by Paul Roberts

Preview

Freud lived in the age of the steam engine. When people became nervous, it was because they were under pressure. They needed to let off steam. Hagbard S. Mellonball had been an electrical engineer in the age of vacuum tubes and wire. So he described demon circuits and tangled wiring. The wiring needed his help to be untangled. Drugs and hardware helped, too. As the movement grew, it explicitly became a religion. The Freudians were only implicitly a religion. Since H. Reginald Wilson studied quantum physics, mental aberrations and stresses were modeled in the ten dimensions of quantum math. The three physical dimensions were said to resemble Freud's id, ego and super ego. The time dimension was still the time dimension. But the other six dimensions that normally represented the tightly-bound quantum relationships morphed into odd mental attributes that helped produce different Infinite Integration levels. In its own unique twist, this growing religion did not claim that anyone came from outer space. Instead, they came from the lost continents of Atlantis and Lemuria. The Hollywood elites ate it up. Added to the drugs and the whimsical hardware were the unique "services" that the Church of Histhology performed after death. Cryogenically freezing your brain for later implantation into another body also cost a lot of money. In fact, the thing Hollywood seemed to like the most about it was that it cost a lot of money. It was a religion that usually only the rich and famous could afford, and so conferred instant status.

Production

Andrew Weinstein waited in his office at the Weinstein Exotechnologies Workshop in Arlington, Virginia. "Why be nervous?" he thought. "It's only a meeting with a psychiatrist. And not even a real one, at that. Only a religious quack." But somehow he did feel nervous. He had called the local Hall of the Church of Histhology for a preliminary consultation regarding membership. He had implied that the entire League of Explorers was interested in joining. At their suggestion, he had assembled the internal resumes of some of the current members. As a precaution, he had gone through and personally redacted some of the more sensitive data. Someone named Father Perennias would be arriving soon to conduct the preliminary evaluation. Lucas would have called his reaction "opening night jitters." He kept remembering Professor Callidy's description of the robed cultists, the wavy blades, the strange idols. Were they from the Church of Histhology or from something that slipped through from another dimension? But when his secretary showed Father Perennias in, the Father wore the collar of a Catholic Priest with a dark shirt and pants. His short round stature, together with his well-trimmed mustache and red van dyke beard made him look more like Sigmund Freud's dream of a Catholic leprechaun than anything else. "Well, if he is a cultist," thought Andy. "He's not quite the sort I expected." "Good evening, Father," he said pleasantly. "What can you tell me about the Church of Histhology?" "Not very much, I'm afraid. Not until after the initial evaluation is completed. Do you have the paperwork?" "Of course, it is all ready for you. Please have a seat." "Oh, no. I must have a quiet place to sit and go over the materials you provide. Then, if I find that the Church would be interested, I will need to interview the applicants." "Well, Father, some of them are out of town just now, but you can talk to me." "No, no. I really need to look at your paperwork, so I can see just what sort of people you are." "Pardon me Father, but aren't you going just a bit far? After all, what kind of church investigates their future parishioners?" "A very careful one, I think. The Church has gotten quite a bit of bad publicity in the past. So if you'll just provide me with the resumes and a quiet place to look at them for a few hours, then I'll be willing to talk." Andy thought it over. Was he willing to let the man look at their files, however carefully redacted, without any information or assurances from the Church? "My secretary, Miss Moneypence, can show you to the library. Will that suffice?" "I believe that would do, Mr. Weinstein." Andy walked to the door and opened it. "Miss Moneypence, could you give the good Father the files we assembled earlier and show him to the library please?" "Certainly, sir." She picked up the thick stack of manila folders from a corner of her desk. "Just walk this way, Father." Father Perennias raised his eyebrows at Andrew Weinstein and looked like he was about ready to waggle a cigar and reply, "I couldn't walk that way if I tried." But he didn't. It was four hours and twenty-three minutes later before the good Father reappeared.

Presentation

Miss Moneypence ushered Father Perennias through the door of Andrew Weinstein's office. "Well Father, what can you tell me now?" Weinstein asked. "It would take a while to do proper psychological evaluations, but my initial findings tell me that you are all a bunch of very sick people," replied Father Perennias. "What?" "Well, you know who the crazy ones are, I suppose - but still! You want the preliminary rundown -- in layman's terms?" "Ok, spill it!" "Where to start . . . OK, let's look at Lucas Curry. Obviously, he's part of a self-hating, somewhat delusional clique within the Explorers. I won't say he's a coward, but when he can't bring himself to hurt a man who filled up 55 gallon drums with human hands and feet in Afghanistan . . . well . . . And he can't have much of a feeling of self-worth if he doesn't believe that we are better than them, can he? When he has to make the hard choices, he runs away." "Then there's this woman Ellie Janice McDonaldson. She chases rock stars like a teenaged groupie. She hates the government of the country that keeps her safe. She has the delusion that the government uses the Patriot Act like Harry Potter uses his wand to just get anything they wish. In short, she is a silly, self-centered, selfish . . . but why go on?" "Alexander Hall is the third part of this odd clique. Trust-fund baby. Always in trouble. He's almost a parody of an archetype of an . . . Holy Mother, what a mess!" "Major Primeaux is almost normal by comparison. Which isn't to say that she's normal, it's just that most of the others are really messed up. Undoubtedly, she suffers from post traumatic stress disorder. Nothing she can't recover from eventually with the proper therapy. However, from the Church's point of view, she is the least promising of the lot. She has no money." "James Callidy with his unusual relationship with all the unusual books. Another one of these self-deluded types. Let me ask you something . . . Do all of you people really believe that you have super-powers? Or is that just some weird type of play-acting thing like role-playing games or something?" Andrew had been sitting back taking it all in slowly. Finally now, he responded. "Father Perennias, I don't believe you have understood a thing in those files if you can ask a question like that! Tell me, do you thing we could all qualify for membership in the Church of Histhology if I financially sponsored everybody?" "Absolutely not! The Church of Histhology already has its share of lunatics. It isn't just a matter of money. Nowadays you have to be of reasonably sound mind, too. There's been a lot of bad publicity from some of the crazier members of the Church, so now no one is allowed to join who doesn't pass the psych exam. All of you just flunked! Super powers, indeed!" "Could I ask one more question, Father? What kind of evaluation would you give me?" "You mean besides the fact that you're rich, self-centered, and have strong sociopathic tendencies?" "Yeah, besides that." "You and your friends should get some professionally help for your super-hero delusions."

Prologue

"Father, can you tell me nothing then about the Church?" "Not much. I only contract to do the first-phase evaluations. I am not myself a member. As a matter of fact, the Pope probably wouldn't even approve of my doing these evaluations, but what with the law suits - well we have to keep the doors open somehow." "Good day, Mr. Weinstein." After the Father left, Weinstein sat musing on the outcome of his gambit. For someone who thought he was the smartest man in the world, he'd sure been dumb. The Church of Histhology had investigated him, when he meant to investigate them. This was going to be more of a challenge than he had thought.   Next: Solar Prominences   Characters created by Jesse N. Wiley and various authors

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Text Copyright © 2009 Paul Roberts