Mission Earth Volume 4: An Alien Affair

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Mrs. Corleone, I think it’s safe for you to come into the cathedral now. The Faustino mob is gone.”

  “What did you do?” said Signore Saggezza in astonishment.

  “I just think they had another appointment somewhere,” said Heller.

  He helped Babe out of the limousine. She was rubbing her red-gloved hands together.

  Heller reached in and picked up the cat which, to my amazement, promptly climbed up and sat on his shoulder.

  “I knew it, I knew it,” said Babe. “Not even the Faustino mob can stand a turncoat and a traitor like Silva!”

  Signore Saggezza issued a few crisp orders. The Corleone soldati raced ahead and took up positions outside and inside the cathedral.

  Babe, Heller and the cat approached the vast wide doors.

  Father Paciere met Babe in the aisle. Her six feet six towered over him. “My child,” he said, “I am afraid there is little in the way of a funeral for this man. Not even his own brother would attend.”

  “Have no fear, Father Paciere,” said Babe, “we will give the traditore a funeral he is not likely to forget.”

  She swept on forward in her red cape printed with black hands. She marched up to the casket.

  The morticians had rebuilt Silva’s face, probably from police ID shots. He lay in state. Although pretty yellow-colored, he really didn’t look bad, particularly considering what a mess he must have been after his fall.

  Babe towered above it. She lifted her red veil.

  “Traditore!” she said.

  SHE SPAT ON SILVA!

  The priest drew back in horror.

  Suddenly the cat let out a snarl!

  It rocketed off Heller’s shoulder!

  It went straight at Silva’s face, snarling and clawing!

  RAKE! RAKE! RAKE!

  Heller hurriedly reached over and pried the cat off. As he held it, it kept snarling and hissing the way only a cat can do! It was hard for Heller to hold it. No cathedral organ for Silva. Those sounds of hate reverberated through the vaults.

  Babe shouted, “Signore Saggezza! The men, if you please.”

  The Corleone soldati, while mindful of their posts and withdrawing to them immediately, yet came forward one by one.

  Each took a dagger out as he approached the coffin.

  Each plunged the dagger into the chest of the corpse, spat on the face and cried, “Traditore!”

  Father Paciere was cowering back, powerless to stop it.

  The soldati finished their part of the ceremony.

  Babe, red cape flowing in the drafty place, held up her hand.

  Giorgio rushed forward. He gave her two long black sticks. She took one. Giovanni rushed up. He had a blowtorch. He fired it off. Babe put the end of one black stick into its flame.

  A branding iron!

  The end began to glow red. A T! For traditore, traitor!

  She approached the casket.

  Into the right cheek of the corpse she pressed the sizzling end! Smoke rose. She pressed the T into the left cheek. More smoke.

  The corpse’s face was branded as a traitor!

  Babe was not through.

  She took the other iron and began to heat it.

  Father Paciere wailed.

  It was a cross!

  It glowed cherry red.

  She again approached the casket.

  She lifted her red-veiled face to the vault of heaven. She cried, “MUEM SUPROC TSE COH!”

  She plunged it down upon the forehead. The cross was upside down!

  Oh, Gods, I suddenly understood. The words Hoc est corpus meum are the words of Holy Communion. They mean “This is my body,” in Latin. When they are said backwards, over an inverted cross, the grace of one of their Gods is taken from the individual, not given to him. He would receive the reverse of forgiveness. BLACK MASS!

  The priest cried out. He crossed himself frantically.

  Babe pulled the iron up.

  Silva was branded to be never forgiven by anyone! Not even a God.

  “Oh, my child,” wept the priest, “I will have to tell Father Xavier to give you thirty Pater Nosters for this and thirty-one Ave Marias. You have desecrated a house of God with the rites of the Black Mass.”

  “It’s worth it,” said Babe. “The dirty, filthy traitor! Now you cannot bury him in consecrated ground.”

  “No, we cannot,” wept the priest, “though it is doubtful if even God would accept a traitor.”

  “Very good,” said Babe with satisfaction. “Then we have handled your funeral problem. I suggest you send the body over to the New Jersey pig farms and have it fed to the pigs.”

  “No, no,” said the priest. “They would protest the infecting of their pigs.”

  “Ah, I have it,” said Babe. “Tell the mortician to send the body to IG Barben Pharmaceuticals to make poison out of!”

  “As you say, my child,” said the priest.

  Babe leaned over the casket again, staring at the branded face. “Traditore!” she said once more. And once more she lifted her red veil and spat.

  Proudly, Babe Corleone strode up the aisle and left the cathedral.

  They reached the limousine. She sank down on the seat, smiling, pulling off her red gloves.

  Heller put the cat down on the jump seat.

  Babe reached over and petted it. “This is a very nice cat, Jerome. He knows a traitor when he sees one.”

  They drove away.

  Gunsalmo Silva had had his funeral.

  But I, though disappointed Heller had not been shot, also had something.

  I had a great idea!

  The idea was so good, I only screamed a little as I dressed.

  I was on my way to wreck Heller once and for all!

  PART THIRTY-THREE

  Chapter 3

  It was very obvious that J. Walter Madison needed some mature help and guidance but he didn’t seem to be exactly hanging upon my every word.

  I had gotten there in an agonizingly painful taxi ride—every pebble or white line a tire hit communicated to one or another of my bruises. I had somehow gotten up the steps of 42 Mess Street without falling back down them. I had elbowed my way through the churning menagerie of staff reporters and publicity men at great cost of elbow bruises. And Madison, debonair, appealing and sincere, was really not paying any attention to me.

  He also had somebody on the phone. He looked at me while he talked to me as well as the person on the other end of the phone. “Hello, Mr. Smith. Well, all I am saying is that you better give me front page. You look sort of pale. What’s Mount St. Helens got to do with it?”

  I started to speak for the third time. “I am trying to tell you that I have found Hel—I mean Wister’s real weakness.”

  “Well, so what if it blew the whole top of its head off? Didn’t it do that already, years ago? I’m always glad to have your opinion, Mr. Smith. Well, I admit that Portland, Oregon, buried under ashes does rate more space than a classified ad. What have you been doing to your face? It seems bruised. So what if the business section is buried under lava? Have you seen a doctor?”

  Desperate, I said, “I am certain you will be running out of front-page material soon, Madison. Maybe even tomorrow, I hope. I have the very thing for you.”

  “Well, push it to page two, page six. Even nonprofessional ideas are welcome, Smith. So thousands died and more thousands are missing. Why don’t you just go out and tell one of the staff, Smith.”

  “I’ve got something about Hel—Wister that nobody else knows!”

  “Well, it is necessary that I talk to you. If you can see lava rolling right at your building right now, get a rewrite man on it and give me your full attention here. I am shocked you would suggest an exposé at this stage, Smith; the time is not ripe. You better give me the front page on what I send or the Portland Grimes will find itself in trouble. If I can’t have your front page. . . . What? You don’t have any paper now, much less a front page? Then what the hell am I doing talking to you?”
He hung up.

  “It’s a great idea!” I begged.

  “I can’t send the Whiz Kid out to rescue Mount St. Helens. It’s off image, Smith.” He was reaching for the phone again.

  Firmly, I put my bandaged hand down on his, preventing his picking the instrument up again. And although my voice was rough and hoarse from screaming, I raised it stridently. “You will need a front page on Wister tomorrow. You have shot your bolt on the suits. I am trying to give you tomorrow’s front page!”

  “But I haven’t shot my bolt, as you so unprofessionally put it, on the suits. And I have tomorrow’s front page! Here it is!” He thrust the smudgily typed news story at me.

  It said:

  WHIZ KID DONATES WHOLE

  SETTLEMENT TO CHARITY

  In a magnificent gesture, the Whiz Kid today signified that the entire settlement sum realized from his legal battle with MIW and Octopus Oil would be given in full to charity.

  “I am not one to profit from the misfortunes of others,” he was quoted as stating. “I shall not keep one dime of the monies awarded. Every penny will be given to a worthy cause.”

  It went on and on. I was sickened by it. “You mean,” I said, “you’re going to let him give away those huge sums? Of course, I’m happy to see him bro—”

  Madison said, “Huge sums? Honesty is a keynote in PR, Smith. Not one word has been said about the actual amounts MIW and Octopus settled for. Just read the stories of the last two days. The settlement in both cases was zero cash. So, of course, he can give it all to charity. No money was involved. I always keep a firm check on reality, Smith. So there, as you can see, is surefire, front page, national coverage tomorrow. What a gesture! How typical of his great nature! And besides, it’s already on the wire, going out to every paper in the land.”

  He would have lifted the phone. I applied more pressure to the back of his hand despite my pain. “Day after tomorrow, then,” I cried. “You haven’t got day after tomorrow and I have it for you!”

  “Well, I’ll admit,” said Madison, “that day after tomorrow is pretty far into the future. You see, the image I am trying to build is—”

  “Listen to me, then! Listen loud and clear. Here is your story! ‘The Whiz Kid Has Mob Links!’ Madison, he’s thoroughly hooked up to organized crime! The Mafia!”

  “Well, who isn’t?” he began. “Our very best people . . . Wait a minute, Smith. Wait a minute. I do think . . .” He leaped up from his desk. He began to pace back and forth. He was in the throes of inspiration.

  I tried to tell him more but he held up his hand to quiet me. I persisted. He raised his voice, “Facts, Smith. You are trying to disturb my concentration with facts. Fact has nothing to do with PR, Smith. You are being delusory! Newspapers wouldn’t sell at all if they dealt in real data. So be quiet.”

  I subsided.

  He paced a bit more. “Let me see. I have been trying desperately to think of how I am going to get him back in the fuel business. We have to continue Controversy. Image, image. I have to think of image. Positioning. Names. That’s it! NAMES! Names make news, Smith. You have to connect up big names! I have it! You are right, Smith! Mob links is a wonderful idea!”

  I sank down in a chair. I had gotten through to him!

  “Tramp!” he yelled into the other room. And Ted Tramp rushed in. “Ted,” said Madison, “what reporter do we have that knows mob figures and is expendable?”

  Tramp said, “There’s old Bob Hoodward. He was a great investigative reporter in his day. When he was on the staff of the Washington Roast he even brought down President Nixon and some other mob figures. But that was decades back. He’s on his last beat now—dead beat, in fact. Expendable.”

  They rushed out. I could see them buttonhole a gray wreck. They talked in low tones excitedly.

  Oh, thank Gods, I was getting some action. I did some rapid calculation. I maybe could live through today and tomorrow. After that, it was impossible. If this worked, I would have Heller smashed and I could flee New York and Miss Pinch! It would be a near thing.

  Madison raised his voice, “Today! We have to have it today! Only then can it be front page day after tomorrow! So don’t you dare fail to get his consent!”

  I could see Hoodward out in the other room as he sank into a chair and picked up a phone. He was making a call to someone important as he seemed to be going through several intermediaries.

  Despite my pain, I dragged myself over toward him so I could hear above the clattering din.

  He had his party. “. . . so you see, sir, as one of the city’s most prominent and respected citizens, we want you to present the award. . . . Oh, yes, sir, I am aware that you are trying to build an image for yourself. That’s why I thought of you at once. . . . The award is a monetary prize for The Most Honest Man of the Year. . . . Yes. Well, you see, sir, I thought of that. By your being associated with the most honest man of the year, that, of course, positions you as an honest man and helps your image. . . . No, I can’t tell you the name of the recipient. It is just this minute being drawn by lottery. . . .”

  Madison was urgently pushing a slip of paper at him. Hoodward looked at it. “The appointment is for three o’clock this very afternoon at the Tammany Hall Auditorium. It will only take a few minutes. . . . Yes, sir. Only selected press will be present. . . . Really, just myself and photographers, no TV. . . . Oh, yes, sir, I can assure you that it will get national coverage and I promise you faithfully that I will clear the story and caption with you, every word. You can depend on me, sir.”

  He hung up and stood up. “He’ll be there. Is this on the level, Madison?”

  “You know it is, Bob. Now, everybody, we’ve got to move very fast on this. Bob, you leave right away and escort him there. Take a cab.”

  The old reporter tottered out.

  Madison had three photographers picked out. He sent them hurriedly into makeup to get their faces made unrecognizable. That done, he put them in bulletproof vests.

  Then he phoned orders to the bogus Whiz Kid.

  I began to get sort of lost. What did makeup and bulletproof vests have to do with it?

  It wasn’t until we were all piled into an unmarked van that I had a chance to ask Madison.

  “Mob figures are chancy things,” he said. “I’m surprised you are coming along. This is highly professional PR, Smith.”

  “It was my idea,” I defended, wincing as we hit a bump.

  “So it was,” he said. “I am really gratified at your support and encouragement, Smith. It really is a great idea.”

  Fact was, I was getting pretty foggy about WHAT idea was being executed.

  We tore through the truck- and dray-crowded streets. The afternoon was cold and sleet was spitting out of the sky. The pavement glistened gray. Fitting weather in which to torpedo Heller.

  We drew up at the back of Tammany Hall. It was a recently restored building in a park, a landmark used for only the most sacred occasions. Apparently Rockecenter had financed its reconstruction, and the land around it, which he owned, had rocketed in value: very public spirited. So Madison had the run of the place.

  It was about a quarter to three. The photographers leaped out and rushed in. Madison led me up a different flight of stairs.

  We came out overlooking a small auditorium. We were on a little balcony—a box, really—well screened from the floor below. But we could see everything that went on.

  There was a raised lecture stage there. It had doors at the back of it. There was a big chair with a solid back facing the empty seats for the audience. The photographers were positioning things. They got the auditorium lights very low. They got their own flash guns in position.

  Madison, now that he had it all moving, was chatty. “That chair,” he said, “is historic. It’s the same one Boss Tweed used to use when he collected his payoffs from the whole city. Well, it will even be more historic yet, shortly.”

  The Whiz Kid double rushed in from a side door. It was the first time I had seen hi
m in the flesh. Actually, aside from being tall for his age and blond, he really didn’t have any of the aura of Heller. It wasn’t just his buckteeth and protruding jaw or even his horn-rimmed glasses. He had the air of a cheap bum, really. It gave me a lot of satisfaction. This nut couldn’t have ordered a puppy dog to wag its tail! But he did have a kind of impudent brass. The photographers were trying to get him to sit just so in the chair. He had his own ideas.

  He was wearing a red racing suit and carrying a racing helmet and he thought he would look better with the helmet on and the photographers were telling him to (bleep) well keep it off—it threw a shadow on his face.

  Out of curiosity more than any inkling of coming trouble, I said to Madison, “Who is this mob figure you’re getting?”

  “Why, the top man. Names make news, Smith. The capo di tutti capi, of course. Faustino ‘The Noose’ Narcotici, naturally.”

  With a shock, I remembered the funeral. “Wait! The minute Faustino knows it’s Wister, he’ll run! I guarantee it!”

  “Well, well!” said Madison. “Now you tell me.”

  He rushed down a side stairs to the floor and hurriedly issued some orders. He came back up.

  “Whew, Smith. You certainly play it close. You could have blown the whole caper. (Bleep)! Working with unprofessionals! But it will be all right now.”

  The bogus Whiz Kid put the racing helmet on and closed the opaque visor.

  There was a burst of activity behind the stage.

  Three Faustino bodyguards rushed in. With sawed-off shotguns they probed the seats. They made sure the cameras weren’t guns. They opened doors. They were trying to make certain it wasn’t a hit spot.

  Madison and I drew back. The bodyguards gave the boxes a perfunctory glance and then contented themselves with stationing a man to fire in case a gun was shoved over the rail from this mezzanine.

  Faustino came waddling through a door at the back of the stage. Hoodward was with him. The aged reporter put a big sheaf of bills in Faustino’s hands and fanned them out. The capo di tutti capi’s rings flashed as he arranged the money in his hands.

  The Whiz Kid double was sitting in the chair with the helmet on, facing forward.