Mission Earth Volume 4: An Alien Affair

by L. Ron Hubbard

  He rushed out. “STAFF! STAFF! Everybody gather round. I’ve just had a GREAT idea!”

  I left. A little of Madison is an awful lot.

  PART THIRTY-TWO

  Chapter 4

  I had my own problems.

  I was broke.

  I myself had just had a marvelous idea. I was anxious to get going with it.

  I looked at my watch. I had ample time if I hurried.

  At the corner of Mess Street, I looked about.

  The moving van was gone!

  Some (bleepard) had stolen my transportation!

  Now I would have to hurry. It was far too close to five o’clock.

  With an anxious eye, I looked about. There was a stoplight near to hand. An idea! I raced across the street against the light, dodging traffic. I got alongside the northbound lane.

  The light went red. The traffic stopped. I raced down the line of waiting cars.

  I saw an old lady behind the wheel of a rattletrap Ford. I grabbed the door handle, opened it and leaped in.

  I snapped my Derringer out of my sleeve and shoved it into her side.

  She gasped!

  “This is a pickup!” I grated. “Drive at once to Rockecenter Plaza or get raped!”

  She let out a thin scream.

  “Drive!” I said.

  The light changed. Trailing a thin scream behind us we rushed north.

  I looked at my watch. I still had time. But this woman was driving all over the road.

  “Drive straight!” I ordered her.

  “I can’t see without my glasses!” she screeched. “Get my glasses out of the glove compartment!”

  “Drive!” I ordered her with a jab of the Derringer.

  Erratically, following my directions, we got onto and raced northward on the Avenue of the Americas. We were within four blocks of Rockecenter Plaza but the streets were all torn up. It was like threading a needle.

  We swerved and almost went into a construction ditch!

  She jammed on her brakes! I almost went through the windscreen!

  “I can’t see without my glasses!” she screamed. “They’re in the glove compartment!”

  All right! Gods! Anything to keep from being wrecked. I opened it.

  POW-SWISH!

  I got a full blast of Mace straight in the face!

  I screamed! I was stone blind!

  She must have opened the passenger-side door. Sharp-heeled shoes crashed into my side.

  Out I went on the pavement! Right in the gutter!

  I heard the Ford roar away.

  I fumbled around, hoping to find my Derringer and take a shot at her. And then I realized that (bleeped) (bleepch) had even stolen my gun!

  I got some tissue out. I tried to wipe out my eyes.

  Gods, they stung!

  I could see some light now but the day was all washed gray, without details.

  I fumbled along. I was afraid I would be late. I couldn’t read my watch.

  Things were becoming a little plainer. A trick and novelty store! I staggered in.

  “Do you have any water pistols?”

  Dimly I could see four or five being put on the counter in front of me. “How do I know they work?”

  Whoever it was got a glass of water and filled them. I grabbed one and shot myself in the eyes. I grabbed another and did the same. I shot another one up my nose. I shot the last one into my mouth.

  I could see!

  “They don’t work,” I said and rushed out.

  The water glass shattered on the doorframe as I left.

  I sprinted for my destination.

  I ran into the right hall.

  I hauled up, panting and spent.

  My Gods, it was difficult trying to get around New York! They were laying for you at every turn!

  But thank Gods, I was on time!

  PART THIRTY-TWO

  Chapter 5

  Right on schedule, tightly packed in the mobbed rush of quitting time, the target-subject was in view.

  Miss Pinch! She was wearing a bulky, mannish overcoat. The target-object was swinging from her arm: her purse!

  The flooding wave of workers crested against the traffic of Seventh Avenue.

  Hat down, coat collar up, I had target-object in close view. An old hand at such campaigns, trained by the Apparatus to the keenest possible edge, I foresaw no trouble in obtaining target-object. A quick snatch, a fleet run, a stuffing of target-content into my pockets and a flinging of target-object into nearest trash can and victory would be mine!

  I quivered with the thrill of the chase.

  An $80,000 quarry does not every day enliven the spirit of the hunt.

  I could see that the purse, black and hanging from her arm by a strap, was bulky, aching to be gutted by the skilled hunter. And after that, in victory, I would not have to steal moving vans or get hit in the face with Mace just to get around upon my duties.

  Her masculine stride marked her. The heavy, light gray overcoat could not be missed. The gray slouch hat was like a beacon calling to the storm-tossed mariner adrift on the heaving and pitiless seas of New York.

  She was heading, obviously, for a subway station. This gave me a sudden panic. I did not have enough to buy a token and get through the gate.

  But fortune smiled. She was lingering before a newsstand.

  Buffeted by hurrying humanity, I crept behind her. She was trying to choose between Muscle Making for Men Complete with Full Nude Photos and Panthouse Magazine with Full Nude Cover Folds. It seemed to be a difficult decision. She picked up one and then the other and then back to the first.

  With $80,000 at stake, why delay?

  With an expert hand from behind her, I removed the purse from her shoulder with an expert twist!

  I darted away!

  I had it! I thought I would win after all!

  What trouble it was trying to operate with untrained employees! One had to resort to such extraordinary shifts!

  I ran.

  Thinly, I could hear a police whistle blowing!

  I must be being pursued!

  With too much cunning for my own good, my first thought was to possess the contents of the bag and discard the evidence.

  Masked amongst the mob, I plunged my right hand into the purse.

  SNAP!

  YEEOWWW!

  A hidden something had seized my hand with agony!

  I tried to withdraw my hand!

  Whatever it was was also fastened to the inside of the purse!

  In agony, I sought to shake the purse off. It wouldn’t leave!

  With my left hand, I seized the bottom of the purse and tried to pull it off my hand.

  AGONY!

  In extremis, I stopped and tried to use my left hand to free my right. I plunged my left hand into the purse.

  SNAP!

  YEEOWWW!

  Something had clamped down on my left hand!

  I had both hands inside the purse! I couldn’t get them out!

  The faint sound of the police whistle kept blowing.

  It was inside the purse!

  A hard, smug voice behind my ear said, “I thought that you’d try that.” Miss Pinch!

  She touched the side of the purse with her finger and the faint police whistle went off.

  But that was not all she did. She pushed something hard and round into my right kidney. A gun!

  I was in agony. My fingers felt like they were caught in the teeth of a savage beast. Two savage beasts.

  “I don’t take the subway home,” she said. “I live just a few blocks from here. So walk quietly and no yelling. This gun has a hair trigger. It is quite invisible to the passerby. Stop screaming. You are making a scene and I might have to call the cops after all. March along, Inkswitch.”

  I clamped my teeth on my lip. I somehow endured the excruciating pain. A bullet in the kidney does not help one’s circulation a bit. I avoided it by walking.

  We went across Broadway. We went north a couple blocks. We
turned west again.

  She halted me at a walk-down, the entrance to a basement apartment in an old shabby house that had survived the demolition of much of the nearby area. The steps were full of snow and garbage. I was seeing it all in a red haze of pain.

  Miss Pinch pressed a bell three times.

  Then she took a key and unlocked a wrought-iron grill. She took another key and unlocked the basement door. She gun-prodded me into a small hall. She shut and locked both the grill and the door.

  “You can resume screaming, if you like,” she said. “This basement is totally soundproof. It really is a find. It also has a nice back garden where one can bury unwanted bodies. So just be patient and do as you are told.”

  She kicked me into a second room.

  In spite of my red haze of pain, the place gave me a shock. She sensed it and said with satisfaction, “Interior decorated by myself.”

  It was dull red of hue. Instruments of torture hung tastefully upon the walls. Festoons of whips served in lieu of curtains. A huge bed occupied the center of the room, its four posts topped with the grinning faces of gargoyles. The carcass—stuffed, I hoped—of a dead goat hung head down in the corner. It was full of darts.

  “Now just sit down on the bottom of the bed, Inkswitch.” She assisted the movement with a prod of the gun.

  “Now, I know you are probably provoked,” said Miss Pinch, looking at me with slitted eyes. “Men are violent and unreliable. Therefore, we cannot begin upon the removal of the bag until certain precautions are taken. You might kick out.”

  With her left hand she undid my overcoat. She reached to my waist and undid my belt. I would have lunged up but it looked like the gun was going to hit me in the teeth. I sat back.

  She pulled off my shoes.

  She shucked off my pants.

  She pried off my underpants.

  A chain rattled!

  She was fastening a steel cuff to my right ankle. It was held to the right-side bottom of the bed with links.

  She clamped a steel cuff to my left ankle. It was connected with a chain to the left bottom post of the bed.

  Miss Pinch got up on the bed behind me. She pulled my overcoat, jacket and shirt up over my head and down on my arms.

  She then hauled me backwards to the center of the bed. From the right-hand upper post of the bed she pulled a steel cuff on a long chain. She put it on my agonized right wrist. She did the same from the left-hand upper post and put that steel band on my left wrist.

  Going to the posts, she shortened the leg chains until my feet were securely fastened wide apart.

  She took up the slack on the wrist chains as far as she could with my hands still in the bag.

  “Now, I know those traps must be quite painful,” said Miss Pinch, sounding very congratulatory about it, “but we will have to free them. But only if you promise not to strike out. Men are so violent!”

  Begging, I promised.

  Working on the outside of the purse bottom, she effected the release of something. She drew off the purse.

  Two huge rat traps!

  They had teeth and were gnawing deeper with every movement!

  Standing very clear of possible strikes, she got the sleeves off the right hand and trap after she unfastened and refastened the steel cuff. She then tightened the chain so the arm was extended nearly to the right side bedpost. She repeated this operation on the left side.

  I was naked and spread-eagled, chained face up on the center of that bed!

  Miss Pinch removed her overcoat. She took off her hat. She smoothed out her hair before a mirror in a frame of daggers.

  “You forgot the traps!” I screamed at her, driven by the agony of my mangled fingers.

  “Everything in its own time and place,” said Miss Pinch. Then she raised her voice and called, “Candy, baby! Come see what I’ve got for us!”

  PART THIRTY-TWO

  Chapter 6

  The door to the back room opened. Mincingly, expectant, a woman, maybe thirty, tiptoed in. She was dressed in very frilly, very feminine, gingham clothes. She had frizzy, very fluffy, platinum-colored hair. She had big, round, black eyes. She wasn’t very pretty but she certainly was making the most of what she had.

  “Oooooo,” she said. Then she jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “Oh, Pinch, dear! What wonderful things you do! And all for me!” She raced to Miss Pinch and kissed her passionately.

  A lesbian and her “wife”!

  Oh, Gods, what did they want with me!

  Candy danced back and looked at me, spread-eagled and naked on the bed. She pretended coyness. Then she said, “He isn’t very big, is he?”

  “Oh, my darling Candy,” said Miss Pinch. “You are not pleased.”

  “No, no, sweet Pinchy. Please let us not quarrel. He will be just wonderful! Have I offended you, dear Pinchy?”

  They embraced with croonings of endearment.

  “Take off these gods (bleeped) traps!” I screamed at them.

  Miss Pinch said to Candy, “I thought that you, just this once, might like to . . .”

  Candy drew back in horror. “Oh, no, no! I could not bear to touch a man. What must you think of me! Oh, dear Pinchy, how could I be so gross? Never, never would I be unfaithful to you even by a fingertip.”

  Miss Pinch smiled at her indulgently. Then, humming a little tune without words, she moved over and, in the most painful way possible, began to take the trap off my left hand. Believe me, I screamed!

  “Ah,” said Candy. “Ah, dear Pinchy. Kiss me!” Her eyes were shining.

  Miss Pinch kissed her. Then she came back and finished the left hand with maximum agony. I screamed myself hoarse!

  Candy had sat down on a sofa. She was panting. Her mouth was wet. Her knees were wide apart. She was beckoning urgently to Miss Pinch.

  Miss Pinch grabbed her, crushed her to her flat chest and then carried her to the other room and slammed the door shut with her heel.

  Through the red haze of agony from my right hand, I could hear urgent beggings in the next room. Then little moans. Then groans of ecstasy. Minutes. And then a gasping shriek!

  What was going on in there?

  More minutes.

  A low muttering.

  The door opened.

  Miss Pinch still had her coat and shirt and tie on. But she was nearly naked from the waist down. She was breathing hard.

  Candy was wearing only a chemise now. Her face was red and flushed and wet.

  Their eyes were hot.

  What could they possibly have been doing?

  Miss Pinch went to an Iron Maiden and opened it. It was serving as a fridge. She got out some beer.

  They lolled down on the sofa, drinking from their beer cans thirstily.

  “Take off the gods (bleeped) trap!” I screamed at them.

  In a conversational voice, Miss Pinch said, “Everything in its time and place, Inkswitch.”

  “What are you up to?” I bellowed.

  “Tell him,” said Candy. “I always love to hear it.”

  Indulgently, Miss Pinch said, “All Rockecenter’s companies have classes in Psychiatric Birth Control. It’s vital, you understand, to reduce the world population. They breed like rats. And they’re all riffraff. They outstrip the world’s food supply which has to be reduced so food prices will stay up and Rockecenter’s friends can make a profit. And, of course, that is the name of the game.”

  She took a thirsty guzzle of her beer and, without bothering to wipe off the mustache, continued learnedly, “Birth control requires more than pills and besides, IG Barben has no monopoly on them and there are competitors. So the answer to controlling world population is homosexuality. Now, if everyone was a homosexual—the men gays and the women lesbians—then there’s no more population problem at all. The great work begun by the Rockecenters decades ago is just now coming into its own. Birth control training is now being introduced even into kindergartens. The competitors of Barben will go broke, as who will need the pills? T
here will be no mass meetings against abortions and even abortion is going out of use. The trend is overwhelmingly toward universal homosexuality.

  “The Psychiatric Birth Control classes are wonderful. They were developed by Dr. Frybrain, the head of the International Psychiatric Association, on a special Rockecenter grant. And the Rockecenters, as you know, have always controlled psychiatry and psychology. What used to be called ‘normal’ sex is the real sex crime. And what used to be called ‘sex crimes’ are now normal. So if every student becomes dedicated, as psychiatrists are, to making all the perverts and sadists and homosexuals they can, then the long-term Rockecenter goal of shrinking world population will become a fact. So we are expected to make at least one man a pervert. And that’s where you come in, Inkswitch.”

  “I won’t cooperate!” I screamed. “Take off this gods (bleeped) second trap!”

  Miss Pinch looked at Candy. “How do you feel, dear? Ready?”

  “Oh, yes,” trilled Candy.

  Miss Pinch put her beer down.

  She walked over to my right hand. She began to remove the trap with twisting motions. I screamed!

  “It seems to be stuck,” said Miss Pinch with thin-lipped satisfaction.

  Candy’s beer began to run out of the sides of her mouth. She was starting to pant.

  Miss Pinch gave the trap a more dreadful twist. I screamed my head off!

  Candy dropped her beer can. It frothed in a puddle on the floor. She put her heels out straight. Her mouth was open, her eyes hot.

  Miss Pinch was beginning to breathe hard. She closed the trap tighter. I almost tore my lungs out.

  “Oh, God,” panted Candy.

  Miss Pinch tore the trap off. I yelled so hard I deafened myself.

  Candy had her legs straight out, her head back. She was beginning to buck up and down on the sofa.

  Miss Pinch seized her in her arms and, pressing hot kisses on her throat, bore her into the other room and slammed the door.

  I could hear moaning and begging. I could hear an urgent scramble. Then more begging.

  Then small moans.

  Then a shriek!

  Minutes passed.

  A low snarling. The voice of Miss Pinch.

  More minutes.

  What were they doing?