you find it acceptable to molest your daughter, is that not also true?”

“Of course not! Who is bringing such allegations?”

“Scott Andrews and Leon Vadeker. They say you are too close to your daughter. What do you have to say to that?”

“I love my daughter, very much.” Mr. Harcourt answered amid furious scribbling by Jo.

“Enough to let her sit on your lap?”

“Yes, I let her sit on my lap.”

“Really? (Aside) Are you getting all this down Jo?”

“Yes, Bobbi.”

“Do you experience an erection afterwards?”

“I…I don’t know. I never noticed.”

“Are you sexually attracted to your daughter, Sir?”

“No.”

“Does she ever see you nude?”

“Yes.” (More furious scribbling.)

“Is it accidental or do you permit it?”

“She’s just 7 years old. I see no harm in it yet. It’s educational. We have no farm animals for her to observe.”

“You permit her to watch you and your wife having sex?!”

“No. I think that’s a little too bold.”

“Really, I’m surprised. You seem so liberal.”

“Do you often fondle your daughter’s private parts, Mr. Harcourt?”

“Never.”

“Never?”

“In all her 7 years I can only remember touching her genitalia once.”

“So you have touched her private parts?”

“Yes, once.”

“When was that?”

“A few days ago. She was masturbating a lot…”

“Masturbating!?”

“Well, touching herself down there. My wife & I thought it strange.”

“Well, I must say. So do I. Children do not begin masturbating until adolescence. If they do so before then it’s a sign someone is molesting them.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. You said you touched her genitalia? Why did you do that?”

“I put a medicated cream on her vagina.”

“Her vagina!? Are you a doctor, Mr. Harcourt?”

“No. But I have experience in health services and psychology.”

“But you are not a doctor?”

“No.”

 

Later, the two lesbians spoke, secretly, with Miss and Mrs. Harcourt and learned nothing of a prurient nature. That same evening Leon Vadeker arrived at Mr. Harcourt’s door. Mr. Harcourt’s Bobbi and Jo interview, plus Scott’s and Vadeker’s statements, was sufficient to send him to prison.

Leon Vadeker was ecstatic, saying. “I told you not to mess with me, didn’t I?”

“Pardon me?”

“I told you to get off Scott Andrews back, didn’t I?”

“That you did.”

“Now yer’ goin’ ta jail.”

“Why?”

“Look at this.” He said shoving a paper at Mr. Harcourt, jumping around to augment his pleasure. “You’ve been substantiated!”

The paper appeared to be the results of an interview with an alleged child molester.

 

Interviews with Scott Andrews, Leon Vadeker, and the alleged perpetrator.

Agents: DSS-102-34

             DSS-98-23

 

Scott Andrews

Question: Did you see the alleged exposing himself?             Answer: Yes. He showed his penis to his daughter.

Question: Did you hear the alleged speaking immorally?     Answer: Yes. He said there was no fucking God.

Question: Did the alleged have an erection?                         Answer: Yes. He forced his daughter to sit on his lap.

                                                                                                         When she got off, I saw he had an erection.

Leon Vadeker

Question: Did the alleged admit to indecent liberties?         Answer: Yes, when we spoke, he admitted it to me in confidence.

 

Alleged Perpetrator

Question: Did you say there is no God?                         Answer: Yes.

Question: Are you close to your daughter?                   Answer: Yes.

Question: How do you know?                                      Answer: We are in love.

Question: Are you immoral?                                         Answer: I don’t believe God exists, if that’s what you mean.

Question: Do you think you may need help?                 Answer: Please come in. We can discuss this inside.

Question: Do you molest your daughter?                       Answer: Alleged denies molesting his daughter.

Question: Does she sit on your lap?                               Answer: Yes.

Question: Do you insist on it?                                      Answer: Alleged denies insisting.

Question: Do you get an erection?                               Answer: When?

Question: When she sits on your lap?                           Answer: Not that I remember.

Question: It is possible?                                                 Answer: Alleged very nervous.

Question: Do you wish to have sex with her?                 Answer: She is very beautiful.

Question: Does she ever see you nude?                         Answer: Often. I like to educate her. She is just seven, and it’s                                                                                                                                                          

                                                                                                  good for her to see me nude. We have no farm animals.

                                                                                                   I enjoy showing her my private parts.

Question: She watches you having sex with your wife? Answer: No. I do not want her to see my wife and I having sex.

Question: Why not?                                                     Answer: That would be too bold.

Question: Do you fondle your daughter’s private parts? Answer: Yes. Her vagina.

Question: Are you a doctor?                                         Answer: No, but I know all about such matters.

Question: Does your daughter masturbate?                     Answer: Very much.

 

“You admitted to touching her vagina!?” Leon asked.

“It was to administer a medication.” Mr. Harcourt replied.

“Stupid! You broke the law. That’s a felony! You can show them your dick. Take pictures of them nude, even bathe with them, but you can’t touch ‘em. So long, chump.”

A few hours later, the police came and arrested Mr. Harcourt. In the lockup, a lawyer came by to see him. The lawyer said Mr. Harcourt’s wife was very upset over the questioning. She did not know what to say to the lesbians. Nobody but Mr. Harcourt himself said anything incriminating, however.

Mr. Harcourt now felt nobody wanted to show an appearance of knowing him. His embarrassment was complete. After he posted bail and went home, Mr. Harcourt answered a knock on the door. It was Leon Vadeker again. He said he had some good news and asked to enter.

Mr. Harcourt admitted the man and asked. “What kind of good news, Vadeker?”

“I may be able to help you?”

“How. You & that lying sneak, Scott, gonna’ retract your allegations!?”

“Scott is a child, Mr. Harcourt.”

“He’s a liar, as are you!”

“Children do not lie.”

“What?! Are you a complete idiot?! Children lie all the time!”

“I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“Well, what did you come for? More “news” with which to bury me!? Why, Leon!? Why did you lie to the dykes!? Why did the dykes lie & twist my answers in that fucking interview!?”

“Forget that now.” He said, putting his arm on Mr. Harcourt’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. I can help you stay out of jail. They’ll probably take your little girl away anyway. But, you’ll stay out of prison. Isn’t that great?”

“How? How can you help me? Why would you want to? You’re trying to put me in jail!?”

“You gave me a hard time. It was just payback, motherfucker.”

“You’re sick.”

“The Department thinks YOU are the sicko, not me.”

“Because of your lies!”

“Not important. What is truth? It’s relative. I have a friend. A medical student. He’s almost a doctor. If you let me take your daughter to him to examine, I can promise you. You’ll do no prison time. Otherwise…”

Mr. Harcourt hit Leon very hard. Then he smashed the man’s head against the door jam. Leon fell but got back up. He said nothing, left, and swore out no complaint. There were no witnesses. The next day they arraigned Mr. Harcourt and bound him over to trial.

A few months later, after the trial, and at the sentencing, the judge said. “Mr. Harcourt. You are a sick man, a pervert, and a menace to society. I’m sentencing you to MCI Concord…”

Later, the jury foreman talked to the papers. He said that the twenty-year sentence was a minor punishment. It was minor when compared to the incredible punishing damage Mr. Harcourt did to his own daughter. Leon Vadeker showed Scott the resulting article. Scott agreed to continue keeping quiet about Mr. Vadeker’s business interests.

The two lesbians accepted more calls to investigate other miscreants. They did so for years. DSS was very pleased with their service and rewarded them accordingly. After many promotions, DSS-102-34 (Bobbi) became Director of the Department.

After 2 years in MCI Concord, many homosexual rapes, and forced feedings of human feces, Mr. Harcourt could take no more. He asked a Newer Society representative for help. General Aloirav listened to his story, did some investigating via Andy, and got Mr. Harcourt out 18 years early.

“We want to believe in your loyalty, Mr. Harcourt.” General Aloirav said.

“Yes, Sir. You have it.” Mr. Harcourt said, at his release. “You saved my life.”

“It’s been our experience, saving a life does not always buy loyalty.”

“I see.”

“A little extra goes a lot further, much further.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Harcourt asked, starting to feel suspicious.

“Isn’t there something we can do together which will insure your loyalty to us?”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Harcourt! Who’s responsible for sending you to prison? We did some checking. You’re no pervert. You were guilty of some naiveté, no more. You believed a terrible lie. A school girl mistake, and you talked yourself into prison.”

“What do you mean?”

“You trusted that bad things do not happen to people who do no wrong to others.”

“That’s a lie?”

“Are you soft!? Have I made a mistake in springing you?! Of course, it’s a lie! There some religion hiding between your toes?!”

“No. There isn’t.”

“Well, you’re circumcised, so it’s not hiding there. We must believe you are just very naive. Why are you here today? Or, I should say; why were you in prison, so that you wound up here today?”

“Because some bastards lied about me, and some others twisted my words into a bogus confession of guilt!”

“That’s true and what I wanted to hear you say. You did, however, neglect to mention that a corrupt bastard, called an honorable judge, put you behind bars to make money for himself and his viper-pit-profession.”

“Yes. That’s also true.”

“Of course it is, and our investigation also revealed that you are not some spineless “turn the other cheek” Jesus freak.”

“No. I’m an atheist.”

“OK. Ya’ worried me there for a second. So, what do you want us to do, in addition to springing you, that will insure your loyalty to us?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go home and think about it for a while.”

“I don’t have a home. My wife divorced me while I was at MCI Concord.”

“We got you an apartment. You’ll share it with your ex-cellmate, Mr. Kamphuis. Rest there awhile and do some hard thinking. I’m sure you’ll discover something that will make you value us.”

“I already value you.”

“Before we can count on your services we want to help you some more.”

“My services?”

“Yes. We relaxed our entrance requirements somewhat with you.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Most of our people were guilty of the offenses charged against them. Their Newer Society entrance requirements were more stringent. We could not discover even the slightest criminal guilt in you. You paid a very high price for a crime you never enjoyed. We feel there are different things you can do for us. We waived the usual prerequisites.”

Mr. Harcourt left and went to his new apartment. About a week later, he returned and said. “I think I know what you want from me.”

“What is that, Mr. Harcourt?”

“You want me to seek your help in obtaining my revenge.”

“Yes. That we do. Are you asking for that help now?”

“Yes, I am.”

“How?”

“I want to kill Leon Vadeker, Scott Andrews, and two dykes.”

“We can help you there. While we were investigating, we kept their names and current addresses. We thought they were the ones with whom you would choose to deal. We also think the judge that gave you 20 years should share their fate. A crime of such small magnitude, even were it true, does not merit such a draconian response.”

“It was not true, Sir. I loved my little girl. I never could do the things they made me seem to admit to.”

“We know that. Your ex-wife and child, along with many others, made that quite clear. The court convicted you on a preponderance of biased government agents’ hearsay evidence. Democracy in action.”

“I couldn’t afford a good lawyer.”

“There are no “good” lawyers, Mr. Harcourt, only stupid lawyers & smart lawyers. Lawyers, like pols, are the reason we allow no written laws on the Pontibus. Written laws attract such vermin.”

“How can you function with no law?”

“I did not say we have no law. There is no Written Law up here. Our Law results from judgments made by thinking people of integrity. The Judge that sentenced you was non-compos mentis, a vote whore. He hid behind written laws. He must die too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

 

A short time after the Board meeting, Mr. Otorp received a strange afternoon visit. A few Company Directors came to see him. The group’s concern was the Twenty-Seventh Level pilfering. They couldn’t get an agreement through their appointed committee. The Directors struggled at an assignment proving more than practical.

They came to him for direction. He didn’t think to ask why the bChairman didn’t assist them. Mr. Otorp didn’t know whether they even went to see the man. He just accepted it that they wanted his help.

One of the Directors said. “It’s well-known you’re desirous of limiting your involvement with the Company. It’s also common knowledge that you are loyal to Mr. Frye’s memory. You pursue his goals, protect the Pontibus, and that for which it stands. We felt we should come to you. We’re concerned. You’re our last hope.”

Mr. Otorp listened in silence. He did not wish to contradict them. His goals were not congruent with Lester Frye’s goals. Mr. Otorp was, however, happy to appear to help. He said. “It sounds serious. I don’t know what I can do. Tell me what the problem is, and I’ll see.”

The Directors said that two absent Directors, assigned to the Level Twenty-Seven Misappropriation Committee, were filibustering. One of them, Hernan, exacerbated the problem the most. The bChairman couldn’t or wouldn’t help with the impasse. After numerous attempts to deal with the situation, those concerned got together in secret. Then they came to Mr. Otorp.

The bChairman, Hernan, and the other obstructing Director were unaware of the visit. The Pontibus Logistics Director, Mrs. Mab Roth, spoke for the rest of them, saying. “Mr. Otorp, we’re as interested in Mr. Frye’s Company as you are. We all have major investments here, and they’re in serious jeopardy. The Level Twenty-Seven problem is threatening us. It’s going too far. Other depots are also losing inventory. It’s a growing potential disaster, and we can’t seem to stop it.”

“Where are the weapons going?” He asked.

She replied. “We don’t know. Rumors going around suggest that the thieves are selling them back to the old-government. Buying them is in willful violation of 21^st Century Disarmament Treaties. First-Surface contraband dealers may be hoarding some. MMIM may even be planning on using them in a war, against us.”

The Directors treating him with so much deference surprised Mr. Otorp. He was flattered. The real shocker to him was their promise to support him in whatever action he took. Cost was unimportant. Very surprised, Mr. Otorp did have the presence of mind to say.

“I’ll look into it, but I don’t know how much good I’ll be. What makes you so sure my proposed solutions will be acceptable? How do you know the Company will back my suggestions?”

Giving his fellows a strange expression, one Director, turning back to Mr. Otorp, said. “Are you serious, Sir?”

“Of course, I’m serious. How do you know that the Chairman will concur? Has there been a vote taken that I’m not aware of? Did I miss a meeting?”

“You’re not aware of how the Company perceives you?” The beautiful Mrs. Mab Roth said.

“I have no idea how the Company sees me. I never thought much about it.”

The aristocratic woman, looking around at the others, said. “We didn’t come here just out of desperation, Mr. Otorp. I think I speak for the rest of us. The entire Company would consider our coming here just and proper under the circumstances.

“Everyone knows the Corporation runs along by moral default. There’s near anarchy on the Board. You saw it the other day. Voting occurred to replace the Chairman! Voting! Democracy! What would Mr. Frye be feeling right now? Everyone perceives it illegitimate to act contrary to your wishes or Lester Frye’s culture. You’re the quasi-leader. It’s but by your choice you refrain from assuming the Chairmanship. Directors, Stockholders, right on down to the guys repairing the walkways agree. You are the Concern’s spiritual leader. If you had turned us down today, people would have seen it as an abdication of your responsibility. Everyone wants you leading us.”

Mr. Otorp was weak from surprise. It left him mystified. Since there was no chair in which to flop, he supported himself by placing his hand on the calein table. It concealed his surprise and embarrassment.

“How can you be certain of that?” Mr. Otorp asked, looking around at the other Directors, nodding in agreement. “They didn’t support me on the dirt tax.”

“That’s because you’re choosing to avoid the Chairman’s mantle. Directors don’t like to stick their necks out. If you were asking whether we’ve conducted a poll or quasi-election, we’d have to say, no. It’s common knowledge. The letter of capitulation is still on the Pontibus. It has never gone down to the First-Surface. No one wishes to challenge your wishes. Everyone we speak to in the Company agrees with us.”

“Even Hernan.” Mr. Otorp asked.

“Not him.” A few said, chuckling in unison. “Hernan doesn’t agree with anyone.”

The Directors, except for Mrs. Mab Roth, then left. They accomplished what they set out to do. Mab lingered awhile. She waited for the others to get out of hearing distance. When certain they were alone, she asked. “Are we all alone?”

“Except for my granddaughter, Brenda, but she isn’t within listening distance, why?”

“Do you mind if I speak frankly?”

“Please do.”

“I think Hernan is working with the thieves.”

Mr. Otorp looked downward, so she could not see his eyes, but he replied. “Aye. I’d thought along similar lines when he spoke at the annual meeting. But tell me, why do you think so?”

Counting reasons off on her fingers, Mab answered. “Number one – he’s a director in the corporation responsible to us for the weapons. Number two – he’s giving the CEO & Chairman of that company, who want to do what’s right, nothing but trouble. Number three – he fights all our proposed solutions & initiatives. Everyone is aware of that. Number 4 – Security discovered he’s also fighting us on the qui vive. Number five – he talks amicably just with Directors opposed to our postulated solutions to the problem. Number six – he tries to undermine you. Number seven – there are rumors that he’s a silent director in MMIM.”

Mr. Otorp wondered if the woman was trustworthy. He wanted to confide in her, as she appeared very bright. Nevertheless, Mr. Otorp was no young man anymore. He knew from bitter experience that trust was a dangerous if not a foolish behavior. The situation was so new to Mr. Otorp; he didn’t know where to turn for advice.

“It does, indeed, appear that way.” Mr. Otorp replied.

“Yes. It does.”

“I’m curious.” He asked. “Why did you wait till everyone left to talk to me? Was there something else or were you just being careful?”

She replied. “As I said. Directors don’t like sticking their necks out. The others here today wanted me to speak to you alone. We discussed it earlier. They want plausible deniability should you fail us.”

“I see.”

“In addition, I didn’t want either you or myself exposed following my allegations.” She replied. “I don’t always know with whom I’m dealing.”

“Mab is a strange name.” Mr. Otorp said. “I’ve always meant to ask you about it.”

“I was named after the fairy queen in Shelley’s poem. My older brother died at the same time I was born. My father was distraught. He couldn’t collect his thoughts enough to decide on a proper name for a Jewish girl. I was almost as imaginary in his mind as Queen Mab.”

“When the other Directors were here a minute ago you mentioned the term “moral default”. Were you referring to me when you said that?”

“Yes, I was.” She replied. “Does it bother you?”

“Yes.” He replied. “I don’t consider myself deficient in major character traits. “Moral default” leaves me feeling remiss.”

“I’m glad and sorry. I’m flattered. But don’t misinterpret me.” She said. “I’m not saying you’re a coward, miscreant, in LaLa-Land, or anything like that. I’m just concerned about the lack of moral leadership at the Company. You’re in absentee status, and the Company needs direction.”

“I see.” He said, unrelieved. “Now I’m just embarrassed I didn’t see it. Lester warned me, too. I should have been more perceptive. Reveille, Otorp!”

“I hope you do indeed see,” she said, “because it is worrying. It bothers many perceptive people. With you unaware of how much the Company needs you, we’re in serious trouble. The term “out to lunch” comes to my mind.

“Ouch!” He said. “I don’t need any more convincing.”

Without waiting for him to say anything else, she turned and left. Mr. Otorp asked her opinion and she gave it! There was no room for recriminations. He felt culpable and very interested in changing his behavior.

His problem, however, was in not knowing where to begin. Striving at Corporate disengagement for so long, the reverse now presented him with a difficult situation. Contemplating his course of action left him wondering. “What would Lester do if he were here?”

Mr. Frye would gather more information, before making any decisions. Mr. Otorp knew changes were necessary in himself and the Company. Could he make them? Knowing where the Company needed him most would make the direction to take easier to see.

Lester wanted him to use Rav Aloirav for special details such as the current defalcation problem. Mr. Otorp still didn’t like or trust the General. Getting him released, Lester outraged those who knew. The world imprisoned Rav Aloirav for serial killing. As far as Mr. Otorp was concerned, it was where the man belonged. When Mr. Frye made the convict a General, the Boardroom exploded.

Mr. Otorp also didn’t like ex-cons. He never got used to them as co-workers. It went much deeper than that. He felt a personal antipathy for Rav Aloirav. Lester met Rav Aloirav many years ago and seemed used to working with him. They knew each other for a longer time than either knew Mr. Otorp. That too rankled.

The new Security General spent many years in the penitentiary. He was supposed to be quite respectable now. Lester spoke well of him before dying. Nevertheless, Rav Aloirav still rubbed Mr. Otorp wrong. Remembering the Adam Quake denigration visit convinced Mr. Otorp that it would be a difficult association.

He didn’t relish dealing with the man on an ongoing basis. Without Mr. Frye, as a buffer, meant he’d be very uneasy. There was no choice. Mab said Security knew Hernan was dirty in some way, and Mr. Otorp needed to know how. He promised Lester if the time came… It appeared that time was now.

Mr. Otorp called Company Security and got General Aloirav’s compuphone address. He connected and watched the encryptoscreen clarify. The hologram told him someone would speak with him later. Mr. Otorp found it annoying that he needed to wait. The following evening the General appeared on the screen, obviously a tit for tat.

The two men made some resentful moves toward working together. Mr. Otorp wanted General Aloirav to come over to his module at once. The General said he wanted to delay their second meeting another day.

The disappointed Mr. Otorp accepted it, and they concluded their business. A few minutes later, old-government agents arrived at Mr. Otorp’s module. They presented him with a summons. The decree demanded he appear before a First-Surface Tax Court within 10 days. The now-desperate Mr. Otorp immediately contacted the General again.

General Aloirav did not want to help the man, and tried to put him off. Then, he remembered Gloria’s precarious situation. His pride was not as important as his love and concern for her. The promise to Lester also pricked, so the General agreed. He went to the man’s place and asked.

“What’s the problem, Otorp? What’s so important that I have to drop everything?”

“The First-Surface is after me!”

“They’re after everyone. Why do you feel you’re so special?”

“At the last Board meeting the Company agreed to pay the new tax levy. I was one of the few naysayers. Now they’re singling me out.”

“How are you being singled out?”

Mr. Otorp showed the General the summons, and said. “Read this.”

After reading the paper, the General said. “You’re right. The Forum singled you out. Probably want to embarrass you. It’s bullshit. First-Surface edicts are unenforceable on the Pontibus. Ignore it.”

“The writ is enforceable whenever I descend to the First-Surface. I often go to Cambridge to get surplus equipment for my lab from the Jews at MIT. I could be picked up on a lien at any time.”

“Buy equipment up here. You can afford it.”

“I have a son on the First-Surface.”

“Whatever for? Is he daft?”

“He works at MIT.”

“Ah. He is daft.”

“He’s a scientist!’

“Calmo, Otorp! I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. If they pinch you, or not, the First-Surface media’ll get wind’a it. They’ll publish the old-government’s unflattering view of you. That’ll be certain to embarrass the Company. If you should get caught, you’ll never return to the sky.”

“Of course. You know what they’re trying to do?”

“I think so. They’re using this as a ploy to discredit the Concern.”

“By calling me a tax dodger.”

“Are you?”

“Of course. What decent man isn’t? Paying taxes makes you a slave. Taxation is theft, a protection racket. Taxation to support war crimes is anathema. Genuflecting to such a system is partaking in its guilt.”

“You feel strongly about it. Tell ‘em to go to hell. Of what are you afraid?”

“If they can make me look bad enough, the Board may try taking away the special powers Lester placed with me. Powers like appointing the governor, protector of wildernesses, etc.”

“So pay your taxes.”

“What!? I don’t believe what I’m hearing! You were in Viet Nam! That government down there is the same one that tried to murder us! How can you forget that?!

“I haven’t forgotten, Otorp. Except for the Rothschild gaggle, the bastards that poisoned us are dead. I put many of them down myself. Get on with business.”

“And be an accessory to madness? Never. You’re not so special, General. Like you and Lester, I’ve been struggling too, a long time, for those who can’t fight for themselves. I can’t afford a sharp First-Surface lawyer to present my side of the story. If I‘m captured, and I lose my freedom, I’ll leave the planet. I swear it!”

“You haven’t even been arrested yet.”

“Who wants to grow old enough to be somebody else’s burden anyway? Length of life is just another relativity question. Imagine the time we’ll spend dead. Our lives become mathematically insignificant. All life, before the moment of death, is as nothing in the face of eternity.”

“Hold on, Otorp.”

“Lifetimes approach limits of zero compared to infinite dead times. Might as well be a man, have some style, leaven the loaf a bit with my share. If I can just give life a little more help, I’m a successful experiment. Our species may make it, survive to evolve.”

“Otorp, you’re going off the edge!”

“Sorry.”

“I can’t fault you in any of those sentiments, Mr. Otorp.” He replied. “They’re spoken like a man. But they’re also very premature.”

“You think so?”

“Of course. That spirit, you’re feeling, is not what they expect you to show. You’re a scientist. They see you as weak. They’re expecting you to lose your nerve and kow tow to them. Get a hold a’ yourself. You’re almost ready to give them what they want and expect!”

“How do you know that?”

“You’re not used to talking that way. Outta’ character. You’re a Galapago. Spirit is not your style. You betray your desperation.”

“What can I do?”

“I’ll get someone to look into the writ on the qui vive? See what they really want?”

“Okay.”

General Aloirav did so. A few days later, he reported to Mr. Otorp. Mr. Otorp asked. “Well? What did you discover?”

“They want you to pay your taxes.”

“And I needed you to tell me that?!”

“You’re under First-Surface indictment for tax evasion, conspiracy, and money laundering. Should you leave the Pontibus, all First-Surface borders have orders to arrest you. If they kidnap you, and you somehow come in on a lien, you’re fucked.”

“Is that all?”

“It’s enough. You can’t even appear before them without risking arrest. Turn yourself in, and it will still be “in custody under a lien”. I was right about their attempting to embarrass you. They want you to genuflect by coming in as a penitent.”

“Did your agent have anything else to report?”

“I didn’t send an agent. Went myself. It seemed too important to leave to chance.”

“You took quite a risk. I’m grateful.”

 

Men willingly believe what they wish.                   Caesar

 

Chapter Sixty

“Was it fortuitous that you went yourself?” Mr. Otorp asked the General.

“I think so. I wanted to see if there was a revenge motive.”

“Why?”

“As a naysayer, your efforts on the Board to prevent capitulation couldn’t have pleased them.”

“No. I thought not. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. The agent I talked to, thinking I was your lawyer, said. “Mr. Otorp’s company makes a lot of money from the First-Surface rocks we sell him. He needs to pay taxes on that money. I pay my taxes why shouldn’t he?”

“Was there anything else?”

“Just one more thing. The Board’s letter to the First-Surface, capitulating on the dirt levy, hasn’t cleared.”

“I heard.”

“No one wants to sign it, knowing it’s contrary to your wishes. So I don’t know. The OG could be out for revenge or attempting to masticate your resistance. How does it appear to you?”

“How does it appear? What difference does it make?”

“A great deal. Your ass is on the line. Nobody else received a summons. Agree to pay the tax, and maybe you’re home free. If it’s vengeance, the rules change. You’re screwed. On the First-Surface, that is.”

“As I said. What difference does it make?”

“I think I made that clear.”

“You did. I didn’t. It’s a tax! A personal income tax, a theft! You said the agent said, “I pay my taxes, why shouldn’t he?” He’s wrong, General Aloirav. People like me pay his taxes. I create. That man, a filthy bureaucrat, criticizes. I produce. He takes. His accounting methods measure my worth in annual asset-liability dollars. That measure is flawed, inadequate, and shortsighted. My work gave the world new health measures (suturing glue), beauty (genetically engineered pearls), and (calein) structures. I provide health, habitat, food, freedom from pollution & resource exhaustion, jobs, clean air & water… hope. My life creates life. His destroys it. My dreams come true. His wither and die. My life is spirit. His is vanity. That man now would take my very blood. He would send it to slaughter, mutilate, and torture hundreds of thousands more men, women, and children.”

“You’re speaking of Arab kids?”

“It is the US government we’re talking about isn’t it?”

“More or less.”

“OK! It’s a Zionist cabal, a Rothschild slave state, is it not?

“I see your point.”

“There’s more. That same man wants partners in new genocides for profit like Vietnam, Cambodia, Central America, Lebanon, Serbia, and Iraq, etc. He would remove forever my capacity to expiate past guilt-by-association.”

“You still feel guilt for your participation in Viet Nam!?”

“I suppose.”

“Why? You were a dumb kid, 18 years old. Fools like us were there just to prosecute, like in all wars. Old men and girls start them.”

“Ever hear of free will?”

“That’s bullshit! We were adolescents, babies”

“The man wants me to pay. He’s Tax-happy. His country never paid my father his rightful reward for services rendered.”

“What services?”

“Patriotism. Iwo Jima. WWII. 100% disabled – never got a cent. They chose rather to burn his military medical records. The country robbed him! They bombed Nagasaki when he was fifty miles away. He sacrificed his genetic integrity, his entire life, impoverishing his family to save them. The country forced him to sell a son to the government too, and for what? The right to suffer money patriot oppression! The same criminal state killed two of my children and damaged the others – Operation Ranch Hand. They bathed us in Agent Orange! They knew it would murder and maim! It made me and thousands of our friends battle cancer. Cheat death, and then betrayed by the people you went to save! Can you believe the enormity of those people?! How did I respond? I went and married one of them. Does that make me an accomplice? Am I a masochist?! Do I love my wife’s memory? Yes! My children? Yes, more than my own life. Now that strumpet country threatens me – pay tribute or die? Will I? No! No! No! Never! I left the First-Surface. If I leave my sanctuary here, has that miasma the power to imprison me for a thousand years? Yes. Have I the power to leave prison in one day? Yes!”

The emotionally distraught Mr. Otorp made motions indicating slashing his wrists. General Aloirav was sympathetic, offering no advice. He knew the situation needed close scrutiny. There was no telling what sleazy old-government agents might be attempting with that writ. Since the 19^th Century, there were no more Philip Nolans. Every exile knew the impossibility of plumbing the depths of US government mendacity & treachery.All politicians were more of less tacit versions of the super tyrant, Abraham Lincoln . . . psychopaths, corrupt to the bone.

Mr. Otorp did indeed appoint the Pontibus governor. First-Surface lawyers might construe as contempt, his scorning the tax demand. Was it grounds for war? No. Could they use it as an excuse to start a war? Who knew? General Aloirav was thinking hard.

“The situation could turn volatile in short order.” He reflected. “Otorp’s right about one thing. There’s no upside to talking to them. It’s not as if you can outsmart them. Everything he says, they’ll use against us, if not for apprehension then for prosecution. Why doesn’t he just pay his damn taxes? The embarrassment could indeed get the Board to remove his privileges. Just like Frye, the guy is always looking toward his duty, his principles! Where is his respect for the goal?!”

He put an imaginary opponent before him and argued to himself. He said nothing, but thought. “Is it so wrong to take the safe easy way out once in a while? Pay those unfair taxes, Otorp! Turn around and cut their throat, rob ‘em blind! Give ‘em a little, and then, take your vengeance 1000 times over. It’s basic economics. Why do you always have to wear the white hat?”

 

Mr. Aloirav sent for Mr. Kamphuis. He was missing. Mr. Kamphuis was not Mr. Harcourt. He was another animal altogether. This man actually fit the description of a heterosexual pedophile. He first molested his own daughter, when she was only eight years old. Some would call him a dirty pervert. He was in his 4^th year of an 8-10 year sentence, as Mr. Harcourt’s cellmate, when Mr. Aloirav made his acquaintance.

After one particularly grueling sodomization by the prison’s effluvium, Mr. Kamphuis and Mr. Harcourt were commiserating.

Mr. Kamphuis admitted. “I may have let my fear of feminine exploitation cause me think I could ignore with impunity my libido’s desperation. It may have clouded my judgment regarding my daughter’s needs. I don’t know. Slightly off point, but is it our curse, Mr. Harcourt, to feel the need to hurt our kids in a futile attempt to fend off for them a greater suffering at some later point?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Kamphuis. I honestly don’t know. “

“At the time, I truly felt that what I was doing was harmless and good for her. It mattered little to me that laws were being broken. Alternatively, I discounted how the dykes and closet pedophiles in power positions might one day sit in judgment on me. Inevitably, throwing me to the pederasts & purse-snatchers, to be sodomized & tortured, for the old ladies’ delight. The psychopathic perverts, maintaining the system, railroaded me. Theirs is a desperate bid to obfuscate personal monstrous weaknesses. Pandering to the old women’s fears keeps these depraved fiends in the dark. At any rate here I am. I can’t even off myself.

“Why not?”

“For the same reason you can’t, asshole! We both still want to help our daughters.”

“Yah. You’re right. I keep thinking. If I survive long enough, I’ll get out and be of use to her somehow.”

“It’s much more than that, for me, Mr. Harcourt. When we were at our mutual masturbations, I often advised her that she could never tell anyone about them. She knew her gossip or testimony could send me to my death.”

“I see.”

“It wasn’t her fault we got caught. Later, still so young, she could not resist the brainwashing. After a few hours with the man-haters and the other perverts in the prosecution’s viper nest, she bought their program. It broke my heart to hear her on the stand, killing me with their lies. How can she ever live with herself when she realizes what she did? One day she’ll reach the point of knowing that I never hurt her, in any way. I only did what helped or pleased her without harming her. She condemned me for it.”

“Conned into it.”

“Of course, but that will not matter. She’ll equivocate for a while, of course, but one day she’ll blame it all on herself. I need to set her free, Mr. Harcourt.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“Get out of here, somehow.”

The pervert’s story began about 2 years after Mrs. Kamphuis’ welcomed death from cancer. His experience with her left him with no desire to cohabit with any woman. His daughters became his only concern, working night and day to give them what they needed. Well-educated Mr. Kamphuis was not wealthy, and the neighborhood in which they lived was not a good one. There were few chances for intellectual diversion and the girls had only television and a bad school for entertainment. All their education was at his hand. Books were their friends…literature, math, geography, history, etc. Even learning to read came through them via him. Outside the house, most local teen females faced early pregnancy, hepatitis and the HIV positive AIDS-scam. The climate was predatory for both sexes.

Mr. Kamphuis did not want the inevitable happiness-massacre to happen to his chosen two. He bought some illustrated medical books, a dildo, and some prophylactics to educate his oldest child in the biology of his concern. His feeling was that she could do the same for her 3-year-old sister, should anything untoward happen to him.

All began well. He took the opportunity of her natural curiosity to begin lessons. His objective was to make her so familiar with condoms and the male body that unwanted sexual act sequelae would never occur. Finding the medical books’ descriptions hopelessly inadequate to keep the child’s attention and interest, he despaired. Why the child didn’t want to save herself from a tragic end appalled & dismayed him. He first attempted to augment her interest with practical exercises, dressing the dildo in a condom. After the initial glee over such a toy wore off, he still felt his daughter hopelessly unprepared for impending onslaughts outside his door. Neighborhood girls, as young as 11, were getting pregnant. It was time to prepare. Innocence means ignorance. No one has any God-given right to such incapacity. He asked her if she thought she could get her 14-year-old cousin to permit putting a condom on his penis as practice. She immediately objected to that thought. Her embarrassment would be too profound. He let the silly idea die.

Perhaps he was a bit naïve as to the feminine body’s effects on his own. His experience with women left him with no excuse for such naïveté´. Nevertheless, finding Gray’s Anatomy too ponderous an epistle for her inexperienced mind to grasp, he suggested using a mirror. With it, they located such paraphernalia as labias, clitoris, vagina, scrotum, etc. This brought greater interest and more curiosity. In the practice of seeing each other in the shower often, there was never any embarrassment about distant private parts. As he was also in charge of most of the family’s medical treatment, he often dealt with such things as pruritus and slight vulvar inflammation. Exposure of human body attributes never caused discomfort in the family.

His penis became an object of concern. He let her fondle it and asked if she would find dressing it in a condom embarrassing. She replied that she would not and would actually enjoy the experience. She found the exercise pleasant, and the practice continued. His didactic concerns went on in such a manner for months without any exploitation on either side. Simple curiosity and edification controlled lessons geared exclusively to future protection. Before each class, he asked her to be truthful with him and never to do anything she found distasteful. He frequently asked her not to refrain from objecting to anything that made her uncomfortable.

One night she came to him with an insomnia problem, wanting him to lie in bed with her until she fell asleep. It was nothing new, and something he often did. They were both clothed and the request was innocent. The child continued restless, and he inquired as to the matter. It appeared that in normal examination of his lessons’ inculcation degree, he once required her to show the location of the body’s clitoris, vagina, labias, etc. He felt uncomfortable touching them, himself, and so asked her to do so with her own finger. She did so and informed him that she now wished him to do the same. How another person’s touch felt interested her.

Mr. Kamphuis knew what the closet pedophiles and old women would think of his complying with such a request. However, he also did not want her to feel that her body was distasteful in any way. If her curiosity could be easily satisfied here and now, she would be in no need of going elsewhere for assistance. After wrestling with the dilemma for a bit, he did so. Stopping once, summarily, she asked him to continue. He did, until she fell asleep.

The experience traumatized him. What if she told someone of his crime? Children talk to their little friends, and he knew he was very vulnerable. The weaklings and lesbians in power positions would have a field day putting him in prison. He loved his children more than his own life and could never even imagine killing one to protect his freedom. The HR is monstrous. We can kill what we love. Such a thought was even more than he could bear to consider. What was he to do? He resolved never to do it again. She was only nine. In time perhaps, she would forget it ever happened.

Nevertheless, he advised her the next day to mention it to no one. If she loved her daddy, she could never tell anyone or he would go to prison and perhaps die there. The child was duly frightened of such an event and kept quiet. A few weeks later, she asked again for his assistance. He complied. A month later, he was in the shower, and she entered it to bathe with him. It was nothing about which to be concerned, until she embraced him there and his penis touched her, by now, feminine habitus. Being his daughter, he did not get an erection but did get concerned.

He felt more than just father daughter affection entering the equation. How could he escape? He still felt an overwhelming need to know that his little girl was familiar enough with male bodies and sexual sensations not to be rushed into frantic unprotected sexual liaisons. Yet, he knew controlling such feelings was near to impossible. Only a forced separation would solve the problem, but how could he abandon his very essence, his raison d’ etre? Another woman would drain off his sexual drive, but he couldn’t make himself pursue one. Their past exploitation of his needs still traumatized him. What if his child wanted more?!

She did. Entering his bed without underwear, she put her legs next to his penis and rubbed them back and forth. He did not ask her to stop. When she asked him to masturbate her, he did. The small nocturnal indiscretions continued thus, until the child was nearly 10. One night, she climbed up on him and put his penis next to her clitoris. Too young to know what to do, she just laid there and made small movements to keep interested. After she went back to her own bed, the terrified father laid awake all night, thinking. “What if one day she puts my penis near her vagina, and I inadvertently penetrate my own daughter?!”

Why Mr. Aloirav took him out of prison is still a mystery. Just because he endured the same torture from prison filth that Mr. Harcourt did…beatings, rapes, forced feedings of feces, etc. is no answer. Many convicts, in worse situations, he left there. Mr. Aloirav saw something in him that others did not. The prison release, however, never gave Mr. Aloirav the group member he expected.

“Pain, sorrow, regrets & wonder all increase with age, Mr. Aloirav.” Mr. Kamphuis said. “Earth is Hell. We are damned, all of us. Giving drops of water to a man dying of thirst saves him for a time. Likewise, we get just an inkling of paradise, giving us the strength to accept our hell, and not escape into the oblivion of auto-homicide. The only real religion in the world is hypocrisy. We believe the lies or make believe we believe the lies. What is really amazing is that virtually all of us are willing to die for the lies and send our loved ones to hell for them. There is no moral, ideal or integrity that does not hold a distant second place to Au in most hearts. We are, all of us, living in a collective psychosis. I will survive long enough to convince my daughter that her behavior was not the cause of my predicament. Imagine having to live with the fact that you killed your own father, someone who loved you more than any other person in the world ever could.”

“I would rather not attempt it, Mr. Kamphuis. I too have a low threshold for pain.”

“Please get me out of here, Sir. I will give you the rest of my life in recompense.”

“That does not seem to me to be much of a bargain. You plan to contact your daughter. Such behavior is contrary to the terms of your release. You may have a very short post prison existence. My investment lost.”

“It may take a long time to convince her, Sir. She still needs to learn the perfidiousness of our legal system and to pass beyond believing everything to be my fault.”

“Be careful. You are not a model citizen. Many wish to kill you.”

“I know that, Mr. Aloirav. I shall be as careful as I need to be.”

Mr. Kamphuis’ first act, when he got out of prison was to go to The New Society’s halfway house. There he received funds and a two-week leave before beginning his training as a “needle”. He used both to get to his daughter’s location. The New Society found her in a Social Services foster home. Taking no precautions, he knocked on her door and began satisfying his objective.

He got enough time to explain his lack of any need for her eventual self-condemnation, saying. “There is nothing you did, said, or thought that makes you responsible for what happened to me. I have always loved you, and always will, no matter what you did or do. I am older and more experienced than you and whatever befell me was either my own fault or at least a problem of my own choosing.”

“Of course it was all your fault, daddy. The DSS and the prosecutor explained all that to me. My new parents told me never to speak to you. You are a sick man and need psychiatric help. You probably still deserve to be in prison for what you did to me.”

“My darling. I only wanted to protect you, to show you the pitfalls of ignorance. I loved you so much.”

“What you did was not love. It was sex!”

“No, my child. It was not sex. You are still a virgin. I did you no harm. I only wanted your happiness. The state raped you, not I.”

“You are a pervert! Everyone says so.!”

As the tears, symbolizing spilled blood from his broken heart, rushed to his eyes, he replied. “If someday you change your mind and can forgive me, please do not ever blame yourself, my angel, ever. Forgive even your words to me today. You are young and unaware of the gravity of a father’s love, the sacrifices he is prepared to make, living or dying for his child.”

As Mr. Kamphuis spoke these last words, his daughter’s foster father arrived in his car with the police, shouting. “Mr. Kamphuis! Please leave your daughter alone. You’ve done enough to mess up her life.”

The police officer said. “You were warned as to the terms of your parole, asshole! You’re violated and are under arrest! You’re going back to stir, convict.”

Mr. Kamphuis said. “Please. I just have one more thing to gi…”

As he said this, he reached into his coat for a letter he wished to give his daughter in parting. The policeman assumed he was reaching for a gun and drew his service revolver. Before the bullet tore completely through his heart, Mr. Kamphuis did hear the police officer say, “Drop it!”

The dead pervert now lay ingloriously on the sidewalk, before his daughter, blood bathing the envelope clutched in his right hand. His left arm fell forward, reaching toward his daughter…in supplication of mercy or…just by accident.

Mr. Aloiav discovered his investment didn’t pay off.

 

It was a few weeks after the clandestine meeting of Directors at Mr. Otorp’s module. Sr. Mendoza turned some visual images over on his desk. He paused at one of them a little longer than the others. Staring for a very long time, he shouted without looking up from his desk.

“Fredo, come heere and look at these last peekshures I got from thee fat ass on Level-Three.”

Fredo sauntered over to his boss and peered down at the digital photos. There were a large number of them. Many were of vehicles next to Mr. Otorp’s module with license plates visible. Others were of different people.

Some were of Mr. Otorp and his granddaughter. There was one of Mr. Otorp alone. A few were of Mr. Otorp in conversation with different people. These last appeared most interesting to the two men. One in particular Sr. Mendoza now held up to the light.

“Eesn’t thees thee hombre we saw up on thee Twenty-Seveenth Leeveel jees yesterday?” Sr. Mendoza asked.

“Si. I theen’ so.” Fredo replied.

“Thee new investigashun…”

“On thee job wee’re doeen’ on thee stored weapons?”

“Si. He ees one off thee guys Hernan said thee Company might sen’. Mire! Here ees one of thee photos Hernan sent. Eet looks jeest like heem.” Sr. Mendoza said.

“Si. Eees thee same dude.” Fredo agreed.

“And now thee fat ass’s got us a peecture of thee guy talkeeng weeth Meester Otorp. So our Meester Otorp ees geetteeng een deeper. No?” Sr. Mendoza said. “Hernan said he woood, een time.”

“He wass right. Good thing you got that fat ass a watcheen’ heem.” Fredo said.

“Si. Tomas’ agrees now too. Eet wass a good theeng to do.   Heere ees proof!” Sr. Mendoza bragged, slapping the photo with his other hand.

“You don’ good.” Fredo flattered Sr. Mendoza.

Sr. Mendoza didn’t need the satyr’s verbal massage. Changing the subject, he said. “How ees that last shipment doeen’? I want eet eenspected and outta’ here before Tomas’ brings thee next one een. That guy ees gonna’ be snooping aroun’ heere soon. I don’ want not’ing to interes’ hees curiosity.”

“Si. Eef they start a real search…”

“We keen le thet happen.”

“Estelle ees coming down thee paff now weef thee eenveentor’ sheet. She said thee cyanide ees bad and two magazines are rusteed but that ees all.” Fredo answered.

“Bueno. Go out and take eet from heer before she geet eento thee module. Come right back.” Sr. Mendoza said.

“Si, Boss.” Fredo replied.

When Fredo left, Sr. Mendoza got Hernan on the compuphone. Hernan’s immediate reaction was excitement. Aloirav was on the job, as he thought. He wanted to advance Mr. Otorp’s status from disgrace to kill. He contacted Mike Hodges. The MMIM executive told Hernan to continue Mr. Otorp’s discredit status. MMIM did not yet want him killed. The two continued to discuss Mr. Otorp’s fate for some time. Hernan lost the battle.

Mr. Leion filmed Mr. Otorp’s interlocutor, General Aloirav, at a rare moment. It was one of the few times the hotelier ever went to the Otorp module. For security purposes, the General felt the enemy should never catch them together. It could be disastrous for the Company. It was one of the reasons he did not go to Directors’ meetings in person but sent Harcourt & company.

In another Pontibus region, Mr. Otorp was speaking. “…. I understand your concern, General Aloirav, and I concur. I was not aware we’d lost so many Directors. If that large a group is involved you must give it all your attention. How soon can you get me a list of all the conspirators?”

“I can’t.” General Aloirav said. “All I can get you is a list of those doing business with the prison or the 27^th Level bodega. Except for Hernan Castillo, some may even be clean. I think they’re bad but, as I said, I have no real proof.”

“How can you be so sure about Hernan?”

“We have seen him, at various times, speaking with an old enemy of mine in the OG.”

“I see.”

“It’s up to you if you want to help me decide. I’ll assist with what additional information I can gather.”

“I understand.” Mr. Otorp replied, deflated. “I suppose they could weasel out of any aspersions we might cast in their direction. I mean, if they were accused.”

“I think that a very bad idea. Never contemplate doing that!” The General said. “Accusations based on associations with the possibly guilty … poor policy. Not to mention giving our position away.”

“That’s true.” Mr. Otorp replied, realizing the increased difficulty. His optimism level dropped by the second. “But it’s good enough to proceed on for the time being.”

“I agree. Just don’t forget. Anyone to whom you show the documents I give you could be our enemy. If the persons, you intend to trust, should work for the other side, it could mean lives. They may already have marked me, since I’ve been to your module. They may be watching your whole life similar to the watching I’m doing on them, or more. I could be giving you my death warrant. As your life is in my hands, mine is in yours.”

Mr. Otorp asked. “The research you’re doing is paid for with Company funds. You’re spending a great deal. Are you now placing restrictions on the information?”

Mr. Aloirav replied, “Don’t get testy, Otorp. You’re already skating on thin ice with me. I’m here talking with you now just because I promised Lester I would. I’ve done that. I can stop at any time and feel my promise discharged. I was asking only for your discretion, good judgment. Nothing more. I would ask Lester for the same. I’ve always trusted you, as I did Lester. You know that. The Company and I go back a long way. You know that, too.   We are working together as equals. I know you’re not fond of me. My feelings toward you are still neutral, even after your misbehavior.”

“What misbehavior?”

“The day I advised you of Adam Quake’s treachery.”

“Oh, that misbehavior.”

“Yes. I’ll give you the same effort and trust you give me, until I feel you don’t merit it. I’m asking again just to remind you of the necessity to take care. I do my part. I expect you to do yours. Don’t let me down. I know I’m spending a great deal. The men I use are expensive. They’re professionals, risking their lives. I’ve known them for many years.”

“You’re placing a very heavy burden on me. I can, likewise, but do my best. You must understand that I have no alternative but to take risks with the information.” Mr. Otorp said.

“I understand that. You can’t operate with your hands tied. But, be aware of the responsibility. That’s all I’m asking of you.” Aloirav answered.

“You have my promise.” Mr. Otorp said, and then admitted. “You’re the one sound resource I’ve got. I can trust no one else. I don’t want to lose you.”

The conversation ended. Mr. Otorp remained motionless, sitting and thinking. The situation was very grave, much more threatening than he thought earlier. His misreading all the signs was embarrassing. Mr. Otorp was involved much deeper than he wanted to be. He didn’t like having other’s lives in his hands. The responsibility always weighed more than expected. Years later, you remember mistakes. They haunt you forever.

His first situation of responsibility for other’s lives flattered him. Mr. Otorp was an 18-year-old squad leader in Vietnam. His temporary accountability was the care and keeping of a 75-man combat platoon. Upon discovering the terrible liability involved, he no longer felt elated. Never again did Mr. Otorp willingly accept the honors such dependability occasioned. Avoiding answerability for years, he always vouchsafed opportunities to Mr. Lester Frye.

Now here it was again and nobody with whom to vouchsafe it. General Aloirav was placing a persons’ life in his care; the man’s very own. The mutual grudging respect, between them, did not make carrying such burdens easier. Mr. Otorp felt himself in other than an enviable state.

He didn’t know the General was not pleading for his own life. By asking for the utmost discretion, General Aloirav made it appear so. Exposure might forfeit that other person whose life was very dear to him. While he worried, Mr. Otorp occupied himself choosing his next move & position.

Mr. Otorp’s attempt to distance himself from Company responsibility failed. Powerful, all of a sudden, he knew he didn’t want it so. Pressured into it by Lester and the Board, Mr. Otorp felt he must accept it. The man needed more convincing of his right to run the Company. Meanwhile, he didn’t want the Company following Lester’s path like a crew of slaves.

Mr. Otorp couldn’t think of an easy way to separate his likes from his dislikes in the situation. The Company still converged on Lester’s vision. Mr. Otorp felt opposed to continuing the Pontibus’ network’s strict eugenics policy. He knew there was no good scientific reason for his opposition. Publicly contravening his deluded supporters in public would remove the very capacity he now enjoyed to effect change.

He also lacked sound arguments to change the guiding principle. The man needed to convince those trusting Lester’s directives that those commands were wrong. As an initial thought, it should be easy. The Hardy-Weinberg Law maintained that genotype distribution was invariable over time. Extrapolation meant, essentially, that you couldn’t remove undesirable recessive genotype traits by removing their undesirable phenotypes.

There was a problem, however. The Pontibus was living proof to the contrary. Geneticists who believed such nonsense were also somewhat schizoid. They were the same ones who were the quickest to suggest genetic counseling in hereditary disease cases. Removing phenotypes from the herd lacked the theoretical propensity to gain the opposite pressure advantage. No one believed that justified refraining from the attempt with reproductive abstinence.

The rule also didn’t justify the opposite alternative – theoretically enhancing recessive genotypes through ideological apathy or Christian charity. Most literature on selection against recessive genotypic traits was also race-religion biased. Pontibus Directors were not naïve ivory-tower scientists. They’d lived in the real world for many years. Most knew mankind (as represented by First-Surface welfare) exerted a terrific pro-recessive trait selective advantage all on its own.

Negative recessive traits could indeed gain the distribution advantage. In an altruistic milieu, protected bizarre phenotypes, lived to reproduce more bizarre genotypes. They did not die as often as did healthy folks out trying to survive in the real (unsponsored) world. The First-Surface proved the eugenics argument every day. It was rampant with all kinds of subsidized biological misfits, copulating with other misfits. The inbred freaks proliferated unchecked. It was politically incorrect to criticize them or their continued existence. It was termed . . . hate-crime.

Mr. Otorp possessed the preponderance of the biological literature’s arcane academic theoretical arguments. His opponents would take the empirical argument at their disposal and add to it ample anecdotal evidence. They would use it to bop Mr. Hardy and Mr. Weinberg right on their several heads.

In the 1960’s, he learned. The sole way to work within a democratic system, to change it, was to corrupt it. He found that changing a political system for mankind & the planet’s good was virtually impossible. History, the Holy Bible, Aloirav, and countless other mass murderers proved that only force changed people’s habits in a timely fashion.

Suffering & death, within the disenfranchised community, accelerated after the king’s fall, except on the Pontibus. Wars, resource exhaustion, ozone depletion destruction, global warming, energy dearth, etc. wreaked havoc with the planet. Mr. Otorp knew he must be convinced of his desire’s rectitude. If not, the effort to change the Company culture would fail. The man wondered about the consequences of failure.

“Will I become corrupted in the process? Am I just weak? Are these the mountains I’m making them appear?”

Unable to answer, Mr. Otorp changed his concentration’s focus and thought. “What shall I do with the information Aloirav’s bringing me? Weapons from the depot go to a staging area, the Twenty-Sixth Level cantilever prison, before relocation. Assuming he’s right, and I have no reason to doubt him, every minute may be important. The man has dates and times Directors met with prison people. If Mab Roth is right, those weapons go down to the First-Surface. If the old-government decides to play rough, it could mean a bloody future for the Company. Who can I trust to help me? Why is it, we always require someone trustworthy, when they are scarce and treacherous opportunists are ubiquitous? There never seems to be sufficient time or conditions to allow prudent selection?”

The few close acquaintances he’d made over the years left him with no doubts. They never became good friends. The issue always hinged on confidence. Mr. Otorp could in no way trust them with something of such magnitude. Hard as it was to accept, he and Rav Aloirav alone gained Lester Frye’s trust.

“Two people in 500 years of lifetimes.” He thought. “Doesn’t say much for the human race. Until someone else proves better, working with the General is my best call.”

There was no point in making any plans just yet. Something more substantial to go on than supposition was necessary first. The material General Aloirav was bringing would be food for even more conjecture. They needed to know much more. A few hours later, he met the General at their appointed rendezvous.

Mr. Otorp received his promised copies of the matter. The two men reviewed and studied it together. At a cursory glance, Hernan got heavy representation among the possible traitor’s names. Mab Roth was not among those listed.

“What am I going to do with this?” Mr. Otorp asked.

“We’ve already been through all that.”

“And it worried you, as I remember.”

“Yes it did.”

“I think now we need more information about that prison spur.”

“I agree. I’ve tried getting into the computers of the corporation controlling it but failed. It’s one of the MMIM subsidiaries. They’re a lot more security minded than the Company was under Lester. I’m tightening our ship’s reins, as he wanted, but I’ve a long road.”

“We need to know our enemy better, General.”

“You’re telling me? I can’t find anyone who knows the backgrounds on the prison staff. I have their names & descriptions, all South Americans, but nothing else. MMIM is bringing in foreigners with no history – smart.”

“They’re not on the Company’s computer lists of bad guys?”

“No. Nary’a one. I used to have a friend that helped me with that area of the world, but he died a few weeks ago. I’ll keep checking.”

“What about other security problems?”

“The thieves are sacking other depots around the Pontibus too. The weapons go to other prison staging areas before they disappear. I have spies in many of the prisons, but I still can’t say how large the problem is. Suffice it to say, it’s large and growing. We need to act fast.”

“Keep me posted. Contact me when you find anything.”

“Will do.”

The two men separated. A guarded relief spurred Mr. Otorp to contact Mab Roth, saying. “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Roth, but I need your assistance. If you were serious about wanting to protect your investment, now is the time to act. Could you come over here, soon?”

Mab berated herself earlier for her effrontery. She couldn’t bring herself to apologize, however. The woman knew she wasn’t wrong. Nevertheless, Mab thought. “Why do I have to be so harsh?”

Fate now gave her a chance to make amends. She didn’t even have to humble herself. Glad that Mr. Otorp held no rancor, (for the strident comments), she accepted. Without asking if the present was a good time, she replied.

“I’ll be right over, Mr. Otorp.”

Mr. Otorp made a pot of coffee, using his own Pontibus-grown berries. The two pondered over many aspects of the situation. Within a few minutes, they were engrossed in deep conversation. Their motivations were different, but they worked well together. Mab was interested more in her financial investment and he in discharging his heavy responsibility.

In need of a trustworthy companion, Mr. Otorp said. “Mrs. Roth…”

“Mab, please?”

“O.K. Mab. Can you give me a good reason why I should trust you any more than the others?”

“I guess I can’t.” She answered, after overcoming her surprise and a few moments of thought. “I wish I could.”

“Me too. I need someone with whom I can strategize. Someone to trust. I’ll need periodic reality checks. One is ultra-vulnerable at moments such as these.”

“I understand.” She replied. “Let’s see. I gave you seven good reasons why I thought Hernan was one of our enemies. Could you construe that as being helpful to the other side?”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Mr. Otorp answered and asked. “You did, indeed, give me indications of partisanship. But now, and help me with this, please. Suppose Hernan was your best friend. He would know I’d find out everything you told me eventually, anyway. Wouldn’t he find the idea intriguing to send you here to deliver that information first?”

“Whatever for?” She replied, flushing, then adding. “Oh yes. I see. You’d have a greater tendency to trust the first one who gave you honest information. You’re right! I suppose he would, if he were that smart or possessed that much foresight.”

“Well, you know him better than I. I’m sure. He’s more your age. I can’t say I know him well at all.”

She flushed again but said. “I don’t know Hernan all that well. What I do know of him is not attractive. Does he think that far ahead? I don’t know. Hernan doesn’t appear that smart, but I can’t be sure.”

“That in itself is good prima facie evidence he might be.”

“Because we don’t know him well enough, you mean?” She asked.

“Dumb like a fox.”

“Well, he’s not at all concerned about our suspecting him. He’s quite overt about his opposition to our attempts to prevent the pilferage. Whether it’s either arrogance or stupidity, it nevertheless shows weakness, does it not?”

“It would seem so.” Mr. Otorp agreed. “Unless he’s straightforward & confident. Maybe we’re getting somewhere though.”

“He talks with our opposition in full view of many of us. Is that an indication of intelligence? I think not.”

Mr. Otorp saw his way clear to trust her. There was great incentive to do so. However, he still harbored doubts and searched for the words to express them. He gave it a few more seconds of thought and said. “Please understand, Mab. People’s lives are at stake here. I’m not trying to be difficult. I am, indeed, very reluctant to divulge sensitive information. I must acknowledge a presumption of lacking in street sense.”

Mab replied. “T’sall right. I’m not in your shoes. There’s one more thing that may set your mind a little more at ease concerning me.”

“What is that?” Mr. Otorp asked in eager anticipation.

“Well, now it’s my turn to question, whether I can trust you.”

“How can I hurt you? Why would I want to?”

“You can, and you might, after I tell you.” She answered. “I guess I just have to make up my mind as to how much I want you to trust me. How much I want to help you help me and the Company.”

“Yes. I guess you’ll have to.” Mr. Otorp replied, adding. “Would you like to take a minute or two to think about it, before you decide? Just remember. It will make us both more comfortable if we can trust each other.”

“You were a friend of Mr. Lester Frye.” She said, not accepting the offer of time. “I’ve never heard of him doing anything like breaking a confidence. I expect I can also trust you to keep my secret. He did….”

“Excuse me for interrupting you.” Mr. Otorp interjected. “But please be aware. If you’re about to tell me something that requires discretion, I can be circumspect. I cannot promise you that your secret will be forever safe with me. Never is a very long time. There are exigencies. I can say I will do my very best to keep it to myself. I hope you understand. If I were to allow you to continue without so advising you, I could not be considered very trustworthy.”

“Fair enough.” Mab said. “I want your trust. I’ll tell you of my vulnerability if you think it may set your mind at ease about me.”

“Thank you. I hope it will do that.”

She started to tell her story. Getting up from her chair, Mab walked around Mr. Otorp’s module. Walking over to the porthole, (as Mr. Leion snapped a photo), she looked out at nothing in particular. The woman began speaking in a softer tone than her conversational level, saying. “I’m more familiar with Hernan than I would like to be. He and I go back a long way. Before I even became a Company Director. We went to Harvard together and later each of us joined the Company. That’s how he was able to blackmail me.”

Shooting a quick glance at Mr. Otorp, Mab’s voice became even softer. He looked back at her but said nothing. Blackmail was a strong word. It meant some miscreant discovered a shameful moral deficiency in another. It also indicated criminality took place.

Others might discover the same facts, repeating a similar extortion. Mr. Otorp made a mental note of it. She was indeed vulnerable. However, she was also showing it. When sure he wasn’t going to query her, Mab continued.

“Hernan worked in a Pontibus construction section close to my father’s particular demesne. Some acquaintance of Mr. Frye, I don’t know whom, got him the job. My father was also a Director. Hernan was a platform quality control inspector. The two didn’t get along very well. Over my father’s objections, Hernan seemed always to be getting undeserved promotions. My father didn’t know why. I suppose it was because my father was Jewish. I don’t like to think that though. It’s always far too easy to descend into feelings of discrimination & racial persecution. It can explain away almost any interpersonal difficulty.”

She shot another glance at Mr. Otorp. It was the second time her ancestry came up. He appeared neither impressed nor repulsed by her race or her present attempt at magnanimity.

“I agree.” Mr. Otorp said. “But continue.”

“I got married, when the Company made me supervisor. Life soon blessed us with a child, a little boy.” Mab’s eyes began to moisten, but she blinked it unnoticeable and continued. “My father died a few months after my son was born. My husband went a few months after that. It was a bad time for me, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“The terrible secret with which I lived.” She said, still facing the window.

“Which was?” Mr. Otorp asked.

Turning around, not attempting to blink the tears away, Mab said. “My father was a Russian Jew.”

“And?”

“My son was born with a lysosomal enzyme deficiency…”

“Tay – Sachs.” Mr. Otorp interjected.

“Yes, he died in my arms.” She asked. “You knew?”

Mr. Otorp didn’t answer her question but said instead. “When you said Ashkenazi Jew and lysosomal enzyme deficiency, I just assu… I mean what else could it be? There are other lysosomal enzyme deficiencies, but in Ashkenazi’s? Hernan knew or found out about it. You tried to hide it from Mr. Lester Frye, right?”

Mab thus gave him a valid reason to trust her. Should she become difficult, he could now use the information to expose her. It was a valueless admission, however, because Mr. Otorp already knew. Her confession was unnecessary. He began to think himself successful in changing the subject too, until Mab answered.

“Mr. Otorp?”

“Yes.”

“I said Russian Jew. Not all Russian Jews are Ashkenazi.”

“No?”

“No! You know that! You said Ashkenazi Jew. You knew!”

“Yes. I knew. I’ve known since before you were carrying your son.”

“How? Why?” She blurted.

“All in due time.”

“No! That was before Mr. Lester Frye even knew. You knew before Hernan did.” She surmised and said. “Why didn’t you report me?”

“All in due time.”

“No. That’s not good enough.” She replied with growing suspicion. “If you knew before Hernan, then Hernan may have found out from you or through…”

“The same source?” Mr. Otorp finished the sentence for her. “I knew your husband and your father. Your older brother died of it, also. I was sure that your husband was a heterozygous recessive. I knew that all of you avoided the Company’s genetic testing. Hernan found it out through some other source. It was not through your father, husband, or I. I assure you. None of us was that indiscreet. We were all feeling some of your pain. Don’t ask me any more, for I will not tell you.”

Mab paced over the module’s hexagonally arranged floor tubes. Mr. Otorp never covered the floor cosmetically. One could see down to the first floor through the second floor hexagons. The unusual decor gave the room an unfinished rustic appearance. It resembled an analogous 20^th Century building, decorated with exposed rafters and roof timbers. Mr. Otorp neglected covering them for reasons other than esthetics. A cry through the floor soon revealed the reason.

“Grampa, I’m hungry.”

Mab Roth started, stopped her pacing, and looked down under her feet. There she saw her companion’s granddaughter, staring up at them. Mab threw him a quick glance before realizing what was happening. He ignored her momentary discomfiture, until she again regained her composure & relaxed her stance.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Mr. Otorp said, smiling. “I’m the chief cook and bottle-washer here. You’re welcome to come below while I fix our supper.”

“Thank you. I will.” Mab answered, relieved but chagrined at her skittish behavior.

They went down to the first floor. Mab asked the girl how old she was and her name.

The child replied, in one breath. “My name is Brenda Jane Otorp, and I’m almost 13 years-old, are you going to marry my great grandfather?”

Mab, patronizing the child, said. “I haven’t given it much thought. Do you think I should?”

Very much the proper young lady, Brenda Jane replied. “Yes. I do. I shall be very grown-up soon. I’ll not feel right, leaving my great grandfather alone, when I leave to make my fortune.”

“Well, that’s very important information for me to know. You may rest easy, Brenda. I shall give it my deepest consideration.” Mab said smiling and looking over at a reddening Mr. Otorp.

They suppered together and then listened to 12 year-old inanities, until Mr. Otorp said. “Haven’t you got some math to do young lady?”

“Yeaas, Grandpa, I’m on my way.” She answered, feeling like a child again, getting up to take her leave.

The two adults smiled at each other, and Mab said. “She’s a lovely child.”

“The apple of my eye.” He replied.

“Where are her parents?” Mab asked.

“CIL’s” (Chemically Induced Leukemias). He replied, looking downcast. “Like your husband.”

“I’m so sorry.” She replied.

“Thank-you. If I had been just a little bit more on the ball, I might have prevented it. I discovered the toxic nature of New England’s’ water only after it did so much damage. Even my own family wasn’t spared.”

“You don’t blame yourself?” Mab asked in a half-scolding way.

“Some. Wish I’d been a little quicker.”

“How is that?”

“I might have got my family out of the Washed Beaches area of operations sooner.”

“From what I understand, that Mc Mik guy polluted all of New England. How could you know where to hide?”

Mr. Otorp changed the subject, returning the conversation to the business for which Mab came. “So, we trust each other now, don’t you think?”

“It would appear that way.” She replied.

“I do have one more question.”

“And what might that be?” Mab asked, concerned.

“I’d like to know how Lester learned of your genetic deficiency.”

…There are more instances of the abridgment of the freedom of the people by gradual & silent encroachments of those in power than by violent & sudden usurpations.                                   James Madison

 

Chapter Sixty-One

 

Mab Roth ignored Mr. Otorp’s insensitivity and replied. “After my husband and father died, Hernan came to me. We were both supervisors at the time, but the Company also made me a Director. I took my father’s chair. Hernan gave me an ultimatum. He demanded I sleep with him on a regular basis. Should I refuse, Mr. Frye would learn my secret. I believed him.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what? Go to bed with him!?”

“Yes?”

“Hell no!” She retorted. “I called Mr. Frye and asked him for a private conversation. I was living on the Second-Level at the time with my son. Mr. Frye said he would make time for me. I could meet him at his Twelfth-Level office on a particular day. I did and told him the entire sordid story, leaving out nothing. I mentioned how I lied and broke Company policy. If he wanted me to resign as Director, I would do so, I said. He asked me why I told him everything after having been so successful in the subterfuge. I told him of Hernan’s attempted extortion. He asked me many questions about my past. He wanted me to tell him all I knew of Hernan. He wanted to know the man’s background, First-Surface childhood stories, names of his mother & father, apparent qualifications, job competency, etc. Then he asked me something very strange.”

“What was that?”

“He asked me if I was planning on marrying any cousins soon. I said, no. That was it. End of story. He showed me out of the office. I never heard another word about it. Except…”

“Except?”

“Hernan was promoted to Director within the month.” She answered. “Wasn’t that strange?”

“Yes. It was.” Mr. Otorp agreed.

Glancing at her watch, seeing what time it was, Mab jumped up saying. “Oh damn! I’ve forgotten all about something. I’m almost late now. So sorry. I do have to leave. Thank-you very much for supper and please tell Brenda “goodbye” for me.”

“I’ve kept you so long.” Mr. Otorp apologized. “And we still have unfinished business.”

“I know. I’ll call you after my appointment is over.” She said, running toward the hatch.

Almost out the door, Mab turned to look back and say. “I heard privately from Mr. Frye just once more after that day. He sent me flowers the day my son died.”

 

Mr. Harcourt stood up as General Aloirav entered the restaurant. The General saw him and went to his table, saying. “Thank you for waiting, Mr. Harcourt. I wanted to talk to you in different surroundings.”

“It was no problem, Sir. The view is splendid.”

“That it is.”

“I’m curious, General. What’s the reason for this meeting?”

“Do the names Kromack, Filho, Zhunyo, and Careca mean anything to you?”

Mr. Harcourt’s countenance turned black, and he said. “Yes, they do.”

“I’d hoped so. Please finish your coffee. We’ve an urgent appointment on Level Six.”

“What’s on Level Six?”

“Do you remember that promotional piece last week on equatorial resort modules?”

“Yes, the dream sites.”

“That’s where we’re going. Some of your past acquaintances have been very lucky. They’ve won one.”

“Really? Which past acquaintances?”

“Kromack, Filho, Zhunyo, and Careca among others.”

“General. I’d rather not go. Those men repeatedly beat & raped me in prison. They forced me to eat human shit! Why do you want me to wallow in their good fortune? Is this how you’re hoping to build my loyalty?!”

“Perhaps it will become easier for you if I mention some others who’ve won the same resort property. Judge White, Scott Andrews, Leon Vadeker, and Dr. McCloud ring bells?”

“Yes.”

“They are all waiting for you there.” The General said, putting his hand on Mr. Harcourt’s shoulder. “You’re their guest of honor, my boy.”

General Aloirav and Mr. Harcourt arrived at the prestigious address a few hours later. As they entered the hatch, Mr. Harcourt looked at the Caribbean Sea below him and smiled at its beauty. The planet is still very beautiful, isn’t it General?”

“Yes, my friend, it is. After today, it will be even more beautiful for you.”

The first domicile brought them into a lobby-like room. Andy and Gill were waiting for them. Gill presented the General with two surgical masks and a gun, saying. “As you requested, General.”

“Thank you, Gill.”

Handing a mask to Mr. Harcourt, the General said. “Wear this.”

The man situated it, and General Aloirav handed him the gun, saying. “Shall we?”

“I guess so,” Mr. Harcourt replied. “What do I do with the gun?”

“You’re not a Jesus freak, but you may be tempted anyway. Should you choose to be forgiving, you may put them out of their misery.”

“Who?”

General Aloirav was silent. He donned the surgical mask and, with his hand, ushered Mr. Harcourt into the next room. A hospital-like atmosphere rose before him. Lying on the far floor were four naked men with blue testicles the size of grapefruit. All four were moaning and writhing about on the floor. Mr. Harcourt stopped breathing.

“Breathe, Mr. Harcourt.” General Aloirav said. “You’ve earned it.”

“What is the matter with them, General?”

“The disease, they enjoy, started out as a simple venereal infection. It was our gift to them for the love they showed you. Grave and very painful, it is usually self-limiting. After some manipulations of a certain ingenious little virus, however, these diseases got an assist. They are now able to linger. The creatures you see before you no longer have normal functioning immune systems. In fact, the organization they do have you can hardly even term a system anymore. It has not been functioning for over a month. These beasts survive on synthetic antibiotics. Those blue organs you see there between these animal’s legs will continue to enlarge until they are as big as cantaloupe. The condition will continue until some antibiotic resistant opportunistic infection arises. Then, due to their lack of immunity, they will die. That’s why we are wearing the surgical masks. We wouldn’t want anything to enter and mess up their fun too soon. Should you feel pity, at your option, you may hasten the process with the gun you have in your hand. Should you not feel so inclined, leave them and come with me to the next room. I’ll leave you here alone for a time. You may wish to ponder your decision. Leave at any time.”

Mr. Harcourt walked over to the men on the floor and looked at them. One, Kromack, saw him and said. “Harcourt! What are you doing here, punk!?”

“I might ask the same thing, you pederast pig?”

“Some son of a bitch took us out of our cells and said we’d be free soon.” Filho said. “All we had to do was follow him.”

“We followed him to another cell.” Careca said. “Five weeks ago.”

“They gave us a great meal,” Zhunyo said, “wine and everything.”

“Yah. Screws even left us alone.” Filho said. “Then they brought us here.”

“About a month ago, we all got this VD.” Kromack said, pointing to his crotch. “A doctor comes in every day, and gives us medicine, but it just gets worse. We tried to leave but can’t walk or even crawl anymore.”

About a half hour later, Mr. Harcourt left the room. There were no gunshots.

 

Except for his granddaughter, Mr. Otorp was alone again after Mab left. He returned to the information General Aloirav delivered earlier. Mr. Otorp tried digesting as much of it as possible. Investigators saw thirty-two Company Directors and some top management executives frequenting prison compounds and weapons depots. The same names were also involved with corporations whose interests contrasted with the Company’s. 12 Directors died recently of “natural” causes. These twenty remained.

How could Lester allow so many opposing interests to enter the Company as Directors? Was he so weak?

No activity alone served to condemn the suspect Directors. When taken together, however, they were very suspicious. What to do? How could one man undo so much damage? Even his handpicked man for Pontibus governor, Abner Quake, appeared among the disloyal probables.

So much evidence affirming apparent disloyalty to his deceased friend saddened Mr. Otorp. He was not comfortable with depression. Remembering the recent conversation with Mab made him feel better. Mr. Otorp chuckled to himself. “Even He lost compassion control. He used to berate us for that. Hearing about his inconsistency and even duplicity is comforting. He was indeed human.”

Mr. Otorp tried to memorize the data on the dubious Directors. It was going pretty well, when Mab Roth called after her appointment, and said.

“If you’d like, I can come right over.”

“Please do so, Mab.”

She soon arrived. Her presence pleased him. Trusting her more, Mr. Otorp wasted no time asking her advice. “Assuming there is a conspiracy, how many people do you think are involved?”

“I’ve no idea.” Mab replied. “We lost some difficult people, recently, due to diseases, but I expect at least nine or ten Directors and about the same in upper management remain.

“About twenty. What makes you think there are so few?”

“It’s just an estimate based on their resistance to our efforts to control the situation. They all exhibit intense personal animosity. Some mimic the hostility between Hernan and me. They appear to hate us. It seems reasonable they’d also try to hurt us. Numbers outside the Company are pure conjecture. ”

Mr. Otorp then asked. “What would you do with more definite information indicating the traitors?”

“I would institute methods to insulate and infiltrate.” She replied, reflecting a military demeanor not inconsistent with her position in the Company.

Mr. Otorp said. “Spoken like a military person. Protect us from leaks in our own group as well as spy on theirs. You sound like General Aloirav.”

“Really? I’ve never met him. I sound like him?”

“Somewhat.”

“That’s what comes of going to a military school.”

“Why not just fire the lot, Mab?”

“They’re criminals, Mr. Otorp. They’re responsible for sabotaging many Company contracts with the First-Surface. They’ve made us weaker in our military position vis a vis the First-Surface and MMIM. Prison is the very least punishment they deserve! I’m not a believer in education by bad example but some form of strong action is necessary. Firing is too good for them.”

“Punishment?! That’s not very Company-like, coming from a Director.”

“I suppose not, but we’re fighting for our life and the life of our Company. Even Mr. Frye permitted that. He allowed the shooting on sight of all wilderness violators, even children. I’d say the Company was more important than a wild rabbit, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. I do. We’re not dealing with simple thieves and murderers here.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Mab.”

“Yes. Would you like to meet the General? I think it might help us.”

“I don’t think I’ll like him, his reputation and all…but I would like a chance to know that. I expected to see him at the Board of Directors meeting. He never showed. They say Mr. Frye made him a Director.”

“Yes. He did. Before he died, Lester made quite a few new Directors. I’m sure you saw those new faces at the last Board meeting.”

“Yes, I did. Speaking of the General. Not very responsible to miss the first meeting of your Directorship, is it?”

“I suppose he had other responsibilities.”

“I’m sure.”

“Will you help me do what’s necessary?”

“What choice do I have?” She replied. “Every cent my father left me I invested in Pontibus stock. My husband and I spent all our resources trying to keep our son alive. If Pontibus stock goes down my patrimony goes down likewise.”

“So your reasons for helping me are financial?”

“Yes, but there are other reasons.”

“What might those be?” He asked.

“You may not be aware. In addition to my position in Logistics & Director, I’m in charge of Pontibus epibolic expansion.”

“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

“Well, I am.” She answered, uninjured by his lack of awareness. “More than anyone, except yourself and Mr. Frye, I’m responsible for the Pontibus economy.”

“Really?!”

“Yes. The Company’s financial state has always been good, and it’s now the best ever. Company script is at zero inflation. Unemployment approaches 0.01%. The economy is growing at 22 percent per annum with an equal division between worker growth (numbers) and productivity (output per worker). Revenues are about seventy thousand trillion annual dollars. “

“How does that compare to the First-Surface?”

“Comparisons are meaningless. Nevertheless, during the same period, they enjoyed sixty-five percent unemployment. The First-Surface has a thirty-five hundred percent inflation rate and a virtual stagnant economy. I take pride in what my hard work has accomplished for the Company. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to take all the credit. I could never have done it alone. It would never have happened without me, though. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Perfectly.” He said. “You have a pride-in-accomplishment aspect to your personal interests. I’ve been sitting here too pessimistic to even hope it possible.”

Something still bothered Mr. Otorp. He needed to ask about it in order to settle his mind. Mr. Otorp wasn’t the most tactful of men. It wasn’t that his nature lacked kindness. When preoccupied, however, he was blunt.

Mr. Otorp asked. “Why do you think Lester Frye softened his stand against defectives in your case?”

Mab looked at him for a few seconds before answering. She used the stolen seconds to scrutinize for hidden motives behind the question. His insensitive inquiry mimicked his reference to her “genetic deficiency”. The very fact he could hurt her, so proud of her independence, Mab found unsettling. Satisfied the man meant no ill; she answered the question.

“You know, that’s been a question in my mind too. He denied case after case of applications, before and after, for variances from the regulations. Other than the few wheelchair variances, as far as I know, mine was the sole exception. He even denied PKU applications.”

He interjected. “I know. I was very involved at that time with those requests. Phenylketonuria is genetic. It’s etiology’s without any possibility for the eventual imposition of a significant environmental aspect.”

She continued. “Well, it couldn’t’ve been because it involved a child. Lester was no champion of children’s rights.”

“That’s true. He was a cruel man. He said human development from conception to post-adolescence recapitulated phylogeny. Children were just small troglodytes to him. Mr. Frye allowed shooting those destructive boys when he heard that they were violating the pristine areas. He never shed a tear at their funeral.”

“And everybody knew how they treated parents and the unborn on the First-Surface.”

“Yes.” Mr. Otorp agreed. “It’s a global disgrace what’s going on down there. Every parent, that can afford it, leaves. It just isn’t a healthy place for children or parents. Children are prey to the licensed perverts. There are death-worshipping Christians, Jews, Muslims, and other spirit mashers below . . . everywhere. OG residents consider good parents criminals or second-class citizens. As far as humanitarian reasons go, your apologia was no better than anyone else’s was. ”

When Mr. Otorp felt answers would neither disqualify nor be satisfactory, he stopped questioning and said. “I see. Well, thank you. I’ve a personal interest that doesn’t concern you or your family. Please forgive my curiosity?”

“No problem. When are you going to be Chairman?”

“When do you think it will be necessary?”

“Now.”

The two then prepared the strategy for that battle. The enemies of the Company would want the ineffective bChairman to continue. Mab didn’t think it would be much of a showdown. The Directors wanted leadership consistent with Lester Frye’s opinions. Real or not, they saw Mr. Otorp capable of delivering it.

 

The little diner was dirty and damp. It smelled of bleach and stale urine. The condition of the rest room was atrocious. Mr. Leion waited at a table covered with cracked and yellowed BHT plastic. Bits of ill-remembered meals still stuck to its underside.

Sr. Mendoza said they were to meet here. His minion would rather have done most anything else. He felt going down to the First-Surface to meet someone a type of hell. The man could remember describing it thus once. He thought.

“Where was that now? Oh, yes. Last year. I was ridiculing one of Otorp’s visits. Sure hope he never finds out about this.”

Of the planet’s twelve billion people, three lived on nine of the largest Pontibus structures. Well dispersed around the globe, the bridges were under 100 years old. They and their tetrahedrons supplied most of the amenities the First-Surface consumed. Food, water, energy, minerals, raw narcotics, human organs, and much more went inward (down). Rocks, sand, humans, and humeal (dried pulverized human bodies) went outward (up).

Midway into the 21^st Century, the First-Surface neared moral and ecological collapse. Lester Frye agreed to help with scarce commodities, surplus Pontibus goods. Cultural differences prevented rejuvenation of the First-Surface. Politicians, lawyers, doctors, war, religion, democracy, socialism, drug interdiction and other conditions below, Lester termed spiritual abuses, rampaged unchecked.

Mr. Frye lacked power to prevent, what he called “these diseases”, and some “venom oozed out (upward)”. Each year he increased the size of his quasi-military police force. It was necessary to protect Pontibus citizens from First-Surface criminal invasions. 77% of the world’s miscreants’ needs came from the Pontibus. Much of it was via parasitization. Smuggling and contraband businesses kept the First-Surface going.

The huge First-Surface transplant-organ market was a growth industry. Genetically engineered rejection-proof tissue-culture organs and privately cloned parts were still more expensive than stolen ones. Due to the quality difference, the wealthy lived longer before requiring heroic life-support systems. The First-Surface’s infinite fear of death still bought the old “longevity-beats-quality” argument. Capturing and dismembering healthy Pontibus citizens brought currency for a desperate economy. Some biological misfit organs were acceptable, but no one wanted such ersatz parts. Just the very poor and middle class settled for them. The Company supplied the First-Surface with wholesomeness even in these areas.

It now supplied the unhappy Mr. Leion. After six months, he was at last getting somewhere. They gave him a chance to meet someone in the hierarchy higher than Sr. Mendoza. Not wanting to lose the opportunity, Mr. Leion assented to descend.

Apparent reluctance to patronize nether regions could be detrimental to his future, and he thought. “If I’d’a known I’d be waiting in this miasma, I’d’a reconsidered.”

Sr. Mendoza’s superior wanted to speak to them on a very important matter. Others found the meeting distasteful for reasons other than the local ambience. Sr. Mendoza didn’t like, Hernan, his immediate superior. He was also very clear as to his sentiments regarding Mr. Leion. The rest of his minions concurred.

The misfortune lay heaviest on Mendoza & company. They did not think Mr. Leion ready yet for advancement. The superiors saw Mr. Leion’s surveillance work alone. It was good. Consistent quality impresses. It pleased the superiors. They overruled prison cantilever opinion. Opinion & preference disparity but augmented vexation.

Sr. Mendoza arrived. Mr. Leion tried making small talk. The new arrival appeared wary. He called it intuition. To Mr. Leion, his demeanor was rodent-like.

The man they were to meet arrived three minutes after Sr. Mendoza did. Glancing about the diner, Sr. Mendoza introduced Mr. Hernan Castillo. Sitting back down after the brief introduction, they drank something resembling chicory-spiked coffee. Hernan explained, using few words, how he did not want to talk there. There was just time to observe proprieties before Sr. Mendoza left.

Turning back from the man’s retreating figure, Mr. Leion noticed Hernan’s facial expression soften. His shoulders relaxed a little too. Looking around the diner, Mr. Leion saw no Mendoza people he recognized. Hernan’s scurrilous street-talk diction ceased. Prison staff absence meant it was unnecessary to impress anyone with low-class diction.

He said. “Let’s leave this place. We can go somewhere else and talk in relative comfort.”

“Sounds like a capital idea.” Mr. Leion agreed, happy to leave the greasy spoon.

“I don’t care for the poor. South Americans nauseate me.”

“I presume you are speaking of Mr. Mendoza and company?”

“Yes. Did you know they have a word in Portuguese which describes what I’m saying?”

“No.”

“It’s true. Those people have such low opinions of themselves that their word for human rights and law is the same as that for human responsibilities. “Direitos.”

“Some would say that indicates just the opposite.”

“How so?”

“It shows a unique level of consciousness. They feel a high degree of interpersonal similarity, equality under the law. Rights entail responsibility.”

“You obviously aren’t familiar with their behavior. They’re near animals, the most irresponsible people in the world. Most perverts, I know, speak Brazilian Portuguese. Those that aren’t beggars are rapists.”

“The entire human world is just an institutionalized system of rape, pillage, murder, and beggary. Why are they so special?”

“Mendoza’s group being just small-time practitioners, heh?”

“Yes.”

“You’re okay, Leion.” Hernan said, laughing. “I like your attitude.”

Hernan took Mr. Leion to a condominium in Boston’s Jamaica Plain. Someone “gentrified” the typical brownstone during the past Century. It didn’t look like so bad an area now. There were numerous security checks and biometric devices to get through the outer doors. Once inside, Mr. Leion felt less uncomfortable about his First-Surface visit and picked a seat.   Hernan sat down on a kitchen chair, resting his arms on its back.

Locating it in the doorway, between the kitchen and the room in which Mr. Leion sat, he said. “First of all, I want to apologize for meeting you on the First-Surface. Orders. Next, we want you to know we’re very happy with your work.”

Thanking Hernan, he said. “Whatever I can do…”

“Good! That’s why we wanted to speak to you today.” He pounced. “We have a job in process with which you can help us.”

“What is it?” Asked Mr. Leion, concerned that Hernan replied so fast.

“In due time. In due time.” Hernan replied. “You haven’t been with us for very long. Are you aware of our business goals?”

“No.” Mr. Leion said. “I didn’t think it would be prudent to inquire.”

“Probably right.” Hernan agreed, laughing. “Too many questions… Well, anyway, we’re in the chemical pleasure and medical technology business. There is an agricultural section too. ”

“Dope, body parts, and pesticides?” Mr. Leion said. “You people are the current version of smugglers?”

“Hardly! We don’t use terms like that anymore. Passé… long ago. We call such products eupharms (euphoric pharmaceuticals), precorgs (previously committed organs), and CEE (chemical environment enhancers). We also ship humeal to the bridges. All legitimate goods.”

Sensing errors in his conversational tone, he said. “Now that you mention them, I’ve heard of those articles on the evening news. Never interested me before, I guess.”

Hearing knocking, Mr. Leion jumped. The sound came from one of the condominium’s interior doors. Hernan didn’t seem surprised. The tapping continued. He called out in the sound’s direction.

“Come on out. Nobody’s using it.”

Nothing happened, so Hernan called out once more. “Cm’on, I dowanna’ keep shoutin’. Nobody’s using it!”

The door opened, and a young woman entered the room in which Mr. Leion sat. Except for long blond hair covering her shoulders, the woman wore nothing other than a towel. Wrapped around her in an alluring way, it made her more appealing the closer she got. Brushing Mr. Leion, she moved toward Hernan and the bathroom.

Mr. Leion’s throat tightened, and his penis tingled with suppressed desire. She stepped gingerly past him. Hernan’s chair blocked her way. The towel opened slightly, and the most feminine point of attraction pressed into Hernan. Mr. Castillo followed Mr. Leion’s eyes as Rhonda negotiated the tight passageway. Slipping by on her tiptoes, she darted past.

At the bathroom door, she looked at Mr. Leion and smiled, saying. “Hi, I’m Rhonda…be gone in a minute.”

“Hey, Rhonda! You forgot your 745.” Shouted Hernan, as she closed the door.

Returning from the bathroom, she reached for the vial of white powder in Hernan’s hand. Fumbling, the woman let it fall to the floor. Mr. Leion watched it roll toward him. Being a gentleman misogynist, he bent over and picked up the blue-capped plastic cylinder. The white substance inside looked similar to the pH powder used in his fishponds.

The small bottle must have remained in Mr. Leion’s hand longer than he thought. The girl was right in front of him, ready to take it. Before he relinquished it, the towel loosened. Parting at lower front, it revealed her anatomy of maximum male interest. The separation exposed her right thigh as well. Tantalized, he found it difficult to take his eyes off the general area.

“Here.” she said, stretching out her hand to take it.

Previous unsatisfactory towel tucking, into the necessary crevices, indicated her other-than-decorous mental state. The rebellious towel threatened to abandon its position around her unless aided by a hand. Reaching to so aid, she bumped other folds under her arm, slipping off balance. The terry-cloth fabric fell away in toto. Unabashed, she stood before Mr. Leion in all her glory.

The towel now covered just her feet. Mr. Leion found it impossible to take his eyes off her breasts. To forego enjoying the other interesting uncovered area’s beauty was hopeless. The entranced Mr. Leion didn’t know where to focus his attention. Searing through the agony of his dilemma, Rhonda squatted to pick up the dropped towel.

She moved closer to take the vial from him. Her legs separated as she did so, and Mr. Leion’s discomfiture was complete. Standing there stupefied, his eyes drank in her body. Staring at the texture of her nether skin, he never saw her face. Transfixed in such employment, Mr. Leion was oblivious to everything outside his focus.

He didn’t know the impatient Rhonda was waiting for him to give up the drug. Unimpressed by his servile veneration of her vulva, she grabbed the vial out of his hand. Swinging the towel to her right, she yelled. “Give it to me! Will you, dammit?!”

It broke Mr. Leion’s enchantment. The moment ended all too soon for him. He looked into her face. As if trained to it, the man zeroed in on the left side. He now scrutinized the eye region.

The iris was ice blue, but not beautiful. It was cold and dead-looking. The face was as if frozen, thawed, and asymmetrically refrozen. Advertising taught him eyes transmit and reflect what lies behind them. Glazed-over, it mirrored an opaque portal, failing to reveal inner life. The half-mast lid appeared modest & reluctant to expose the drug-shamed soul.

Mr. Leion relinquished the vial, amid Hernan’s loud laughter. Rhonda stood, threw the towel over her shoulder, and marched into the bathroom. Her enticing buttocks bounced merrily. Mr. Leion turned to look at Hernan and said.

“So this is what it’s all about?”

“Hell no! Not by a long shot.” He retorted.

“No?” Mr. Leion replied.

“Hell no! It’s bucks.” He said, gesturing toward the bathroom. “That’s icing on the cake, or mold if it fails to suit you.”

“Well. It sure looks good to me!” Mr. Leion said, almost panting.

“Keep up the good work, your nose clean, and she’s yours.”

“You mean it?”

“Of course! Can’t you see she’s hooked? She’ll do anything for pharmaceutical pleasure.” Hernan said, as insensitive to the creature’s plight as he was unimpressed with Mr. Leion’s lechery. “Yer’ lookin’ at a genuine Stepford gal.”

Once the shower began running, Hernan got right down to business, saying. “Look here, Leion, we need you to get a bit more aggressive.”

Mr. Leion became attentive. The time was approaching to show the organization his measure. Decision time, as to what he was prepared to do for them, neared. What were they expecting him to deliver in return for more power, prestige, or his life? For weeks now, Mr. Leion equivocated with himself about his demarcation point.

He doubted his capacity to perform anything truly gruesome. Doing something as grotesque as what they did to the accountant was impossible for him. Mr. Leion was unprepared to exhibit that degree of ruthlessness. He didn’t even dare think about it. What would happen should they indeed ask for such deeds?

“What is it I have to do?”

The words came out without force. His mouth just popped them out as needed. Maybe all the mental rehearsals over the past weeks helped. Maybe it was just fear. Whatever, Hernan responded.

“It’s like this. We need some information we think is in your neighbors’ domicile.”

“The Otorp module?”

“Yes. We haven’t been able to get any espionage electronics inside, as you know. His security is top quality.”

Hernan was about to say something else, but the compuphone signaled. He went to answer it, while Mr. Leion waited in concern. Perspiring in the cold room, he started wringing his hairy little hands, thinking. “Are they expecting me to burglarize Otorp’s’ domicile, I wonder?”

Hernan returned from his call to find Mr. Leion in a dither, blurting out. “I hope you aren’t expecting me to break into the module. I’m not experienced at anything like that and…”

Cutting Mr. Leion off in mid-sentence, Hernan interrupted, waving a raised hand. “No, no, no. Nothing of the sort. We have people for that. We want you to inform us when the domicile is empty of Mr. Otorp and his granddaughter. The surveillance you’ve done so far has been good, very good. We feel you can be even more useful to us as a proactive agent.

“At the same time?” He asked almost with a whine.

“Yes.” Hernan answered, not hearing the snivel in Mr. Leion’s tone.   “We want to know the next time they leave the domicile, together.”

“What if other people are in the domicile?” Mr. Leion said, relieved to escape having to do anything more dangerous.

Hernan’s face got dark, and he said. “We’ll worry about them. You just tell us when the Otorps’re out. You’ve been useful to us, so far, not asking questions and such. Don’t start messing yourself up now by trying to think.”

The girl came out of the bathroom, interrupting the conversation. Cosmetics covered her face. Both eyes now demonstrated that dead look, instead of just the left. For Mr. Leion, she displayed a decided change downward in personal attractiveness. He no longer found much alluring in a body covered in clothes of poor-taste, face in paint, and brain in dope.

He ignored her, while Hernan overlooked nothing, saying, “Whew, you do look good.”

In what appeared to Mr. Leion a grotesque smile, she said. “Catch ya’ later, Hon.”

“Righto.”

Rhonda departed. Minutes later, Hernan’s business finished with his other guest, who also left. Mr. Leion hailed a cab on Huntington Avenue to take him to the esplanade. He turned left on Massachusetts Ave. There was a detour at the Mary Baker Eddy Center.

The cab turned around at Symphony Hall and went back down Mass Ave to Harrison Street. They passed the Lester Frye Museum and the City Hospital. The smell of ripe urine and feces, in front of the hospital, almost made Mr. Leion vomit. Arriving at Long Wharf, an hour after leaving the Jamaica Plain flat, he rushed to the ferry ticket booth. The alternate Boston Pontibus Foot ferry was late, but it brought him to the magnelev station within ten minutes.

Grabbing the first train, Mr. Leion got out at the station closest to his module. To stay warm, he took short rapid strides, walking like a homosexual. The First-Surface nausea left him slowly. Accessing his parked sky vehicle, Mr. Leion got home not a moment too soon. Entering his domicile, he saw Mr. Otorp. Ducking into the hatch, Mr. Leion escaped contact.

Avoiding the awkward experience of greeting Mr. Otorp, he turned on his holograph, wondering. “Why is it I dislike, even hate, people who’ve done me no wrong?”

 

At the next Board meeting, Mab raised the Chairman issue. A coached Director put forward Mr. Otorp’s name. Mr. Otorp accepted the acclaim, and the bChairman lost. Mab was right. That evening, she and the new Chairman of the Board left together.

At the Otorp module, Mr. Otorp now felt she merited near full trust. He showed her some of General Aloirav’s data and photographs. Mr. Otorp explained how the information came from agents stationed near the various entrepots and prisons. He showed the photograph of Abner Quake, Company CEO and Pontibus governor. Mab expressed surprise and sympathy.

“I’m so sorry. You must feel terrible. He was your choice, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was. I don’t see any alternative now but to make a change.”

Mr. Otorp didn’t want to take any chances. The stakes were too high. As the two planned their next moves, Mab knew she was soon to take on additional responsibility. “Governor Roth” almost escaped her lips.

The night wore on. They continued to work on problems, until the wee hours of the morning. Mab could stay awake no longer. She wanted to stop. He acquiesced but insisted on her spending the night’s remaining hours in his module.

Mab agreed. Her leaving in the morning was without awareness that others watched her do so. Were she so apprised, Mab would have been a bit more circumspect. She neither said nor did anything others could construe as immoral. Appearances however deceive and condemn. She was not subdued.

Her leave-taking was flamboyant. Mab felt happy, and it showed. Once she was out of sight, Mr. Otorp went back to his laboratory. He wanted to try to make more sense of the information. Now their thoughts and judgments of last night’s lucubration entered his deliberations. It was good to have a friend again.

Mab drove out of view, past Mr. Leion’s surveillance cameras. His digital cinematography downloaded into his computer. That same day those computer images were on Sr. Mendoza’s machine at the prison cantilever. They also appeared on General Trilate & Hernan Castillo’s workstations. Hernan did not like what he saw.

I

If …life be not a real fight, in which something is eternally gained for the universe by success, it is no better than a game of private theatricals from which one may withdraw at will.                                       James

 

Chapter Sixty-Two

 

Mr. Otorp left his domicile and walked up the path toward the Third-Level periphery. He walked until he stood at the horizontal limit of current colonization in that direction. Above the Atlantic Ocean, the locale seemed like a beach. Living near it made the sea appear as if seen from a Caribbean mountain.

In the evenings to the left (Northwest) of him, he could see Boston’s’ lights. Off in the distance to the right (Southeast) was Provincetown. Undulating between and around the Pontibus piers, the gentle mist accompanied him on his stroll. Seagulls cried, in their mournful way, the moment they saw him.

Accustomed to his presence, the birds waited for him in the morning like parishioners for the preacher. They continued screaming to each other, attempting to gather around him. Monitoring his progress along the periphery path, the birds expected some stale baked treat. Mr. Otorp fantasized that instead of crying about him, they were crying to him. He imagined for a moment an ability to understand their language.

Knowing the sentiment’s preposterousness, nevertheless he imagined all creatures cried out to him. Mr. Otorp wished he could reply. By chance, some mechanism, as his envisioned antenna, might arise for them to communicate. Whether they would even want his help made no difference. He accepted the task and believed they depended on him for their ultimate survival. Mr. Otorp made meeting the creatures’ needs one of his missions in life. The antenna research was part of that mission.

He drank his fill of the ocean beauty below and the vegetation around him. When the black flies began biting, he headed for the woods and away from the periphery. The man smelled the natural-insecticide bushes with leaves that somewhat resemble marijuana foliage. Their odor is not unlike that of a menstruating human. Passing them, the grass’s bubbling-like movement a few feet away caught his attention.

Going nearer, he saw a cottontail rabbit’s head. Looking closer Mr. Otorp saw it was a female, suckling her young. She tensed, as he came closer. Her ears and head rose. Seeing him approach, away she ran.

Surprised to find a nest-full of babies in March, the man looked inside. Within the shallow depression, lined with fur, 5 or 6 young wiggled. A runt stayed near the outside of the nest. The starving creature tried surviving without vertebrae from waist to tail – a spina bifida. Mr. Otorp observed the little wretch’s futile efforts to re-enter the nest’s central warmth.

Siblings repetitively kicked it out. Little legs shrunken and underdeveloped, it was the only one without opened eyes. The mother was obviously no longer feeding or cleaning it. Feces caked the posterior, surrounding the anus. Its smell alone would get it expelled.

Being a wild animal, possessing true functional morality, the doe wouldn’t allow it to survive. Unable to understand the Law of our Great God Chaos, Mr. Otorp’s own twisted nature demanded intervention. He reached in and returned the little pariah to the nest’s center. The apparent kindness, however, gained the unfortunate creature only more pain. Siblings re-ostracized it at each iteration. Mr. Otorp saw it dying without his incorrigible (im) morality, believing in the sanctity of ALL life. He took the creature home.

Unaware of the composition of a mother rabbit’s milk, he went to the internet. There he found a reasonable facsimile to a recipe. Taking some leftover human-baby formula, he added sugar and water, mixing it into a dilute liquid. With that, he tried to feed the baby rabbit. Refusal answered each offer.

A few days later, the little thing was still alive but thinner and very quiet. It gave up fighting. As Mr. Otorp watched, the animal went in extremis, alternating rigid stretches. The baby rabbit moved only in tetany.

“Something so natural, it’s perverse.” Mr. Otorp thought. “When an animal decides it wants to die, it just refuses to go on living. It doesn’t eat or drink. The terrible helplessness is omnipotent. It just lies there, waiting to die. I’d have been kinder not to interfere. Why did I?”

Being so incapable of relieving another creature’s suffering made him feel helpless. Only his anger, that it occurred at all, surpassed that feeling. The dying runt continued to move less and less. A few hours later it died. The anger and feelings of helplessness brought back unpleasant memories.

Retrospections, he endured for years, from a time long since past, returned. They were a Marine’s recollections, of trying to survive in Viet Nam. Reminiscences came in quick succession. They made him want to leave his module. He needed to feel closer to a jungle-like atmosphere.

Going to the hatch, Mr. Otorp looked out at the rain. The monsoon-like precipitation combined with his present malaise. Synergistically, it triggered even deeper intrusive thoughts. The unreasonable war-guilt and deeper depression would soon appear. He wondered if war-surviving guilt caused more psychological damage than did coward guilt from war dodging. Now, he really needed to get out of the domicile. Despite the wet weather, Mr. Otorp grabbed the dead rodent and walked out to the periphery.

Memories became easier to handle with natural vegetation around him. Recollections & nightmares were not the hardest part of surviving the post-war period. Rage and war-guilt took that honor. He & Rav Aloirav were the last two of a very select group of survivors. True combat veteran’s death rates were ten times greater than era veterans. But, even era vets were gone now.

Except for Agent Orange cancer, no one knew for sure the cause of the unbalanced mortality statistics. Mr. Otorp attributed it to war-guilt. Survivors carried unreasonable feelings that they shouldn’t be alive. His friends were all dead. What right did he have to live?

Incapacity to overcome war-guilt drove him long ago to the Vietnam Veteran’s Outreach Center. He needed to talk with others having nightmares, problems with war-guilt, and mistrust of authority. Mr. Otorp met Lester Frye there one summer evening in the 20^th Century. He remembered their first meeting and how well it went.

Mr. Otorp continued walking now, despite the rain. He came upon an open area, capable of a facilitating an unhindered drop to the ocean. There, he let the little runt fall to marine predators. Then, observing the vegetation-surrounded pathway toward the periphery, his mind became unmanageable. His memory, indisposed to remain at the Vet Center, regressed further.

Recollections settled on February 1968, just before the Tet Offensive. He was near Anh Thanh, Viet Nam, a small village-hamlet on the road from Phu Bai to Hue. Mr. Otorp’s unruly memory thrust the recollection into the foreground. The violence of the intrusive reminiscence nearly made him fall off the platform path. Unconsciously grabbing a pier, he curled his fingers around the diagonal tetrahedron joist.

There, before him was a little boy on all fours in a rice paddy abutting Highway One. The 10 yr.-old (+/-) child, An Tuk, was coughing with desperate spiritus asper. Sergeant Otorp noticed blood dripping out of the tiny mouth. Although he’d never studied medicine, it looked to the Marine like tuberculosis.

Thinking tuberculosis not the killer of bygone years, he lifted up the frail child. The man intended bringing him to the Phu Bai medical unit. Setting the feather waif on his shoulders, Sergeant Otorp carried him piggyback for about ten miles. The relentless coughing continued all the while the happy child rode on the Marine’s back. Bloody sputum entered Sergeant Otorp’s eyes, occasionally, and he wiped it out with his sleeve.

Arriving at the FLSG-A enclave, Sergeant Otorp entered the gate. He passed mortar holes and the mess hall and turned left. Past Headquarters Battalion, he turned right, along the fence, toward the Navy hospital and airstrip. Talking to the Corpsman on duty, Sergeant Otorp learned important distinctions in their arcane mandate. Americans and indigenous personnel required the same limited resources. There were not enough allocated to handle all situations. Americans were more important to the objective (indigenous personnel) than indigenous personnel were.

The Corpsman’s senior ordered Sergeant Otorp to pick up the child and depart forthwith. The frightened child sensed that help would not be coming. His small hand gripped the Sergeant’s hand in fear. Bright, shiny, sparkling, little tears lasted but a few moments. The cowed Sergeant didn’t linger, resolved to return the child to the morning’s starting point.

Blood dripped onto Sergeant Otorp’s head and ran down into his eyes all the way back. The little boy’s chatter continued for about three miles. “We go back camp now, hunh, Trung shi? We getta’ peanuh butta?”

“Yah, An Tuk. We’ll getta’ some peanut butter. You want chop chop?”

“Yubetcha, Maline. Mucha hungy. No eatta’ 3 day.”

The burden became heavier on the Sergeant’s back. The chatter stopped, and he reasoned the child fell asleep. The weight soon became quite cumbersome. At times, Sergeant Otorp needed to adjust the kid’s legs for greater comfort. Stiff and uncooperative, the boy didn’t seem to want to help make it any easier.

Sergeant Otorp wore out his energy. “I’gotta’ set him down for a time, need a break…”

The load came down with difficulty, until he realized. “Oh no. The little bastard’s… died…!”

Sergeant Otorp learned the meaning of hopelessness that day. Despite subsequent experiences, those memories wouldn’t leave. Guilt & rage, undulating with feelings of helplessness, came and went. Controlling their exhibition triggers took tremendous energy. He sometimes dropped into bed at night exhausted from the effort. What a terrible disease is unrestrained compassion.

The man’s intrusive schizophrenia dissolved, and he relaxed his grip on the pier. Recovering his equilibrium, he thought. “The human mandate is to protect the weaker, love all life. I don’t want to harm anything, yet I must to survive. Is absolute love then self-starvation? Did God starve himself to death? No, God was a monster, executed for crimes against Planet Earth and all her inhabitants.”

Mr. Otorp continued on, until he neared the periphery. Gazing out onto the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, the man remembered watching the little spina bifida die. He never speculated whether it elicited the recollection. Reasons were seldom important. It became apparent to him what was about to occur. Mr. Otorp was preparing to fight the greatest battle of his life. A battle, which, with attendant responsibilities, he did not desire. People unrelated to him depended on him for their lives. What could be more unpleasant?

 

Mr. Harcourt rejoined the General, Gill, and Andy. The three sat together looking out at the Caribbean Sea rolling below them. Dorsal fins bobbed up and down when scraps of flesh thrown to them hit the water. No one said anything to Mr. Harcourt. He cleared his throat and still got no response.

Then he said. “Thank you. All of you. I couldn’t have asked for a better revenge.”

“Mr. Harcourt.” The General said. “I must confess. It wasn’t just for you.”

“No?”

“No. Those creatures would never have become human. There was no hope for them. They would never have done anything but steal resources humans need. The pain they are undergoing now is to insure your continued mental health and loyalty. It also keeps my other people, vacationing on the floors below us, from losing respect or degenerating likewise.”

“Your motivations, Sir, are your business. My nightmares will continue, I’m sure. Nevertheless, now I can awaken to an alternate scenario. For that I must thank you.”

“That isn’t your only “alternate scenario” Mr. Harcourt.” Andy said. “General Aloirav wants me to show you the other one.”

Mr. Harcourt looked at the General who just motioned with his hands to another doorway. Andy ushered the man into the other room. There he confronted the DSS lesbians, Scott Andrews, Leon Vadeker, and Judge White. A few minutes later, Dr. McCloud came out of the bathroom, drying his hands, saying.

“Boy. I am sure going to enjoy this place. Did you see the view from the bathroom? What a way to take a dump!” Seeing Mr. Harcourt, he asked. “Who are you?”

“I thought you’d met.” Andy said. “This is Mr. Harcourt, Dr. McCloud. Naughty, naughty, Mr. Vadeker. You never invited your partner to Mr. Harcourt’s trial. Your co-winners, Dr. McCloud, know Mr. Harcourt well. They can introduce you.”

Scott Andrews was now beginning to question the authenticity of having won a resort mansion module. All of them being in the same situation represented too much coincidence for a random event. The others soon shared his suspicion. The management of the prize committee kept them separated until just a few minutes prior to Mr. Harcourt’s entrance. The reunion was not yet more than 5 minutes long.

Scott registered his doubt, by vocalizing it. “What is this?! What’s this asshole doing here?!”

“Yes.” Leon Vadeker said. “What’s going on, Andy?”

“What’s wrong, Leon?” Dr. McCloud asked his past business partner.

“This is a pervert that we helped put away a coupla’ years ago.” Bobbi, pointing to Mr. Harcourt, said to Dr. McCloud. Turning to Andy, she asked. “Why is he here and not in prison, where he belongs?”

“Mr. Harcourt does not belong in prison. He works for the Company.” Andy said.

“What!?” Scott asked.

“How can that be?” Judge White asked. “I distinctly remember sentencing this perpetrator to MCI Concord for 20 years, without possibility of parole.”

“It’s not important.” Andy interjected. “The Company has pardoned him. Except for Mr. Harcourt, you are all winners of a resort module, exactly like this one. In fact. It’s this very one. You will spend the rest of your lives here.”

“Bullshit!” Scott Andrews said. “Something ain’t right here. I don’t like it. I’m leaving.”

“As you wish, Mr. Andrews.” Andy said. “Thank you for your time.”

Outside the room, Scott Andrews encountered Gill & General Aloirav. They showed him how to return to the room he was in prior to meeting the other “winners”. One by one the others followed suit. The last to ask to leave was Judge White.

Andy said. “Your Honor, we have some more news for you. As you know, you are a resort winner and have gained this very module. We have a room to show you now which you will find most interesting & edifying.”

Andy ushered the judge and Mr. Harcourt out of the waiting area. They went into the hospital-like room where the 4 diseased sodomists lay dying. Off to the side of that room was a balcony overlooking the Caribbean Sea about 20 kilometers west of Grenada. Andy explained to the judge about the unique process leading to the creatures’ conditions on the floor. He offered the judge a closer look, and the judge eagerly took advantage of the opportunity. The moaning men did indeed edify the jurist. Careca and the judge were involved at one time.

“This room is yours to enjoy for the rest of your life, as we promised you.” Andy said. “In about 3 days your testicles will begin to approximate those of the beasts you see before you. Your prognosis is the same as theirs. The alternative is to avail yourself of that balcony there. Judging from the condition of the water denizens, you won’t suffer long. I would advise that you decide soon. The time will arrive when you can no longer access it due to your impending condition. These individuals on the floor will explain the particulars as to why that option is no longer open to them.”

“I’ll have you know that I am Judge White of the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts! What you’re doing is a horrendous crime! You can expect sure apprehension followed by swift retribution by the State!”

“Judge. You’d have lived at least another 20 some years if it weren’t for our assistance. 20 years is the time you chose to take from that innocent man’s life. Ironic isn’t it? Enjoy the time you have left.”

Each man got the same explanation and option from Andy. After he explained to them their fate, he let Mr. Harcourt talk to them alone. Mr. Harcourt learned that Leon was now a successful movie producer-director. He used naked orphan children now only for his own pleasure. He assured Mr. Harcourt that he could pay almost anything for his freedom. He offered to make Mr. Harcourt a partner in his production company.

Dr. McCloud was no longer in porn movies but was a licensed proctologist in Brighton. He explained how he never knew anything about Mr. Harcourt’s legal involvement. The medical man added that, if he’d known, he would have moved mountains to clear Mr. Harcourt’s name. Oh how valiant would his efforts on Mr. Harcourt’s behalf have been.

Scott Andrews was still a junkie but with high hopes of recovering soon in a methadone clinic. He was unrepentant and wished Mr. Harcourt a hot time in hell.

“I don’t know, Sir.” Mr. Harcourt said to General Aloirav. “Perhaps their punishment is a trifle extreme.”

“Do you think so?”

“I don’t know. I’m satisfied, but worried too.”

“Why?”

“Suppose we’re caught. We’ll be punished.”

“That’s very true. Think about it some. How will a new judge, and other people illegitimately responsible for sentencing you anew, for this new crime, look upon you? Think of how your future fellow convicts will perceive you? Think of how you can stop me from finishing what I’ve started.”

“And after I think about all that?”

“Rejoice! You have your revenge, and you’re now a bona fide criminal. You must now define yourself. You are no longer a co-swimmer in the miasma of human dross. You are swimming upstream. Don’t picture this adventure as just punishing some miscreants.”

“How am I to picture it?”

“Well. Let me see. Careca is a good case for you. The state boxed him up for drilling a gas station attendant. He got 15 bucks to satisfy his crack habit. He later enjoyed tormenting you as if a lower class criminal than himself. It’s always the lowest slime in prison that torture child molesters. The punishers like to believe there’s a class of miscreant lower than theirs. Time passes easier.”

“I don’t know.”

“Who do you think crucified that world famous child molester, J.F. Christ?”

“Who?”

“The offal of Jewish society, the priests. I try very hard to keep punishment out of my Weltanschauung, Harcourt. Think of your participation here not as a punishing of evildoers but as assisting in an educational process. You’re helping me to instruct my fellow members in loyalty. You are assisting me to build a cohesive force engineered to make the world a better place. These scum about to aid & abet the shark population, are sub-human. They have no purpose on the planet. Our treatment of them is but engineering our own survival.”

“What are you going to do with the dykes?”

“Can’t very well swell their testicles, can we?” General Aloirav asked, laughing.

“No.”

“Can’t forgive them. That would be the Christian thing to do.”

“Yes, it would.”

“Can’t make ‘em promise to stop destroying men. A few bucks and their perversion’s sake would just be too tempting for them. Can’t release them; they’d just make up stories to use against us.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Harcourt.” General Aloirav said. “If you feel I’ve satisfied your needs for revenge …”

“Oh, yes, absolutely, more than I ever dreamed possible.”

“Then, I’d like you to give them to me to use in my research. Not being human, they can assist the world’s human population with disease prevention. At the same time, they can continue to repay the debt they owe you. I promise you. I shall not be unduly merciful.”

“I believe you, General. Very well. They’re yours.”

“Thank you.”

 

In most men, ambition enhances character. So, it was for Rav Aloirav. Before his fall, ambition consumed him. The limited dreams of most men he found insufficient. Now, after tremendous success, ruin, and rebirth there was no recourse. The man could but pick up the pieces and move on. That is what he did.

Ambitious men feel a burning desire to predominate. Years of imprisonment can produce an even greater craving for mastery over others. The demeaned man presupposes that just the big score will recompense for his lost time. Imprisonment accentuates the desire to battle for control over ones’ fellows. One can but attempt to suppress it, but in time it will break out.

Avarice can substitute but remains secondary to pursuing a vivid illusion of power. Ex-cons, frustrated in their need for control, twist in the wind of self-hatred. Something must pervert the resulting sentiments, or they will sublimate into avarice and other acceptable channels.

General Aloirav was oblivious of any condition. He supposed his advanced years caused minor defeat enervation. Service to the Company in the past helped him. Lester Frye’s saving him from execution and life imprisonment was not unexpected. Nevertheless, the General felt an obligation for that assistance.

He regained his former stock holdings and was now the foundering Company’s major shareholder. The urgency of the Concern’s need was obvious. Pouring desire-for-control energy into his work prevented the General from accepting a “failure” self-concept. His vision of long ago still beat a slow but strong cadence underneath his Company responsibilities. That aspiration flowed silent and simultaneously with his other work.

Former members of his New Society group continued to join The Newer Society. He put them on the Company payroll and kept them occupied. There was small need to display his influence, but showing his iron will was another matter. He was no longer engaged in the pursuit of personal power for its own sake. Saving the Concern was his current objective. Power was a tool.

 

The General looked out the porthole at the Caribbean below and said. “Mr. Harcourt.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I detected a little sympathy for those creatures that just became shark food, didn’t I?”

“Some. Yes Sir.”too

“Mr. Harcourt. I want you to know that you are not alone. I too felt some suffering, preceding their end. There is far  much misery in this world. We, who have higher levels of consciousness, should try to diminish it.”

“Why did you do the opposite then, General? I hope it was not just for me.”

“No. I did it as a means of removing greater suffering, Mr. Harcourt.”

“How is that, Sir?”

“It does no good to torture & kill someone as recompense for a bad deed. No one “deserves” to die anymore than they “deserve” to live. In addition, dying soon subsequent to intense torment means the pain just floats around in the ether as a sad condition of existence. No one benefits. It’s a recapitulation of the biblical Almighty’s behavior; what was not a creative attempt by a few jaded Semitic priests to justify their wars of conquest was pure dementia. The pleasure of revenge is meaningless titillation.”

“I feel somehow responsible.”

“Don’t. You’re not. If anyone is, other than themselves, it’s me.”

“I wish I could believe that, Sir.”

“Do so. There are those, Mr. Harcourt, who undergo your experience and want eternal revenge against the society allowing it. They take a vicarious revenge by assaulting some innocent. Needless pointless agony continues ad infinitum.”

“Unlike my revenge?”

“No! Let me assure you. If I felt, what I did to your tormentors would do nothing positive, I wouldn’t have done it. There must be something constructive in the deed for me. An affirmative response must result, more than just delivering your enjoyment by inflicting the negativity of pain. I do believe that I have helped you, and my other people, to learn better how to help me make a better world. My purpose in life is to diminish total affliction and death. I do not like to feel I punish. Adding to anguish just makes the planet a sadder place. We can teach the victim of punishment nothing, with punishment, that will produce any lasting benefit. It just increases the supply in the world’s storehouse of negative sentience.”

“There appears to be one of your victims left.”

“Ah, yes.” General Aloirav answered, looking in the direction Mr. Harcourt indicated. ”The medical chap. He appears to have taken a fancy to joining your sodomists. Would you like to ask him why he’s reluctant to join his suicidal compatriots?”

“Oh, no!”

“Well. I would. He knows there’s no hope, and he approaches the point of no alternative. You can see his scrotum is beginning to swell.”

“Those men suffered so.”

“Mr. Harcourt! Those were not men. They were a species of ape. Pointless subhuman lives are at best bestial and at worst a planetary liability. Another thing. The disease that our sodomists and the quack have – swollen testicles.”

“Yes.”

“What pain can you imagine worse, hunh?”

“Yes.”

“It actually looks much more painful than it is, Mr. Harcourt. Death is common to all. Their deaths mean nothing. They, like the others who hurt you, have no intrinsic value other than minimal as feed nitrogen.”

“Even the doctor?”

“Especially the doctor.” General Aloirav replied. “Doctors are irresponsible in the extreme. These vultures approach greed & compassion like children confront candy. Neither resists. Neither can say no.”

“You feel compassion to be a vice?!”

“Of course. Compassion is like love. Both are good emotions in the right places and in the right doses. Medical compassion is like other unbridled “goods”. It’s pity gone mad – like philandering is love gone mad. Both are vices. Doctors are ignorant vicious provincial. You must excuse me, Mr. Harcourt. I would like to speak with the dear doctor.”

“Please do so.”

“Thank you.”

In the jumping room, Dr. McCloud stood staring out over the water. When the General entered, the physician turned and said. “Come to watch the spectacle?”

“Are you having a problem finding the necessary courage to fling yourself over the edge?”

“Perhaps.”

“It’s always difficult to say goodbye when all conditions exist, in ample supply, to enjoy life. The poor, ignorant, and sick leave the easiest.”

“I’m telling myself it’s my desire to experience the most that life still gives me.”

“I can only caution you. You’ve delayed almost a week. Don’t wait too long.”

“I won’t. I don’t suppose there’s any way I can persuade you to grant me a reprieve?”

“Never happen.”

“I didn’t think so. You seem quite certain that what you are doing is right.”

“It has nothing to do with right or wrong. Those are specious terms.”

“You mean this isn’t capital punishment, with a new twist? A new and improved barbarism?”

“Absolutely not! You, as others in your misguided profession, are a planetary menace. I have found a way to remove one of you and still benefit my organization.”

“And how are we such menaces?”

“We shall forget that you were involved in aiding a parasite on children to finance and abet your morbid craving for affluence. At the very least, your death will be a simple negative example for my agents.”

“As a deterrent?”

“Yes, but more as an example of my cruelty and “revenge”.”

“You want to display your cruelty?!”

“Oh, Yes.”

“That about sums it all up?”

“No. Far from it. You must not be reasoning well, my little smugness, no doubt due to preoccupation with imminent demise.”

“You may be right.”

“I am right.”

“Then, you’ve got your wish, and we have nothing further to talk about.”

“Other than smallpox, the world can’t seem to rid itself of any human disease. One of those diseases is government. Man has chosen democracy as the least noxious of those disorders. Therefore, we must deal with the infection of politicians & lawyers.”

“I’m not a lawyer. I am a medical professional! We relieve suffering! Are you not aware that not all professionals are equal?”

“Trite differences. Your pomposity equals that of the legal profession. In menace to life, the difference is minuscule.”

“I guess I wasn’t aware of that.”

“You very obviously were not, or you wouldn’t be contemplating a long plunge.”

“I do believe you are enjoying my agony.”

“My dear doctor. Physical disease teaches us to be careful with our body’s condition or pay the inevitable consequences. Is that not so?”

“It is. So?”

“Then you vultures tell people it’s all a big mistake. Your greed and compassion are monstrous!”

“We advise people as to proper health maintenance principles!”

“Oh, sure! HIV causes AIDS, for example.”

“Anti-retrovirals and protease inhibitors are tolerated very well by HIV positives!”

“Yes. Unnecessary and geared to create an incubation for disease that will obviate lysogeny and co-existence with the host. Please. Let’s not lie to each other when we have so little time to make friends.”

“Fuck you!”

“You quacks cavalierly prescribe healthy life-styles; yet tell people their diet is not important. You say vitamins are not necessary yet do nothing to make people aware that their food is deficient. You prescribe toxic chemicals to obfuscate your advice and get the fools to spend scarce planetary resources propagating your destructive scam.”

“I don’t see how compassion for my fellow man or woman is a destructive scam!”

“I know. That’s the problem we face. Both you and your victims are willfully blind to your con.”

“Educate me.”

“It’s pointless. The sharks are hungry. You’re wasting their time.”

“They can afford it. Except for my collusion in photographing a few naked children, how could I have spent my life better?”

“I just told you. Now you’re wasting my time too. Pols, lawyers, priests, bankers and cops are a social blight. You could have dedicated your life to their eradication. As your last will & testament, you could have taken as many as possible with you prior to your demise. Instead, you dedicate your existence to propagating suffering.”

“You wouldn’t consider giving me that chance now, would you?”

“No. I don’t believe you would support my values.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You would but toy with me.”

“I can’t accept your principles.”

“But you wish to?”

“No.”

“Yes! You just don’t have the courage to be a part of their realization. Your profession makes possible untold suffering in the world. Twenty or thirty species of creature disappear each day due to your efforts to protect their killers. Millions of children lead sick & unproductive lives, directly and indirectly, because of your resource needs and expenditures. All the added suffering you cause by your palliatives and marginal-life support systems. Just because you’re too weak to accept Nature’s dictum. Why not be true to your diseased mental state to the end?”

“How can I do that?”

“While you still stand?”

“Yes.”

“Drag those miserable wretches, over there, to the railing. Throw them over it, when you jump.”

“That would be murder!”

“You haven’t even the courage for that!”

“There are rules.”

“There are. You are referring to meaningless human conventions. You haven’t the strength to live authentically or even obey the standards of a valid system.”

Dr. McCloud walked over to the sodomists and sat down beside Careca. General Aloirav walked over to the balcony. He looked at the churning water and then at the blue sky. Without turning in the direction of his victims, he said. “We land here with all we have. Nothing. We do and we don’t do. We go a little one way and call it good. We go a little another way and call it bad. We are all blind, until we leave with all we have. Nothing.”

Once outside the jump room, he returned to Mr. Harcourt. Mr. Harcourt saw the General approach. Waiting a few seconds, he asked. “What about the dykes, General?”

“Ah, yes. Who knows why those lesbians hate males so much? They needed to falsify that report, inflicting such pain on you, to satisfy that hatred. What makes a dyke, Mr. Harcourt?”

“I don’t think anyone knows for sure. Much speculation accompanies the condition.”

“Are all dykes misanthropists?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shall we ask them?”

“I’d rather not see them again.”

“But don’t you want to know why they did such a wrong to you?”

“Some people just enjoy giving pain to others.”

“Yes. Sadism is part of our nature. Why?”

“Who knows?”

“Maybe there’s a god, and he likes to see pain. Maybe he’s a sodomist and likes to inflict his own pain vicariously on his creatures.”

“I doubt it, Sir.”

“So do I.

“Let’s go see how the dykes are doing? Maybe they can answer some of our questions. They’re a valuable part of my operation, you know. I need a great many live bodies to produce the initial vaccines for my products. If these “broads” survive the initial dosage inoculation, their lives will not be so bad. They can ply their perverted “craft” in a nice setting. The eventuality of death can take them, willy nilly, as it overtakes us all.”

“It’s not painful, Sir?”

“No. Just the nuisance incidental to their disease, and serum donations, of course.”

The two men entered the room where the two lesbians were now living. Both women were nude and protected from any possibility of escape. The larger one, Bobbi, was hairy, almost breastless, and mannish. Her clitoris was almost as large as a penis in an under endowed male. The other one, Jo, was of normal feminine body shape and very pretty. The two were talking together when the men entered.

“What the hell are you doing with us?” Bobbi turned to them and screamed, shaking her manacled wrist. “I have to be back to work on Monday. I’m Director of the Massachusetts Department of Social Services.” She pointed to Mr. Harcourt and continued. “That man is a criminal. He should be in prison. Your stripping us and holding us against our will is a crime! It’s kidnapping, sexual predation! You will pay for it!”

“I understand your irritation.” General Aloirav said. “It’s to be expected. We all make mistakes. Some are fortunate to escape the consequences. Others…well…DSS will just have to find a new director. You will never return to Massachusetts.”

“Oh, please let us go?” Jo cried to Mr. Harcourt. “I know what we did to you was wrong. I’m so sorry.”

“Shut up, Jo. He had it coming to him. That little girl didn’t need males in her life. The mother was sufficient. He got what he deserved.”

“Being born male is such a crime?” General Aloirav asked.

“Fuck you!”

“Please let me go.” Jo cried. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t been able to sleep since your trial. I wanted to go and tell the judge, but I didn’t dare. Bob…”

“Shut UP! Jo.”

“I’m sorry, Bobbi.”

“Perhaps you can answer a question for us?” General Aloirav said.

“What!?” Bobbi asked.

“Why did you want to destroy this man’s life?”

“Fuck you!” Bobbi yelled.

“Clairvoyant but it doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to me.”

“Just fuck you and all your sex.” Bobbi shouted. “You’re all dead meat!”

“Mr. Harcourt. I sense some hostility here. Some blocking. She must have a perceptive problem, seeing as dead, things that are alive.”

“Please, Sir.” Mr. Harcourt pleaded.

“Sounds to me like this young “person” fears to copulate with a living male! Do you suppose she’s a closet necrophiliac Mr. Harcourt?!”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“Do you think that’s why she wanted to bury you alive?”

“Please, Sir.”

“I don’t think they feel comfortable sharing much information with us.”

“No, Sir.”

“It must be too personal.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“We’d best leave them now. I think they want to be alone.”

“Yes, Sir.”

 

Mr. Otorp said to General Aloirav on the coffeehouse holophone. “I don’t think anyone should see you at my domicile anymore. Is that all right with you?”

Knowing the time for that kind of precaution was long past, the General replied. “Sure. No problem.”

“I have an acquaintance helping in the investigation. I want her to meet you. Do you have any objections?”

“Yes. I promised Lester I’d work with you, if I could, no one else!”

“I’m sure the time will come when you too will want to send a substitute, and I’ll be in your position.”

“Is she reliable?” General Aloirav replied.

“Yes.”

“Can we trust her?”

“I do.”

“I’d like to check her out.”

“I’m satisfied with her record.”

“What kind of scrutiny have you done?”

Just then a troop of children walked by the door of the coffee shop. They were on their way to a local schoolhouse, singing the Pontibus Song. He asked Mr. Otorp to wait a minute before answering. Even with the holograph at maximum volume, war-damaged eardrums wouldn’t let one hear the other. The spirited children drowned out the compuphone audio.

I am your mother. I am your planet…….

The song ended. When he could hear again, General Aloirav waited for an answer. None was forthcoming. He contemplated accepting that the question on Mr. Otorp’s female acquaintance would have to wait. The General’s mind would never rest easy with respect to such an issue. He would check her out himself, anyway, but asked.

“Where do you want me to meet her and when?”

“I’ll talk to her right now and have her meet you there, if that’s okay?”

“No. That’s not okay. How much does she know about me?”

“I don’t know for sure. Whatever Lester divulged to the Directors when he got you out. Whatever she could learn outside of dehistorization.”

“How much is that?”

“You were in prison for serial murder. You did 4 years on the First-Surface and 12 on the cantilever. I think you’ll have to fill in the details.” Mr. Otorp answered.

“All right. Thanks.”

“It was your life.”

“That it was.”

Mr. Otorp read the GPS coordinates and number off the compuphone. General Aloirav suspected the little restaurant’s location was also now property of the enemy. It was a chance he would take. Too much concern over personal security took from life a grave amount of spontaneity. The General, long ago, learned to take chances to enjoy a “normal” life.

“Living on the edge” was an insignificant mental disorder acquired in Viet Nam. It no longer presented the difficulty it once did. Now it just meant a necessary judgment call. Periodic reality checks evolved along with the rest of life. It was one of the reasons for his piloting an antique aircraft.

It kept him alert. Weather decisions and other aviation questions always contain potential danger. Aviation is punishing to the irresponsible, negligent, ignorant, or incapable. Making judgment calls with respect to life’s spontaneity went just so far, however. There was a need here for something more.

General Aloirav asked again. “I inquired how well you checked out the person who’s to contact me. I couldn’t hear what you said. ”

Mr. Otorp replied. “I was very concerned with that myself.”

“I hope it wasn’t a credit check and politically correct dust-off.”

“Of course not!” He replied, miffed. “She’s Mab Roth, the Pontibus’ Logistics Control officer. She’s also in charge of Pontibus epibolic expansion. You know of her?”

“Everyone does. Mrs. Mab Roth, “General Mab”.”

“I don’t know all her titles, but I trust her.”

The General thought a moment before replying. Checking the powerful woman out would bring up nothing negative. Considering her position and influence, she could assume any guise. Her access to Company infrastructure was as extensive as was Lester’s. The woman could also learn almost anything about him she might want to know. His previous investigations showed nothing ill concerning her activities.

He might as well talk to her. General Aloirav knew there was no point in dissembling. Deception could be but temporary. Trying to hide his personal past from her would be pointless. With the sources at her disposal, she would soon ascertain the truth.

Protecting former associates, still in contact, was essential. He therefore relaxed his demeanor. Before terminating the conversation with Mr. Otorp, the General relented. He accepted the interview. Taking a chance on the enemy moving against him, General Aloirav said.

“Send her. I’ll wait.”

The conversation ended, and the General sat down at a table to wait. The call making it possible to meet his new Company contact was slow in coming. There was time to order lunch and two cups of coffee while he waited. General Aloirav wasn’t pleased at the wait. Nevertheless, he accepted the turn of events.

Mr. Otorp walked to Mab Roth’s office in the Headquarters module after finishing with the General. General Aloirav counseled him not to talk sensitive issues over the compuphone. Her office was just down the corridor. Mr. Otorp informed her of his intention, and she agreed to the impromptu meeting.

“Well.” He said, as she prepared to leave. “The time has come. You’re getting your chance to meet General Aloirav.”

“You make it sound so wonderful, like I’m going to meet God.”

“Just having some fun. I know you don’t expect to like him. I myself do not. But, he’s an old acquaintance of Mr. Frye’s and mine. He worked for the Company in the past in many different capacities. Mr. Frye always found his work satisfactory, even if I didn’t.”

“What was your problem with his performance?”

“I guess more than a question of competence was the difference in opinion as to means and objectives.”

“Why do you want me to speak with him?”

“He’s got, and gets, information I want to share with you.”

“What does he know about me?”

“What everyone else does. He knows you work for the Company, your job, etc. In addition, he knows that I trust you. I’d like him to know with whom I’m collaborating right from the start. You’re younger than either of us. You can be of more assistance to him than I can. He may not want any collaborators. I want you to try to get him to take you on as one.”

“Will you be there?”

“No. I will not. I want to make another engagement.”

“That’s it!”

“Yes.”

“I see. What are we to talk about?”

“The problem at hand.” Mr. Otorp said. “A plan to save the Company from the conspiracy.”

“I know his background, but not what he’s like.”

“He’s urbane but unfriendly, arrogant, blunt, graphic, larger-than-life, offensive. Reminds one of a well-groomed but wounded grizzly bear.”

“Sounds real attractive.”

“Well.” He replied. “You know he’s an ex-con, an incorrigible. His knowledge of other ex-cons and what they’re doing is priceless. The Company needs him. At least Lester thought so.”

“I know how necessary they are. We employ so many. It’s still offensive!”

“Isn’t it, though?”

She was concerned. Incorrigibles presented certain characteristics, making them unserviceable for many jobs. The problem at hand might be one of them. The thought of going to talk with a freed incorrigible, unprotected, was not attractive. Mab planned to enter the coming association with many negative preconceptions. She listened, not altogether patiently, now while Mr. Otorp explained.

“He, Lester Frye, and I were in a war together, a long time ago. He’s no longer sick.”

“Because he’s a veteran and a friend? That got him special treatment?” She asked, with a noticeable Brooklyn-Jewish accent. “An incorrigible as Company Security Chief. The travesty almost makes me want to retch!”

“Of course it’s not that simple. Please let me give some more details?”

“I’m listening.”

Lester started the Company, I think, or somehow became the owner. His creativity made it great. How he got involved with Aloirav is a mystery to me. Much happened during a period of my absence. For some reason, Lester felt he needed the guy. Aloirav’s serial killing days got him 4 years in a First-Surface penitentiary. Mr. Frye got him released to a Pontibus contract prison for nearly 12 years more. He went to a work-release program, on the same cantilever, after that. Sixteen years, total.”

“That doesn’t sound like much for crimes of such magnitude!” She said.

“Perhaps it wasn’t, but there were extenuating circumstances.”

“Like Mr. Lester Frye’s money!”

“Yes.” Mr. Otorp agreed. “But, remember Mab, for similar offenses in history and other societies, people never even went to jail. It’s not right, but that’s the way it is.”

“So how many did he kill?” She asked.

“Millions more than we can count.”

“No!”

“Yes. A group was trying to solve major problems. He was their leader. The problems were out of hand, along with their solutions. It was tragic on all levels for everyone involved.”

“People tell me he was captured because of an experiment he was doing?” Mab queried.

“Yes. His exposure to an exotic toxic solution made him psychotic. The incapacitation cost him his power, and they apprehended him. Lester felt he has recovered. They say he’s been as aberration-free as the rest of us for almost twenty years.” Mr. Otorp said.

“As far as anyone knows?”

“As far as we know.” He replied. “Correct. What all goes on in prison?”

“I’ve got to tell you. I’m not too comfortable with the idea of going to talk to a serial killer.”

“Well.” Mr. Otorp said. “I can understand that. My apologia is speculation. If you’d rather think about it, I can call it off. I wouldn’t even blame you, if you told me to go fly a kite. The guy scares me too, always has. If it’s gonna’ be too much for you, I’ll understand and get someone else.”

Mr. Otorp said the last, not believing she’d refuse him. He didn’t expect to have to go out and find someone else. The fact that Mab was aware of how much Mr. Otorp needed her was obvious. He wouldn’t have known what to do if she did, indeed, turn him down.

“No. I’ll see him.” Mab replied. “But thanks for being forthright with me.”

“I needed to be.”

“Why?”

“Wouldn’t want to face you, after you’d met him, if I wasn’t honest.” He said.

“Why not?”

“I’d have lost your respect.”

“Perhaps, but…”

“No.” Mr. Otorp said, interrupting her. “He’ll tell you what I just told you. The man feels little shame. He may even tell you more, if you push him a little.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Aloirav has remorse, but not for his crimes. He feels some guilt, because of what happened to his family and life. It ends there. That’s how I know his judgment has returned, and it’s sound. He’s not hypocritical or repentant in the slightest.”

Mab looked at him long and then said. “You’re a strange man.”

“Thank-you.” He said and gave her the phone number of the coffee shop where General Aloirav waited. Mr. Otorp called to confirm the meeting, and Mab went to make the rendezvous. Her apprehension balanced her excitement. Something else bothered her. It appeared she was finding it difficult to deny Mr. Otorp anything.

 

Nature does nothing uselessly.               Aristotle

 

(LUZ-BETHEL  continues with  Chapter Sixty Three in ROOM 2C THE PONTIBUS JOURNAL 4)

Copyright © 1995 by Larry L. Slot
Paperbound edition published 2000
Copyright © renewed 2004 by Larry L. Slot
Revised edition published 2005
Copyright © renewed 2010 by Larry L. Slot
Revised edition published digitally in 2010 by Astri – Amanayara Press
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