Citizen of the Galaxy Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Robert A. Heinlein
man lighted a candle, switched off the glow plates. Using the flame to focus attention he started the ancient routines of monotonous suggestion, of relaxation, drowsiness . . . sleep.
"Thorby, you are asleep but you can hear me. You can answer."
"Yes, Pop."
"You will stay asleep until I tell you to wake. But you will be able to answer any question I ask."
"Yes, Pop."
"You remember the ship that brought you here. What was its name?"
"The Merry Widow . Only that wasn't what we called it."
"You remember getting into that ship. Now you are in it—you can see it. You remember all about it. Now go back to where you were when you went aboard."
The boy stiffened without waking. "I don't want to!"
"I'll be right with you. You'll be safe. Now what is the name of the place? Go back to it. Look at it."
An hour and a half later Baslim still squatted beside the sleeping boy. Sweat poured down wrinkles in his face and he felt badly shaken. To get the boy back to the time he wanted to explore it had been necessary to force him back through experiences disgusting even to Baslim, old and hardened as he was. Repeatedly Thorby had fought against it, nor could Baslim blame him—he felt now that he could count the scars on the boy's back and assign a villain to each.
But he had achieved his purpose: to delve farther back than the boy's waking memory ran, back into his very early childhood, and at last to the traumatic moment when the baby manchild had been taken from his parents.
He left the boy in deep coma while he collected his shattered thoughts. The last few moments of the quest had been so bad that the old man doubted his judgment in trying to dig out the source of the trouble.
Well, let's see . . . what had he found out?
The boy was born free. But he had always been sure of that.
The boy's native language was System English, spoken with an accent Baslim could not place; it had been blurred by baby speech. That placed him inside the Terran Hegemony; it was even possible (though not likely) that the boy had been born on Earth. That was a surprise; he had thought the boy's native language was Interlingua, since he spoke it better than he did the other three he knew.
What else? Well, the boy's parents were certainly dead, if the confused and terror-ridden memory he had pried out of the boy's skull could be trusted. He had been unable to dig out their family name nor any way of identifying them—they were just "Papa" and "Mama"—so Baslim gave up a half-formed plan of trying to get word to relatives of the boy.
Well, now to make this ordeal he had put the lad through worth the cost—
"Thorby?"
The boy moaned and stirred. "Yes, Pop?"
"You are asleep. You won't wake up until I tell you to."
"I won't wake up until you tell me to."
"When I tell you, you will wake at once. You will feel fine and you won't remember anything we've talked about."
"Yes, Pop."
"You will forget. But you will feel fine. About half an hour later you will feel sleepy again. I'll tell you to go to bed and you will go to bed and go right to sleep. You'll sleep all night, good sleep and pleasant dreams. You won't have any more bad dreams. Say it."
"I won't have any more bad dreams."
"You won't ever have any more bad dreams. Not ever."
"Not ever."
"Papa and Mama don't want you to have any bad dreams. They're happy and they want you to be happy. When you dream about them, it will always be happy dreams."
"Happy dreams."
"Everything is all right now, Thorby. You are starting to wake. You're waking up and you can't remember what we've been talking about. But you'll never have bad dreams again. Wake up, Thorby."
The boy sat up, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and grinned. "Gee, I fell asleep. Guess I played out on you, Pop. Didn't work, huh?"
"Everything's all right, Thorby."
It took more than one session to lay those ghosts, but the nightmares dwindled and stopped. Baslim was not technician enough to remove the bad memories; they were still there.
"Thorby, you are asleep but you can hear me. You can answer."
"Yes, Pop."
"You will stay asleep until I tell you to wake. But you will be able to answer any question I ask."
"Yes, Pop."
"You remember the ship that brought you here. What was its name?"
"The Merry Widow . Only that wasn't what we called it."
"You remember getting into that ship. Now you are in it—you can see it. You remember all about it. Now go back to where you were when you went aboard."
The boy stiffened without waking. "I don't want to!"
"I'll be right with you. You'll be safe. Now what is the name of the place? Go back to it. Look at it."
An hour and a half later Baslim still squatted beside the sleeping boy. Sweat poured down wrinkles in his face and he felt badly shaken. To get the boy back to the time he wanted to explore it had been necessary to force him back through experiences disgusting even to Baslim, old and hardened as he was. Repeatedly Thorby had fought against it, nor could Baslim blame him—he felt now that he could count the scars on the boy's back and assign a villain to each.
But he had achieved his purpose: to delve farther back than the boy's waking memory ran, back into his very early childhood, and at last to the traumatic moment when the baby manchild had been taken from his parents.
He left the boy in deep coma while he collected his shattered thoughts. The last few moments of the quest had been so bad that the old man doubted his judgment in trying to dig out the source of the trouble.
Well, let's see . . . what had he found out?
The boy was born free. But he had always been sure of that.
The boy's native language was System English, spoken with an accent Baslim could not place; it had been blurred by baby speech. That placed him inside the Terran Hegemony; it was even possible (though not likely) that the boy had been born on Earth. That was a surprise; he had thought the boy's native language was Interlingua, since he spoke it better than he did the other three he knew.
What else? Well, the boy's parents were certainly dead, if the confused and terror-ridden memory he had pried out of the boy's skull could be trusted. He had been unable to dig out their family name nor any way of identifying them—they were just "Papa" and "Mama"—so Baslim gave up a half-formed plan of trying to get word to relatives of the boy.
Well, now to make this ordeal he had put the lad through worth the cost—
"Thorby?"
The boy moaned and stirred. "Yes, Pop?"
"You are asleep. You won't wake up until I tell you to."
"I won't wake up until you tell me to."
"When I tell you, you will wake at once. You will feel fine and you won't remember anything we've talked about."
"Yes, Pop."
"You will forget. But you will feel fine. About half an hour later you will feel sleepy again. I'll tell you to go to bed and you will go to bed and go right to sleep. You'll sleep all night, good sleep and pleasant dreams. You won't have any more bad dreams. Say it."
"I won't have any more bad dreams."
"You won't ever have any more bad dreams. Not ever."
"Not ever."
"Papa and Mama don't want you to have any bad dreams. They're happy and they want you to be happy. When you dream about them, it will always be happy dreams."
"Happy dreams."
"Everything is all right now, Thorby. You are starting to wake. You're waking up and you can't remember what we've been talking about. But you'll never have bad dreams again. Wake up, Thorby."
The boy sat up, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and grinned. "Gee, I fell asleep. Guess I played out on you, Pop. Didn't work, huh?"
"Everything's all right, Thorby."
It took more than one session to lay those ghosts, but the nightmares dwindled and stopped. Baslim was not technician enough to remove the bad memories; they were still there.
Similar Books
Reckless
Samantha Love
Highland Rake
Terry Spear
Everybody's After Love
Lyssa Layne
The Wrong Man
Matthew Louis
Where
Kit Reed
Paradise Lodge
Nina Stibbe
The Legend of Mickey Tussler
Frank; Nappi
Bette Midler
Mark Bego
