Villainy Victorious

by L. Ron Hubbard

  And then:

  IDENTITY REVEALED!

  PRISONER IS

  APPARATUS OFFICER

  SOLTAN GRIS!

  Quickly then, edition after edition and day after day, the documented catalogue of the crimes of Apparatus Officer Soltan Gris began to appear, each one juicier than the last.

  They began with:

  APPARATUS OFFICER

  GRIS ILLEGALLY

  EXPORTED METALS

  Immediately after that:

  APPARATUS OFFICER

  GRIS ORDERED MURDER

  OF OWN OFFICE HEAD

  AND CLERKS

  And then:

  APPARATUS OFFICER

  ORDERS MURDER OF

  MOTHER OF

  DEFENSELESS BOY

  And a picture of the sobbing Twolah and faked photos of his mother’s body and funeral began to send ripples of rage through the population.

  It was at this time that Lord Turn received a viewer-phone call from no less a social leader than Lady Arthrite Stuffy.

  “Lord Turn,” said Lady Arthrite, “I do not think you realize that public opinion is growing. WHEN are you going to bring that prisoner to trial?”

  “Lady Arthrite,” said Lord Turn, “would you please keep your nose out of the affairs of the Royal prison?” And hung up.

  This, as it was recorded, gave the Daily Speaker an exclusive:

  JUDGE TELLS PUBLIC

  “HANDS OFF GRIS!”

  This, of course, made all the other papers livid: they had been scooped. They began to bombard Lord Turn with tricky calls of their own. This made Lord Turn furious. He was so angry that he refused to explain anything to anyone. The headlines grew worse and worse.

  Now, unfortunately for Soltan Gris, when he had been blackmailing the Provocation Section of the Apparatus, the head of that section had been radio-recording back to his own office down by the River Wiel during the whole time that he had been shadowing Gris to get the goods on him. And a recording of every single one of these crimes Gris had pulled at that time existed, with pictures and sound, in the Provocation Section. Gris, unaware of this, thought he had handled it with the final murder of that chief. And now Madison began to feed these crimes one at a time to the press.

  HYPNOTIST MURDERED

  BY APPARATUS

  OFFICER GRIS

  And then:

  SUPPLY COLONEL

  MURDERED BY

  APPARATUS OFFICER GRIS

  And then:

  ELECTRONICS WIZARD

  SPURK FOULLY SLAIN

  BY APPARATUS OFFICER

  GRIS

  BURNS THIRD OF

  ELECTRONICS INDUSTRIAL

  QUARTER TO HIDE

  VICIOUS CRIME

  And the final one of the series was complete with photographs of a body falling ten thousand feet.

  BROTHER APPARATUS

  OFFICER SLAIN IN

  DASTARDLY EFFORT

  TO HIDE DAMNABLE

  CRIMES

  The footage was even shown on Homeview, which was beginning to take an interest.

  The question was starting to buzz through the streets: If the government had an officer who had been committing all these crimes, just why was it refusing to bring the villain to trial?

  But Madison was saving a pièce de résistance.

  When Bawtch had been overheard chortling “he had Gris now” and about a forgery, he had NOT been talking about the Royal signature forgeries at all. At that time, he didn’t even know about them.

  Gris, in his carelessness, had left the old cloak of Prahd’s beside his office desk. He had intended it to be found beside the River Wiel. And in that cloak he had wrapped a very bad forgery, a suicide note. Unfortunately, he had written it on a piece of paper which had been under a document when he stamped it for Bawtch. And dimly under the writing on the Prahd suicide note could be seen the identoplate outline of Soltan Gris!

  The recorded strips of the dead Provocation Section officer had shown Soltan Gris calling on Prahd Bittlestiffender.

  All evidence for a murder charge was there. So Madison, through one of his reporters, called the attention of the Domestic Police to the crime.

  The Domestic Police traced it down, accompanied by a horde of reporters, and found that young Dr. Prahd Bittlestiffender was nowhere to be found. They then issued a warrant for the arrest of Soltan Gris.

  Young Dr. Prahd, the most promising cellologist to graduate for some time, was extolled by his professors as a real loss to his profession. The act of cutting him down in his early youth could be looked upon as a crime against the whole population, who so desperately needed his services. The act of a madman!

  HEADLINES!

  Then the Domestic Police asked Lord Turn for the custody of Gris so they could try him and execute him. It was, of course, refused.

  HEADLINES!

  The questions began to race through the population. Why was the government protecting this raving lunatic of an Apparatus officer? Why would they not let him be brought to trial?

  Written by his ex-Royal Academy of Arts reporter, Madison began to circulate the words and music of a ballad. It was printed on a single sheet and seemed to be the creation of an unknown. Shortly it was being reprinted in the press and sung on every hand. It went:

  In the name of the government he murdered and killed.

  Many an innocent victim he has chilled.

  He is an Apparatus officer!

  Why does the government love this cur?

  He grows fat on his victim’s blood,

  Then with glee stamps them in the mud.

  Coddled and protected for his crime,

  They extoll his virtues as sublime.

  We are demanding his life should cease.

  WE WANT THE BLOOD OF SOLTAN GRIS!

  Mobs took to marching in the streets singing it at the tops of their voices.

  Actually, some time since, J. Walter Madison had fully expected Lord Turn to simply give in and say, “All right. I’ll try him.” And in the case of the Domestic Police, “Here he is. Try the hells out of him.”

  If he could only get Gris on the stand accusing Heller, Madison knew he would have it made.

  But he had reached an impasse. The fury boiling in the streets was not moving Lord Turn up there in his high castle.

  Other measures were needed.

  PART SEVENTY-NINE

  Chapter 7

  Madison was busy far into the night, laying out his plans. There were several things he had to do. Amongst the first of them was to keep Lombar Hisst hopeful.

  Accordingly, one morning, Madison caught Hisst at his desk before the closed door of the Emperor’s bedroom. Hisst was going over the details of the invasion plan of Earth.

  “How soon,” he greeted Madison, “do you suppose we can have the cooperation of the Army and the Fleet? If they can supplant our Apparatus forces now active in the Calabar revolt, we can get on with invading Blito-P3 and bring it to heel.”

  “I’m working on that project day and night,” said Madison. “In fact, that’s what I’m here to see you about: that and the far more important question of making you Emperor. You see, all these things tie together neatly.”

  “How?” said Hisst.

  “It’s simply a matter of image,” said Madison. “With enough image, you can do anything. Now what I need to know is what exact image do you favor? How do you want the public to think of you?”

  Lombar sat back. His yellow eyes grew dreamy. “Totally formidable,” he said finally.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Madison. “A man of iron will. One who will brook no nonsense. The public yearns for strong and merciless control. The figure of a vengeful God.”

  “Exactly,” said Lombar Hisst. “I have finally discovered why I listen to you. You are extremely perceptive and are not afraid to speak the truth to your superior.”

  “I only do my duty,” said Madison. “Now, I know that you are very busy. But it just so happens that
there are some riots going on at this minute in Slum City. It is a marvelous opportunity to create image. The mob is being contained by two battalions of the Apparatus. I have a camera crew standing by. If your good judgment tells you that you should utilize this priceless opportunity to create image, we can go there in your private tank and you’ll be on Homeview in a trice.”

  “A mob,” said Lombar, “that needs quelling? Where’s my cap and stinger?”

  An hour and a half later, Lombar stomped up the steps of the prepared stand before the faces of an assembled five thousand people. The Slum City square was cordoned off. For once Madison had not had to put out any money for extras or actors in such a demonstration. Due to the Gris publicity, the two Apparatus Death Battalions were having more trouble keeping additional spectators out than containing the ones that were in: they had tank roadblocks on every side street that entered the area.

  Madison had handed Lombar his speech. It was a good speech: the horror-story writer, under Madison’s close direction, had been up all night writing it.

  In his red general’s uniform, Lombar loomed above the crowd. The speakers boomed as he began to read his speech.

  “Citizens of Voltar! You are misguided. Law and order must triumph every time above mob rule. Our domestic tranquility must not be shattered by questions and challenge of your government. I stand here, strong and powerful, formidable and determined to crush all opposition to the sovereign state. In me you see the image of stern power! I will not ever retreat from my stern duty to bring all malefactors to trial.”

  A wave of satisfaction swept through the vast throng. Madison’s camera crew, supplemented by three more camera crews from Homeview on the manager’s own initiative, were carrying this speech to all Voltar and, on delay, to every other planet.

  “I will have you know,” roared Lombar, in fine form, “that the characters of Apparatus officers should not be impugned by the crimes of Soltan Gris. Apparatus officers are men of sterling virtue and unblemished honor. I am proud to number myself amongst them and to be their chief.

  “The rivers of blood spilled by Gris, the graveyards jammed with corpses, are all the work of Gris and Gris alone. This foul fiend must not damage the brilliant innocence of other Apparatus officers or mine!

  “My very soul cries out to do him justice. With these two hands I could separate his spine, vertebra by vertebra, and take the utmost pleasure in it. I would love to deliver him even into the hands of this mob and let him be dismembered!”

  Wild cheering began at the back and swept forward in a roar.

  When the hysteria died, Hisst swept on. “Alas, His Majesty lies ill, too ill to be disturbed, and in this time of public crisis, I do not wish for anything but tranquillity. I am therefore carrying forward His Majesty’s deepest wish and I am assuming the temporary powers of Dictator of Voltar.”

  There was a shock of stillness. The crowd stared. They had never heard of such a post or position.

  But the speech gave no time for discussion. Lombar had never heard of the position either. He had not read the speech beforehand. But suddenly, although he could not imagine what it might embrace, he accepted the post with a surge of unbridled elation. It was the steppingstone he had been seeking.

  Filled with divine fervor, he read on, “I pledge on my honor to bring peace to Voltar, tranquility to its people, and I will stamp out ruthlessly any dissidence or question that will damage the state. I am backed by the sterling and honest officers of the Apparatus and I will gather in the support of every other branch of service, or else!

  “Now, as to the matter of Gris, due to the obstructionism of the Royal prison, other means will have to be used. The danger is that this foul fiend will be released upon the population to work his will again. Fortunately, there is a new tool that can be used. It is called psychotherapy. It is that which will be employed. And I shall use my new powers to see that it is properly applied. So I promise you that the matter of Gris will be successfully concluded to the satisfaction of everyone.”

  The crowd was confused. Then they began to get the idea that psychotherapy must be some kind of torture. They began to cheer.

  Lombar came to the last paragraph of his speech. He waited for a lull and then he boomed it out, “O population of the Confederacy! I promise you that I and all the other officers of the Apparatus, honest, unimpeachable and dedicated, will bring peace and order to the state no matter WHAT we have to do. I thank you!”

  Delight raged. Lombar came down off the platform feet taller than he had climbed up it.

  The two Death Battalions stood there dumbfounded. Their officers had to scream at them to block back the surging crowds so Lombar could get into his tank. The din of cheering for Lombar was deafening. He stood in the turret and waved. His tank took off.

  “My Gods, Madison,” he said, “your genius is almost as great as mine. But this post of dictator, won’t it have to pass the Grand Council?”

  Madison handed him the GC order, all stamped and signed. Only two members had been present but the pages were good pages. They had done what Teenie told them to.

  “A man named Napoleon,” said Madison, “moved from dictator to Emperor with ease.”

  “GODS!” said Lombar, quivering. And for minutes he just stared into space.

  It was not until they were flying across the Great Desert that Lombar spoke again. “You know, this opens the door to total cooperation by the Army and the Fleet. We will be able to handle both Calabar and Earth with ease. You seem to have solved everything. But I do have one question. What is this thing called psychotherapy? Some new long-distance method of execution?”

  “You leave that to me,” said Madison.

  Lombar nodded and forgot about it.

  PART EIGHTY

  Chapter 1

  Madison was handling the “psychotherapy.”

  He was in the observation slot back of the wall behind the eightieth-floor townhouse auditorium. He was grinning. This had to work, and when it did he would have his trial. And with the Gris trial, he would have Heller.

  The editorials in the papers had been a very mixed lot on the subject of Lombar’s speech, none of them less stunned than Madison’s own staff. On his return his reporters and crew had said, “We made a dictator, bango, just like that! But what’s a ‘dictator,’ Chief?” Some of the papers were of the opinion that a “dictator” was one who spoke into a dictating machine. Others, since the word had been translated directly over into literal Voltarian, said that it was a more forceful kind of spokesman and was a natural outgrowth from that earlier title. But the majority seemed to gather that Lombar had assumed much more embracive powers and, if the Grand Council order had not been showing up on their consoles, they would have had to assume that Lombar had authored some kind of a coup; they were not at all sure what. But none of the papers missed the point that the Apparatus was suddenly the senior force of the state.

  The Apparatus didn’t miss it. Their officers, with few exceptions jailbirds, joked to one another about their “unimpeachable reputations” and their “honor.” They began to put on airs. Apparatus officers had never dared go into the better hotels and restaurants and clubs, and suddenly it pleased their fancy to show up and bully waiters and managers around. Apparatus troops began at once a game of holding arms and walking up streets shoving everyone else off the walks. Underpaid and unpaid, they began to find ways of being paid.

  But Madison ignored all that. He was on to bigger game: Heller. His ways of arriving there were entirely PR. Deadly!

  This “psychotherapy” action had begun with his discovery of a postcard in the Gris dossier. It said:

  SOLTAN GRIS!

  YOOHOO, WHEREVER YOU ARE.

  The baby came on schedule and he’s beautiful.

  It’s a he.

  Now, I don’t want to have to go to your superior officer and make a fuss. It would be much nicer just to climb in bed with you. So when are you going to turn up and do the right thing and marry me?<
br />
  Pratia

  PS: Any commanding officer: You can come out and see me about this any time you like. I hope you’re handsome. I am very pretty again now that my belly is flat and we can talk it all over. What do you like for breakfast? I can be found at Minx Estates, Pausch Hills.

  PPS: It has the softest beds and the loveliest swimming pool and a summerhouse with a bed in it. Smack. Smack.

  Now, Madison had known better than to put his handsome face in that trap. So he had sent the director and one of the circus girls dressed as people of fashion and an actor as Gris’ “commanding officer.”