Mission: Earth Fortune of Fear

by Ron L. Hubbard

  I looked back at the inky sea. I was through with it. No more sea for me! One more black mark against Heller!

  A voice said, "Are you from that exploded boat out there?"

  Chapter 3

  He was a very old man. He had two dogs with him. He was peering at me in the thin moonlight.

  Tragedy. My landing had been observed. My trail was not covered.

  But I masked it. I said, "Where am I?"

  "The island," he said.

  Oh, treachery. I knew I never should have trusted that villainous captain. He had not landed me on the mainland as agreed, but upon an island.

  Then a new horror hit me. The old man had spoken in Turkish! I do not speak Greek!

  Oh, Gods, the women would find me yet. And the Prophet still must be sitting in the clouds above, ready to stone the Hells out of me.

  I'd better make the best of this and find out which way to run. "What island?" I said.

  "Limnos," said the old man.

  I was too shaky on geography to be sure, but I had never heard of such an island as being part of Turkey. It didn't sound Turkish. My hope was dim but I asked, "What country?"

  "Greece," he said.

  "Then why are you talking Turkish?" I snapped at him.

  He picked up a piece of the rowboat. Despite the paleness of the moon, one could clearly read Sand. "This and your clothing." He pointed east. "Turkey is over there only twenty-five miles and my wife came from there."

  He didn't fool me. He was just trying to detain me until he could call the police. If his wife was Turkish, she would know all about it. Women stick close together. And they are very treacherous.

  "You better come up to my hut," he said. "Then I can call somebody to get you."

  I played it very cunning.

  He saw my grip and picked it up and started to walk up the beach, beckoning me to follow. He was, of course, going to lead me into a trap. I followed him, knowing what I would do.

  The two dogs kept sniffing at me. I knew that they had spotted who I was. I had to include them in my plans.

  The hut was a very mean hut. There were some other buildings around. They all seemed deserted.

  He sat me down at the table and got out a bottle of ouzo. That confirmed my suspicions. He was going to get me drunk so they could pick me up without a fight.

  I, however, continued to remember my careful Apparatus training: Be clever and cunning when you are not safe, and as no one can ever be safe, be clever and cunning always.

  "Where is your wife?" I asked.

  "Dead for years," he said.

  "And these other buildings? The people?"

  "All moved to the cities. Gone now."

  "How far to the nearest town?"

  He pointed south. "Moudhros. Quite a ways."

  "Nobody else around?"

  "Just me. I retired years ago. I fish some. Drink your drink. You must be chilled to the bone. I'll have to walk over to the road and make a call."

  I had everything I needed to know. And he was not going to detain me, drunk, while he brought the police. As he stepped out the door, I shot him with the stun­gun. It was on full power, narrow beam. It blew his head half off.

  The dogs objected.

  I shot them.

  I dragged all three bodies down to the beach. I pushed the remains of the rowboat down into the water. I put the bodies in it. I buried the fragment that had the ship's name on it.

  People, if anyone ever came this way, would think they had been blown up by the exploding ship. And then cast ashore by the tidal wave.

  I had covered my trail.

  I went back to the hut. There wasn't much blood and what specks there were I obliterated.

  The old man had had another suit of clothes. His Sunday clothes, I guessed. The Greeks wear Western things and white shirts without a tie, most usually.

  I stripped. I dried out my clothes over the fire. And while they were drying I ate some biscuit I found and drank some water.

  I opened my grip and packed my Arab things. I put on the old man's clothes. They did not fit very well so they looked very Greek.

  It occurred to me that I would have trouble, not speaking the language. So I put a wad of cotton in my jaw and tied a rag under my chin and over my head. I could pretend I couldn't talk because I had a toothache.

  Ready at last, I hefted my bag. It was quite heavy. But there was nothing I could spare from it.

  I was on my way again, with vengeance in my heart for Heller!

  Stumbling through the dark night, I made my way up a long path and came at last to a deserted road.

  I walked south.

  I walked and walked and walked.

  It was very arduous but I had incentive. Whatever it took, I was going to get the man who had caused my having to do this. And nothing was going to stop me!

  In the dawn I came into a straggling town. It was not much.

  Sitting at the end of a long pier was a small ship. A plume of smoke was coming out of the funnel. It was an inter-island ferry such as ply the Aegean.

  I flinched. Not more sea!

  But what could I do? I had to get to the mainland. Unlike some they say once existed on this planet, I could not walk on water.

  Only the sacred mission of final destruction on which I was engaged gave me the fortitude to set foot on that gangplank.

  I went up it. Someone came out of a passageway and glanced down the gangway at the dock.

  I looked behind me. A chill went through me. Several people were now walking up the dock. Some of them were women!

  I tensed myself to run.

  The man said something to me in Greek. He must be asking for money. Tight spot! I had no Greek money! I could not display Turkish money! It would open up the trail!

  With great presence of mind, I reached to a pocket and fished out a U. S. thousand-dollar bill.

  His eyes popped!

  He grabbed the money and ran off. My hand tightened on the gun in my pocket.

  More people were coming up the dock.

  The first man came back with another one!

  I was penned in!

  There were too many! I did not have a machine can­non.

  My lips formed a soundless prayer.

  The new man had a box. He was chattering. It must be what they kept their electric cuffs in. I couldn't understand a word they were saying. He was opening it up. My hand felt hot and sticky on the gun butt in my pocket.

  They had the box open. They were pointing at it. The first man waved the thousand-dollar bill. He pointed at the box again, chattering insanely all the while.

  The word piraievs kept occurring in his speech. Suddenly, I knew the word. Piraievs was the entry port of Athens, its seaport.

  My knees almost buckled with relief. He was telling me, evidently, that he did not have enough change and would give it to me in Piraievs.

  I nodded weakly.

  The first man pushed a ticket in my hand.

  I tottered into a lounge bar and unpried my sticky hand from the gun butt in my pocket. I looked at my palm, thinking it had never been that sweaty before. It was not sweat. It was blood from broken blisters formed in packing that (bleeped) grip. So I wasn't as nervous as I had thought.

  I got into a corner seat where I could keep the whole room under surveillance. One part of me dreaded the moment the ship would sail, the other part of me couldn't wait to get it away from the dock. Was I turning into a schizophrenic, torn asunder by a split personality?

  I began to itch. The itching got worse. I began to itch in several places at once. Nervous hives. According to psychology, when one is under an enormous strain, he tends to itch. If psychology said so, it must be totally true. But I didn't think I was nervous to the point of a nervous breakdown. I wondered how the crew would cope with me if I did have a nervous breakdown. I was sure a ferry didn't carry a doctor.

  The itching grew worse and worse. Yes, it must be true that I was coming apart with a nervous breakdow
n.

  Then something small and black was moving on my hand. I looked at it. Bubonic plague? Was I breaking out with bubonic plague spots? Oh, I hoped not. They would put me in quarantine and hold me until the Turkish women could find enough stones!

  But wait. Bubonic plague spots don't move. They also don't jump.

  I looked closely at the speck, which had leaped to my knee.

  A FLEA!

  Oh, Gods, the old man was getting his ghostly revenge! Associating daily with those two (bleeped) dogs, his clothes were full of fleas!

  The things I was having to suffer because of Heller!

  Only the grim determination to get him at the end of this tortured trail kept me going.

  The ship had moved away from the dock. It began to pitch.

  My stomach decided the old man's biscuits were too much.

  I was shortly at the rail.

  And each time I threw up again, I repeated my sacred vow.

  Heller was going to pay for this. He was going to pay for it all!

  It was the only reason now that I cared to bear all this and live.

  VENGEANCE!

  HELLER WOULD PAY!

  I repeated it in every lull between the times that I threw up.

  At least I knew who was responsible for my woe. And I was on my way to do something about it!

  It was all that got me through that dreadful voyage.

  Chapter 4

  At Piraievs, where we arrived after an agonizing day and night, I found, with a shock, that I was out of bombs. I could not blow up the ship. It made me very nervous.

  I would have to be more cunning and crafty than ever. Now that the ship was no longer moving, I had time to squeeze my brains for every scrap of Apparatus technique that I would need to get through this. At least I was out from under the Prophet in the clouds. The Greek Gods live at Mount Olympus and that was far to the north. So there was some hope they wouldn't notice me passing through.

  Mingle with the crowd: that is an Apparatus must. The instant I started to do so and go down the gangplank I was accosted by someone rushing up.

  He spotted me! I flinched. Due to the disembarking people I could not back up. I cringed as he reached out his hand.

  He was holding a sack. He jabbered something as he shoved it into my hands. Expecting a bomb, I still thought it would look better if I glanced into the sack before I threw it in his face and ran.

  I looked.

  Drachmas! A huge paper sack full of drachmas, all in small bills. It was my change.

  I rushed off the ship.

  A bus carried me to Athens. But this was no time for cultural walks around the Parthenon. I had had quite enough history. What I needed was a change of clothes. It would help me to cover my trail.

  A main street in Athens was very modern with shops. My purchases were very swift. A raincoat, a suit, socks, shirt, tie, hat. I paid for it all with drachmas. It hardly made a dent in the bulk of the money. They were not expensive clothes.

  I did not dare go to a hotel. They take your passport number and name. I took a cab to the airport. I bought a one-way to New York. I used drachmas. It was a coach cut-rate fare. I still had plenty of drachmas left.

  The airport building provided a washroom. I went into a toilet. I put my suitcase on the seat. I got out of the old man's clothes. I didn't have any way to destroy them. I put them in my suitcase.

  I brushed a couple of fleas off my skin and got dressed in the new clothes. I took off the bandage and removed the very saturated wad of cotton from my jaw.

  I put my guns in the suitcase. It was too full now to put any of the money in. I had ninety-eight thousand U. S. dollars, ninety-one thousand Turkish lira, all in small bills, and twenty-nine thousand drachmas left, also in small bills. What a wad! Enough to stuff a mattress.

  My newly purchased clothes had been in a couple of large sacks. I stuffed the money in those. I would carry this money, my ticket and my diplomatic passport, and leave everything else in the grip. I strapped it up.

  Back at the counter, I flashed my phony United Arab League passport and had them put diplomatic tags on the bag to check it straight through to New York.

  I had an hour to wait for my flight. As I crept across the airport waiting room, trying to be inconspicuous, one of the tattered sacks the money was in broke. I hastily snatched at it before it could reach the floor. A narrow escape! Turkish lira could have spilled out all over the waiting room. I shuddered at how that would open my trail.

  With some drachmas, I bought an oversized flight bag. I was cunning. It had Air Israel all over it. Nobody would expect anyone from the United Arab League to be travelling Air Israel. "Confuse the trail" is an Apparatus motto.

  In a phone booth, I stuffed the money into the new flight bag. I crammed and crammed. It was awfully hard to get it in. When I finished, the zipper would only partly close. It was the best I could do.

  With what relief did I hear my flight called!

  And shortly I was aloft, leaving historic Asia, Troy, Athens and Olympus behind me. When you are in an airplane, you know who is overhead: Rockecenter. He owns most of the controlling stock in most of the world's airlines, and his bank, Grabbe-Manhattan, holds their mortgages, ready to foreclose if they even dare get out of line. As a Rockecenter family "spi," I was secure in my entrance to that Heaven.

  But all told, it was a nerve-wracking trip. People on the plane around kept darting their hands this way and that, and for a bit I was sure they were reaching for guns.

  Even the stewardess began to make these sudden moves.

  I studied them carefully. They were scratching themselves.

  THE FLEAS!

  Oh, I was so relieved to find it was only that. Because it seemed to be the growing fashion, I was even able to scratch myself without embarrassment.

  There was only one other incident of note on the plane. The man in the seat beside me, scratching away, began to look at me suspiciously. I felt naked without my guns and no more bombs.

  When they served a snack, I secretly stole a plastic fork off the tray. It was quite sharp. I hoped they did not detect the theft for it helped my morale enormously, there in my breast pocket, ready to stab if he recognized me and called the captain.

  These one-way coach fares, economy, don't always get you there very fast. With long delays while they let the first-class planes go by, I finally arrived at John F. Kennedy Airport in New York.

  On my diplomatic passport, I went through with a swish. The customs man for hand luggage-who sits just beyond the cooled corpse at Immigration-looked at me and then at the Air Israel bag a little oddly. But he pushed me through. I glanced back to see if the Federal police were massing up for a baton charge to grab me. But behind me the embalmed officials were only scratching.

  I had made it to U. S. soil!

  The God over the U. S. is also Rockecenter. So I was safe.

  Now to begin my retribution trail with a vengeance!

  Chapter 5

  I went out to the cab rank, followed by a porter carrying my grip.

  The first cab in the line had a very squat and crumpled-looking driver, who actually got out to open the door for me. He didn't have any forehead and his eyebrows covered his eyes.

  The porter threw the bag on the floor in back and stood there with his hand out. I knew I was in America.

  I tried to get in the cab. The porter was in my road. I saw I was not going to make it. Not unless I bought him off. He could still call the airport police. They stay in constant communication through the Nazi Gestapo headquarters in Strasbourg, which operates under the name of Interpol. They have a huge radio station down in South America and use the lines of CIA to radio on ahead of planes and grab people they don't like or who aren't criminal enough to join their ranks. So I was not out of danger so long as I was on airport ground. I decided to tip him.

  Because it would have been a dead giveaway to try to change the lira and drachmas at the Grabbe-Manhattan airport-lobby bank, I
had decided I would get driven into town to the Times Square area where they have lots of money-changing companies. That would be where I paid off the cab. So I didn't have any small dollars and I certainly wasn't going to tip him a thousand U. S. bucks-not for grabbing a grip out of my hand and tagging me out.

  I gave him a drachma.

  He pretended he didn't know what it was.

  I gave him a lira.

  He pretended he didn't know what that was.

  I pretended to rummage around in the flight-bag money. I said, "I don't have anything else."

  The taxi driver verified it. He tumbled the money about. He spotted the thousand-dollar U. S. notes at the bottom. But he kept his mouth shut. He turned to the porter and said, "That's all he's got in here. Buzz off."

  The porter said something nasty and left.

  We had a lot of trouble zipping the bag back up. With the taxi driver's help I finally made it.

  "Take me to Times Square," I said.

  I got in the cab. He drove a few feet out of the rank and stopped. "Just a minute," he said. "My radio is busted and I have to phone in to the dispatcher."

  He was gone for five minutes. He came back. His radio came on, asking for Car 73. That was the number on the card hanging on the back of the driver's seat. "Dumb (bleepch)," he said. "I just told her my radio was busted." He shut the receiver off.

  At a leisurely pace he drove out of the airport. He turned left. Some signs said Brooklyn and Floyd Bennett Field. We tooled along. Cold wind was blowing in the open window. I looked to my left and saw the ocean, or at least a bay.

  "Hey," I called to the driver, "aren't you going the wrong way?"

  "I'm taking you the scenic route," he said. "You being a foreigner, I thought you'd like to see the sights.

  I'm not even charging you an extra dime. See? The meter is off."

  Some sights. Cold winter had not yet turned into spring. The gray, gray water was only visible from time to time.

  We were on the Shore Parkway, according to the signs. We certainly were not moving very fast. Another sign said Spring Creek Park, Next Left. We came to a turnoff marked 14. The taxi turned.

  It sure wasn't very scenic; the trees all dead with winter. There was even a sign that said Park Closed. But the taxi driver drove along the deserted winding roads. To the right and left were only desolation and leafless trees.