Free Ole Doc Methuselah by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

check, Ole Doc dropped down into his dining salon
and drank the milk which waited there for him.
    The
ports were all open there, for the salon was beautifully designed, done by
Siraglio shortly after the turn of the century, paneled in gold and obsidian
and exquisitely muraled with an infinity of feasting scenes which, together,
blended into a large star map of the Earth galaxy as it had been known in his
time. The ports were so designed as to permit scenery to become a portion of
the mural without ruining it. But in this case the scenery did not cooperate.
    Six
hundred and nineteen dead men swung from the limbs of the landing field trees.
They were in uniforms bleached by suns and snows and their features were mostly
ragged teeth and yellow bone. The blasts of the Morgue ’s landing had
made a wind in which they swung, idly, indolently, as though in their timeless
way they waltzed and spun to an unheard dirge.
    Ole
Doc set down the milk. He looked from flowering beds, well-groomed grass,
splendid walks, back to the hanging dead.
    â€œHippocrates!”
    The
gnome was there instantly, all five hundred kilos of him.
    â€œStand
by the ship. If anyone approaches her but myself, turn on Force Screen Alpha. Keep in communication with me and the ship in readiness
to blast. Questions?”
    Hippocrates
was too thwarted to reply and Ole Doc changed into a golden tunic, threw a
sun-fiber cloak about his shoulders, buckled twin blasters around his waist and
stepped down the ladder to the ground.
    A
man develops, after a few score years, certain sensitivities which are not
necessarily recognized as senses. Carrying on the business of the Universal
Medical Society was apt to quicken them. For though the members of the society
possessed amongst them the monopoly of all medical knowledge forbidden by the
various systems and states, and although they had no sovereign and were
inviolate, things happen. Yes, things happen. More than a hundred ebony coffins
lay in the little chapel of their far-off base—Soldiers of Light who had come
home forever.
    He
directed, therefore, his entire energy to getting a pile and escaping Ringo
within the hour if possible. And, guided by the sound of repair arcs and
hammers, promptly brought himself to the subsurface shops beside the hangars of
the field.
    And
at the door he halted in stupefied amazement.
    There
were ten or twelve mechanics there and they did mechanics’ work. But they were
shackled one to the next by long, tangling strands of plastiron which was
electrically belled every few yards to warn of its breaking. And overseeing
them was not the usual supereducated artisan-engineer but a dough-faced guard
of bovine attention to the surroundings.
    Ole
Doc would have backed out to look for the supply office, but the guard instantly
hailed him.
    â€œStand
where you be, you!” He advanced, machine blaster at ready and
finger on trigger. “Hey, Eddy! Sound it!” A gong struck hysterically somewhere
in the dark metallic depths of the place.
    It
was a tossup whether Ole Doc drew and fired or stood and explained. But an
instant later a barrel was digging a hole in his back.
    Now
if the President of the Vega Confederation had been so
greeted by his lackey, he could not have been more amazed than Ole Doc. For
though he was occasionally offered violence, he was almost never accosted in
terms of ignorance. For who did not know of the Soldiers of Light, the Ageless
Ones who ordered kings?
    This
pair, obviously.
    They
were animals, nothing more. Mongrels of Earth and Scorpon stock, both bearing
the brands of prisons on their faces.
    â€œHe
ain’t got a chain,” said Eddy.
    â€œMust’ve
landed,” hazarded the guard, straining his intellect.
    â€œIf
you will please—” began Ole Doc.
    â€œThey’ll
be here in a minute, bud,” said Eddy, planting his thick boots squarely in Ole
Doc’s path. He reeked of Old Space Ranger and was obviously a victim