Mission Earth Volume 4: An Alien Affair

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Almost indolently, I opened the ten pounds of Sunday paper. I don’t really know what I expected to see. But I had not at all anticipated what I did see.

  Nothing!

  There was absolutely no word about that race in the whole paper!

  Not ONE word!

  I hastened over to the TV. I ran through the channels. Ah, a program called “The Week in Sports” was just beginning. Several items. Then a few brief clips of the race without any editorial comment, hardly any mention of the Whiz Kid! Just the crashes!

  Oh, this was bad. Madison was right. He was off the front page. And not even in a day or two but at once!

  I then remembered the local-radio-station dial position I had been listening to on Saturday—a Long Island station, WHOA. I tuned in on it. I was in luck! They were just beginning their news.

  It was, apparently, a sleepy, snowed-in, suburban Sunday on Long Island. There were only two items of interest to me, both local.

  A burned-out van with ten bodies in it had been found by some Boy Scouts in a picnic area of Jones Beach. Police said that they were burned beyond recognition; that a leaking muffler had overcome them; that they probably had been en route to pick up a load of seaborne narcotics; that Tommy Jones had been awarded his merit badge for snowshoeing.

  The other item was another discovery: Miss Sarah Jane Gooch, the charming wife of Gooby Gooch, had been on her way to Cranston’s Supermarket this morning and had stumbled over a body in the snowdrifts which now “dot our streets” and had called the police who had then found another body about two hundred yards away, the location traced by Police Chief Flab because of dogs quarreling over it, which event had been phoned in by Mrs. Emma Gross, the charming wife of Bill Gross. The police concluded that one of the men had shot the other one with a rifle and had then committed suicide with a stiletto that was still sticking in his back. Crime in the community was thus reduced by two, which was heartwarming on a cold day.

  The race might as well have never happened so far as the Spreeport area was concerned!

  And it looked especially quiet when it came to news about the Whiz Kid. I was worried. What was going to happen now? Was Heller going to get off scot-free and ride to glory?

  I thought I had better check up on said Heller.

  He had come into his office! On Sunday? That was a bad sign. Awfully industrious!

  The first thing he did was dig Izzy out of that closet-office he uses as a bedroom.

  “I gave you a device some time ago,” said Heller. “I want to look at it.”

  Heller went into his own office, turned on a heater and stood for a while gazing out across the snow-covered expanses of lower Manhattan. He seemed to concentrate on soot patches already darkening the snow. He was evidently letting his office warm up, for presently he took off a ski mask, a white fur hood and parka and sat down.

  Izzy came in with the item. It was the unmodified carbon converter Heller had brought from Voltar and a duplicate of the one he had put in the now-defunct Cadillac.

  Heller broke out some tools and, with very rapid motions, soon had the device spread all over a cloth on his desk. A small feeling of alarm began to rise in me.

  One by one, holding each close to his eye, he began to go over the parts. Suddenly he stopped. He was holding a thin metal bit about an inch long.

  “A notch!” he said.

  Magnified by his own eyesight, I could see it too on my screen. Just a little v notch, the one our saboteur had cut to embarrass Heller.

  “Look!” he said to Izzy, holding it out.

  But Izzy couldn’t see it no matter how he twisted his horn-rimmed glasses around. Heller got a huge magnifier and showed him.

  “That caused the wrong electrical value to pour into the next component!” said Heller. “It built up to red-hot overheat! These were just cheap school kits. I should have known better.”

  Izzy gazed at him blankly. “School kits?”

  “No, no,” said Heller, probably realizing he was on the edge of a Code break. “They will work fine. All I need to do is redesign it slightly to guarantee its electrical values in this area and it will run forever. Get me the plans back.”

  Izzy got them and Heller made the changes. He seemed quite cheered up. The stupid idiot didn’t suspect it was the farsightedness of Lombar Hisst that had cost him that race!

  “Izzy,” he said, “what do you do when you have lost a race?”

  “You don’t engage in one in the first place,” said Izzy.

  “No, no, really, I want to know.”

  “You leave for South America,” said Izzy. “There’s this place up the Amazon where there are only soldier ants. Peaceful! No people! Even the reporters have been eaten up. I’m holding your ticket. I can get you a Pan American reservation in seconds!” He was starting to lilt with enthusiasm.

  “No, no,” said Heller. “I’ll just fix up this thing, get another car and challenge them again!”

  “Oh, no!” wept Izzy.

  And “Oh, no!” wept I! I could not possibly tolerate that much strain again, ever! This was a REAL emergency.

  I reached for the phone, found I was holding the viewscreen. I put it down and tried to make a call on my Colt Bulldog. I ran about, slamming doors, trying to get dressed.

  Utanc, my darling Turkish love, stuck a sleepy head through the bedroom door. “Whatever is going on, Sultan?”

  I had not seen her in days. But I had no time now. “The world is liable to fall in!”

  “Oh?” she said, closed the door, locked it and apparently went back to bed.

  I didn’t, let me tell you! I knew duty when I saw it calling! It was screaming at me!

  PART THIRTY

  Chapter 3

  I found the phone where I had knocked it off under the bed.

  I managed to find Madison’s number. I forced the hotel operator to dial it: I couldn’t hit the right buttons.

  A very concerned, older female voice answered. His mother!

  “I must talk to J. Walter at once!” I yelled at her.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, “I’m afraid that is impossible. He is lying in bed. Three doctors have been here and they ordered absolute rest. I can’t even go near him myself.”

  And, indeed, I could hear tiny suppressed screeches in the background.

  I hung up.

  Bury. I must phone Bury!

  It was a tangle! His number was unlisted. The Octopus Oil Building Exchange would not give me his home phone.

  Ah, I had it! That night he had gone home in the police car! I knew where he lived!

  Sunday or no Sunday, Mr. Bury was going to have a caller!

  I still had the van, the rental office being closed on Sunday.

  I piled into some warm clothes, got the car brought around front and was soon tooling uptown.

  The streets were deserted tunnels piled high on both sides with snow, the tops of cars showing vaguely in the mounds. The snowplows had been industrious! Some of those motorists would not see their vehicles until spring!

  I was soon standing before his mailbox. It said Mrs. Destuyvescent Depleister Bury.

  I rang. I got him at once.

  Within a minute I was in an upper hall and he was letting me through a door.

  “It’s an emergency,” I said desperately.

  His reply was strange. “Oh, good,” he whispered.

  Then, with a conspiratorial finger he beckoned me into the sitting room. He was carrying a sheet of Sunday paper and he didn’t have any shoes on.

  A torrent of words was coming from an inner room—things like “When I married you, I expected . . .” and “Time and again my whole family told me . . .” and “That is what I get for marrying beneath . . .” Quite a blur.

  Bury whispered, “Tell me again, real loud!”

  “THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!” I yelled at him and meant it.

  “OH, HEAVENS!” he shouted back. “AN EMERGENCY ON SUNDAY!”

  He grabbed his shoes and put them o
n. He grabbed some overshoes out of a hall closet. He got into an overcoat. He put on his snap-brim, little New Yorker hat. He grabbed an attaché case, rushed into a side room and filled it with white mice. He closed it.

  Then he rushed into the room his wife’s voice was coming from and said something to the effect that the office demanded his presence.

  He rushed out. A storm of small pillows and perfume sprays and nail files poured after him. He got us into the hall.

  “Thank God,” he said. “I’ve never been so pleased to see anybody in my life, Inkswitch. I will remember this as a kindly act! So rare, kindly acts!”

  He was pushing me along as he spoke. We got outside and we climbed into the warm van.

  I handed him a half pint of applejack I had taken to the race in case of emergency. “You’re going to need this.” And I told him first how Madison had planned to kidnap Wister, send him to Russia, blame the Communists and start World War III.

  Bury nodded. He didn’t even touch the applejack. “Well,” he said, “I told you, Inkswitch. A little bit of Madison always goes too far. Many think his mother should be arraigned for attempted humanocide. But frankly, Inkswitch, he’s really no more skilled than any other public relations man or reporter. He’s just a little faster, that’s all.”

  “You aren’t worried?”

  “Oh, PRs, catarrhs, Inkswitch. One of them, sooner or later, will get us into World War III, anyway. What do you expect? At least we got him into action.”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “He’s not in action. He’s under the care of three doctors and he’s lying in bed screaming. And I can see his point. After the failure of his plan, he can’t figure out how to get any more headlines. The paper today was blank.”

  “The Sunday papers? They’re all printed on Saturday. They were in the delivery trucks before that race even started. Now, I’ll admit you have a point. It is probably infeasible now for him to make Wister immortal for starting World War III. And it is very unlikely that J. Warbler Madman will come up with another gem like that. And he probably will have to work like a dog to get back on the front page. And I surely want to thank you for getting me out of there.”

  “You mean your wife?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. The mayor! We were scheduled to have dinner with him.”

  “Is he that bad?”

  “Oh, no, no, Inkswitch. You don’t understand. The mayor is just a fat slob. It’s his wife! She’s a former Roxy showgirl and she’s never forgiven anybody for preventing her from becoming a Hollywood star. My wife is nothing compared to the mayor’s wife. Her voice ought to be arrested for assault and battery with intent to kill! I shall remember your kindly act. Even though kindness is an awful weakness, Inkswitch, and you’ve got to guard against it. But come, we’re wasting time.”

  “You’ve got another emergency?”

  “Indeed so. I was going to go to the Bronx Zoo today and I couldn’t possibly figure how to manage it until you came. Because of the Rockecenter gifts to the place they specially open the snake house for me on Sundays and let me feed live mice to the most delightful reptiles it’s ever been your pleasure to meet. Want to come?”

  I shudderingly declined.

  “All right, then drop me at the subway station and I’ll be on my way. And guard against kindness, Inkswitch. It can be a fatal flaw. It can even open the door to the Madisons of this world.”

  With this threat, I hastily started up and dropped him at the subway station.

  I watched him go down the steps with his attaché case full of live mice.

  I have seldom felt so uncertain of the future.

  PART THIRTY

  Chapter 4

  Late that night, around 10:00, fearing that Madison might not be dead, I again called his mother.

  She stunned me!

  “Dead? Oh, no, he’s not dead. I’ve seldom seen him look more energetic. Is that you, Mr. Smith?”

  I managed to say that it was.

  “He flew out of here hours ago. He said he knew you would need reassurance and encouragement and for you to call 42 Mess Street right away if you rang.”

  I rang 42 Mess Street. I said, “This is Smith. I want to speak with Mr. Madison.”

  A bright male voice said, “Smith? Ah, Mr. Smith, owner of the National Enmirer, of course. Listen, Smith, have we got a scoop for you! . . .”

  “No, no,” I said. “I’m not a publisher. Tell Madison it’s the Mr. Smith.”

  Whoever it was left the phone. A mad chatter of telex machines and barking voices assaulted my ears. Hey, that office was busy! But Madison had been dying!

  Madison’s voice, “Oh, Mr. Smith. I do thank you for calling. I knew you would be worried.”

  “I thought you were dying or dead!”

  “Quote Medical Miracle Unquote. Intramuscular morphine followed by Benzedrine and intravenous transfusions of black ink saves Madison’s life. Smith, we must cease to dwell upon the nostalgic and roseate glow of yesterday. Now is the time to get the shoulder to men’s souls. For these are the times that try men’s grindstones. We are the masters of men’s fates and I thank God for my indomitable will. . . .”

  “Wait,” I protested. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Smith, we must rest content that there will never be another chance to pull the PR coup of the century again. We have to let sleeping dogs tell lies and abandon all that. We must not look back but sternly face the future. Inspiration and genius would have triumphed had it not been for that undependable client. But never mind. I will now resort to standard press policy and though it will be hard and long, the end will see us riding in the triumphal procession, crowned with laurel leaves, never fear.”

  “What,” I demanded with growing fear, “are you going to DO?”

  “Smith, we have the first C of PR, Confidence. What we have lost is the second C, Coverage. We are OFF the front page! But never fear, Smith, we will regain it! For we have the third C, Controversy! Riding through the icy night, determined to make good, it came to me in a flash. CONTROVERSY! We can rebuild our campaign upon the sturdy headsman’s block of Controversy without end. We will succeed! And you will have to excuse me now as I am told the publisher of the Los Angeles Grimes is on the other wire.” Click! He was gone!

  I sat there staring at the phone. He hadn’t told me a blasted thing. I feared I did not understand this mysterious world of PR. I put the phone on the hook.

  It rang instantly. Madison’s voice, “See tomorrow’s front page!” Click. He was gone again.

  Needless to say, the next morning, it was with shaky hands that I unfolded the morning newspaper.

  And there it was. Headlines!

  WHIZ KID

  ACCUSED OF FRAUD

  ___________________

  VEHICLE IMPOUNDED

  Race officials last night obtained a court order to impound the car used by the Whiz Kid in Saturday’s race.

  No one could be found to comment.

  The Whiz Kid refuses press interviews.

  The racing world tonight was shocked by the ominous order. . . .

  I rushed out and got other papers. They all said more or less the same thing. They didn’t say what it was really all about.

  The TV and radio both were carrying the story. Apparently it was going national, for West Coast racing figures were being interviewed.

  And so it went through the day.

  Toward evening, I thought of my viewer. How was Heller taking this?

  He had newspapers spread all over his desk. He was asking Izzy, “What in the name of blastguns is this all about?”

  Izzy said, “It’s about a ticket to South America. I got a book right here on soldier ants. They’re a lot less deadly than the press. The ants just destroy everything.”

  “But,” said Heller, “the remains of the Caddy are sitting right over at Mike Mutazione’s garage. I called him. Nobody has come near it! And besides, it’s so burned out you can’t see anything but melted metal. And not
a soul has called me. I haven’t refused any press interviews!”

  He started to clip all the stories, pushing the airline ticket aside from time to time as Izzy kept putting it in his way.

  All day Madison’s phone was busy or he wasn’t available. But that office, each time I heard it on the open line, sounded like it was situated in the middle of a hurricane.

  Tuesday morning came.

  Front page again!

  WHIZ KID CHEATED

  ___________________

  GAS LINE FOUND

  Officials today revealed that in investigating the smoldering wreck of the Whiz Kid’s car, they had discovered a gasoline line cleverly hidden in the pistons. . . .

  It was in all the papers and on radio and TV.

  Well, I thought. That will be the end of it and the end of Heller, too!

  But Wednesday morning came.

  Front page!

  RACE OFFICIAL FLEES

  ___________________

  WHIZ KID CULPABLE

  According to unimpeachable sources we cannot disclose, a track official—whose relatives demanded he remain anonymous—fled the state after confessing he had accepted a bribe from the Whiz Kid to overlook a hidden gas tank in the Whiz Kid’s steering wheel. . . .

  It was in all the papers and on radio and TV. Ah, well, I thought. Madison has cleverly scotched any future race. And that will be that.

  So, on Thursday I was fairly relaxed when I opened the morning paper.

  Front page again! With photos!

  ANGRY MOB SEARCHES

  FOR WHIZ KID

  ___________________

  EMBATTLED

  POLICE USE RIOT GUNS

  Today, Manhattan huddled behind closed doors and listened with terror as the streets were torn to bits by the angry marching feet of a howling mob searching for the Whiz Kid. . . .

  Photos of the mob, with placards which said, “Down with the Whiz Kid,” showed flame and tear gas shooting from police lines. I looked out the window. Fifth Avenue never looked so calm.