Chapter 10
At first the Doctors had protested when the Government had drafted them into being part of the political framework of the country but gradually they grew used to the role and actually enjoyed it.
Their job was to evaluate the political awareness of their patients during the twice a year medical exam which was compulsory for all citizens.
If they found that a citizen took no interest at all in the governing process, if they found that a citizen existed only to further his own selfish goals without a thought for the Body politic-then the doctors were required to treat them with hormonal transplants.
Treatments were short and intensive with results being obtained usually within a few weeks. No matter how the patient turned out after the treatment he or she was not required to undergo the hormonal transplants again because it could cause severe physical damage in the body. Thus, the doctors were under pressure to do it right the first time and they took extraordinary precautions so that the transplants would work. The theory behind the transplants was quite new.
It had been found that certain space aliens completely lost all sense of living in a community when there was destruction of certain glands in their body. This was the breakthrough for the new theory of social behavior which seated the root of all that behavior in the glandular chain.
Each doctor, when he performed a hormone transplant was required to submit a detailed, step-by-step account of the process. This account was then filed for future scientific and political reasons.
Below is one such paper by a physician.
SUCCESSFUL TRANSPLANTATION OF ADRENALIN HORMONE IN A THIRTY YEAR OLD WOMEN
The patient was found to be politically undeveloped. In a series of conversations the patient declared that she was interested only in her own artistic and moral development and that she didn't "give a damn" for the rest of the community.
Various other comments assured me that if the patient was not cured she would continue to exhibit such anti-social behavior and that there may even be more serious manifestations.
After discussing the case with the leading resident at the hospital, we both agreed that an adrenalin transplant would be the most excellent form of therapy. This was arrived at only after a careful diagnosis of the patient's history.
The patient (whom I will designate as N.) refused such treatment at first. Only after prolonged verbal therapy did she finally sign the paper allowing us to continue.
The hormone extract was obtained by a fellow doctor who was present at the death of a distinguished academician. He collected the substance immediately before death, making sure not to violate the Transplant Law. For the past seven months the substance has been kept in the Martian medical vaults undergoing various tests for purity. It was found to be totally without flaw.
I injected the hormone into the patient at midnight. The choice of time was selected because the patient still had certain residues of superstitions about various times and I thought it would be best not to tamper with those superstitions.
Complete photographs were taken of the operation. I saw the fluid race through the body and seek out her adrenal glands. Once there, the alien adrenalin began to change the workings of the gland, forcing it to produce other substances like itself rather than the host liquid.
The invading substance soon took complete control over the host gland, proving further, if any further proof is needed, that foreign substances in the glandular system can act as attacking forces and capture rather than kill the secreting glands.
Except for a few hours of nausea, N. showed no adverse effects to the operation and the takeover. She was placed in the restriction ward and watched closely for the required convalescence period.
I entered the room for my first post-operative interview with N. She was lying on the bed and she refused to recognize my presence for the first fifteen minutes. Finally, after severe verbal provocation she cursed me and said that she still wasn't changed, she still was interested in her own happiness and her own development.
It was obvious that the hormonal transplant would not be useful at all unless she reached a state of total excitement. It was during that interview that I realized only erotic behavior directed toward her would get the transplant working. I left the room with that thought weighing heavily on my mind.
Checking with other physicians, they also told me that the hormone needed a tremendous psychic effort in order to activate itself and that sex seemed the most likely candidate. Once the hormone activated itself and poured into the bloodstream, the peculiar combination of a foreign gland in the body would change her point of view. Although this is, in itself, a very complicated process, it is detailed in a score of medical journals.
Three days after the first visit I entered the room again.
"What kept you so long?" The patient asked, sarcastically.
I pulled up a chair near the bed and went through the ritual of checking her pulse and heartbeat.
"Please strip to the waist," I asked.
She did as I requested. Her large full breasts were magnificently shaped and she knew it; she almost thrust them in my face. It was a crucial part in the interview. I had to do something. I had to get that hormone working. Moving close as if to examine her further, I quickly sank my teeth in her flesh, digging deep into the succulent white mound until she screamed and brought her fists down on my head.
Quickly I released her and moved away. Her mouth was open in a look of dumb dismay as she watched the small trickle of blood stain her breast.
"You pig," she said.
I remained silent, hoping she would begin to curse me, hoping my action would drive her into a frenzy, but soon she calmed down and lay back.
"Why don't you get out?"
"Because I have more work to do with you."
"You want to bite my other breast?"
Moving quickly to her side, I began to lick the wound, washing away the blood with my tongue. I was becoming excited and I felt my breath straining but she remained as cool and detached as ever. Finally, disgusted, I left the room.
During the second visit I tried a more authoritative tack. Asking her to stand, I literally ripped the clothes off her and then walked around her, nodding and murmuring to myself.
"What are you looking for gold?"
Her answer was my belt, ripped suddenly from my pants and laced across her back. She cringed against the fall wall as I approached her again, the sneering look wiped from her face.
Again I brought it down against her flesh and could see the welts begin to rise. She fell back against the wall and slid to the floor, opening her body to me. The leather flicked out and I caught her on the niople. She uttered a terrible cry of pain and folded her arms over her breasts to protect her precious point.
Then the buttocks, full-bodied and firm. They waited for the last. I brought it down savagely, with the buckle first, letting the steel sink into those palpitating buns.
The sound of steel crucifying flesh resounded throughout the room. I kept at it, beating her buttocks until they looked like striped meat freshly cut from the butchers rack. But there was no response other than the normal one of hate and fear. The hormone transplant did not activate itself. Leaving the room after the severe beating, I felt exhausted and ashamed of myself.
With my defeat constantly rankling me, I called a meeting of my fellow workers and presented them with the facts of the case. Few of them disagreed with my diagnosis but one counseled me to take more overt sexual actions. To put it bluntly, I was afraid to take that action. She was a very imposing woman and she frightened me to a certain extent.
But I resolved to carry out the erotic endeavor. The next time I visited the room she practically growled when she saw me. I sat on the edge of the bed and apologized for the beating.
"It was necessary."
"Ah," she replied, "everything seems to be necessary."
"The hormone must be activated."
"For whom? Not for me."
"Yes, for you," I lectured her softly, "for your salvation."
"Salvation?" she scoffed, "you sound like one of those obsolete priests."
My hands were on her body but there was no violence in them. I let my fingers move down her flesh, feeling the firmness, feeling the latent passion in her frame. She was a magnificent looking woman and I enjoyed every moment.
Suddenly, for the first time, I felt something in her, some genuine sign of excitement. She had closed her eyes, moaned, and spread her thighs wide. My hand began to rub that silken triangle.
I felt a tremendous surge of optimism I felt that I would succeed.
Moving between her legs I let my mouth play with her flower, licking the opening and letting my tongue dart into her, piercing her for just a moment to give her a taste of what could await her. She was becoming more excited, flinging her arms up and writhing.
I moved away from her.
"Here, here," I called to her as if she was a dog.
She hesitated. I could see her caught between conflicting emotions.
"Why don't you squat, like the bitch you are," I said.
Something was happening to her. The hormone was beginning to activate. I could tell by the strange pallor of her face and the fact that her extremities were flushed, her toes and fingers and nipples.
She got down on all fours. She was beginning to take my every allusion as gospel. I mentioned the word "bitch" and instead of reasoning, she acted it out. She crawled about the floor, making strange sounds. Every once in a while she shuddered.
I came up behind her and let my flesh play against her exposed and uplifted vagina. She nuzzled back as a bitch in heat backs against a male.
In I rammed it, deep in, to the hilt. She cried out but before she could do anything I began to pump, and she howled like a bitch.
"No, no," her voice was parched and croaked.
As I pumped, I talked, trying by my words to raise the level of her hormonal action. It was successful; I could feel her body splintering apart, I could feel the wet, steamy vagina close around my shaft and with each plunge I could feel something moving through her body beside lust. It was working, it was moving, the experiment was beginning to take a definitive form.
Withdrawing my penis, she screamed for more, but I pushed her down and let my semen pour into her lips. Her eyes were shut and she seemed to be losing consciousness, but her mouth imbibed the seed.
Then all was quiet. Not wanting to interrupt the flow of hormone, I left the room and watched her from the observation entrance, she seemed distracted, almost like a galactic traveler, her feet wavering and her knees almost jelly-like.
The next day I returned.
"Well?" I asked, smiling.
She reached for me and her hands were all over my body. She was in a state of extreme excitement. The transplant was obviously pumping hormones at an incredible rate into her bloodstream. She clutched at me as if I was her last hope.
"Are you all right?"
When I asked that question she began to weep and jabber away.
It took almost a week to fully harness the hormone. Gradually, however, she lost her individual passion and the mysterious hormonal and chemical reaction began to seep into her psyche. By the time another week had passed, she was completely socialized.
There is no doubt in my mind that N.'s case has proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that massive hormonal changes through the use of transplants can permanently affect the psychic contraction of the brain, particularly in the area of political affairs.