Mission Earth Volume 4: An Alien Affair

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Heller reached for the money.

  “I PROMISE TO BE DOUBLY RESPONSIBLE FOR YOU!” shouted Izzy. And he ran with speed for the telex room, probably to get away before Heller thought of anything else.

  Well, I ruminated, they were still in business. But they owed a million and a half and IRS had a way with it, being run as it was to keep Rockecenter rich and everybody else poor, especially potential competition. Hadn’t I heard that in 1905, Rockecenter’s great-grandfather had been the one who financed and pushed and hammered Congress to amend the Constitution and put income tax into law? And when it happened in 1911, that the family fortune was so organized that only it survived when those of all competitors were swept away? Cunning people, the Rockecenters, no matter that the current scion was insane. Here was IRS working for them still. Izzy didn’t have a prayer of getting hold of a million and a half! A half he might make. But a million and a half, never. Not with just arbitrage, not with all his current expenses. Not even Izzy.

  It was a relief. For Izzy’s Chryster Motor Corporation would have been a potential competitor of Rockecenter interests. Izzy might pull the wool over Heller’s eyes. But he couldn’t fool me. He had obviously bought old, rickety, mostly defunct Chryster to build and install Heller’s carburetors! One more crazy Izzy dream gone to pot.

  But it was the media thing that really intrigued me. Rockecenter had that down, too.

  And Heller? He really had no idea of what was happening to him or who was doing it. During the rescue of Izzy, his hands had gotten pretty dirty on the Observation Platform and there he stood looking closely at the soot. He just had no idea at all of the really important things that were going on!

  PART THIRTY

  Chapter 9

  About nine forty-five, Heller’s day was given another jolt. He had been listening to speeded-up Italian-language tapes he had probably gotten from the language school down the hall and was just doing a replay of how to pronounce numerous Italian saints when Bang-Bang came bursting in.

  “Right away, right now, Babe ordered you brought in. Come on!”

  Heller said, “Santa Margherita.”

  “Do you no good to pray. She sounded quite put out. (Bleeped) mad, in fact. Come along.”

  Heller got into a white sheepskin coat, buckled its belt and put on a white leather cap with earmuffs. Pulling on white gauntlets, he followed Bang-Bang.

  They went down the elevator and over to the 34th Street Observatory entrance which Bang-Bang usually used due to the large taxi stand there, apparently. It was Heller’s usual route out when he had to take a cab. He started to signal one.

  “Hell, no,” said Bang-Bang, pointing to the old orange cab. “I’m driving you!”

  “Won’t that take you out of your parole jurisdiction?” said Heller, but he got in.

  Bang-Bang two-wheeled the cab into a screaming U-turn and rocketed it westward. He was bashing other traffic out of his way and felt comfortable enough now to talk, evidently. He yelled back, “Babe ain’t in Jersey today. The family just acquired the old Punard Steamship Line through a merger with our Luverback Line. And Babe cleaned house of their lords and sirs and ex-Royal Navy captains, the ones that put the Punard Line on the bottom. She always okays top brass. So she’s over here today passing on the hiring of new ones.”

  “She say what she wanted?” said Heller.

  “No. She just said to fetch you. Hell, she ought to be happy as a lark today. The family controls the unions and with this last merger of shipping companies, she now controls all seaborne carriers in America. There ain’t a single US port she couldn’t close down so fast it would make even the fish blink. You wouldn’t think anybody could run a little rumrunning fleet up to such a point but she has. Organized crime made it in spite of hell. The Feds don’t even dare breathe on us now—America could be paralyzed. Even Faustino can’t object to her being on this side of the river today. And she’s down there hiring some of the biggest names in shipping like they was gofers. And is she happy? No!”

  “What makes you think that?” said Heller.

  “She (bleep) near exploded my ear is what makes me think that. But she ain’t been the same since Jimmy ‘The Gutter’ got wasted by that god (bleeped) Gunsalmo Silva. So you watch it, Jet. Be awful polite. Say ‘sir’ even if you ain’t spoken to.”

  They got over to Twelfth Avenue and up on the West Side Elevated Highway and Bang-Bang nose-dived the cab down a ramp.

  It was the old Passenger Ship Terminals, long since fallen into disuse with the monopoly of aircraft on people-carrying. A faded sign, Punard Line, had a bright new banner across it, EXECUTIVE UNION HIRING HALL, Local 205.

  What with drays and limousines and swarms of seafaring-type people, Bang-Bang had to do quite a bit of nudging to get them into the terminal.

  It was a vast place, like a warehouse, in an advanced state of decay. Bang-Bang drove the cab over the stanchions of a no-parking restricted zone and came to the foot of some stairs.

  Two men, one on either side of the cab, materialized. They were tough-looking men: overcoat collars turned up and slouch hats turned down. They both shoved riot shotguns into the cab, one at Heller, one at Bang-Bang.

  “Whatcha want?” said one. “Oh hell, it’s you, Bang-Bang.”

  “And the kid,” said the other one, stepping back. “Don’t scare us that way. At least give us the lights signal. Doncha know the capa is over here today?”

  “It’s all right,” yelled the first one up toward the mezzanine above them. “It’s Bang-Bang and the kid.”

  Three men up there lowered their assault rifles.

  Heller and Bang-Bang trotted up a flight of rickety stairs and walked along a sort of balcony that overlooked the mob and cars below. There were three lines of men formed and inching along past three desks. Half a dozen men in black overcoats and slouch hats were sitting at the desks, doing fast interviews. The desks had three signs: DIRECTORS, SHIP OFFICERS and EXECUTIVES. A lot of uniformed security police stood about, directing the foot and vehicle traffic. A busy scene.

  Bang-Bang and Heller got to a point on the mezzanine which was above and just back of the interview desks on the floor below. It was glass enclosed.

  And there sat Babe Corleone. She was dressed in a full-length silver-fox coat and a cylindrical silver-fox cap. She wore white silk boots and white silk gloves. She was seated in a big chair, intent and imperious. She had four bodyguards and three clerks near to hand. In front of her was a row of screens, closed-circuit viewers and computers, placed low so she could see over them and observe who was at the desks. The speakers near her were carrying whatever went on at the desks.

  She didn’t look up from her work. She pointed at a spot a few feet to her left. “You stand right there, Jerome Terrance Wister,” she said to Heller, using his Earth name. It was ominous.

  The screens were carrying views of the application forms on the desks and, from some data bank somewhere, records of the people themselves and a close view of the applicant’s face.

  Curiously, there was only one screen on each of the desks below and even more curiously, each of those had only one scene: it was Babe Corleone’s right hand!

  She would scan the applicant form, look at the face of the applicant and then glance at the record viewscreen where the clerk had the fellow’s real record. Finally, she would either turn her thumb up—in which case they would hand the applicant a blue Hired slip—or she would turn her thumb down—in which case the applicant would be handed a red slip with No dice on it.

  One of the clerks near her was keeping a big board and checking off positions as fast as they were filled.

  The personnel selection was progressing with surprising speed.

  It was interesting that some of the people she was hiring had criminal records.

  The lines moved. Her thumb went up and her thumb went down. All of a sudden her hand went horizontal and flat. She was staring at the screen.

  On the administrative-position application
desk was the form of J. P. FLAGRANT!

  Yes, there he was, down on the floor, standing there, looking pretty deflated, the Rockecenter PR man that was fired when we found and hired Madison.

  The job being applied for was Punard Line Advertising Executive. The application form simply said Former employer: FFBO. But the data bank record said Account Executive, Rockecenter Accounts. IG Barben.

  Babe hissed something into a mike. It went to the earplug of the man at the desk below. A speaker went live on the mezzanine.

  “I was fired,” said Flagrant. “I will be honest with you. I hated the job. I hated Rockecenter interests. If you hire me you will do yourself a good day’s work. I can even help you do Faustino in! I’ll swear it as big as a billboard!”

  Babe’s hand did another movement. The thumb was sideways!

  Two men in black overcoats instantly grabbed Flagrant, one on each arm. They marched him out through a warehouse door. The winter wind off the Hudson hit them.

  They marched him right over to the edge of the dock and threw him in the water! In the dead of winter, they threw him in the river!

  “Traditore!” spat Babe. “I hate a traitor!” When she had said “traditore,” which is Italian for “traitor,” it sounded like a bullet!

  Babe pointed a finger at a clerk. He picked up a microphone and threw a switch. He said in a cultured voice, “Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?” It went booming hollowly from metallic speakers the length and breadth of the vast pier warehouse, battering the thousands who milled about or stood in lines. “We are very grateful, on this cold day, that you have come to apply for employment with the newly resurrected Punard Line. What we most cherish is loyalty. The gentleman who was just thrown in the river was once employed by persons antipathetic to those who now own the company. If there are any others of such ilk, they can save themselves the inconvenience of a ducking by leaving quietly now.”

  Three men moved away from different parts of the line.

  They were grabbed instantly.

  Men in black overcoats and slouch hats bore them struggling to the dock edge and threw them into the icy water with resounding splashes.

  A fourth man suddenly rushed out of the line and, of his own accord, dived overboard!

  The clerk with the microphone said, “Now that we have gotten rid of those dirty (bleepards), executive hiring may proceed. Thank you, gentlemen, for your loyal support of the new management.”

  There was a faint cheer.

  The lines began to move once more.

  Heller was watching the water. A fish boat was pulling Flagrant and the others aboard. Heller was once more watching Babe.

  Her wrist got tired. She stopped the lines with a flat palm. Then she extended her hand and a man rushed up and put a glass of blood red wine in it.

  She turned and looked at Heller, her expression as cold as the wintry river. She fixed him with her gray eyes.

  Frostily, she said, “You lost the race.” She let that sink in. “I have told you and told you, Jerome, you must not lose. It is a bad habit, Jerome. It is a habit that must not be tolerated! I know I have been neglectful. I know I have not always been a good mother to you. But that doesn’t make any difference at all, Jerome.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Corleone.”

  “And the newspapers are saying bad things about you, Jerome.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Corleone. I don’t know where it is all coming from. I . . .”

  “Newspapers are very bad things, Jerome. You must not go out carousing with reporters. It will ruin your reputation. You must be very careful of the people you associate with. You must not consort with criminal types like reporters. Do you understand me, Jerome?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Corleone. I am very sorry. . . .”

  “Stop interrupting me and don’t try to change the subject. You do not have a single, valid excuse! You have been a very, very naughty boy, Jerome. I am very, very provoked. First you lose a perfectly simple race. And then you spread yourself all over the press. And you not only are ruining all your future but,” and here her voice rose in pitch and volume, “the mayor’s wife was on the phone to me for half an hour this morning saying the most awful things! And all about you and your bad publicity!”

  She threw down the glass of red wine with violence! It shattered and splattered like blood!

  Her voice made the room shake!

  “THIS IS THE LAST TIME I WILL WARN YOU! KNOCK OFF THIS GOD (BLEEPED) BAD PUBLICITY!”

  She turned back to her screens.

  Bang-Bang must have detected a sign Heller didn’t see. “You better come along,” he whispered in Heller’s ear. “If you stay any longer, she’s liable to get upset.”

  They withdrew and got back into the cab. Bang-Bang ran into a couple more no-parking stanchions and they got out of there.

  Heller was sitting in back, chin on his chest. Finally, he said through the partition, “I can’t do anything about the publicity. But I can try something else. Bang-Bang, what does Babe really like?”

  “Babe? Why hell, just like all dames, she goes for jewelry.”

  “You sure?” said Heller.

  “Absolutely. Couple diamonds and they purr.”

  “Good,” said Heller. “Take me to Tiffany’s.”

  Across town they went and very shortly Heller was standing in front of a counter being addressed by a courteous clerk. Heller looked at all kinds of things, trays and trays of jewelry on black velvet. He didn’t like any of them. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers with the force of inspiration. “Do you make jewelry to customer design? I want something more sentimental.”

  “Of course,” said the clerk. “Follow me.” And he left Heller with an artistic type in a design department. The artistic type thought he would need some help drawing. But Heller grabbed art paper and colored pens and went to work.

  What in Hells? He was drawing the Sovereign Shield of his Voltarian home, the Province of Atalanta, Manco! Two crossed blastguns, firing green against a white sky, circled in red flame. Incidentally, I had seen him draw it before under the words Prince Caucalsia on the tug he flew to Earth. More sentimentality? Crossed blastguns? What was he up to?

  In response to his questions, the designer said, “Yes, we can make it into a tiara. The shield will be on the front of the head, of course, gripped in place by the semicoronet. We can make the field in diamonds, the guns in onyx, the blasts, as you call them, in emeralds and the flame circle in rubies. And set it all in white gold, of course, so it will not clash.”

  “How much?” said Heller.

  They called in some others and after calculation, they could do it for $65,000.

  Heller dug into his pockets. He only had $12,000 on him. “This is all I’ve got just now,” he said.

  “It will be ample as a deposit,” they told him. “You can pay the balance when it is done.”

  “When will that be?”

  “The Christmas season is coming on. We are quite busy already. Will a few weeks be all right?”

  He gave them the $12,000. But I could see he was a bit defeated. I hadn’t realized that Heller himself was going broke. He told them to do the best they could and left.

  I was jubilant. Izzy would soak up his cash. He’d never be able to pick that tiara up.

  I hugged myself. The real jewel was Madison!

  The publicity was having its effect. Not only was it assassinating Heller’s character but was also stripping him of support from his friends. It was worth thinking about. As a direct knife and gun devotee, I was really getting my eyes pried open with what could be done with the media! And how marvelously painful! One could wreck lives just like that!

  Little did I know that I had really seen nothing yet!

  PART THIRTY-ONE

  Chapter 1

  I wished I could hold on longer to these manic states, they are so pleasant. But that very night, the depressive began to raise its ugly head.

  I was running the TV channels looking for some
good animated cartoons and I just happened to pass the program “59½ Minutes Too Late.” And there was the Whiz Kid!

  He had a little college beanie on his head and was holding a little pennant on a stick. He had stacks of books and you could hardly see the interviewer back of them.

  The bogus Whiz Kid was telling the story of his life: how he had been lying in a crib, choking on his bottle, and had gotten this marvelous idea for a new fuel. But years of underprivileged decadence as a member of the white minority had deprived him of reaching toward his goal. And then one day, in a supermarket, while he was riding in a shopping cart, a book had fallen off the book rack and hit him in the head and it had changed his life.

  He had the book right there to prove it and the TV cameras shifted to his reverent hands as he opened it. It was by Carl Fagin, a reprint of a reprint, entitled Homecraft Series: You Too Can Make an Atom Bomb in Your Own Little Basement Workshop or, A Visit to Graves of the Mighty Men of History. And there was a picture of Albert Blindstein. And the shaggy hair that had inspired him.

  And then he showed a newspaper clipping of the remains of his basement workshop which had blown up and flattened nearby houses.

  The canned applause resounded.

  And here was a picture of his winning the soapbox derby by getting the daughter of a neighbor to ride inside and pedal on a secretly connected sprocket.

  The canned applause resounded.

  I thought, wait a minute, what is this doing on prime time national? It was not nearly as good as the usual sex orgies on the rival channels. And then I remembered that all the Rockecenter people had to do was call the director of the TV network and tell him what to run.

  But then the bomb burst!

  The Whiz Kid pulled out a high-school yearbook and there he was in the fifth row of the choir! Buckteeth and all!

  Worse!

  A picture in the same yearbook: The Student Most Likely to Get Shot. Buckteeth and all!

  Much worse!

  Another yearbook. Picture of the freshman class. A circle drawn around a head with buckteeth in the third row.

  Very much worse!