Free Ole Doc Methuselah by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

of an
unmentionable illness.
    They
were there in less than that. An entire squad-sled of them, complete with dirty
uniforms, unshaven faces, yellow eyes and shiny weapons.
    â€œGet
in, pal,” said Eddy, disarming Ole Doc with a yank.
    â€œAin’t
he pretty, though,” said a young corporal.
    â€œGet
in!” insisted Eddy.
    Ole
Doc saw no sense in a chance killing. It was not that serious yet. People
weren’t entirely stupid on Dorcon. They couldn’t be!
    He
mounted the sled which promptly soared off toward the city, ten feet above the
ground and traveling erratically. In the glimpse he had of the blue green
pavements and yellow houses of the suburbs, Ole Doc was aware of neglect and
misery. A number of these inhabitants were evidently of Mongolian origin for
the architecture had that atmosphere, but now the once-gay pagodas looked more
like tombs, their walled gardens gone to ruin, their stunted trees straggling
out from broken bonds. The desolation was heightened by the hobbling gait of a
few ancient inhabitants who dodged in fear below the sled. It shocked Ole Doc
to see that each was chained to a round ball.
    The
sled swept on toward the blue towers, but as it neared, the first illusion of
palace gave way to a gray atmosphere of prison. For the government buildings
were all enclosed within many walls, each complete in its defenses, each manned
like some penitentiary on Earth. Here was prison within prison within prison.
Or defense within defense within defense. And the central portion, instead of
being a courtyard and keep, was a metal-roofed dome, wholly bombproof.
    But
the sled had no business within. It bounced to a landing outside the guardhouse
of the first walls and there Ole Doc was thrust into the presence of a
dissolute young man.
    Tunic
collar unbuttoned to show a dirty neck, greasy hair awry, he sat with heels
amongst the glasses and bottles on his desk. Obviously he was of that decayed
school which thought that to be dashing one must be drunk.
    â€œWhere’s
identity card?” he hiccoughed.
    Ole
Doc, naturally, had no such thing. But the rayed gold medallion around his neck
was a passport to the greatest kingdoms in the universe.
    â€œWhat’s
that?” said the young officer.
    â€œMy
identification,” said Ole Doc. “I am a member of the Universal Medical
Society.”
    â€œThe
what?”
    â€œI
am a physician,” said Ole Doc patiently.
    The
young man thereupon altered. He looked bright and interested. He brought his
feet down off the desk, upsetting several glasses and bottles, and snatched up
an antique gadget Ole Doc recognized dimly as a telephone.
    â€œI
got a doctor out here, Sir Pudno. How do you like that, huh? . . . Sure he
looks like one. Why do you think I’d say so? . . . Okay, Sir Pudno. Right
away.”
    In
the wake of the reeling young officer Ole Doc was then delivered through
eighteen separate ramparts, each gated, each guarded, until he came at last to
a stairway which led underground. The officer having navigated this without
falling, Ole Doc was ushered—or rather shoved—into a chamber done in blue silk,
a particularly gloomy place which had for furniture but one bed and one chair.
    Sir
Pudno was getting out of bed. He was a flabby, fat Mongolian of no definite
features. He rolled himself up in a food-spattered dressing gown, sat soddenly
in the chair and stared at Ole Doc.
    â€œYou
really a doctor, Mac?” said Sir Pudno.
    â€œI
am. If you have someone to be treated, I shall be happy to oblige you. However,
there is a matter of a pile I need. I landed here—”
    â€œClam
it, Mac,” said Sir Pudno. “We’ll go right up to Her Majesty.”
    He
tucked his fat into a seam-strained uniform and then Ole Doc was thrust after
him into a chamber which was more like a powder magazine than
a throne room. It was huge and once it had been pretty. But all the murals and
mirrors had been removed and