Free The illuminatus! trilogy by Robert Shea, Robert Anton Wilson Page A

Mr. Mocenigo goes on angrily, “don’t believe your own father. See what the dictionary says. Look, look at the page. Here, see. ‘Masturbation: self-pollution.’ Do you know what self-pollution means? Do you know how long those germs last?” And in another spring, 1955, Charles Mocenigo, a pale, skinny, introverted genius, registers for his first semester at MIT and, coming to the square on the form that says “Religion,” writes in careful block capitals, atheist. He has read Kinsey and Hirschfeld and almost all the biologically oriented sexological treatises by this time—studiously ignoring psychoanalysts and such unscientific types—and the only visible remnant of that early adolescent terror is a habit of washing his hands frequently when under tension, which earns him the nickname “Soapy.”)
    General Talbot looks at Mocenigo pityingly and raises his pistol to the scientist’s head
….
    On August 6, 1902, the world produced its usual crop of new humans, all programmed to act more or less alike, all containing minor variations of the same basic DNA blueprint; of these, approximately 51,000 were female and 50,000 were male; and two of the males, born at the same second, were to play a large role in our story, and to pursue somewhat similar and anabatic careers. The first, born over a cheap livery stable in the Bronx, New York, was named Arthur Flegenheimer and, at the other end of his life, spoke very movingly about his mother (as well as about bears and sidewalks and French Canadian BeanSoup); the second, born in one of the finest old homes on Beacon Hill in Boston, was named Robert Putney Drake and, at the other end of his life, thought rather harshly of his mother … but when the paths of Mr. Flegenheimer and Mr. Drake crossed, in 1935, one of the links was formed which led to the Fernando Poo Incident.
    And, in present time, more or less, 00005 was summoned to meet W. in the headquarters of a certain branch of British Intelligence. The date was March 17, but being English, neither 00005 nor W. gave a thought to blessed Saint Patrick; instead, they spoke of Fernando Poo.
    “The Yanks,” W. said crisply, “are developing evidence that the Russians or the Chinese, or both of them, are behind this Tequilla y Moto swine. Of course, even if that were true, it wouldn’t matter a damn to Her Majesty’s government; what do we care if a
speck
of an island that size turns Red? But you know the Yanks, 00005—they’re ready to go to war over it, although they haven’t announced that publicly yet.”
    “My mission,” 00005 asked, the faint lines of cruelty about his mouth turning into a most engaging smile, “is to hop down to Fernando Poo and find out the real politics of this Tequilla y Mota bloke and if he is Red overthrow him before the Yanks blow up the world?”
    “That’s the assignment. We can’t have a bloody nuclear war just when the balance of payments is almost straightened out and the Common Market is finally starting to work. So, hop to it, straightaway. Naturally, if you’re captured, Her Majesty’s government will have to disavow any knowledge of your actions.”
    “It always seems to work out that way,” 00005 said ironically. “I wish for once you’d give me a mission where Her Majesty’s bleeding government would stand behind me in a tight spot.”
    But 00005, of course, was merely being witty; as a loyal subject, he would follow orders under any circumstances, even if it required the death of every soul on Fernando Poo and himself as well. He rose, in his characteristic debonair fashion, and headed for his own office, where he began his preparations for the Fernando Poo mission. His first step was to check his personal worldwide travel notebook, seeking the bar in Santa Isobel which came closest to serving a suitable martini and the restaurant most likelyto prepare an endurable lobster Newburg. To his horror, there was no such bar and no such restaurant. Santa Isobel was bereft