Neht tried to explain that the reason they had not come up on his gerontological console was that Hisst was only 170 and Crobe was only 180.1 would have none of it. "Political prisoners," I said. "I must inspect them!" He shook his head. He pointed to the notation on Hisst's card: INCOMMUNICADO. May only speak to Crobe. And then on Crobe's card: INCOMMUNICADO. May only speak to Hisst. "They are not permitted to talk to anyone! Nobody ever goes to see them!" Neht said. "Those are Royal orders!" "Aha!" I said. "From another reign! And what am I carrying but Royal orders? The charge is proven. You DO have political prisoners here, prisoners no more insane than you or I. Well, thank you, Neht. I shall now go back and make my report that the Confederacy Asylum–" His charm was gone completely. "Please!" he wailed. "Those two are as mad as mad!" "That can only be proven by an interview in depth with both of them. And WITHOUT you or your staff coaching or jabbing pins in them! Because I like you, Neht, and do NOT want to cause trouble for you, I will accord you this favor!" "Oh, thank you," he said in a faint voice and rather huntedly beckoned for a guard. I swelled with elation. Investigative reporter skills were absolutely fantastic! Here came my next coup!

The hut was isolated. It stood upon a point which jutted like a finger from the cliffs above the sea. Two thousand feet, straight down, the Northern Ocean roared, battering its heavy green fury against the basalt barricade, using for battering rams great floating islands of white ice. We had to go through a locked gate before we could enter upon the point. The guard used a plate to unfasten the bars. "It's past noon," he said. "The cleaning crew have probably just come and gone, so you will find them reasonably sanitary. It's a good thing: usually you can smell that hut clear from here." We walked along a path between the two vertical cliffs. The wind from out of the northern pole moaned dismally. A flurry of snow beat at my mask. This was a gruesome place-think of being incarcerated here for nearly a century! After a walk of a hundred yards, we arrived at the hut. It was rectangular, built of heavy insulating block like all these huts, a kind of a fortress standing lonely by itself in the teeth of icy winds. It had two doors on the shore side. The guard approached the left-hand door. "I'll let you see Number 69,000,000,201 first." He consulted his list. "Yes, that's somebody once named Crobe. Now you must be very careful, for both of these are quite mad. I've been here sometimes guarding the cleaning detail while they work and to ensure that nobody speaks to them." "Have they ever attacked anybody?" I said. "Not that I recall." I became even more certain that this was what I said it was-political expediency. This guard had been coached by Neht, that was obvious. "You're not going in with me," I said. "My interview is technical but it may contain state secrets. So let me in there and stand well clear of the door." He looked a little uncomfortable. Then he hitched his greatcoat around him, dropped his stungun off his shoulder into his hand, put his plate against the door and gave it a shove. He glanced in and then, with another look at me and a shrug, walked off thirty feet. I repressed a thrill of excitement. I was about to see the notorious Doctor Crobe! I walked in. My eyes adjusted to the sudden gloom. The whole hut was really just one oblong room; dividing it in the center was a string of vertical bars. I scanned the area I had entered. It was a very capacious room. It was even furnished. It had shelves of books. Somebody was bent over a tub of some sort. He turned around.

His nose was too long; so was his chin. His arms looked more like the legs of birds. He had no hair left at all. He was wearing a coat, but if the cleaning crew had given him a fresh one, it was already dirty. "You're just in time," he said, as though my visit was a daily occurrence. "The fermentation is completed and I've just hooked up this tube. Let it drip a little longer into the canister and you can test it. I think it is the best I have.ever made." "What is it?" I said. "Home brew. 1 save half of my dinner every day and dump it in this tub. It ferments quite nicely." I saw he had a lid over the tub and a tube came out of its center, going through several coils before it dripped a clear fluid out the end. He removed the canister which had been receiving it, quickly putting another in its place. "Now," he said, "sit down on that comfortable couch and try this." I was amazed. This was no madman. He was even smiling pleasantly. I sat down on the indicated couch and he handed me the canister, making a sign then that I should sip. I was cautious. I removed my snow mask but I only pretended to drink. "Oh, goodness, go ahead," said Crobe. "You're not depriving me! I have gallons and gallons of it." And he indicated a rack of jugs on the far wall. Well, it couldn't kill me. I tossed it down.

PURE FIRE!

It scorched my throat like acid! I couldn't talk! He watched me carefully. Then he said, "Ah, no convulsions. Which means the fusel oil has distilled off. Can you still see?" I coughed. "Of course I can see. Good Gods! What is this?" "The very finest Kentucky bourbon or possibly white mule. One of the many gifts to Heavens from the planet Earth. I learned how to make it from a professor there in a higher institute of learning called Bellevue." A glow was springing out of my stomach. My alarm faded. Actually, I suddenly felt very good. I looked around. I said, "I see you also have a lot of books." He smiled at the shelf. "They're a bit dog-eared now, but Noble Stuffy insisted they be brought for me from the townhouse long ago. He seemed to think I might need them." I stared at their titles. The letters? didn't make any sense. "Psychology, psychiatry," said Crobe, "and all the works of Sigmund Freud. All the basic texts of psychotherapy on Earth. But they won't let me use it here. They are very unenlightened and retarded. I could clean out this whole asylum for them but every day they gag me before they let the cleaning crew in. However, I have lots of friends, such as yourself, dropping around all the time. Have another shot?" He poured me one from a jug and then took one himself. He shuddered as it went down. He said, "Gods!" and after a second, "but that's good." Then he sighed. "I wish they'd let me have some retorts, for without them I can't make LSD. So you'll just have to be content. Drink up." I threw down the second drink. It sizzled like the first. But shortly, the room looked quite rosy. "Well, we've wasted enough time," said Crobe, glancing at his wrist where he had no watch. "I have other patients coming in, so you'll just have to rush it a bit. Now lie down on the couch and start talking." I lay back. I said, "What about?" "Does it matter?" he said. "We will simply begin by free association. You leave it to me. Just say anything that jumps into your head." Well, of course, the first thing that jumped into my head was the continual plotting of my family to manage my life for me. I said, "If my book is not a success, I am finished utterly. My uncles will crush me into some awful job or I'll have to marry that ghastly Lady Corsa and spend my life, much like you, in a cultural desert, Modon, an exile." "Ah," he said, "trouble with your mother!" "How did you know?" I said. "Obvious," he said. "Sigmund Freud covered it like a blanket. An Oedipus complex! I can get to the bottom of your case at once. It is a classic example of psycho-pathology. You see, there is the anal passive, followed by the anal erotic. Then there is the oral passive, followed by the oral erotic. There is also the genual stage but no one ever really reaches that. These are ALL the mental stages there are. Everything is based on sex. Sex is the single and only motivation for all behavior. So there you are." I thought maybe it was the white mule. "I don't quite understand." "That's because you have yet to achieve insight into your condition," said Crobe. "But it is VERY plain to me. Your mother did not let you play with her nipples when you were a baby. Correct?" "I don't think so," I said. "Itbu see? And that inhibited your natural sexual outlets! ALL your trouble with your family comes from that. This will inhibit you from freedom of expression and movement. The cure is simple. Just face up to the fact-and you MUST face up to it-that you are arrested in the oral erotic stage. You will NEVER find any remission of symptoms unless you ride roughshod over your repression and find yourself a nice young man and practice, unremittingly, fellatio" I stared at him. "I see I am being too technical for a layman. I am giving you pure Freud. Your insanity can be cured only by a life of dedication to making love only to young boys and men-orally, of course. Now, I am sorry," and he glanced at his watchless wrist, "but your appointment is over for the day. However, you are now cured so you need not come back. My calendar is overfull."