Mission: Earth The Enemy Within

by Ron L. Hubbard

  Chapter 9

  It was time I turned against fate.

  I phoned the taxi driver. He was in bed.

  "You know that fat, dirty old whore that lives north of town—Fatima Hanim? Get her and bring her here at once." It greatly alarmed him. "Hey, what's the matter with you know who?"

  I couldn't let him think there was anything wrong with my own sexual prowess or ability to control women. "She's wonderful. Fatima is for somebody else."

  "I'm so relieved. There's no money-back guarantee, you know. I'll be right there with Fatima."

  I opened up a spare bedroom. I threw some pillows on the floor. I fixed some lamps just right. Then I went to my lockers and got a strip camera. I put it in the corner of the room, hooked it to remote and put the remote switch in my pocket.

  I picked up the hypnohelmet and went through the tunnel to the hangar.

  The guard officer let me into Too-Too's cell.

  Too-Too woke up. "Oh, no!" he screamed just at seeing me.

  "Be calm," I said. "It is going to get worse. Put this on."

  "NO!" he screamed.

  The guard officer and I got it on him and chained him down.

  I took the guard officer outside. "What's that we put on him?" he asked.

  "Something to muffle the screams," I said.

  "Oh," he said. "It's about time!"

  "Now listen," I said. "What base personnel has been disciplined for molesting small Turkish boys?"

  "Half a dozen," he said.

  "The worst one," I said.

  "Oh, he's doing ninety days right this minute. Cell thirteen."

  We went to cell thirteen. The fellow sat up groggily when we put the glowplates on. He was a huge, hulking monster, with muscles like balloons.

  "You do exactly what I tell you," I told him, "and your sentence is finished."

  "What is it?"

  "Sex," I said.

  "I won't have nothing to do with girls," he said.

  "Not girls," I said. "Is it agreed?"

  "Okay," he said. "You want to do it here, right now?"

  I almost slapped him. I hate homos. But I had more important things to do.

  "Keep him right here," I said to the guard officer.

  I went back to Too-Too's cell. I put the recorded strip in the helmet slot. I took a stick I had brought and standing well away from any field from it, I turned the helmet on.

  Too-Too stopped threshing about.

  I took the stick and turned the helmet off.

  I undid his chains.

  I removed the helmet from his head. I took out a Colt Cobra. I marched him out into the corridor.

  From my pocket I took two bandages. I told the guard officer to blind their eyes. He did.

  At a pistol point I made them walk up the tunnel, through my secret room, through my bedroom, across the patio and into the prepared spare room.

  "Sit down on the pillows," I said. "Don't take those bandages off. I'll be right back."

  I went outside. The taxi driver was there with Fatima Hanim. I told the driver to wait in his cab.

  Fatima Hanim was mostly quivering flesh and stink. I said, "You do exactly what I tell you and you get paid five hundred lira."

  "On the grass here?" she said.

  I shut her up. I told her what she was supposed to do. She was a bit puzzled but nodded.

  I took her in the spare room.

  I had trouble. The big brute had slipped his bandage and was trying to get the clothes off Too-Too.

  At gun point, I made the huge bird stand back. And it took a lot of gun pointing!

  "Now, Too-Too," I said, bending over and whispering in his ear, for he only spoke Voltarian, "you get your reward for being such a good messenger."

  I stood back and motioned to Fatima.

  I went outside and pushed the remote button that started the camera.

  From behind the closed door, I heard Fatima begin to croon a soothing lullaby:

  Poor little baby,

  Hungry as a cat.

  Come to mama, darling,

  So she can fix that.

  Put your little fingers

  In hair as fine as silk.

  Mmm, mmm, mmm,

  Mmm, mmm, mm!

  Inhale mama's milk!

  There was a sudden screech from Too-Too!

  A curse came from the big bird, an order to lie still.

  I curled my lip in disgust as Too-Too began to moan.

  The lullaby started up again. It went on and on.

  Then there was an explosive curse from the big bird.

  Too-Too screeched in ecstasy.

  Then I heard a scramble and a loud kiss!

  "Oh!" came Too-Too's voice in Voltarian. "You are ever so much better than Endow!"

  Instantly, I shut off the camera-recorder.

  I opened the door.

  Too-Too was standing there with his arms around the big brute.

  Too-Too looked stunned. "Why did I say that?" he said. "It isn't true. You're not better than Endow!"

  I smiled thinly. He had said that because he had been told to on the hypnostrip.

  "Time's up," I said.

  "What language is he speaking?" said Fatima.

  "Baby talk," I said.

  "Oh," she said. Then, "Isn't anybody going to take me?'

  I got her out of there. I gave the taxi driver a thousand lira to pay himself and her.

  I went back.

  The brute was pawing Too-Too again, who wasn't complaining. I kicked them apart. I hate homos.

  Punching them with the Colt Cobra, I got their clothes and the bandages on them. I marched them back through and down to the hangar and the detention cells in the passage to the right.

  "Go okay?" said the guard officer.

  "Just fine," I said.

  We started to put Too-Too back in his cell.

  I said to the hulking brute, "You can go now. You're free."

  "Can't I do another ninety days with him?" said the brute, trying to get past us.

  I made the guard captain take him away to the barracks.

  I set Too-Too down on the ledge. He was still drooling.

  "You've had your fun," I said.

  "Oh, yes," he said, rolling his eyes.

  "Now there's a price."

  He went wary. "You said it was a reward."

  "The reward was the woman. You haven't paid for the man. Now listen carefully."

  I took three objects out of my pocket, chosen from my routine Apparatus kit. "You often serve the office staff their hot jolt and a sweetbun in the morning. Here in my palm you see three capsules. Each of these contains a concentric molecular powder. The core is a molecule of a deadly poison."

  He quivered and his eyes shot wide in horror. Psychology is right. What you say to them right after intercourse is itself hypnotic.

  "This molecule of poison," I continued, "is enclosed in a molecule of copper which shields it. The molecule of copper is enclosed in a molecule of sugar. When these arrive in a person's stomach, it takes two hours for the stomach acid to eat away the copper. Then the person dies. Do you understand?"

  He did. But just to spite me, he fainted. There was a water can in the cell. I threw some in his face and brought him around.

  He moaned, "Give them to me. You are going to order something terrible. I will take all three at once!"

  "No," I said patiently. "The poison produces one of the most painful and agonizing deaths ever devised. It took Apparatus chemists years to develop something this painful. So you would never be able to survive taking them."

  He was beginning to cry so I slapped his face to get him back on the subject.

  "Now pay heed," I said. "You know the two forgers in Section 451."

  He groaned.

  "You are to serve their snack. You are to empty one of these capsules into each of their sweetbuns and cover it so it just looks like more sugar."

  "Oh," he moaned. "You are proposing murder!"

  "Stop qui
bbling," I said. "When you have served the two forgers, you are then to serve Bawtch. You are to put the third capsule in Bawtch's..."

  "BAWTCH?" he cried and fainted.

  I threw more water on him. I got him around eventually.

  "Now," I said, "if you do not do this, I will not give Oh Dear your magic mail card when he comes in three months. The Commander of the Knife Section on Mistin will get an order. And that will be the end of your mother."

  He fainted again. There was no more water so I kicked him back to life.

  "One more thing," I said. "I have written some orders to Lombar but I want to make sure. You are to make very certain, using all your influence with Endow, that two people come with Odur next trip—without fail. They are to arrive here, straight up, happy and intact. The first of these persons is the Countess Krak. The second of these persons is Doctor Crobe."

  He was crying and wailing and threshing about, beating his fists on the ledge. I knew this would be his effort to refuse. I was ready for it.

  I took a small viewer from my pocket. I set it up. I held his head so he would have to look at it.

  The whole sex scene ran off. It ended with the kiss and the classic remark he had been made to make by post-hypnotic suggestion. "Oh, you are ever so much better than Endow!" We psychologists know our business.

  "Endow will kill me! He'll imprison me for life! With maniacs!"

  "Precisely," I said. Yes, indeed, we psychologists know our business. "And if those three people on Voltar aren't dead and if the two named do not arrive with Odur, these strips go straight to Endow! Understood?"

  When I got him conscious again, he understood.

  After, with some trouble, I had made him rehearse it over and over, he had fainted one more time. His heart palpitations had been getting worse. I couldn't think of any other way to torture him at the moment, so I left.

  It was a masterly stroke!

  Heller had asked for a cellologist. Crobe had been aching to ruin anybody as good-looking as Heller. So I would give him Crobe.

  The Countess Krak was wearing those two forgeries on her body. When she arrived, I would simply pluck them off with suitable guise.

  The Countess Krak would rave at Heller and upset him so for living in a whorehouse that he would never get anything done. She would slow him to a walk and maybe, as I had told Lombar, she would kill Heller. Lombar would listen to my needing a hit woman.

  And when I finished off Heller, however it was done, there would be no Countess Krak waiting to take revenge at the other end. I would see to it that she never left Earth once here.

  All witnesses dead. The forgeries of the Emperor's name safely in my hands. Really a masterly stroke!

  I knew that Earth psychology had not failed me and the use of FBI evidence-gathering, frame-up know-how had been flawlessly executed.

  I went to bed comfortable for the first time in many, many days.

  PART TWENTY-FOUR

  Chapter 1

  For some reason, possibly understandable, I wanted to see the Blixo unquestionably gone. Other ships come and go but the Blixo apparently had its own brand of cargo—bad news. Accordingly, when I awoke from my well-earned sleep, I tackled two hundred pounds of papers that had to be stamped. Captain Bolz could take them away, thank you.

  It was too much to ask of one to read them so I sat in my office and stamped away. My arm got tired. How, in just ten days, could Bawtch accumulate so much paper to be stamped? But, oh well, he was cared for. In another few weeks they would give him a nonmilitary funeral– probably the coffin would be carried between two lines of clerks making an arch with pens, and his tombstone would read STAMP HERE.

  I tried to tie the identoplate to my foot but my back got tired bending over to change the sheets. I toyed with the idea of going out and finding a blind beggar to do the stamping—but they whine so and I had had my fill of whining lately.

  It was ten o'clock in the evening when I finished. I got a dolly and pushed the papers down the tunnel from my office and into the hangar. A couple of hangar men loaded them into the ship.

  Bolz had a terrible hangover, fortunately, and there was no social chitchat. He had encased Too-Too in irons and locked him into a strongroom to which there was only one key. He had made sure the cartoned balls of opium were lashed down, the heroin bags wouldn't leak or roll about and that the cases upon cases of I. G. Barben speed wouldn't crush at high acceleration. He gave me a wincing farewell—I shook his hand too hard (I was so glad to see him go)—and went to his flight deck. The trundle dolly rolled. The airlocks clanged shut. The Blixo lifted its skinny, battered length up through the mountaintop illusion and was gone into the dark night. Six weeks from now it would, I hope, land uneventfully on Voltar and my main troubles would be solved.

  Exhausted from my stamping labors, I went back to bed and slept the sleep of the cunning and the just.

  It was almost ten o'clock the next morning when I got around, much refreshed. I lolled over breakfast in my room, and when the waiter had gone, I decided to take a turn in the yard.

  I was expecting nothing. My mood was optimistic. As I looked up from the patio at the open sky above, I could see that it was a fine autumn day.

  The door from the patio to the yard was shut. It had a small port in it—the Romans were cautious people. More from habit than from fear, I glanced through the small port before I opened the yard door.

  I froze!

  Sitting on the grass! Sitting on the grass, tossing an object into the air and catching it! Sitting on the grass was GUNSALMO SILVA!

  I flinched back!

  My world went topsy-turvy!

  What was HE doing there? HE was supposed to be DEAD!

  I peeked cautiously. He had not seen me. He was

  just sitting there tossing whatever it was. But what was it? It was about fourteen inches long, it was narrow, it was black.

  A sawed-off shotgun! I think they are called a "leopard" by U.S. gangsters. They saw off the barrel and they saw off the stock and it leaves a sort of pistol. But what an awful pistol! A double-barrelled, twelve-gauge smoothbore! It could blow a hole in a man a dog could jump through and do it twice!

  What was he doing here?

  Only one conclusion could be reached. He knew I had put the finger on him and he had come here to kill me!

  I abandoned all thought of going for a walk!

  Silently I withdrew to my room.

  I closed and double-barred my bedroom door.

  I opened the passage to Faht's office and went tearing down it as fast as I could run.

  Somewhat out of breath, I burst in upon Faht.

  "There's a man in my front yard!" I said without preamble.

  Faht Bey was going over some accounts. He looked up tiredly. "Probably it's part of this mess with the American consul." He saw I didn't understand. "The shooting," he explained. "The one you got the alibi for. Things were very calm here before you arrived."

  "What American consul?" I shouted at him.

  "Don't you know about American consuls? They got two main duties. One of them is to claim the bodies of dead Americans. The other is to protect live Americans from justice and make sure they get thrown in any foreign jail that's handy. And of course, there's the other secret duty of running the CIA."

  "What's going on?" I screamed at him.

  "There's no use to pretend you don't know," he said.

  "Couple of days ago, there was a shooting in a local rooming house. A guy named Jimmy 'The Gutter' Tavilnasty went into a room and got shot to pieces. A man named Gunsalmo Silva was arrested. He's been on our lines, Gris. He came in on the Blixo and you know it. You ordered us to deliver him to that rooming house and we did. And he killed this Tavilnasty."

  "What happened?" I pleaded.

  "The police arrested this Silva and threw him in the jug. The American consul from Ankara came in here to claim the body and ship it home and Silva heard there was an American consul in town and he insisted on seeing him
, claiming to be an American citizen. We got scared they would take Silva and maybe interrogate him but that didn't happen. The American consul verified Silva was an American citizen, so of course they demanded the court put him in prison on bread and water. But the local police said it was self-defense and they let Silva go. They don't like foreign interference. The consul was awfully mad at the lack of international cooperation but he left on the morning plane with the body of Tavilnasty. Now do you understand?" He didn't really want to know. "If the man on your front lawn is squat, very muscular, black hair, black eyes, swarthy complexion, then that's Gunsalmo Silva. But it's all handled." He fixed a beady eye on me. "How is it there always seems to be trouble where you've been and how come you always show up later when everything is handled?"

  Handled? "My Gods, what do you mean, handled? He's sitting on my front lawn with a sawed-off shotgun!"

  "Oh, well," said Faht Bey. "Details, details."

  I saw I wasn't going to get any help there. I turned to leave and I swear I heard Faht Bey mutter, "And good luck to him." But I was shaking too hard to take it up at that moment.

  Going back through the long, long tunnel, I regained my room.

  A thousand plans began to race through my head and tangle with each other.

  I half-loaded a ten-gauge shotgun and then left it. I couldn't splatter Silva all over the front lawn. It would leave evidence. And besides, if I stuck my head out that yard door, he might shoot first!

  I could not cower here in my room for weeks. I had to work this out!

  Sitting down, I took a piece of paper and a pen. I began to write down everything I knew about Gunsalmo Silva. It is a last-ditch sort of exercise. Out of it can come a masterstroke.

  The first thing that hit me was that I didn't have to pay Tavilnasty any commissions. That was on the good side of the ledger.

  The next thing was that Gunsalmo Silva was sitting on my front lawn. That was not on the good side of the ledger.

  What did I really know about this gangster? He had been "Holy Joe" Corleone's bodyguard but had acted as the triggerman in wasting him. He had had some trifling information that the Spiteos interrogator had gotten out of him about senators in the pay of organized crime. Ah. And he didn't have very good sense: he had called for an American consul.

  But there was something else. It was eluding me. Then I had it. He was now hypnotrained in Apparatus techniques! A graduate of that school! Yikes! He was deadly!