Mission: Earth "Doomed Planet"

Despite the throttlehold on my throat, despite my hangover, elation coursed through me! Not even the jar when Prahd threw me down could wipe out my triumph. Pratia must have gotten him as part of her trade for fuel! But how monstrous! Here he was, surrounded by his worst enemies-Ske, Meeley and even Bawtch-before he died! How they must torment him and gloat! What glee they must feel with him locked up there in the attic! I was staring at those insane eyes and then I further understood. He was carrying another man's sperm: every time he had impregnated a woman it had been not for himself but for Prahd! How devilish Prahd had been, siring babies all over the place without a single blot on his professional ethics! And there Gris was, still under the sentence of death: Teenie had simply delegated it to Pratia! No wonder his prison records still existed! The sentence had never been completed! And Pratia had had him (bleeping) himself crazy all these years siring another man's children!

A TERRIFIC, MONSTROUS ADDITIONAL COVER-UP!

The insane eyes withdrew from the attic window. I giggled in Prahd's face. Hangover or no hangover, I knew right then that I was one of the greatest investigative reporters that ever lived! / had found Soltan Gris!

For three days after I got home I was not much good for anything. My heart was pumping overtime, though I realized this must be because I simply was not used to marijuana. My eyes continued to be bloodshot, caused, of course, by my rubbing them too often. My throat was dry, but only when I wasn't drinking water. It was also bruised deep inside, a condition occasioned, naturally, by Prahd's grip. The body contusions and chafed (bleep) just showed that I was not used to sex. The doctor that Hound called asked if I'd been mauled and chewed by a snug and wanted to give me numerous shots for snug-bite. I said no, but Hound said yes and the reaction from the shots was far worse than any illness I might have had. These people were far too nosy and it was with great relief, on the fourth day, when they finally let me out. The bruises had turned yellow. I ignored the ruptured veins. I grabbed Shafter and made him pack the old air-tourer. I had things to do! In my pocket nestled a note I had blackmailed out of Prahd. It was on the stationery of the King's Own Physician and it said I was a medical inspector. He had quickly seen the light when I had told him that my great-uncle, Lord Dohm, at the Royal prison, would be fascinated to know where his prisoner, Soltan Gris, had gotten to and, further, that the neighbors in that elegant neighborhood might object to mobs burning down Minx Estates if they found the hated Gris was not only alive but in the attic there. Prahd had seen the light, all right! I marvelled at the way I was rapidly picking up the skills of an investigative reporter: I could do them so well now that even the after-haze of marijuana could not dull them. And neither could these broken veins and bruises! I was heading for the Confederacy Insane Asylum on the chance that Doctor Crobe and Lombar Hisst were still alive! If there had been a cover-up on so many other things, might it not be true that their TRUE condition might also be masked? Perhaps they had just been the victims of political opportunism and chicanery! It might be that they were illegally held! What a coup if I established THAT! The Confederacy Asylum is far, far to the north. There is a wasteland there that borders a vast ocean near the northern pole of Voltar, a dismal place, covered most of the year with ice. It was the autumn season and the quarter of the year which covered the north with perpetual night had not quite arrived, though Voltar's sun was awfully low on the horizon on these brief, remaining days. After an overnight stop at a midway air hostel, we arrived in the twilight of a 10:00 A.M. dawn. As far as one could see, there were small huts and buildings. They ended at a cliff edge far above the sullen northern ocean. Shafter landed on the target marked Reception Center. Wrapped in an electric-heated jacket and covered by a snow mask, I stepped out into the shrieking, icy wind. A guard flinched at the letter and hastily directed me into the building and down a long hall to the office of the Resident Keeper. Strangely enough, the official was a cheerful, bright young man with black eyes and charm. The sign said his name was Neht. He came right out of his chair when I handed him the note. His hair rose faster than he did but the speed of his recovery told me all I needed to know: his appointment was political rather than technical and was held by INFLUENCE. I didn't remove my snow mask. I said severely, "There have been rumors of mistreatment of inmates, denial of medical care." To my astonishment, his alarm did not just switch to charm. It went right on to laughter. "I can't imagine where that came from," he said at length. "We have a staff of physiological doctors unrivalled in skills. You will forgive my seeming mirth. Actually, it is relief. There has been criticism of a different kind: that our employment of gerontological technology on inmates adversely affected our budgetary burden. No, no, inspector, you will not find mistreatment here. The bodily illnesses of the insane-and they are many-are extraordinarily well cared for. And I can assure you that this task is performed, despite its difficulties: you see, the insane do tend to bash themselves around. But we patch them up, regardless. You see, we are forbidden by law to tamper with their nerves or damage them, but I assure you that, when they get ill or even scratched, they are cared for at once." "You spoke of gerontological technology," I said. "Are there abuses there?" "Some say so," replied Neht. "But personally, I am proud of it. By extending age in inmates, it can be argued that the cost of ru