Mission Earth Volume 7: Voyage of Vengeance

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Where?”

  “There.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You see? Office life has made you soft,” he said. “You are far too young for that. I propose, to begin, ten laps around the promenade deck right now and we’ll start in earnest tomorrow morning in the gym. Shall we say about nine?”

  He started pacing alongside me as I ran around the promenade deck. After five laps I was panting, so I grabbed at the rail, pretending an interest in the sea.

  “Why is the ship so level?” I panted.

  “Stabilizers, both fore and aft pitch and athwartship roll. Two sets. She’s like a billiard table except in storms. So now if we can just finish these last five laps . . .”

  I was absolutely gasping for air.

  With him pushing with both hands against my back, we made it. I flopped over the rail, looking down at the water creaming by twenty feet below. “I don’t think I can take this,” I wheezed.

  “We can’t have the owner demising from cardiac arrest due to extreme deskosis ashore,” he said.

  “Cardiac arrest?” I said.

  “Certainly. The shape you’ve let yourself get into, it’s imminent.”

  “It sure is,” I said, listening to my blood pounding out my eardrums.

  “But never mind,” he said. “Steam baths, good food, vitamins on the table and a stiff program carried out every day and we won’t have to bury you at sea. So beginning tomorrow morning, we’ll get the program really going. Right now, I should think you would like to join your niece and her fiancé for a swim before dinner.”

  “Where are they?” I said.

  “Well, they may still be down in the race track. I’ve never seen anybody skateboard quite like your niece. And her fiancé seems to be a complete madman with a racing car.”

  “It’s his general state,” I said.

  “Well, the way he was chasing her with the racing car, I left a crewman on duty there in case we had to clean up a wreck.”

  “Yikes!” I said. “Whatever you do, don’t let her get killed! That would be fatal!”

  “I’ll remind her that you are concerned,” said the sports director. “Now I suggest you go up to the sunpool and loll a bit. I’ll go down to the race track and hurry them up.”

  I climbed the ladder with difficulty to the sun pool deck. But it was worth the effort. The aquamarine water lapped at the Roman frieze that surrounded it. Reclining chairs with shades sat about. I collapsed in one. Gentle mood music soothed my nerves. The sea all about was a lovely scene in the afternoon sun.

  It was the first time I had really relaxed for months! I basked. This was the life! Leagues from the madding throng. Far beyond the reach of dramatic turmoil. The peace was so thick, it lay on one like a blanket. Even the throb of engines was a lulling undertone.

  A shriek!

  Teenie came tearing up a ladder and went around the pool like a spinning mouse!

  She had on some bikini pants and nothing else. Even her ponytail was undone.

  A guffaw!

  Madison, in a pair of shorts, came racing after her!

  “Last one in’s a rotten egg!” screamed Teenie. She raced up the diving board and SPLASH! A wave of water hit me. SPLASH! Another wave hit me as Madison went in!

  Teenie hadn’t come up.

  She grabbed Madison’s legs from below and pulled him under.

  They surfaced. They batted tidal waves of water at each other. They hit me!

  “FOR GODS’ SAKES!” I yelled. “You’re drowning me!”

  They both bobbed, suddenly silent. They looked at each other. They raced to the side of the pool. They surged out.

  They grabbed me, one on either side, and THREW ME IN!

  I couldn’t protest. My mouth was too full of water. And every time I tried to talk, Teenie pushed me under again!

  Probably the only thing which saved me from drowning was the multiple-tone chime being struck by a steward.

  “Dinner will be served in half an hour,” he said. “This is the warning bell so that you can dress.”

  “Dress?” said Teenie.

  “Dress!” I snarled. “You can’t go running around this ship bare-(bleep) naked!”

  “It’s customary,” said Madison. “Things are done differently at sea.”

  “Dress in what?” said Teenie, bobbing in the water.

  “In an evening dress!” I bellowed at her.

  She looked up at the sky, which was becoming painted with the scarlet of sunset. “Well, it is evening,” she said. “But that’s when you take OFF your clothes, not put them on!”

  “I’ll help you,” said Madison.

  Oh, was I suddenly cheered! My luck was holding all the way. Madison and Teenie were hitting it off and Madison would keep her out of my bed.

  Despite the determination of the crew to run my life, this was not turning out badly after all.

  I supposed myself to be miles from my enemies and safe.

  Totally unsuspecting what the future held in store, I went below to dress for dinner.

  PART FIFTY-SIX

  Chapter 2

  In the ornate dining salon, Teenie and Madison laughed all the way through dinner.

  He had helped her dress. He had found a door curtain with a nautical design and had draped it around her so that it looked like an off-the-shoulder evening gown of sorts.

  He was showing her which spoon and which fork to eat what with, while the chief steward looked on indulgently and saw to the service.

  Eventually they got down to the coffee and were so stuffed they had to stop laughing. It was a relief.

  “You were talking about outlaws, this afternoon,” said Teenie to Mad. “I just remembered that the place where I lived in New York, Tudor City, was once upon a time an outlaw hangout. Used to be known as ‘Corcoran’s Roost.’ Paddy Corcoran, the notorious bandit, used to live there until they caught up with him.”

  “Really?” said Madison.

  “Absolutely. And every Saturday night you can see his ghost dragging basketloads of heads he cut off, right through the park. I’ve run into him myself.”

  “Fascinating,” said Madison. “You know, I can’t knock off work entirely despite my mother’s insistence I take a vacation. I should continue to do research on outlaws. I wonder if there were any in Bermuda? We’ll have to go ashore and hunt around for markers and things.”

  “Oh, that would be fun,” said Teenie. “I just love outlaws, too. I can be all kinds of help, getting the locals to talk and looking under rocks and things.”

  Oh, that really sounded good to me. They were hitting it off very well indeed and that let me out. Thank Gods!

  After dinner we went to the music salon and Teenie got some of her Neo Punk Rock records and they danced.

  I retired early. It had been a pretty active day.

  For three lovely days we sailed onward to Bermuda, a white ship upon an azure sea, a veritable picture book of contentment.

  The combination of no sex, no marijuana, plenty of exercise and a stern taskmaster—the sports director—to see that I did it began to build me back to the world of the living.

  I considered Madison so valuable that I went into a panic at the very thought of losing him. He and Teenie seemed to want nothing more than to romp all day. Although I had no evidence of it, I could only suppose that they were also romping all night in Madison’s or Teenie’s cabin.

  My prospects seemed marvelous. Sailing along, getting back my health, I gloried in one single fact—oh, Gods, it was wonderful: NO WOMEN! My bed was utterly empty, my time was my own, and the smile on my face grew and grew.

  The elderly stewardess who seemed to be taking care of Teenie’s room, the afternoon of the third day, gave me a valuable tip. She said, “Your niece is such a dear thing. I think she will be lonely when her boyfriend leaves the ship.”

  “Leaves the ship?” I croaked in sudden alarm. “What gave you that idea?” Gods, what a disaster that would be: Teenie would be right back
in my lap and bed!

  “I couldn’t help but overhear them talking in the steam bath,” she said. “He was a bit despondent that he was letting somebody named Bury down and wondered if the dangers might not have been exaggerated. He was also asking the purser about flights from Bermuda to New York.”

  “Thank Gods you told me,” I said.

  “The owner is who we work for,” she said, probably expecting a tip. And, unaccustomed as I was to doing such things, I gave her one.

  What a disaster that would be! Madison was keeping Teenie out of my bed, and Madison in the hands of the fiend, Krak, would babble his silly head off! If Madison went away, I would be attacked from within and without!

  Trained as I was, it did not take long to solve it. In the radio room there was a radio-telex machine. Each night in the small hours, all by itself and unattended, it chattered out the news from the wire services, making several copies for distribution to the owner and guests. Morgan probably had had other uses for the machine, such as manipulating the family financial empire. And I had another use, too.

  I carefully made a feeder tape at midnight that very night, and when the news came chattering through, I adroitly added the item to the text before the machine turned off. The item was:

  MAN KILLED BY MAFIA THOUGHT TO HAVE BEEN MISTAKEN FOR J. WALTER MADISON. A NOTE TO THE VICTIM’S WIFE STATED “WE APOLOGIZE. WE THOUGHT YOUR HUSBAND WAS THAT NO-GOOD (BLEEP) J. WALTER MADISON THAT WE HAVE A CONTRACT OUT ON. IF YOU WANT SOME MONEY FOR YOUR OLD AGE, HELP US FIND THE LOUSE SO WE CAN TORTURE HIM AND FILL HIM FULL OF HOLES.” POLICE ARE BAFFLED AS TO THE WHEREABOUTS OF MADISON AND STATED TODAY THEY WOULD ASSIST THE CORLEONE MOB TO FIND HIM IN ORDER TO PREVENT OTHER ERRORS.

  The following morning at breakfast, I made very sure he saw it. “Well, you’re in the news yourself,” I said.

  He read it. He went white. He didn’t finish his powdered eggs.

  The reaction was just what I wanted. And it had come in the nick of time. Bermuda was in sight.

  PART FIFTY-SIX

  Chapter 3

  Bermuda is a pretty place. It sits in a startlingly clear, azure sea, its bays so blue they hurt the eyes. The beaches are pink. The strangely architectured houses, of different pastel shades, are constructed to catch rainwater on their roofs and help make up for scarcity.

  We did not go down the long channel to Hamilton but anchored at the port nearest the sea, St. George.

  The hills looked inviting and I lost no time in going ashore. I walked up and down the main street—one might say, the only street—hoping to buy some yachting clothes. A couple of inquiries promptly verified a thing I had heard: that Bermuda had the highest cost of living in the world. I did not buy any yachting clothes.

  But something else happened. I was standing near the boat landing, reading a historic plaque and looking at a replica of an original building, when I became aware of someone watching me.

  Covertly, I examined him. He had on a three-piece business suit of charcoal gray, an odd costume on this island of white shirts and shorts. The fellow’s jaw was blue-black despite evident recent shaving. He was of very heavy build. What was he? A cop? I couldn’t decide, other than that he certainly was no Bermudian.

  I sauntered up the street and found a bench where I could sit down. I pretended to be very interested in the view. But out of the tail of my eye I watched this man. Apparatus habits are never lost. He seemed far too interested in me. He went over to a bar and went in and I knew he was watching me through the window. I pretended not to observe this.

  Teenie and Madison had not come ashore with me. Madison was having a case of jitters. He believed he ought to go down and sit in the bilges until we were at sea again, saying, “The Corleones might use Interpol to locate me—after all, Interpol is composed of Nazi criminals and the Nazis had Italy as an ally and the Corleones might get a lead—even though I realize it would be an awful step down from the Mafia to Interpol.” Teenie had stayed behind, arguing with him.

  Apparently she had gotten bored with trying to coax him out of his funk, for here she came now, in a bikini and ponytail, standing on the foredeck of a yacht speedboat which was bringing her ashore.

  She leaped off onto the dock and walked up the street, looking for bicycles to rent, judging from what she asked a young black boy. He pointed in about six directions at once, stuck out his palm for money and when he didn’t get any, pointed straight up with his forefinger.

  Teenie evidently didn’t see me sitting on the bench: she was in the glaring sun and I was in the dark shade; I was quite some distance away. She went up the street past the bar into which the black-jowled man had gone.

  He came out and fell into step beside her. She was chattering away, talking about bicycles, and he was nodding.

  They progressed up the street a little further and I could no longer hear what they were saying. But their heads seemed closer together.

  They went past a hotel. They stopped. The man was saying something. They turned around and walked back to the hotel and went in. This was very curious because a hotel does not rent bicycles.

  They were in that place for about an hour. I drew back even further out of sight. I watched the door. They came out. Teenie seemed very cheerful. They walked up the street and entered a record shop. They were gone for a while and when they came out Teenie was carrying a foot-high stack of records.

  They went further up the street to a dress shop. They were gone for an awfully long time. They came out. Teenie was in a cycling costume and a black man was following with about a five-foot stack of dress boxes and the records.

  They went further up the street and entered a bicycle shop. After a while they came out and were followed by a second black man who was pushing, with some difficulty, THREE bicycles.

  Teenie took one of the bikes, a racing model, got on it and, with a wave to the black-jowled man, rode off deeper into the island.

  The black-jowled man looked all around and then led the two porters and their burdens down to the dock, signaled the yacht for a boat and sent the purchases aboard.

  He came back up the street, looked in the direction Teenie had vanished, gave a short, barking laugh and went back into the bar.

  It was, on the surface, a very insignificant occurrence. My first conclusion was that the black-jowled man liked very young meat, had made a proposition, been accepted and had then paid a very high price. I tried to add up how high that price had been, considering the altitudinous cost-of-living index of Bermuda. Pretty high. Well, maybe Teenie with all her new education was worth it. That black-jowled man had certainly seemed pleased.

  That evening Teenie came to dinner in a silver evening gown, silver slippers and a silver ring to bind her ponytail. Madison had found the bilges were not comfortable and he sat at the table gloomily muttering that he wished we were at sea where it was safe.

  “Oh, Maddie,” said Teenie, digging into her jumbo prawns au Biscayne, “stop glooming. The Mafia aren’t going to get you here. They don’t need any Mafia in this place: the whole economy is built on robbery. From its earliest days, according to all the signs, Bermuda has been a hangout for privateersmen and pirates and bootleggers and you name it, Maddie. I went swimming this afternoon at the nicest little beach you ever saw and an old gray-haired man there told me all about it. Of course, I couldn’t understand a lot of his Italian. . . .”

  “Italian?” said Madison, dropping his prawn. “They aren’t Italian here. They’re English! A very few speak some Portuguese, but no Italian! Are you sure about this?”

  “Of course, I’m sure,” said Teenie. “Don’t you suppose a native New Yorker like me knows words like assassino and mano nera?”

  Madison was chalk white. “Who was this man?”

  “Oh, a nice old fellow. He wanted to know if I was from the pretty yacht and I said yes. And then when he was showing me how well he could swim, he asked me if there was a good-looking young man aboard with brown hair. And then he showed me a seashell and ask
ed me if it didn’t look like a mano nera, a black hand, the symbol of an assassino . . . wait. I have it here in my purse. He said I could give it to you if I wanted.”

  Madison stared at it. He was very white. He said to me, “How long are we going to stay in this port?”

  I shrugged. “We’re just cruising. I should imagine when we have fresh provisions, we can sail.”

  “You’re all the time talking of doing research on outlaws,” said Teenie. “I’ve heard the King of Morocco is a crook to end all crooks. Why don’t we go there?”