Mission: Earth Fortune of Fear

by Ron L. Hubbard

  I had forgotten to put it on!

  I was sitting here without the basic control device for these bloodthirsty (bleepards)!

  Only my few puny weapons were on hand to defend me.

  As the shock of it passed, I realized what had hap­pened. It had been occasioned by a slip of the Freudian unconscious, a deep-seated reaction against lockets in general caused by my recent traumatic experience. But realizing it didn't ease my sudden surge of roaring anxiety.

  Stabb didn't help a bit. He said, "Oh, you're trying to get a glimpse of the screen and see where we are? We're right over the Sava River in Yugoslavia: if you got dumped into it you wouldn't last five seconds. Look at that torrent roar!"

  Soundlessly, trying not to move my lips, I began praying to the god of voyagers.

  The line-jumper boomed onward through the night, flying at a speed that kept the Earth below shadowed from the sun. I wished I could open the slit. I knew what I would get: a blast of setting sun at this altitude and nothing but ink on the ground below. But I wished I could anyway: it would make me feel less trapped.

  Stabb had moved ahead, whispering to the pilots above the roar of engines and rushing air. Were they plotting against my life?

  He came back through the empty seats to where I sat. By the interior green glowlight, his beady eyes looked like those of a wolf.

  "We're just about to cross the Rhaetian Alps. Piz Bernina is right below: thirteen thousand feet. You should see those crevasses! Dump a man in there and you'd never find him until the end of the world. And right after we pass the lights of St. Moritz we'll be over the real deep ones!"

  I held my lips rigid. I was praying harder, but now I was addressing the god of pirates. Wasn't there some­thing he could do? Any favor would be appreciated.

  He answered, but not in the right way. A pilot yelled back above the din. "It's time to dump him now!"

  I must have fainted. Stabb was pushing at my shoul­der. He was doing something with my safety belts. Trying to get at my guns and disarm me?

  He had a hard grip on me, his fingers entwined in the straps.

  Then I saw his feet were off the floor. Was he going to kick me into submission first?

  "Hey, Captain!" a pilot yelled back. "This must be Kloten Airport. There's more (bleeped) airplanes down there than I ever seen before in one place!"

  Stabb's feet settled back. He had simply been lifted up and forward by deceleration and was holding himself with my straps.

  He was on his own feet again. He looked ahead, peering at the screen.

  I was able to speak. "Be careful," I said. "Kloten is the busiest airport in Switzerland, if this is Switzerland. Don't land me in a runway and get me knocked down by a superjet."

  "Turn up the magnification," yelled Stabb into the comparative silence of the hovering line-jumper. I tried to rise so I could see the screen. Were we really over Zurich's main airport or some crevasse? Stabb pushed me back. "Shift the scanner around," he yelled. "Let's see if we can read some of those signs!"

  Glaciers seldom had signs. I was reassured.

  Stabb said, "Devils, I can't read a single word of that gobbledegook."

  "Put me off a runway and close to their customs shed," I begged.

  "It's a bad scanner," said Stabb. "We'll have to improve it. I can't make out if they are letters or snow splashes, even if I could read their alphabet. Awful definition for only a hundred thousand feet."

  I tried to get up again. Stabb pushed me back. "We'll handle it," he said. He yelled to the pilot, "Some of those buildings are hangars, so eliminate them. One is the main terminal, so eliminate that. Choose a shed that looks like it could be defended and put us down." He turned to me. "We can't hover here all night trying to read languages, even if we could read them."

  "Hold on!" yelled the pilot.

  Stabb gripped my shoulder safety straps again.

  SWOOSH!

  His feet came off the floor and my stomach stayed at a hundred thousand feet.

  We went down twenty miles like a rocket in reverse.

  CRUNCH!

  Stabb used my body for a cushion to land on.

  I didn't know how he kept his breath. I didn't. "Fast now. Out you go!"

  I grabbed the FIE shotgun. Stabb unsnapped the seat and shoulder belts. I was propelled down the ladder.

  The engineers were already out. They were standing on the platform, casting off the safety lines.

  My feet connected with the boxes of the fake bars. I tried to get my balance.

  The engineers swarmed up the ladder. I stared up. Stabb's pointed head was silhouetted against the green glow of the engine room as he peered down through the hatch at me.

  "Don't leave a single man alive!" he yelled.

  The hatch clanged shut.

  The line-jumper leaped into the air.

  It was swallowed instantly in glowing white mist.

  I had arrived.

  I was amazed to still be in the world of living things!

  Chapter 7

  I had arrived. But where?

  The only real clue I had that it was Zurich was the fog. They have a trick wind. It is called the fцhn. It comes into these cold confines from the south and, being a warm wind, creates fog which lasts for weeks on end. The airport lights were making it glow so that one felt he was packed in cotton batting.

  That's why I didn't see the snowbank at first. I moved to the edge of the platform and there it was: a wall of snow! It went up much higher than my head!

  Not too concerned at first, I walked all around the platform.

  They had landed me in the middle of a deep, deep snowdrift!

  I was totally hemmed in!

  Either it had been snowing before thefцhn started, or this was the residue of snowplows clearing runways. But the cold was not the problem. The fact that I was a prisoner gripped me with icy fingers.

  How was I going to get out?

  I wondered if the airport came equipped with St. Bernard dogs, the kind with the kegs under their chins. Then I remembered reading that the Coca-Cola civilization had wiped them out. The Coca-Cola Company would not hear of the dogs carrying anything but Coca-Cola and the dogs, with a final pathetic hiccup, had died out. So there was no hope there.

  Even if I started to dig, I did not know which way. It was one time I could have used Heller's built-in compass brain, but that was no solution either. The last per­son I wanted to see at this time and place was Heller.

  But one thing was certain. I was not going to sit here and perish in the snow, even if it was the Swiss custom. There is a limit to the courtesy one must display in emulating primitive ethnological fixations.

  Cunning came to my rescue. I could locate the runway nearest to me by listening to the planes. Gods, they were loud enough as they landed and took off. They must be being landed and sent away by the controllers in the tower. No wonder nobody had time to notice a new arrival.

  Despite rebounding echoes from the walls of the drift, I did make out what I hoped was the landing strips. That direction I did not want. Combing superjets out of one's clothing is almost as bad as freezing in the snow.

  Nothing for it. I would have to risk a Code break and hope nobody reported it.

  I chose my direction. I got out a blastick. I took off its safety. I levelled it. I closed my eyes and pressed the trigger.

  BLOWIE! SWOOSH!

  It sounded like a cannon shot.

  I opened my eyes. There was no snow in a path twenty feet wide and about thirty yards long. Only water!

  I was quite certain guards and everybody else would come tearing out. It must have made a flash visible for miles even in the fog.

  I waited.

  Nothing happened.

  More jets landed and took off.

  I was very, very unwilling to leave this platform. I could not be sure that those pirates would not have second thoughts and come back and grab it.

  The FIE shotgun would not make much impression on that super-blastp
roof hull!

  But at length, when I saw no patrols and no line-jumper responding to the blast, I took the only action I could. I stepped off the platform into the water which still ran and walked along the new pathway to its end.

  I could see nothing and hear nothing.

  I didn't want to use another blastick. I might knock a building down if one was on the other side of the remaining snow barrier. I decided on caution. I fished in my pockets and got out the Domestic Police slash gun. My hands clumsy with their ski gloves, I managed to set it on lowest intensity.

  I pointed it. I depressed the trigger. I steadied the tendency of my arm to recoil and began to slice away at the remaining wall of snow.

  For a few moments it stood there in very neat blocks. Then it suddenly, under the latent influence of the slash-ray heat, disintegrated into slushy water.

  VICTORY!

  A building wall.

  I had only burned it a little bit.

  Looking backwards, I saw that my precious platform was still there, a murky darkness in the swirling fog.

  I looked back at the building wall. I did an "eeny-meeny" and chose the left direction. Using the slash gun, I carved a passage down the wall.

  A big door with a little door in it.

  I put the slash gun away. I took a grip on my shot­gun. I opened the smaller door.

  It was a sort of office. Several counters. Some men in caps shuffling packages around.

  One looked up incuriously. A beefy, phlegmatic sort of man, very red of face.

  "Ja?" he said.

  "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" Isaid.

  "Ja," he said.

  Well, I didn't, so that was no help. "Parla Italiano?" I said hopefully.

  "Nein," he said.

  "(Bleep)!" I said. "How am I going to talk to you people?"

  "Well," he said, thinking it over, "you could talk English like you just did."

  Thank Gods! He spoke English!"Is this the customs freight shed?" I said hopefully.

  "Bulk freight only," he said. "If you've come in here to clear those weapons, the passenger terminal customs..."

  "He can't clear anything in," said a bigger, beefier man with a redder face, waddling over. "You haf to go to Immigrations, yet. And in your hands I don't see yet any papers. If customs you vant, den Immigrations iss..."

  "I'm riding shotgun on a gold shipment!" I said. "It's right outside."

  "Gold," said the first man.

  "GOLD!" said the bigger man.

  "Well, bring it in," said the first man.

  "I can't," I said. "There's twelve and a half tons of it!"

  "Wait, wait!" cried the bigger man. "Stand right there! Don't breathe. Don't move. Ve vill handle every-t'ing!"

  Chapter 8

  Eight hours later, I was riding shotgun again on a much more valuable package.

  In financial and related matters, Switzerland spells service with a capital bow.

  It seems that everybody has a relative or friend who has exactly what you want.

  They phone ahead.

  And they're probably called gnomes because they work at any time, whether it is day or night.

  A wonderful place. Their weather might be cold and their buildings gray, but Switzerland had all looked very rosy to me.

  The customs chief had a relative who ran the armored trucks business. This relative had a brother who ran the Zorich Banking Corporation Gold Depart­ment. And this brother had a cousin who was the bank's assayer. And none of them minded leaving the opera or mistresses or wives and kiddies, no matter the time of night, to highball me through.

  Wonderful. Nice people. Best on the planet.

  Each time I went to the next place, I was known already and expected.

  A whirlwind night. And it contained some wonderful high points. Gold, at the evening fix, had been $855.19 an ounce. The verified and assayed quantity, once the lead decoys were discarded, had come to 301,221 ounces. This added up to $257,601,186.99.

  But that was not all of the good news.

  My problem was that money could be robbed off me and my signature could be forged and all these hard-won gains could have been wiped out at any time in the future by a single misstep on my part. That had all been solved.

  The interest, at a nominal 10 percent, on such an amount was $25,760,118.70 every year. That itself was more than I could even extravagantly spend. And so the bank had made a deal.

  I had sold them the gold, for 515 one-half-million-dollar certificates and $18,527 pocket cash. Each separate certificate would earn 10 percent per annum until it was cashed.

  All I had to do in the future was hand over one of these certificates to a Zorich Banking Corporation correspondent bank in any country and I would be given half a million U. S. dollars, plus the interest up to that date on the certificate. They were actually each a bank IOU for half a million dollars. They have a fancy name: they are called "bank demand debentures." It means simply a bank's IOU.

  They were better than the gold. They were more valuable, because of interest, than the gold. And even more important to me, I could hide them much more easily.

  It was a good deal for the bank as well. They now owned my gold and could make money with it at far more than 10 percent. They actually didn't have to pay for it right then. And it got around the fact that U. S. dollars, in banks, usually ride as figures in ledgers, not bills in a cash box. Had I demanded that many actual bank notes, I would have almost scraped Zurich clean and I would have needed a truck instead of this small attache case which was now fastened firmly to my wrist.

  There had been two more stops after the bank.

  The first had been at the Zurich agency for an Amsterdam precious-and-semiprecious-stone firm. It was run by the cousin of the head of the Zorich Banking Corporation Gold Department.

  "I want," I had said, "a big sackful of junk stones."

  He had not minded at all being dragged out of bed at three in the morning for a sale of just junk stones. He even called the janitor and asked him where he kept the trash bins.

  For a thousand U. S. dollars I got the prettiest bag of discarded baubles you ever saw. It was the first time I learned that emeralds can be so worthless they are sold by the pound, that diamonds can be so synthetic they can't even be used in costume jewelry and that paste rubies can be so bad you can't even put them in stage regalia. But they glittered.

  They were vital to my plans.

  He poured them into a fancy sack with a rival company's name on it, I paid him and he went happily back to bed and I went to my last stop, the airport.

  The charter jet people didn't the least mind getting a pilot and co-pilot up out of bed and the hangar crew didn't the least mind getting a hopped-up Grumman Gulfstream on the line for immediate launch.

  And here I was, streaking for Istanbul with the vital certificates chained to my wrist and the bag of junk stones under my feet, looking down at the Alps, where I had not been dumped, so rosy in the glow of dawn.

  A telephone was at my elbow in the jet. I picked it up. I got the taxi driver in Afyon right away. My Gods, but things were going smooth. Not even a foul-up in Turkish phone connections.

  "Meet me at the airport in Istanbul," I said.

  "What flight?" he said.

  "My flight," I said. "You think I'd stoop to travel by commercial jet? My own flight, Ahmed. I own the whole (bleeped) world!"

  Chapter 9

  It was an eager and walking-on-air-type Gris who stepped out of the jet at Yesilkoy Airport, Istanbul.

  Immigration stamped me into Turkey without noticing Sultan Bey had not left.

  Customs took one look at the wrist cuff and chain, ignored the guns, and sped me on through into the country. They knew me, anyway.

  And there amidst the colorful airport throng was Deplor from the planet Modon, alias Ahmed, the taxi driver.

  "Jeez!" he said in gangster English, "you look like you et fifty canaries, boss."

  "At one gulp," I said. "Lead on, lead on, fo
r we have lots to do. There are going to be some changes made!"

  A lot of people didn't know it yet, but this was just the start of fatal days for them. I had plans!

  We battered our way out of the crowded airport and then battered our way along the seventeen miles which led to the city. The minarets which made a masonry forest all along the Golden Horn had never looked so good. Roaring along, we soon sped through the breach made in the city wall to accommodate the car traffic and began our tortuous course through narrow, noisy streets. Ignoring the protests of how close we came to pointed-toed slippers, giving vendors' carts the necessary bumps and sounding our horn continuously to clear the way, at length we drew up before our first destination: the Piastre Bankasi.

  I trod like a conqueror across the tile floor. I pushed the lowly clerk aside who would have inquired my business. I stalked into the office of Mudur Zengin, czar of the biggest bank chain in Turkey.

  Fat and immaculate and manicured, dressed in a pinstripe Western suit of charcoal gray, he looked up from his mother-of-pearl inlaid desk to see who it was tracking up his priceless Persian carpet.

  He wasn't used to having people with crossed bandoliers and a shotgun coming in for business conferences. Maybe it was that he was short-sighted-his glasses had fallen off-and seeing the bearskin coat thrown over the shoulders, mistook me for a bear.

  "Allah!" he said.

  I advanced. I unsnapped the case and opened it. I riffled 515 engraved certificates under his nose.

  "O Allah, I was going to say. Sit down!"

  He found his pince-nez glasses, polished them and

  put them on. He evidently didn't need glasses to see money. He only needed them to see people. He peered at me. "Aha," he said. "You must be Sultan Bey. You do business, I believe, with our Afyon branch. The Zorich Banking Corporation said you were coming but we did not expect you so soon. Now, what can we do for you?"

  "A safe-deposit box," I said, "that nobody can get into but me. Nobody."

  Buzzers buzzed and guards paraded. We were shortly in the safe-deposit department.

  "Two combinations," said Mudur Zengin. "The latest thing. One is yours and one is ours. Only you can ap­pear. No one else can sign the card. Your photograph appears on it and the guards will look at you for sight recognition."