Mission: Earth Fortune of Fear

by Ron L. Hubbard

  He went over to his desk. He took a letter basket and piled a few personal knickknacks in it. He handed the basket to Don Julio to carry and directed him out the door.

  The rest of the men filed out. Gobbo, the last one at the door, made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "It is all yours, Wister. Every bit of it. But there's just one more thing. I don't know why they call you the Whiz Kid. You're the dumbest (bleepard) in a business deal that I ever met!" He bowed. He was gone.

  Heller stood there for a moment. Then he dived for the phone. He punched the buttons frantically.

  A sleepy voice at the other end said, "Hello."

  Heller shouted, "IZZY! HELP!"

  PART THIRTY-NINE

  Chapter 1

  The next day I lay in bed, overtaken by uncontrollable bursts of chuckling. I had been up all night due to time differences between Turkey and Atlantic City, and would have slept all morning in any event. But every time I thought of getting up after that, I would go into spasms of guffaws and would have to lie back.

  Clever, clever Gobbo Piegare! What a friend I had in him! Between spasms of glee, I pondered the possibility of awarding him in some way: maybe send him a stuffed bluejay, that ace of robbers, mounted on a gold base. Or maybe get Senator Twiddle to put him up for the Congressional Medal of Honor or get Rockecenter's attorney Bury to nominate Piegare for the Nobel Prize as hit man of the year.

  Gobbo Piegare was an absolute master. If and when Lombar Hisst took over Earth, that stellar crook should be a candidate for Earth Apparatus staff.

  At length, my stomach hurting with laughter, I called for breakfast and shortly began to laugh still more to see that the waiter now had a purple cheek and Karagoz wore two black eyes. Melahat, the housekeeper, looking like she'd been raped, stood in the door, wringing her hands and hoping that the kahve was just the right temperature. Musef and Torgut were doing their job properly. Oh, it was a lovely day. Cold and bitter outside but nice and gleeful within.

  About four o'clock, I went into my secret room and uncovered the viewers. I sat down to enjoy any further discomfiture of Heller and Krak.

  It was midmorning in Atlantic City. They were in bed in a palatial bedroom. The bed had a canopy of white gauze and bows. It must be the bridal suite. The furnishings were all decorated with flowers and were very posh.

  Heller got up and went into the ornate sitting room. He pulled a drape cord and disclosed a big picture window. The room was evidently high up and the window overlooked a vast expanse of the cold, gray Atlantic Ocean. He looked at the slow and sullen swells rolling in upon deserted and forlorn amusement piers. There were several wrecks on the beach and black, oily smoke drifting around.

  He went back into the bedroom and opened the drapes there, disclosing a stretch of desolate Boardwalk, deserted except for a TV crew that was shooting some­thing.

  Krak was sitting on the side of the bed, half-dressed, ruefully regarding the scars on the side of her white Moroccan boot, probably caused by her slide down the laundry chute. She looked up. "They certainly don't know how to make animals grow proper hides." She threw it down and went into the bathroom and spin-brushed her teeth.

  With her mouth full of foam, she said, "Jettero, who is this 'Whiz Kid' they are talking about?"

  Heller was picking through the suitcase. He sighed. He said, "He's the dumbest (bleepard) in a business deal that anybody ever met-begging your pardon, miss. You wouldn't want to know him."

  She rinsed out her mouth and came back into the bedroom. "Will all this help us to get home?" she asked.

  "We'll be lucky if we don't get booted off this planet and kicked the whole twenty-two light-years back home."

  She went into a slight shock. She stood there, staring at him. "Oh, dear," she said. "And return as failures?"

  I knew what she was thinking about: Those two forged "Royal Proclamations," which she'd given her word to keep from Heller, would not be valid if the mission failed. He would still be put onto dangerous assignments, she thought, and, as she was a nonperson, they could not get married.

  "Oh, dear," she said again. She began to get dressed. Heller was still poking into the suitcase, looking glum. The Countess Krak got into her chinchilla coat, put on her white fur hat and picked up her pocketbook. At the door, she stopped and called back, "I'm going to see Mamie Boomp. We have a lot to talk about. See you later, dear." She left.

  Well, one thing I didn't want to hear more about was fashions, fashions, fashions and clothes, clothes, clothes. What the homosexual designers were proclaiming would be spring styles was my idea of pure static. I didn't want to spoil my euphoria. I turned off her viewer. Heller's depression was the source of my extreme well-being.

  He really understood he had plunged himself to ruin. The neat, gray flannel suit and silk shirt were a long way from how he felt, apparently. He dug, out of the bottom of the grip, a suit of workman's denim. They were the style for beachwear and maybe he had thought they'd have some time on the sand, as he looked at the cold, gray sea from time to time.

  Slowly, he began to get dressed. The most recent denim men's styles required the material be torn, patched and grease-stained like true workmen's clothing. And although he might now be dressed in the beachwear height of fashion, my, didn't he appear a ragged wreck as he looked at himself in the mirror!

  Then he sat for a long, long time, staring out the window at the cold, gray sea. What a treat for my eyes! Oh, how the mighty had fallen! He not only hadn't helped their precarious situation in New York, he had become the proud possessor of incalculable sums of utter ruin. I enjoyed it and enjoyed it. He was not only slowed down, he was going backwards!

  He looked at his watch, at last. It registered nearly noon, Eastern Standard Time. I remembered that noon was the stated time of foreclosure. He looked at the door. Then he looked at the phone. I realized that he had been waiting around for news from Izzy.

  He got up and went to the phone. He picked it up. No dial tone. Dead. He pushed some buttons for an outside line. Still dead.

  Aha! I knew what had happened. The phones had been shut off by the phone company! A surge of pleasure raced through me.

  Heller put it back on the cradle. Then he looked at the bathroom. The lights there had been on a little ear­lier. He went in and threw the switch. He threw another switch. Nothing happened. No lights!

  Oh, wonderful! The light company had shut off the lights!

  He turned on a water tap. Nothing happened! Oho, I gloated. The water company had shut the water off!

  He went over to a radiator and felt it. Evidently it was ice cold. The furnaces were off!

  He was in a super-posh Atlantic City high-rise hotel-casino. He was, in fact, the proprietor. And all the utilities were shut down tight!

  I gloated. Given time, even the pipes would freeze!

  Glory, glory! Fate was driving misfortune in with a sledgehammer!

  He began to pace slowly back and forth, occasionally glancing at his watch and then at the door. Once he said, "Izzy, where are you?!"

  Twelve-thirty came. The room must be getting cold, for he threw his trench coat over his shoulders.

  He continued to pace. He continued to glance at his watch. Oh, I enjoyed every second of it!

  One o'clock came. The Countess had not come back. No slightest sign of Izzy. Heller sank down in a chair. "Izzy, you have deserted me and I don't blame you one bit."

  He saw some smoke rising from down the Boardwalk, quite a distance away. He went to the window. He couldn't see it very well. Some sort of a burning vehicle. There was smoke drifting also from the direction of the beach. He didn't bother to go into the sitting room and look. I guessed that it might be rioting and looting.

  One-ten. A knock on the door.

  Heller raced across and opened it.

  A very mournful Izzy stood there. He looked even shabbier than usual. The Salvation Army Good Will over­coat was faded and shiny with wear. His briefcase was a mottle of scuffs with paper tears show
ing through. And he looked far sadder and more slumped than usual, a feat which was nearly impossible. Heller let him in.

  "Oh, Mr. Jet," said Izzy. "I told you not to do anything foolish. I have never heard of such a catastrophe in the whole history of business. I have told you and told you to keep your name off corporations. Now you're in it up to your skull top. You should leave business to me."

  Heller sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. "I know that now."

  "You should have known it yesterday. Business is one of the most treacherous tools of Fate. But it is my fault. I saw a gleam in your eye and, when you have it, you always go out and get people to shoot at you. And now they've used submachine guns, cannons and even a hydrogen bomb. Oy, what rubble and wreckage!"

  Heller said, miserably, "I know. I know. What is the state of affairs now?"

  Izzy said, "There is a little bit of nonpessimistic news which I don't trust and bad news which is reliable. So I will give you the bad news first."

  "Probably," said Heller, "the good news is that they will feed me breakfast before they exterminate me. So go ahead."

  "You should have been suspicious when they let you win so much for so long. In order to pay the bets you were placing with such wild abandon, they dragged down every casino's cash, every bank account the corporation had. They even wired money in from Las Vegas. They also collected in advance from all hotel guests. They exhausted every possible source of cash they could lay their hands on so it would flow back to them through you, laundered as corporation losses.

  "The corporation cash-liquidity picture is minus millions and millions. And it also has to honor the IOU markers issued like an avalanche at the end of the night, and so we come to the nasty subject of debt.

  "Money they should have paid for utilities-phone, lights, water-for months has been going into their pockets. So the service was cut off today on all these, and to it is added heating oil. It even includes gasoline charge accounts for the extensive corporation rolling stock.

  "All staff of all the corporation's numerous businesses are unpaid and have been for some time. The government IRS withholding tax is also missing.

  "The money which went into the staff pension funds was invested in businesses which mysteriously failed, and so the pension fund has to be made up.

  "All state and local taxes, including sales tax, are owing for the past year.

  "Most of the hotel equipment is on time-payment contracts and those companies want to take the equipment back, even the furnaces.

  "It's winter and there is no yacht traffic for the marina and nothing is travelling on the Intracoastal Waterway.

  "It's winter and there's nothing one can do with the amusement piers.

  "It's winter and there are no vacationers to fill the hotels."

  Heller shivered. "Is that all?"

  "No," said Izzy. He was unfolding a newspaper. "That spaghetti-eating schlemazel Piegare must have talked to the press right away last night, the schmuck. Have you seen this?" He was holding the front page of the New York Grimes before Heller's eyes. It said:

  WHIZ KID STEALS

  ATLANTIC CITY

  The resort metropolis is the first American city to be stolen since the Indians ripped off Roanoke from Sir Walter Raleigh in A.D. 1590.

  In a raging midnight gun battle which local police and the Army did not stop, Jerome Terrance Wister, known as the "Whiz Kid,"...

  "Oh, my Gods," said Heller, reading no further.

  "It's in every paper, local and national, that I spot­ted on the stands in New York," said Izzy. "Headlines!"

  I really laughed. Izzy thought Piegare had talked to the press. But whether he had or not made no difference. Madison! Good old J. Walter Madison, priceless Madi­son: that marvel of PR had Rockecenter's Underworld Crime Computer Bank right at his fingertips. He had jumped onto the job, feeding a story to the media within minutes. What a genius!

  Heller groaned, "Isn't there any good news at all?"

  Izzy said, "I think you should come down to the auditorium. The employees are meeting there and they comprise about a quarter of the population of Atlantic City. I can't face that many people."

  Heller opened his tattered beachwear denim jacket and buckled on his gun. He drew it and checked the load.

  Izzy cried, "Oh, dear! This can't be solved by persuading more people to shoot at you! I only want you there when they start coming over the tops of the seats to tear me to pieces."

  Heller threw his black leather trench coat over his shoulders, locked and hid his grip and then followed Izzy out into the dark passageway.

  They had to walk down many flights of steps, as the elevators were not running. They came at last into the back of a vast auditorium. It was lit only with kerosene camping lights.

  It was jammed with people, thousands of them. Waiters, cooks, maids, croupiers, doormen, marina sailors, clerks, janitors, drivers, pilots, carnival barkers, topless dancers and every other kind of riffraff it takes to run casino-hotels, amusement piers, clubs, marinas and honky-tonks. Even security guards were there but they sure weren't on duty to keep things orderly. What a tough collection! They weren't the Mafia: they were the employees of all the enterprises the Mafia had taken over and now dumped.

  A low growl began to rise. Fingers began to point. Teeth began to show. And they were all directed at Heller as he walked down the aisle toward the auditorium stage. From those expressions, he was about as popular as a skunk with rabies. What an enjoyable moment for me!

  Izzy cringed close to Heller. He whispered, "Don't fire them all at once. They'll riot and we'll have hospital bills. We have made no arrangements with them."

  Heller whispered back, a little savagely, "Haven't you done anything?"

  Izzywhispered, "It's an almost impossible business situation. I did file a name change for the corporation. Scalpello is too notorious. But that won't alter its debts."

  They were walking up the steps to the stage. It was totally empty except for a set of trap drums. Izzy whis­pered, "I couldn't get any of my relatives to take over any director or officer posts. You own the shares, but I can't let you get involved any deeper. So I had to do the best I could."

  Heller was about to turn and face the sullen audience but Izzy steered him further, pushing him off to the side of stage right. There was a little room there, probably a dressing room for performers. Izzy stopped Heller before they could enter. Heller peeked in.

  The Countess Krak was sitting there with Mamie Boomp and Tom-Tom. The room was feebly lit by a single burning candle.

  Heller whispered to Izzy, "What's that drummer doing there? He helped with the sacks last night but he can't count above four."

  Izzy whispered, "I know. That's why I appointed, him treasurer and secretary. He won't die of fright looking at the horrible corporation balance sheets."

  I turned on Krak's viewer. By it, I could see Heller peering in, clothes looking ragged under his loose trench coat. My, his depressed expression was wonderful to see! It really exhilarated me. Oh, how the mighty had fallen!

  Mamie Boomp said, "Hello, sailor. Would you mind loaning me that raggedy workman's jacket you've got on under your trench coat? It's freezing."

  Heller looked at her. She was wearing a sequined blouse and a wide skirt. Gentleman that he was, he shrugged off the trench coat that lay loosely on his shoulders, took off the raggedy workman's jacket and held it for her to put on. She got into it and buttoned it up to her throat. My, but she looked weird. Like a plumber or something! Fat lot she really knew about clothes.

  Izzy said, "Now, Mr. Jet, as you are the principal and only stockholder, we can waive the formalities of a shareholder meeting. Please sign these papers." He laid them on a small side table.

  Heller bent over the papers poising a pen. He read the top lines. Mamie Boomp had been appointed president and general manager!

  He looked up wide-eyed. Krak was looking at him very sternly. She made a small signing motion with her hand.

/>   Heller signed.

  At once, Mamie Boomp, Tom-Tom and the Countess Krak rose and started out onto the stage.

  Heller also started to go with them. Mamie Boomp, with the flat of her hand, pushed him solidly backwards, making him sit down in a chair. She said, "You stay here, sailor, and act as marines if they land on us. But don't come out otherwise until I give you your cue."

  They walked out on the stage and Tom-Tom absent-mindedly closed the dressing-room door behind them.

  Heller turned to Izzy, "Why are we doing anything at all? The Grabbe-Manhattan Bank will padlock the doors."

  Izzy said, "Oh, the bank. Well, when I called the Gambling Commission of New Jersey to tell them their order to Piegare to sell the corporation had been executed, they dropped the case and extended the corporation's license."

  Heller said, "I'm talking about the Grabbe-Manhattan Bank!"

  "Well, so am I," said Izzy. "You see, I could tell Grabbe-Manhattan that the corporation would continue to hold its gambling license. They thought they were at risk because the license was going to be revoked."

  "Is that all?" said Heller.

  "Not quite," said Izzy. "As the criminal charges they could have brought against Piegare no longer applied to the corporation-since it had been sold-I told them that if they didn't extend the loans, I would file bankruptcy and they'd lose everything. That's why I couldn't get here sooner. They have to have a bank directors' meeting on all matters that involve a billion dollars' worth of loans or more, and it took them until 10:00 A. M. trying to locate Rockecenter. But he and Bury are in China arranging peace and new oil monopolies and they had to go on without him. I'm sure he'll raise the roof when he gets back and finds out, but we got an extension on all corporation mortgages."

  The Countess Krak opened the door and beckoned.

  Izzy pushed Heller forward and cowered back. "You go," he said. "I'm too scared to face that howling mob!"

  Heller walked out on the stage. Mamie Boomp was standing very tall and commanding. I suddenly understood her wearing a tattered workman's jacket. Sly psychology: it made her one of them. She had the audience dead silent. (Bleep) her performer's control of the house: not a single jeer greeted Heller, only silent, grim faces. It spoiled the moment for me. No tomatoes!