Someone laid a hand on his arm. He turned around, annoyed, and looked into blue eyes that twinkled a warning. It was a bearded archeologist who had always been mysteriously friendly. He wasabout to plead an appointment and break away but the man looked at him steadily.
'You're interested in linguistics, thought you might like to have a look at this...'
There was no stopping the fellow and the clipping was interesting, he saw that at a glance. It was relative to a theory Clinch had written to the effect that every language had a particular cadence or rhythm that could be reduced to a neutral musical score. This score, once learned, would literally pull the language into the student's mind.
This thesis was coldly received by his superiors; and Clinch's obtuse persistence in pushing it finally resulted in a penal assignment in La Paz.
An inheritance from an uncle saved him sitting out years of ignominy writing for his pension.
As he read the clipping he heard the clock strike eleven in the market. He finished the clipping and handed it back. As he turned into the market he heard the cry, 'Amok! Amok! Amok!'. And there was Ali with his kris in front of the drugstore. The shutters fell like a guillotine. The old market women were scampering off with the agility of rats or evil spirits.
Three of them were too slow.
And now Ali was running straight towards him, face blazing like a comet. Clinch Smith stood up. He felt the hair stir on the back of his neck and a shiver spattered his body with goosepimples.
'Ali, Ali, Ali.'
He walked over and took the kris from the wall. It seemed to leap into his hand. He opened the door and started for the Scientology Center, moving with a purposeful trot, the kris held in front of him.
And then the shots. Three heavy slugs tore into Ali's body and he kept coming. Three more bullets cut him down and he fell at Clinch's feet. Sun-helmet, shorts, the lean bronze face.
He shoved the Webley. 45 automatic revolver into his holster and buttoned it in. It is, far as I know, the only automatic revolver ever made. There are etchings in the cylinder so that each shot turns the cylinder and recocks the revolver. It was sold as the fastest handgun ever made.
'Come along to the club, old man. You could do with a drink.' The officer turned. The policeman had approached reluctantly; and the officer gave him some orders in crisp Malay.
Clinch Smith: 'I'd like the kris as a souvenir, you understand. He was my houseboy.'
'Oh, yes, of course, old chap. Quite understand. I'll have it sent along to your digs.'
The Scientologist, meanwhile, whose name was Reg, walked away in a down-stat condition. He could feel his gains ebbing away in the afternoon streets that were suddenly full of raw menace that seemed to bounce off walls and windows. The arc was flowing out of him and he felt a terrible weakness. He feared the sin of self- invalidation.
'I must up-stat myself,' he told himself, firmly. 'I'll make a report to Ethics'. He swayed and steadied himself on a tree. Silver spots boiled in front of his eyes. He turned a corner, and there, just ahead, a knot of people. Accident, fight perhaps, here was a chance to prove himself. Perhaps he could save a little girl from dying of burns with a brilliant touch-assist. The words of Ron came back to him: 'in any kind of emergency, just be there, saying firmly, 'You are standing in my space.'' And while the Wogs think that over he is past them and right up to the front where he sees some hippies fighting with local youths and landed gentry. He looked up and caught his breath. Five members of the Sea Org resplendent in blue uniforms shoved their way through the crowd.
'Hey, you're not proper boogies.' A gang of boys from Glasgow were closing in, slow hands caressing switchblades in their pockets.
Lord Westfield had been born intelligent, at the same time very rich. This unusual occurence of retrograde planetary juxtapositions, all agree it was a radioactive day, when everything is ugly and menacing street boys scream insults. Mules foaled and the hooded deal did gibber in the streets in Clayton, Missouri. Four schoolboys caught jacking-off by MacIntosh the druggist who is a self-styled sodomy fighter and goes around looking for the bastards, screaming, 'I will D R A A A A G you to the police!' Got five years for sodomy.
In Mississippi they strung a nigger up under a railroad bridge, burning his genitals off with a blowtorch. The face of the man with the torch? 'Well, we dressed him up in Esquire clothes, it became the new look, the bold look. And he was a pretty hot property. Now, we had an exclusive on this good thing; and I happened to remember the day was one thing like that after the other.'
'A woman bit the cock off her husband because he was queer; and her copper loving brother stomped him to death.'
Now, had Lord Westfield been born under any other circumstances, he would undoubtedly have been successful. From an early age he observed the deference paid him by the townspeople. He was not stupid enough to think this was his by some mysterious right. Lord Westfield disliked mysteries. A mystery is an unknown factor and therefore dangerous. He could see these people were cowed and broken; but he wanted to know exactly how this had been done so he could make sure such a desirable state of affairs would continue.
As a child and adolescent he amused himself by seeing how many insults humiliations he could inflict on the local villagers. 'Always,' he told himself, 'inflict as much damage as you possibly can on anyone you encounter. If you leave him feeling worse than when you saw him, something of value has been accomplished.'
To this end he betook himself to secret studies and employed a firm of private investigators who were glad to do anything for his Lordship, who never forgot them on Christmas and no questions asked.
'Go look into this and that. See what Doctor Miller has to say. You have journalistic credentials...Scientists are very absentminded, thank God. Get me the data on Scientology.'
The agent dumps a pile of books and pamphlets on Lord Westfield's desk. Lord Westfield leafs through a book. Wearily he sweeps the pile of books to the floor.
'This isn't what I want....this illiterate drivel...I want the course material, I want all of it, on the market or in preparation. You understand me?'
'You mean I have to go and take courses, Sir? Why not just lift the lot?'
The firm of Jenkins and Coldbourne were experts in gaining access to premises, photographing and replacing documents. They had done a number of these jobs for Lord Westfield with exemplary efficiency.
