He had been very well brought up: He had to be true to his mother at any cost, even his life. Since he had been a baby it had been dinned
There's that word again.
into him that boys who did not sleep with their mothers were unnatural and it had been proven to him without doubt, even in his schools, where the word of the psychiatrist Freud was five times holier than God's.
I thought those monstrous psychologists were teaching everybody that they had no souls and God was dead and all that?
Unless one had a firm Oedipus complex, expressing libidinous desires for one's mother, one could never hope to be a genius at his trade. To abandon it would be a negation of his own wits. Without this bright spark, according to all Freudian teachings, he would fall into crass mediocrity, descended to a mere hack or drudge. There was no such thing, according to psychologists, as a genius who was not neurotic. Without that genius--which Madison never doubted--he would die professionally. Like all PR men, belief in himself was the first thing one had to establish and only then could others believe in him.
I'd consider this whole section to be deeply ironic if I actually considered Hubbard anything close to a genius. As it is, he got saddled with all the neuroses and none of the talent.
But his mother had reinforced it by continually reminding him of how indulgent she was. After his father departed she had not burdened him with another whom he could only hate, and how very few mothers would bother to give a son this much attention. His mother was a dear thing, still quite pretty at forty-nine. When he thought of all the sacrifices she had made for him, foregoing all other men, the least he could do was reciprocate and forego all other women. But it went deeper than that: completely aside from any Freudian orders from his child psychologist, made more real with mild electric shocks, he truly loved her. She had warned him repeatedly of the dangers of other women, as had his current psychiatrist, and colliding in life with such heartless creatures as Teenie, he agreed with them utterly.
Yeah, Teenie's a walking argument for contraception, if not voluntary human extinction
It would not only wreck him mentally to have sex with Teenie, it would break his mother's heart. She would probably commit suicide, a thing she often had to be prevented from doing, and he knew, if that happened, he would promptly do the same.
No, to go up those stairs and get in bed with Teenie would be the end of all he knew. Impossible! That was out. Better to die at dawn. Far better.
Bless his heart, Madison's still convinced he'll be going back to Earth soon! I'm sure most other characters in his situation would be considering their old lives over and be thinking of how to make the most of their new existence as... well, not prisoner, not exactly employed either, since they aren't being paid... huh. How do you classify these two? Hauled across the galaxy by a group that has decided to do jack squat with them.
Naturally, while reflecting on love and death, Madison starts thinking about Heller again. The author's eager to blame psychology for this guy's incestuous tendencies, but offers no explanation for why Madison's fixated on finishing this job even though the original context has been completely torn away.
Madison recaps some of the previous books, his work with those three women to paint Wister/Heller as "the greatest outlaw lover in history," and shares his unrealized plans to have Heller/Wister rob the Federal Reserve before dying in "the biggest public execution man had ever known. Wister would have been absolutely IMMORTAL!" Oh, if only he had the opportunity to do Histler the same favor on Voltar!
He began to daydream in the dim and empty hall: headlines about Heller robbing the estates of Lords and giving the proceeds to the poor; Heller robbing spaceships, 18-point type; Heller kidnapping the daughter of some earl or duke and story after story of her pleading with him piteously to be raped--how the public would LOVE it!
I'm not sure Madison knows what "raped" means.
Headlines of Heller robbing every bank on every planet of the entire Confederacy, each one with a new twist, each one with new blood, each one with new staggering amounts of loot being given to the poor. What a hero he would be! Heller, the most hunted outlaw in 125,000 years! Confederacy history! MAGNIFICENT!
Now I'm curious how Madison's previous attempt to start WWIII over Heller fit into his obsession with bank robberies and not-rapes.
Then he had another idea: He could hyphenate Heller's name. He could call him Heller-Wister and rake in and rake over ALL the earlier stories, spreading them throughout the entire Confederacy. No, his earlier work was NOT lost--it was only being amplified!
I'm pretty sure "back on another planet" is as good as lost, not "amplified!"
Madison continues to fantasize about Mr. Bury shaking his hand, tears in his eyes, and making him head of that F.F.B.O. publishing firm. And then he gets morose, wondering if Bury might be able to punish him for his failure even here, since the man was "sort of supernatural." This is an immensely strange and confusing thing to say, and of course the author doesn't bother to explain it. But it's nice of him to sprinkle a little bit of "the hell?" on our sundae of stupidity.
Obviously, this required some other solution!
He was usually good at getting ideas and had always been proud that, because of the Oedipus complex, he was a genius at it. But tonight his mind seemed bankrupt.
And we're back to our viewpoint character sitting around, desperately hoping for some INSPIRATION! to show him a way out of his current mess. It's like we're in the middle of Book Seven all over again!
Fortunately Madison is less mentally deficient than Gris, and doesn't require weeks on a luxury yacht to get an idea. Instead he realizes that two hours have passed since Teenie's presentation, redoubles his thinking, and mentally reviews his conversations with Teenie since meeting her by the pool. Now, Hubbard could have mentioned that as a journa... ahem, as a guy paid to type things, Madison has a good memory when it comes to conversations. It'd have added a sliver of verisimilitude, an acknowledgement that certain skills are useful in certain careers But I guess even that would be giving Madison too much credit.
Suddenly he stiffened in his chair.
HE HAD IT!
Eureka! Go to the room, punch the teenage girl in the jaw, and run for it! ...Wait, you're thinking something different, aren't you?
If it didn't work, he would only be dead anyway.
IF IT DID, HE COULD FINISH HIS JOB ON HELLER-WISTER!
Madison looked up at the guard. Calmly, keeping all signs of elation out of his voice so the guard would suppose him to be operating in defeat, he said, "Take me upstairs to your mistress."
OH, GOD, THIS HAD TO WORK!
And we're all... cheering for you, certainly invested in... and hoping for your success, yeah. Go Madison. Continue writing garbage about Heller. Yaaaay.
Back to Part Seventy-Two, Chapter Ten