The mystery began to unfold last fall in sleepy, sun-drenched Clearwater, Fla. The Southern Land Development and Leasing Corp. decided to buy the 270-room Fort Harrison Hotel, a downtown landmark, and a nearby bank building. Southern Land stated that the hotel would stay open, but another spokesman announced that it would become a center for the United Churches of Florida, a new ecumenical outfit that soon won endorsement from twelve local clergymen.
When 200 tight-lipped strangers moved into the hotel, rumors flew that the Arabs or organized crime were behind the project. By the end of January, the Clearwater Sun had traced the purchase money for the two buildings ($2,850,000, all in cash) to a bank in Luxembourg, and Mayor Gabriel Cazares was calling for an investigation.
The purchaser, it turned out, was the rich, mysterious Church of Scientology, an international cult that for two decades has specialized in a unique form of psychological counseling, often against hysterical opposition. Scientology, in turn, has tended toward defensiveness bordering on paranoia, filing scores of libel suits on the slightest provocation. In February, the Church of Scientology sued Mayor Cazares, then threatened the Clearwater Sun, the St. Petersburg Times and radio station WDCL. "We are not a turn-the-other-cheek religion," Spokesman Arthur Maren told TIME Correspondent David Beckwith.
Last week Scientologists revealed that the Fort Harrison Hotel is slated to become the movement's "Flag Land Base," offering "advanced" training to its international elite. Although their figures may well be inflated, Scientologists claim 3 million members in the U.S. and another million abroad. Until now the courses have been offered aboard the 3,300-ton yacht Apollo, the roving residence of Scientology's founder, L. (for Lafayette) Ron Hubbard, 65. Rarely photographed or seen by outsiders, Hubbard turned up briefly in Clearwater last month, portly, in apparent good health and decked out in a khaki jumpsuit and matching tam-o'-shanter. Flamboyant and authoritative, Hubbard barked out orders to a crew of young people, opened a five-figure checking account and paid a tailor $2,800 for some new clothes.
Raise I.Q.s. A brilliant and eccentric man, who, despite disclaimers, still controls the cult, Hubbard was once a successful science-fiction writer. In 1949, he seemed to predict his own future in a jocular speech to a convention of fellow authors: "Writing for a penny a word is ridiculous. If a man really wanted to make a million dollars, the best way would be to start his own religion."
The next year Hubbard expounded his psychological theories in Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health, which later became Scientology's scripture. Through Dianetics, he claimed, I.Q.s could be raised, bad eyesight corrected, the common cold cured. His technique amounted to counseling, known as "auditing," to eradicate "engrams"—negative memories recorded in the "reactive mind" (similar to Freud's unconscious). A person freed of engrams was known as a "Clear." As early as 1952, Hubbard began auditing with the "E-meter," a crude version of the lie detector, which is still in use.