13 September 2001:
YOO-HOO! PTSC! About those copyrights PART 1
YOO-HOO! PTSC! About those copyrights PART 2
YOO-HOO! PTSC! About those copyrights PART 3
YOO-HOO! PTSC! About those copyrights PART 4

22 August 2001:
Re: Attention Librarian

5 March 2001:
Re: Question for CL or Librarian

10 April 2000:
Part 1, 1972-1973 FIX AND REPOST
Part 1, 1972-1973 FIX AND REPOST (Continued)
Part 2, 1974-1975 FIX AND REPOST
Part 2, 1974-1975 FIX AND REPOST (Continued)
Part 3, 1976-A FIX AND REPOST
Part 4, 1976-B FIX AND REPOST
Part 5, 1977 FIX AND REPOST
Part 6, 1978 FIX AND REPOST
Part 7, 1979-1980 FIX AND REPOST
Part 8, 1981-1982 FIX AND REPOST
Re: Owen, We Have a Problem

3 March 2000:
Re Part 3, 1976-A

25 February 2000:
PGPed Where the heck have *I* been? From 1972 to 1982 and back!

17 January 1999:

8 December 1998:
Re: Urgent to Veritas: Marie

18 November 1998:

8 October 1998:
A Message and Picture From The ARSCC Librarian

9 April 1998:

4 March 1998:
Re: The Missing Ten Months

13 January 1998:

5 January 1998:
Re: ENTHETA.NET archive: The Librarian
Re: Librarian: riddle me this.....

4 January 1998:
Re: Challenge to Critics and Scientologists Alike

30 December 1997:

29 December 1997:

22 December 1997:

21 December 1997:

19 December 1997:

17 December 1997:

15 December 1997:
Challenge to Critics and Scientologists Alike

11 December 1997:
Re: Scientology/IRS Connection




The files on this site were found in publically available usenet archives and are in the public domain.

17 January 1999:

If we had to pick a favorite post from The Librarian—and we'd never want to—this would be high on the list. Not only is it packed with important esoteric facts about the copyrights and CST, it is filled with all our favorite and familiar icons from the ARSCC Chimerical Library. It contains delicious satire aimed at the anonymous idiots (who The Librarian believed firmly were agents of CST) who tried so often and failed so miserably to attach "identities" to The Librarian. Then it goes even further and lets us know that our old, creaky, friendly, familiar library can be a portal into other worlds, other realities, other perceptions, to concepts and understandings that the HARD FACTS can only point us toward. And finally we see, beneath the lace and paisley and perfume, a side of The Librarian we'd never seen—despite her fear she is tough, defiant, and resolute. LIBRARIAN TRIVIA: This is the one and only post by The Librarian for all of 1999. After this she disappears without warning for over a year. When she finally does return, in February of 2000, she comes back with a vengeance, posting a massive eight-part timeline that fully exposes the government involvement with Scientology, beginning with the CIA's Scientology-based "remote viewing" program in 1972. But for now, please enjoy one of our favorites, "THE LIBRAIAN AND THE LIVING DEAD."

From: Anonymous-Remailer@See.Comment.Header (The Librarian)
Date: 1999/01/17
Message-ID: <>
Newsgroups: alt.religion.scientology

Hi, kids! Since remailers come and go (*just* like men), and can
be, like, *so* flaky sometime (*just* like men), I am going to
send this AB-so-lute *HORROR* story through several different
ones, because I *don't* want you to miss it. So if it shows up
more than once on ARS, please, please forgive me. Okay?

And note: it IS pgp signed:


Well, here I was, little old me, sitting all alone in the darkened,
cold ARSCC Chimerical Library. (*When* is the ARSCC Janitor Pro Tem
going to do something about these darn hissing, clanking
*radiators*!). Just one lone desk lamp was on, casting a sickly
yellow light on the dusty tomes, the crumbling old leather, the
cracked and worn gold-leaf titles of the Antiquarian Section, where
I had been working late, looking up witchcraft and black magick.

(Not for *me*, silly. Give me a pair of black gartered stockings, a
silky Wonder bra, and a spritz of Chanel, and I don't *need* no
steeenking *witchcraft*! I mean, jimminy, a girl *does* learn how to
cross her legs and pout sooner or later.)

So, an-n-n-nywayz, I was flipping through some Aliester Crowley, and
doodling little pentagrams, and ram's heads, and--you know, stuff
like that. I am just *eaten up* by Parsons and the Jet Propulsion
Laboratory, and the Naval intelligence connections, and--

Well, that's going to have to wait for another day. But I ran into
this one little odd bit, and I wanted to check the 'net. So I
clicked on the terminal next to me and logged in.

The bluish glow from the screen combined with the sickly yellow of
the desk lamp, changing the light in the tomb-quiet Library into a
cold eerie green. The radiator creaked and groaned, then hissssssed
a rattling sigh. I was about to do a web search, but I thought, what
the heck--I ought to peek in on ARS, just to see if I've missed
anything besides spam and forgeries and Enzo's paltry little posts.

I was scrolling through the Subject headers when suddenly I stopped.
I stared at the header. The screen and its writing was reflected and
distorted--upside down and curved, like electronic Sanskrit--in the
lenses of my glasses, which lay on the polished mahogony table. I
picked them up and slipped them on, then leaned forward, my TWO
breasts pressing against my TWO arms, which were folded on the edge
of the table before me. I read it again:

     "There are TWO (2)--count 'em, two--CSTs"

A little tingling chill began slowly at the bottom of my spine, then
accelerated up it, tickling and shuddering the back of my neck.

*TWO* entities called the "Church of Spiritual Technology"?
What--like *ONE* isn't *enough* to deal with!

I read the thread, then leaned back in my chair with a sigh, pulling
off my glasses and rubbing the bridge of my nose wearily.
Oh--my--GOD! There really *are* TWO CSTs: one a corporation, the
other a "church." But the corporation is called "Church of Spiritual
Technology," and the "church" is ALSO called the "Church of
Spiritual Technology"!

I felt spinny and light-headed. Jeez, I thought; so our dearly
beloved IRS (a cat yowled, screeched, and spit somewhere out in the
alley, in the darkness, in the night), and our government, and the
courts are perfectly happy to allow a CORPORATION to have a name
that includes the word "Church," even when it *isn't* a church.
Because if it *were* a church, it wouldn't need to operate "THROUGH
AND BY MEANS OF...A CHURCH," as it says in the Bylaws of the

My flesh crawled again. Goosebumps broke out all over. I suddenly
thought of the copyrights, and of-- My God! The Library of Congress
LOCIS records!

My red nails clickety-clacked in a fury on the keyboard, echoing
throughout the Library.

The echoes found the corners of the old building as I typed, and
took on a life of their own, like the sound of furtive things
scurrying, hurrying on hardwood floors, running to find a place to
hide, running to do dirty, hidden, lawyer-like things in dank and
dark places. It made me think of mangy rats, and another little
chill danced up my spine.

I Telnetted to the Library of Congress--to LOCIS--and logged in.

But what to look for? I had searched this thing top to bottom before
for transfers and copyright records in the name "Church of Spiritual
Technology". That had PROVED that CST owned ALL the copyrights. At
least, I *thought* I had gotten everything. But what if the rats--I
mean, the lawyers--were listing something differently somehow? Could
it be? And if so, HOW could I find it?

My crossed right leg swung back and forth in agitation, my shoe
hanging loosely off my toes, as my mind raced and my fingers waved
uncertainly, nervously over the keyboard. A gust of wind rose up
suddenly against the old shutters and windows, whistling mournfully
through the cracks and crevices. Something creaked, like a weight,
up on the mezzanine. I jerked my head around to look. But only
silent, dark books stared back, lurking in black shadows cast by the
steady greenish light.

"Stop it!" I said aloud. "You're being silly. Nobody's here at
*this* time of night! *Think*, girl--think!" And so I thought.

And suddenly I had it! Starkey! HE had collected up all of L. Ron
Hubbard's copyrights, and transferred them in one big lump transfer
to CST--over 7,000 titles--*right* after the IRS gave the nod. But
*WHICH* CST did he transfer them to? Would I be able to tell? I knew
I had THAT transfer record somewhere. I could start there.

So I pulled it up. And here is what I saw:

   V2927 P238 THRU 260          (COHD)
   RECORDED:  13Dec93
   EXECUTED:  29Nov93
   PARTY 1: Norman F.  Starkey, trustee, Author's Family Trust-B.
   PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)
   NOTE: Model of OT ship organization and operation based on 7
         division system & 7,730 other titles.  Transfer of
   FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V2927 P238-724)

I stared at "PARTY 2." The receiving party. Oh--my--GOD!

It didn't just say "Church of Spiritual Technology"!

It said "Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)"!

What the heck was that "(Los Angeles)" doing in there?! And *WHY*
hadn't I noticed it before? When I had searched before, I had
searched just for "Church of Spiritual Technology." In fact, I had
only found this particular record originally by searching on Norman
"Duh" Starkey's name. I heard a rasping, scratching sound behind me,
and I whirled my chair around on its swivel, my heart pounding in my
throat. My legs splayed out, feet planted to attack or flee, and I
half rose from the chair! But it was only the black, bony branches
of a winter-bare oak, pawing at the window, as pale flakes of snow
drifted and wandered like lost souls into the greenish light and
then, as though disappointed, disappeared again into the swallowing
blackness. My breasts heaved as I made myself take several long,
deep calming breaths.

I swiveled my chair back and stared into the monitor. The Library of
Congress's LOCIS menu stared back at me, its black cursor pulsing.

My hands raised over the keyboard. I typed:

"Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)"

I took in a breath and held it and hit <Enter>.

And listings began to flow down the screen:

   V2927 P225 THRU 227          (COHD)
   RECORDED:  13Dec93
   EXECUTED:  3Oct93
   PARTY 1: Founding Church of Scientology of Washington, DC.
   PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)
   NOTE: HCO bulletin of November 26, 1959, the interpretation of
         the American personality/Oxford capacity analyses & 5 other
         titles. Transfer of copyright.

   V2927 P235 THRU 237          (COHD)
   RECORDED:  13Dec93
   EXECUTED:  11Nov93
   PARTY 1: Hubbard Association of Scientologists.
   PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)
   NOTE: Jounal of Scientology & 7 other titles.  Transfer of

   V2927 P228 THRU 230          (COHD)
   RECORDED:  13Dec93
   EXECUTED:  11Nov93
   PARTY 1: Hubbard Dianetics Foundation.
   PARTY 2: Church of Spirtual [sic] Technology (Los Angeles)
   NOTE: Transfer of copyright.

   V2927 P231 THRU 234          (COHD)
   RECORDED:  13Dec93
   EXECUTED:  11Nov93
   PARTY 1: Hubbard Dianetics Research Foundation.
   PARTY 2: Church of Spirtual [sic] Technology (Los Angeles)
   NOTE: Dianetics auditors bulletins & 21 other titles.  Transfer
         of copyright.

   V2927 P238 THRU 260          (COHD)
   RECORDED:  13Dec93
   EXECUTED:  29Nov93
   PARTY 1: Norman F.  Starkey, trustee, Author's Family Trust-B.
   PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)
   NOTE: Model of OT ship organization and operation based on 7
         division system & 7,730 other titles.  Transfer of
   FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V2927 P238-724)

   V2927 P210 THRU 217          (COHD)
   RECORDED:  13Dec93
   EXECUTED:  2Dec93
   PARTY 1: Hubbard Association of Scientologists International,
   PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)
   NOTE: HCO information letter of July 25, 1961, processing infants
         and 200 other titles.  Transfer of copyright.
   FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V2927 P210-224)

   V3058 P155 THRU 164          (COHD)
   RECORDED:  29Nov94
   EXECUTED:  18Nov94
   PARTY 1: Mary Sue  Hubbard, widow, Diana Meredith Dewolf Hubbard
   Ryan, Mary Suzette Rochelle  Hubbard, Arthur Ronald Conway
   Hubbard, Lafayette Ronald Conway  Hubbard , Jr. a.k.a. L. Ron
   Hubbard , Jr. a.k.a. Nibs  Hubbard a.k.a. Ronald Dewolf &
   Katherine May Hubbard  Gillespie, children of deceased author, L.
   Ron  Hubbard, by Church of Spiritual Technology (Atty)
   PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)
   NOTE: Ceremonies of the Founding Church of Scientology & 1,364
         other titles.  By L. Ron Hubbard.  Copyright assignment.
   FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V3058 P155-208)

   V3176 P194 THRU 210          (COHD)
   RECORDED:  7Nov95
   EXECUTED:  22May95
   PARTY 1: Mary Sue  Hubbard, widow, Diana Meredith DeWolf Hubbard
   Ryan, Mary Suzette Rochelle  Hubbard, Arthur Ronald Conway
   Hubbard, Lafayette Ronald  Hubbard , Jr. a.k.a. L. Ron
   Hubbard , Jr. a.k.a. Nibs  Hubbard a.k.a. Ronald  DeWolf & K
   atherine May Hubbard  Gillespie, children of deceased author, L.
   Ron  Hubbard, by Church of Spiritual Technology (Atty)
   PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)
   NOTE: The book introducing the E-meter & 159 other titles.

I sat in shock, and a chill made my whole upper body quiver. I
hadn't seen *these* before. These were the REAL THING! These were
ALL the ACTUAL, ORIGINAL WORKS of L. Ron Hubbard. These were the
copyrights to all of the SOURCE materials. ALL of them.

I sent the document to the printer.

The wind howled with a new fury against the windows, and they wailed
with a death-rattle.

But what about all those OTHER copyright transfers I had researched
and posted before, the ones that went to something called just
"Church of Spiritual Technology"--with*OUT* the "(Los Angeles)"
extension? What were all THOSE?

I pulled them up again from my files and rapidly scrolled down them.

God, it can't be! But it IS! One after another they marched
relentlessly up the screen, like hideous little tattletale demons,
giving up their sniggering dirty little secrets one-by-one. They
displayed their "by-lines," mockingly revealing their ancestry and

Just one example tells the story:

     V3229 P151 THRU 163          (COHD)
     RECORDED:  19Apr96
     EXECUTED:  27Feb96
     PARTY 1: Church of Scientology International.
     PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology.
     NOTE: Scientology drug rundown auditor course & 1,030 other
           titles; religious works.  Author or co-author: Church of
           Scientology Internatioal [sic], derived from or based
           upon the literary works of L. Ron Hubbard a.k.a.
           Lafayette Ronald Hubbard.  Copyright assignment.
    FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V3229 P151-220)

Over 1,000 titles, in that transfer alone, and NONE OF THEM actually
*BY* L. Ron Hubbard! ALL of them authored or co-authored by "Church
of Scientology International, derived from or based upon..." OVER

But that was just ONE of the listings of copyright transfers to this
"thing" called "Church of Spiritual Technology."

On and on the listings marched, each in turn taunting me with the
truth of their authorship in their "NOTE" field:

     "The Academy lectures, level 0 & 154 other titles; religious &
     fiction works.  Author or co-author: Bridge Publications, Inc.,
     derived from or based upon the literary works of L. Ron Hubbard
     a.k.a. Lafayette Ronald Hubbard."

     "Adventure short stories, volume 5 & 42 other titles; religious
     & fiction works.  Author or co-author: Author Services, Inc.
     derived from or based upon literary works of L. Ron Hubbard
     a.k.a. Lafayette Ronald Hubbard.  Copyright assignment."

     "...By Church of Scientology International.  Assignment."

     "...By Author Services, Inc. Assignment."

I slapped the power button on the terminal and shoved myself hard
away, recoiling, feeling somehow tainted, as though I had touched a
rotted corpse. The screen blacked out with a crisp SNAP! and a
static electric hissss, like something alive retreating suddenly
back into a lair.

I was left sitting huddled in silence and relative darkness, with
the dim yellow light from the lamp looking somehow even more sickly,
sallow, jaundiced.

My breathing, I realized, came short, sharp, and audible. It was
incredible! There really ARE two CSTs! And it seems that one of them
is identified with the Library of Congress as "Church of Spiritual
Technology (Los Angeles)," and the other just as "Church of
Spiritual Technology."

And it looks like one of them now owns all the ORIGINAL L. Ron
Hubbard works, while the other owns only works "based on or derived
from" his works.

My teeth began to chatter. This was weird. This was TOO weird.

And suddenly the silence was shattered by a cracking, soul-tearing
whine and clatter! I launched from my chair and screamed--my skirt
flying, my fists clenched in terror, whirling to face the banshees I
knew were upon me--and knocked the lamp crashing to the floor!

I screamed again, louder now! and flailed at the sudden perfect
blackness that clutched and smothered me. Something caught at my
blouse and I wrenched away, hearing a ripping sound, while that
terrible, ungodly wailing noise kept chittering and ratcheting all
around me like all the demons from Hell had been loosed at once,
screaming, screaming, screaming...

Then I realized: it was the ARSCC Chimerical Library's ancient
24-pin Epson printer, printing the LOCIS document I had sent to it.

(God! Can't we afford a *laser* printer around here! Jeez! This kind
of crap could scare a girl half out of her *wits*!)

The printer came to a frantic halt. Silence again. And darkness.
Perfect darkness. And then fear came sneaking back--slowly, quietly.

My eyes adjusted somewhat to the little bit of light that came
through the front windows from the street lamps. It made shadows of
the skeletal trees on the walls, shadows that waved at me. I
hurriedly felt my way over to the Reference Desk and turned on the
lamp there. Whew!

I had caught my blouse on a nail I had driven into a library shelf
to hang my ARSCC "Pickets and Demonstrations" Calendar on. Darn! I
had ripped my poor little blouse half *off*! Good thing no one was
around to see what a *mess* I was! And the floor! Criminy! Pieces of
the lamp where *everywhere*. Well, I wasn't about to go clean it up
now. It could wait.

I tore the pages off the printer and separated them at the
perforations, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the
Reference Desk to go over the listings again for that "Church of
Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)" *thing*, just to make sure there
was nothing else I missed.

I sipped my coffee as my eyes raked down the first page.

And then I spewed coffee on myself.

What?! Could I really be *seeing* this?

I only *thought* my flesh had crawled before. The hackles that
covered my body now were alive, restless, moving things. It couldn't
be. It couldn't *possibly* be! But there it was--one of the listings
I had seen on the screen, now on the printout in my hands:

   V2927 P210 THRU 217          (COHD)
   RECORDED:  13Dec93
   EXECUTED:  2Dec93
   PARTY 1: Hubbard Association of Scientologists International,
   PARTY 2: Church of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)
   NOTE: HCO information letter of July 25, 1961, processing infants
         and 200 other titles.  Transfer of copyright.
   FULL DOCUMENT RANGE: (In V2927 P210-224)

Something that was DEAD had transferred copyrights to the "Church of
Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)" thing. And I had proof of it!

I leaned over and, with a visibly trembling hand, reached into the
file drawer and removed the dog-earred manilla folder marked "HASI."
My ripped blouse fell completely open as I did, and I attempted to
arrange it, then figured, "Why bother?"

I dropped the fat folder on the desk and opened it. Microfiche file
copies. From the Arizona Corporation Commission. Everything that
ever existed on the "Hubbard Association of Scientologists,
International, Inc." I flipped hurriedly to the back. And there it
was: the last sad and lonely paper in the file. The Death
Certificate. Here is an OCR'ed version for ARS:

- ---------------------------------------------------------------


P O BOX 242

The Arizona Corporation Commission, pursuant to ARIZONA REVISED
STATUTES SECTION 10-095, hereby revokes the filing by the above
named corporation of its Articles of Incorporation for the following


DATED___________MAY 10___   19__77__

[signatures]  Bud Tims        Ernest Garfield     Jim W[illegible]
           CHAIRMAN            COMMISSIONER           COMMISSIONER

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set
my hand and affixed the official seal of the
Arizona Corporation Commission, at the Capitol,
in the City of Phoenix, this __10TH__ day
of ____MAY_______, 19___77___

[signature] Donald E. Vance

Statuatory Ref. A.R.S. 10-095
ABCA Form No. 46D - 7/76 (Domestic)
Revocation Section

- ---------------------------------------------------------------------

And so died L. Ron Hubbard's beloved HASI, Inc., on 10 May 1977,
just twenty-seven years and one day, exactly, after the release of
"Dianetics, the Modern Science of Mental Health."

It died on the VERY SAME DAY that Gerald Wolfe, an IRS employee who
had passed stolen documents to the Guardian's Office, testified
before the "October 1976" Grand Jury, leading to the arrest and
conviction of Mary Sue Hubbard and other leading Scientologists.

It died just 10 days before Michael Meisner conveniently turned
himself in to the FBI to testify against Mary Sue, et al.

It died barely a month before the FBI raided GO headquarters.

And such was its lonely, heretofore unpublished obituary.

(Funny; L. Ron Hubbard, after vesting so much in it, never even bid
it "adieu." I wonder why.)

So, how could it suddenly rise up out of its grave, sixteen years
later, and magically transfer its copyrights to "Church of Spiritual
Technology (Los Angeles)"? How?!

I heard a putrid, lung-diseased laugh at the other end of the room.
I knew it was a laugh. I knew I dare not look up. But I did.

The broken pieces of the lamp were suspended in the air. I stared
transfixed as they all began to send out smoky tendrils of a
frightening bluish light that played uncertainly over a rotted,
fetid, shrouded shape. A man stepped out from behind the shape, a
man in a suit, with one arm draped casually, familiarly around the
pathetic ugly lump. He held a pen and a piece of paper, which he
placed on the mahogany table in front of the shape.

"Like this," said the man, and he smiled a reptillian smile at me,
his yellow eyes smouldering with an inner light, a ribbon of
too-long tongue flicking out. When I heard his voice, I knew it had
been *his* laugh that I had heard. The shape never spoke. The man
reached into the mouldering folds of the shrouded shaped and guided
out a bony, lifeless, dessicated hand. He smilingly placed the pen
in the wretched thing's skeletal fist, made it grip, made it write
on the paper, then picked up the paper, folded it, and put it into
his own inside-coat pocket.

"Simple as that," smiled the man. "And now back to Hell along with
Hubbard goes this idiotic mocked-up 'HASI' of his!" The man waved
his hand, and the poor shrouded thing began to crumble and ooze and
smoke. I stared at it as though hypnotized--shocked to find a
sentience in the shroud, a calmness, a quietness, a recognition. And
then it was gone--nothing but a settling pile of dust.

I looked at the man, who was still smiling, and I realized that what
I thought was a smile was a sneer. A blood-freezing idea came to me:
"Sherman?" I said. "Sherman Lenske? Can that possibly be *you*?"

I blinked. The man was gone. The pile of dust on the floor was just
the pieces of the broken lamp. I stared down into my cup of coffee.
*Jeez*! I have *GOT* to get some *de-caffe* in this place! I shoved
away the cup of coffee in disgust.

"I am *not* going to bolt and run out of this place, damn it!" I
said aloud. I heard my voice echo back. I decided I shouldn't be
talking out loud to myself anymore.

Okay, so I got a little spooked. All right. It's just the ARSCC
Chimerical Library. My own sweet little Venus Flytrap is right
there, happy as a clam. Everything is in order. There ain't no
ghosts. Been reading too much of that darn Black Magick stuff and
drawing too many pentagrams. I'll go back to doodling daisies and
anatomical studies, and fun things like that.

"Of course," I thought to myself, "if there *aren't* any ghosts,
then I'm afraid that this thing *could* start looking a lot like
major, major *FRAUD* or something."

That's exactly when I heard a diseased chuckle from the mezzanine.

I began to shake uncontrollably then. I was racked with a fevered
chill, as though my temperature had shot up to 103 degrees or
dropped to 30.

I stood up slowly from my chair, not daring to look up, reaching out
with one shaking hand to find anything that could steady me.

"You forgot our other friends from the dark and dusty past," said
the phlegmy voice. "You wouldn't want to slight them, now, WOULD
you, Randy McDonald?"

My head jerked back at the sound of the name that strikes fear into
the heart of every OSA, RTC, and CST man, woman, child  and shill
alive! I was so shocked that I forgot not to look up, expecting now
to actually SEE Randy McDonald in the flesh, up on the mezzanine
with Shermy the Worm!

But, no! Shermy Wormy--if that WAS him--was *alone* on the balcony,
and he had been talking to *ME*! (GOD, he must be, like, dumber than
even *I* thought!)

I began to inch my way around the walls toward the front door, still
clutching the print-out in my sweaty palm.

"Look, Ace of Clubs!" the Shermy-like thing shouted at me. He seemed
to have a hint of scales all over his face now! "Look and see who
ELSE has come back from the other side, and has brought us the L.
Ron Hubbard copyrights THEY held! Behold! It's the 'Hubbard Dianetic
Research Foundation,' dead these 40-odd years!"

The cloakroom door burst open and out came five hideous, dripping,
crusted--THINGS!--things that might once have been men, shuffling,
snuffling, their limbs green and brown with putrefaction. One arm
dropped off of one of them even as I watched. (Hey, I never meant
"'Stump' the Librarian" to be taken, like, *literally*!)

An involuntary keening rose in the back of my throat as I inched
around the walls of bookshelves, backing, backing away from these
hideous monstrosities, inching my way toward the front door.

What *were* they? I gasped! Could it be the original Board of
Directors? Could that be John W. Campbell, Dr. Joseph Winter, Don
Rogers, Art Ceppos, and Parker C. Morgan? Could it? COULD IT?!

What*EVER* they were, I knew that Wormy was right; according to the
Library of Congress records, somehow, on 11 November 1993, "Church
of Spiritual Technology (Los Angeles)"--working, no doubt, with
their GOOD FRIENDS, the IRS (that cat caterwauled again outside, and
made sounds like he had been thrown into a garbage disposal)
- --somehow exhumed the Hubbard Dianetics Research Foundation, dead
since 1952, and got it to TRANSFER COPYRIGHTS TO THEM! (Of course,
everybody knows that the IRS takes everything away from dead people
all the time, would take doubloons off of a dead-man's eyes, and can
even get blood from a stone. But, THIS?!)

I screamed. "Keep them away from me-he-he-he-heeee!" It was a
wracking sob by the time I finished. The front door seeming miles
away. But I continued to move toward it slowly, steadily--sobbing,
keening, never taking my eyes off the encroaching apparitions.

Wormy, upstairs, bellowed a laugh that only a tax-and-probate-lawyer
could laugh. "Where do you think YOU'RE going, Marie-of-Veritas?" he
said to me. "You think Veritas will save you now? Oh, but you've
forgotten the 'Hubbard Dianetic Foundation!' Remember Wichita, 1951?
Well, they're ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ck! Bwahahahaha!"

The door was only a few feet away.

But suddenly a Corpse-on-a-Rope[tm] dropped from the ceiling between
me and the door! I ran hysterically in place because I had no motor
control left to get me moving forward--but at least it kept me from
peeing--and I screamed so loud that the lamp on the Reference Desk

Oh, GOD! Was that Don Purcell dangling at the end of that rope? The
eye sockets were empty, and squirming white worms were writhing in
them. His bony arms were waving, his legs kicking, as he tried
sightlessly to find me. His toothless mouth kept saying over and
over, "Want some copyrights? Want some copyrights? Want some

When the outstretched hands of one of the HDRF Five brushed my back,
I suddenly found my legs and catapulted myself to the door in one
leap. I grasped the knob and jerked with all my strength...


The cold, combined with the damp radiator heat, had swelled it shut!

"You must join us, Mitchell" Wormy had been droning at me
throughout. "Don't resist it. You cannot win. Succumb. Relax. Get
with the program. Here, I have the complete SPD pack. See--it's not
dangerous. And look at all these lovely, beautifully packaged works
that are 'based on the works of L. Ron Hubbard.' Don't you see? They
even have HIS name--now our registered trademark--typeset so
beautifully. What else do you need? And I have filled your shelves
up here with them. The more you fight it, the harder--"

The door of the AV room opened, and a lizard-like apparition with an
IRS badge where his genitalia ought to be slithered out toward me,
gliding across the room, leaving a slime trail. (The cat out in the
alley shrieked a final shriek that choked off in death.) "Shut up,
Wormhole. You handle the 501(c)(3) corporation we gave you to
handle, and go bury some more 'stan-turd tek.' I'll handle this

That's all it took.

I wrenched the door so hard it loosened the hinges as it gave way
with a scraping, bone-jarring screech and flung open. A blast of
cold air and snow blew in my face as I dashed out and *flew* down
the stairs three at a time. But heels aren't designed for
high-impact stair-flying. And as I hit the bottom--SNAP! FLASH!
CRACK! There I was, hard up against the Physical Universe (P.U.)!

No terror had ever gripped me like the terror that gripped me then,
as I turned, dragging myself up from the ground, expecting to see
ghouls and--even worse--IRS agents swarming down on me.

And then I stopped.

There were no ghouls.

There were no slime-trail agents.

There was nothing but friendly, funny little light snowflakes,
drifting merrily through the street lamp glow, gently dusting the
steps, the shrubs, the grass, the park bench.

But through the sparse snowfall, through the open door of the ARSCC
Chimerical Library, through--some might say--the very portals of
Hell itself, up on the mezzanine, there clutching the rail of the
balcony, was a small, stoop-shouldered nothing of a man in a dark
suit. His face was prunish and sagged and grey. He was just a wimp
in a suit. A pathetic, lonely figure, with a look that somehow
managed to combine terror and anger into a pitiable countenance
indeed. I almost felt sorry for him. Was that *really* Shermy Wormy?

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He closed it.
Then he tried again, and failed. He seemed like a fish trying to
breathe. And then he managed to speak, his voice a raspy whisper.

"Just--" He said. "Will you just, at least, tell us who you really

I managed to get actually standing on my wobbly feet, my clothes
ripped and tattered, my feelings and my behind badly bruised, my
bosom all but, like, *totally* bared to the freezing cold. And I
found, to my amazement, that I still clutched the print-out, that
roster of deceased corporations that had risen up--the living
dead--to deliver into this cretin's hands intellectual works that he
had had NOTHING to do with creating, and that he cared absolutely
NOTHING about--except for the revenue they could produce. And my
pity evaporated like fog in a nuclear wind.

"Yes, I'll tell you who I am. I'm the everloving, hot-blooded,
utterly proper, studious, indomitable, unstoppable, relentless,
silky soft, hard-assed, non-existent LIBRARIAN! And don't you, or
any of your sycophantic minions EVER forget it. And I will dance on
your grave in stilletto heels and a g-string, with one hand on a
bottle of bubbly, and one hand waving free! Until then, why don't
you go crawl down into your multi-million-dollar hole in the ground,
fondle your stolen 'intellectual properties,' and dream about

With that, I *REALLY* showed the Wormy-thing something he'll never,
ever forget! And then the balcony was empty.

I turned on my heels (well, heel; singular) and limped home, crying
and laughing and freezing my tight little tushy off all the way.

                          --<The ARSCC Librarian>

- -----------------------------------------------------------------
*The ARSCC, like its everloving, hot-blooded, utterly proper,
studious, indomitable, unstoppable, relentless, silky soft,
hard-assed, non-existent Librarian--and like the "Church" of
Spiritual Technology--does not exist. Except, perhaps, on paper.

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