Mission: Earth Fortune of Fear

by Ron L. Hubbard

  "I thought it was bulletproof," I whispered.

  "He had the window down," said Ahmed. Then to the woman he said, "Well, all right, hanim, if that's the way it is, we'll take it."

  I tugged his sleeve urgently. "Wait, wait," I whis­pered. "This thing won't even run!"

  Ahmed brushed my hand off. "I told you not to ap­pear excited," he whispered. "You'll drive the price up."

  I moaned to myself. Here went the bulk of my week's allowance for a piece of junk!

  Ahmed and the woman did a firm handshake. She said, "I'll sign over the papers just the moment I see the money."

  Ahmed turned to me. He said, "Here are the keys. I don't want to be handling your money. Run out and get twenty thousand lira."

  I was stunned. I almost laughed. And then I remembered in time his admonition. I raced out and undid the bale. I grabbed a double handful, locked the taxi and raced back in. I was hard put not to guffaw aloud. Twenty thousand lira is only two hundred U. S. dollars!

  The ancient man was standing there cackling his evil laugh.

  Ahmed got the papers all signed and counted two hundred hundred-lira notes into her hand, told her someone would come for it.

  We drove away. "You had me worried there," he said. "I was afraid you'd let the cat out of the bag that we were practically stealing it."

  "Why so cheap?" I said. "It would be worth that for scrap."

  "I think the general was on the wrong side," said Ahmed. "He tried to stage a counter-coup and put a sultan back on the throne. But we're in cars, not politics. I've got to get over to Yolcuzade Street and get to the garage that told me about it."

  Soon, we were in a more civilized part of Beyoglu, the area of Istanbul on the north side of the Golden Horn. We pulled up in a ramshackle garage where lots of trucks stood about in various stages of disrepair.

  A tough-looking Turk came over and he and Ahmed walked away. Ahmed was showing him the registration papers. They had a low-voiced conversation and suddenly the tough Turk's voice rose to a crescendo.

  "But," he yelled, "I went over myself and inspected it! It needs new tires, new hoses, new gaskets, new exhaust pipes, new upholstery and a dead rabbit taken out of the transmission! I won't do it for a kuru less than..."

  Ahmed was shushing him. He led him much further away. Finally Ahmed came over to the taxi. "I finally beat him down. He'll put it all in running order but he demands we pay him in advance. Give me five thousand of those hundred-lira notes."

  "Five hundred thousand lira!" I gaped.

  "Well, yes. They don't make parts for it anymore and any they need will have to be hand-machined. That's only five thousand U. S. dollars. We own it now. We can't just let it sit there. The police would get after us."

  I knew I was beaten.

  "Here," he said, "I'll help you count it out."

  "No, no," I said. "I'll let nobody touch money now but me." I began to pick up packets of hundred-lira notes. It made the bale less than half.

  He got a big basket and carted the money away.

  Oh, well, it was a one-time-only expense. And I could call upon the Afyon Branch at any time for more.

  I wondered what the car was really like under that coating of chicken dung.

  Chapter 3

  Along routes taken by the victorious Alexander, in the paths of the Romans who had conquered the East, over the broad highways established by the Crusaders in their holy cause, I sped back to Afyon.

  The old Citroen taxi with Deplor of planet Modon at the wheel might not have compared to the cloth-of-gold caparisoned horses who had carried the swaggering giants of history when they invaded Asia, but it made better time. It ignored the shouts and shaken fists which always, since time began, have protested the overrunning of Anatolia and laying it waste with lakes of blood. Travelling at ninety and a hundred miles an hour, the taxi's way was not seriously disputed by other motorists, trucks, donkeys and camels. We were going too fast for them to note down the license plates and they were only riffraff anyway, far beneath a conqueror's contempt.

  There were going to be some changes made.

  They started the moment the rugged and aggressive spire of Afyonkarahisar came into view. The wintry air of this 3,000-foot-high plateau was clear as crystal today and the 750-foot fortress stood out like a finger of a God about to goose the Heavens. It was a clear command for me to do likewise.

  "Where can I find Musef and Torgut?" I yelled at the taxi driver. They were the two wrestlers Heller had messed up.

  Driving madly into the outskirts, he yelled back, "Ain't seen 'em since they got out of the hospital. I don't think anybody else has, either."

  "You find them!" I commanded. "And right now!"

  A local cab ahead was discharging a passenger and a goat into a mud hut. Ahmed screeched our Citroen to a halt. He had a rapid interchange with the local hacker.

  Shortly we were diving down an alley. We emerged in a backstreet slum.

  Ahmed crossed a litter-strewn yard and knocked at a rickety door. After some time, it opened a tiny crack. The taxi driver came back to the cab. "They're in there. They don't want to see anybody."

  I stuffed a handful of lira in my pocket and got out.

  "Lock the cab so nobody can get at this money and go kick the door in. I'll be right behind you."

  Reassured by the way I was gripping the shotgun, Ahmed did as he was told. He prudently stepped aside.

  I yelled into the room. "I've come to give you a job!"

  Rapid whisperings came out of the interior, for all the world like rats running around.

  Then somebody called, "We don't believe you but come in, anyway."

  I entered. The room was dark and dirty, more like a hole in the mud than living quarters.

  Musef and Torgut stood at the far side of the room. They were certainly shadows of their former selves. They must have lost a hundred pounds apiece and their yellow skin sagged on them, kind of grayish. They were dressed in rags, had probably sold their clothes. Here were two bully boys come on hard times. Just what I wanted.

  "How are you?" I said.

  Musef said to Torgut, "He asks us how we are. Is he blind, you think?"

  Torgut said, "Well, tell him. He's holding the shot­gun."

  Musef said, "Since that cursed DEA man fouled us, nobody will hire us to beat people up anymore. The (bleepard) ruined our reputations."

  Torgut said, "And all with his lousy tricks when we wasn't looking."

  They were talking about Heller. They still believed my story that he worked for the Drug Enforcement Ad­ministration. My heart warmed to them.

  "I have continuous employment for you," I said. "I am going to hire you to make the staff jump at the villa. They're sloppy and incompetent. They serve cold kahve and warm melons. They don't bow and kiss my feet."

  "You want us to kill 'em?" said Musef.

  "What I want you to do is to make very certain that every time I crook so much as my little finger, they jump like they were shot and go tearing around giving service and bow three times when they see me and kiss my feet when they leave."

  "We can use lead pipes on them?" said Torgut.

  "Whips," I said. "And fists when called for. You relieve each other and one is always on duty outside my door. You go armed at all times and if anybody tries to get in that I don't want to see, you shoot him."

  The way they hated Heller, he would sure never get in!

  "You feed us?" said Musef.

  "All you want to eat," I said. After all, that was a base expense and not out of my pocket. "I will even pay you something from time to time."

  "Allah be praised!" they both said in chorus.

  "One more thing," I said. "If anything happens to me or my money, my friend, the most powerful banker in Turkey, has orders to spare no expense to run you down and have you shot."

  "Allah forbid!" they both chorused.

  "So long as the villa staff pleases me and so long as both me and my money are safe," I said, "you h
ave a cushy job." I threw the handful of lira down on the floor. "Get yourselves some clothes and report for work at my villa, forthwith."

  Oh, did they dive for that lira! And once they had it, they stayed on their knees and bowed.

  I made a benign sign over their heads and left.

  Oh, but there were going to be some changes made!

  "Drive on, drive on!" I told the driver and we went rocketing through the town, down the road past the Afyonkarahisar spire, toward the mountains and to the villa.

  We pulled into the yard. The gatekeeper wasn't even there. Ha, little did they know what was about to hit them. But my target was not staff.

  The BMW was present so I knew Utanc would be home. I pounded on her door. "It's me!" I yelled. "I have news for you." I knew that would make her open up.

  It did.

  The two little boys were sitting on the floor doing a coloring book. I said, "I have just had a conference with my banker. He advises me that if credit cards continue to be used, my financial picture will be ruined. So if you place just one more order on credit cards, even for a pack of cigarettes," I gestured with the shotgun at the two little boys, "I will shoot them."

  She stared at me. She saw the conquering resolution in my glare. She said, "You would, too, you (bleepard)."

  "You can bet I would," I said. "If you want money you can come to me for it and you can come crawling on your knees. You understand that?"

  She slammed the door. But I knew she understood it. She'd come around and she'd be crawling on her knees for it, too.

  That was handled.

  I paid Ahmed two hundred hundred-lira notes for his day's work. Twenty thousand lira was more money then he had seen in a month. He saluted with the two fistfuls of money, very surprised and pleased. But actually, he was the only friend I had on this planet who had been true-blue all along. I mustn't stint where he was concerned, even if this bale was getting lighter.

  I had one more stop today. I put my money securely in a safe-I barely could get it in-and, putting on my control star and picking up the final sack, I went down the tunnel.

  Gods, but were the Antimancos surprised to see me! When I walked into their crew quarters, they all jumped up.

  "When we got back," said Stabb with frowning brow, shoving his pointed head at me, "we found the hangar crew had made that platform hollow and the Blixo crew put something in it! I knew it wasn't the right weight."

  "And what did they tell you they put in it?" I asked.

  "They didn't know," said Captain Stabb, "but you do."

  "Compressed Scotch," I said. "They filled it full of compressed Scotch. I was going to use it for bribes. But I have bad news."

  "I bet you do," said Stabb. "We been betting that you did the job and grabbed the loot for yourself."

  "Actually," I said, "the gold vaults are two miles deep in the earth, way beyond the range of the line-jumper. I almost got caught. I had to use a blastick and a police slash gun and I fired both barrels of my shot­gun. You can see how dirty it is. But I fought my way clear and got back."

  "Hey, that took a lot of cold nerve," said an engineer.

  "It certainly did," I said. "And before you falsely accuse me of welshing on my own gang, look at this. Once I found the gold vaults were beyond us, I grabbed what I could and ran."

  I handed them the heavy sack of junk stones.

  They spilled some of it on the table and stared at it. And I will say this, it sure glittered in the glowlights.

  "Look at this!" said a pilot, holding up a big paste emerald.

  "Look at these!" said an engineer, pouring a handful of synthetic diamonds and flawed glass rubies from palm to palm.

  "They're all yours," I said, grandly. "Divide them up amongst you any way you wish. In appreciation of your loyal support and to compensate for no gold, you can keep every one."

  With moist eyes, Captain Stabb said, "You're a great man, Gris, even if you are an officer!"

  There was no higher tribute from these pirate scum.

  I went back to my room and grinned and grinned.

  "Gris," I said to my image in the mirror as I undressed to take a well-earned sleep, "there is nothing that can stop you now. All problems are just buzzing flies and with cunning and money, you can swat them. Even Heller and Krak."

  I lay down for my well-earned rest and dreamed dreams that were bloody and very sweet.

  Chapter 4

  I slept until all hours, making up for the high excitement of recent days. I dressed in a new, red sports suit. Musef was on duty. Karagoz had a black eye and even though it was midafternoon, I got a breakfast in which the coffee was hot, the melon cold and the eggs were quite all right.

  A marked change had occurred all around me. It was wonderful.

  Lacking, now, immediate plans, I thought I had better gather data. It's a good excuse one can give oneself when he feels too smug and self-satisfied to do any real work for the moment. Also, one likes to savor the suffering of those who are about to writhe in agony.

  It was the first time I had had both viewers together. But working two screens, I could get a much more precise idea of reactions and actions, for Krak would be looking at Heller from time to time and vice versa.

  I got Krak's going first. I didn't need the second viewer to see what she looked like today. She was washing a window! Her reflection in the glass was quite clear against the dingy morning of a smoggy New York day. She had on space coveralls and her hair was tucked under one of Heller's baseball caps!

  Something was moving to her right in the reflection. The cat. It was sitting on the desk washing its face.

  Well, if getting busy to go home to Voltar meant washing office windows, I certainly was safe. If I could just keep them slowed down long enough, keep them from doing anything effective, word would come one of these days that the Heller reports made no difference now and they could both be safely killed. So wash away, Krak. You're doing just fine.

  There was something else behind her, somebody standing there motionlessly and staring at her back.

  It was Izzy!

  Krak, too, became aware of it. She gave the window one last wipe and turned around. Izzy backed up. He sank down on the edge of a couch and started crying!

  The Countess Krak said, "Why, Izzy. What on Earth is wrong?"

  Izzy sobbed a while. Then he said in a muffled voice, "You're too beautiful to have to live in an office."

  Beautiful? In space coveralls too big and a baseball cap too big? What was Izzy up to now? Some con, I wa­gered. I waited with interest to see what it was.

  Krak said, "But this is a beautiful office, Izzy."

  "No, no," he said, "not beautiful enough for you. You deserve a gorgeous apartment."

  She seemed to think about it. Then she said, "Well, I have a credit card. Maybe I could rent one with that."

  My hair went straight up!

  Then Izzy said something that really warmed my heart. I really realized what a sterling true-blue character he was after all. "No, no, no! I am responsible for Mr. Jet. If any apartments are to be gotten, I will get them. Please promise me you won't do that. You wouldn't find anything beautiful enough for you."

  I couldn't quite figure it out. Was he angling for a commission or what?

  On Heller's viewer, I had just been seeing elevators and halls. But here was a view of the office. He had just walked in. He took a look at Izzy. "What's wrong?"

  Izzy was crying again on both viewers. He was pointing helplessly at Krak.

  Heller said to her, "Dear, would you please step into the 'thinking room' and clean it up. Close the door so I can get to the bottom of this before he jumps off some­thing again and beats me to it."

  When Krak had closed the door, Heller said, "What's wrong, Izzy?"

  Izzy was mopping at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "The bartender thinks she must be a movie star or is about to be. The model agency down the hall has been pestering me to get her to run for Miss America so they can ha
ve a contract to use her in the Coca-Cola ads. Bang-Bang says she is the most beautiful woman on the planet. And because I am a failure, I am forcing her to live here without any home at all."

  "Well," said Heller, "buy a condo or something."

  Izzy went into a fresh spasm of wailing. Then he said, "That's the trouble. We're barely making expenses on arbitrage. IRS is boring in and we can't pay them. And when I came in a little while ago and saw her again, I realized I was condemning her to squalor and poverty. It drove the ruin home so hard I couldn't stand it!"

  Heller said, "Well, all right. I'll go out and make some money."

  Izzy amazed me. Here he had led it all up to some perfect con. But he leaped up in alarm, waving his arms. "No, no, no! Don't try to persuade somebody to shoot at you again so you can collect the fee. That's too dangerous!"

  Heller laughed. He said, "I'll think of something else."

  "You're taking over my job and I deserve it. But please, please promise me you won't do anything foolish!"

  "I can only promise to try not to," said Heller.

  Krak came out of the other room, putting a pillow in its case. Izzy instantly leaped for the door and fled.

  "What was that all about?" said Krak.

  "He thinks you're too beautiful," said Heller. "But so do I. Especially with the very best brand of New York soot on the end of your nose."

  She threw the pillow at him. He caught it and, on the pretext of giving it back, kissed her. Both my viewers went FLASH!

  But Heller did not hold her long. He let go of her and wandered over to the bar. She stood staring after him. He picked up a newspaper somebody must have been reading and started going through it.

  "Money," he was muttering to himself. "Money, money, money. This planet doesn't run on an axis. It runs on money!" He passed the comic page too fast to let me see what was happening to Bugs Bunny these days.

  He stopped suddenly at an ad. It said:

  $ATLANTIC CITY$