Mission Earth Volume 2: Black Genesis

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Ah’m goin’ to New Yahk,” said Heller.

  “Oh, ah’m real sorry ’bout that. This bus line only go to Lynchburg.” The black man had come down out of his daydream about wondrous places to visit. “This ol’ dumb town o’ Fair Oaks ain’t real well connected. But y’all c’n change at Lynchburg. Ah c’n sell you a ticket to theah, tho’.”

  “That’ll be real fahn,” said Heller.

  The black man got busy and very efficiently issued the ticket. “Tha’s two dollahs an’ fohty cents. Next bus comin’ thoo heah ’bout midnight. Tha’s ’bout an hour an’ a half y’all gotta wait. Heah is yoah ticket, heah is yoah change. We ain’ got no entertainment, ’less you wanna go watch the co’thouse fiah. No? Well, you jus’ make yo’self t’ home. Now Ah’s the janitor ag’in.”

  He put his hat back on, closed the wicket and picked up his broom. But he went outside to watch the fire on the hill.

  Heller sat down with a suitcase on either side of him. He started reading the various travel signs that told about the joys of Paris, the glories of ancient Greece and one that advised that there was going to be a fried chicken supper at the local high school last September.

  I thought I might hear the crackle of flames in the distance so I turned up the gain. I didn’t hear flames, only some distant commotion. Wouldn’t anybody notice there was a stranger in town? Where were the police? Fine lot of police they were! When there’s a bombing or big fire, the first thing you do is look for strangers. I was quite put out. There sat Heller, comfortable as could be.

  The black man started to do some sweeping. He began to sing:

  Hark to the story of Willie the Weeper,

  Willie the Weeper was a chimney sweeper.

  He had the hop habit and he had it bad.

  Oh, listen while I tell you ’bout the dream he had!

  He wanted to sweep under Heller’s right foot, so Heller, accommodatingly, lifted his right foot.

  He went to the hop joint the other night,

  When he knew that the lights would be burnin’ bright.

  I guess he smoked a dozen pills or more.

  When he woke up he wuz on a foreign shore.

  He had finished the right foot area. He wanted to sweep under Heller’s left foot. Heller accommodatingly raised it.

  Queen o’ Bulgaria was the first in his net.

  She called him her darlin’ an’ her lovin’ pet.

  She promised him a pretty Ford automobile,

  With a diamond headlight and a silver steerin’ wheel.

  Amongst the swish of the broom, which didn’t seem to really be doing much but raise dust, I thought I heard the distant chortle of a police car. It seemed to be approaching the bus station.

  Willie landed in New York one evenin’ late.

  He asked his sugar for an after date.

  Willie he got funny. She began to shout,

  ‘Bim bam boo!’–an’ the dope gave out.

  It was a police car! It came to a stop with a squeal of tires and a dying chortle. Right outside the bus station!

  Aha, I thought with gratification, the local police aren’t so inefficient after all. They’re checking the bus station for strangers! Well, untrained, amateur Heller, you are about to get it! And he wasn’t even looking at the door!

  The sharp yelp of someone being hurt. Heller’s head whipped around.

  Two enormous policemen were barging into the room. They were dressed in black vinyl short jackets. They were girded around with handcuffs and guns. They had billy clubs ready in their hands.

  Between them they were dragging a small, young woman! Tears were pouring out of her eyes. She was fighting like a wild thing.

  “Let me go! You god (bleeped) (bleepards)!” she was shouting. “Let me go!”

  The cops sent her hurtling forward. She collided with a vinyl chair. One of the cops was at her at once, spinning her about and making her sit down.

  The other cop got a battered suitcase out of the police car, sent it skidding across the floor at the girl and it hit her in the legs. Then he walked over to the ticket wicket, shouting, “Open this up, you black (bleepard)!”

  The cop hulking over the girl had her pinned to the chair.

  “You got no right to do this!” she was yelling at him.

  “We gaht all the raht in the worl’!” said the cop. “If’n the chief says Horsey Mary Schmeck goes aht of town tonight, then aht of town goes Horsey Mary Schmeck and heah you is!”

  Tears were cascading down her cheeks. Perspiration beaded her forehead. She was probably only about twenty-five but she looked thirty-five—deep bags under her eyes. Except for that, she was not unpretty. Her brown hair was over part of her face and she swept it away. She was trying to get up.

  She renewed the verbal attack. “Your (bleeped) chief wasn’t talking that way when he got out of my bed last week! He said I could work this town as long as I wanted.”

  “Tha’ was las’ week,” said the cop, pinning her down to the chair again. “This’s this week!”

  She tried to claw at his face. “You (bleeped) two-bit (bleepard)! You yourself sold me a nickel bag last Monday!”

  “Tha’ was las’ Monday,” said the cop. He had her pinned. “You know an’ Ah know what this is all about. Tha’ god (bleeped) new Fed narco moved in on th’ distric’. Nobody knew it’d been changed. Nobody give him his split so he’s cleanin’ the whole place up. And y’all is the kind of trash tha’s bein’ swept out.”

  She was crying again. “Oh, Joe. Please sell me a nickel bag. Look, I’ll go. I’ll get on the bus. But I got to have a fix, Joe. Please! I can’t take it, Joe! Just one little fix and I’ll go!”

  The other cop had come back from the ticket window. “Shut up, Mary. You ’n all of us know the distric’ is total empty of big H now. Joe, did th’ chief give you bus fare fo’ this (bleepch)?”

  The girl was collapsed. Tears streamed from red eyes. Sweat beaded her head. I knew what was wrong. She was a dope addict that was moving into the withdrawal symptoms. It would get worse before it got any better. As she scrubbed at her eyes, one could see the needle scars inside her arm. A girl trying to keep up with the expensive habit by selling her body. Ordinary situation. And they were moving her out of town. Ordinary handling. But maybe she’d infected the chief with something. Venereal disease goes right along with drugs and prostitution. It was such a common scene that I had no hope Heller would get himself in trouble over it.

  “Well, Ah ain’ forkin’ ovah none of mah own cash t’ get her aht o’ town,” said the cop who had gone to the ticket wicket.

  Joe grabbed the girl’s purse. She made a frantic effort to retain it and got a punch in the jaw in return. She fell to the floor, crying.

  The two cops went over to the ticket window. Joe began to rummage through the purse. “Hey, would you look at this!” he said. He pulled out a roll of bills and started counting. “A hunnad an’ thutty-two dallahs!”

  “That’ll buy a lot of white mule!” said the other cop.

  They both laughed. They split the roll and put it into their pockets.

  Suddenly the two cops and the wicket were huge in my screen!

  “Give th’ lady back her money,” said Heller.

  They stared at him blankly. Then their faces went hard.

  “Kid,” said Joe, hefting his nightstick, “Ah think you need a lesson!”

  Joe raised his club to strike.

  Heller’s hand was a blur.

  Joe’s arm broke with a snap just above the elbow!

  Heller danced back. The other cop was drawing his gun, bracing himself, two hands on the butt. His eyes were savage with the joy of being able to kill something. Ordinary cop reaction. I thought, well, Heller, it was nice knowing you.

  The blur of a hand. The cop’s gun moved back and then up and flew away.

  Heller’s left hand chopped in against the cop’s neck. The eyes went glazed.

  Heller danced back and kicked the cop in the stomach
before the body had even begun to slump. The cop sailed back and hit a trash can.

  With a whirl, Heller was onto Joe again. Joe was trying to draw his gun with his left hand. Heller’s foot smashed the fingers against the gun butt.

  Heller’s other foot rose and caught Joe on the button. The snap of bones followed the impact instantly.

  Backing up, Heller looked at them. They were very sprawled. Heller, one after the other, took their guns and sent them spinning out through the front door of the bus station. There was a crash of glass as one of them broke a window in the police car.

  The girl had come forward, staring down at the two unconscious cops. “Serves you right, you (bleepards)!”

  Heller scooped the money out of their pockets and put it in her purse. He handed it to her.

  She looked a little confused. Then she rallied. “Honey, we got to get the hell out of here! The chief will go bananas! That Joe is his son!”

  She was hauling hard at Heller, trying to get him to the door.

  “Come on!” she was shouting. “I know where we can get a car! Come on, quick! We got to make dust!”

  Heller gave her her suitcase. He picked up his own and followed her out. He glanced back once.

  The black man was looking down at the smashed cops. “An’ Ah jus’ cleaned the flooah,” he said sadly.

  PART FOURTEEN

  Chapter 3

  They were heading to the north of the town. The streets were deserted and dark. Heller was limping along. Soon it became apparent that the girl could not keep up. She sagged down panting, on her suitcase.

  “It’s my heart,” she was gasping. “I got a bad ticker. . . . I’ll be all right in a minute. . . . I got to be . . . They’ll be tearing this town apart . . . to find us.”

  Heller scooped her up under one arm and put her suitcase under his other, picked up his own and proceeded.

  “You’re . . . you’re an all right kid. Turn over to the right there—it takes us to the state highway.”

  Soon, she directed him up the state highway to the edge of town. There was a glare of lights there. It was a filling station and used-car lot combined. The signs said it sold Octopus Gasoline and a big octopus logo was dripping gas at each tentacle. There were colored plastic whirlers around the place, idle from the lack of wind. Then Heller’s attention was directed to the back. A sign there, above the used-car lot run apparently in conjunction with the station, said:

  HARVEY “SMASHER” LEE’S BARGAIN CARS

  FOR TRUE VIRGINIANS

  MONEY BACK SOMETIMES

  The place was really run down: the filling station at this time of night was closed, half the twirlers were bent and a third of the light bulbs out.

  A man had been standing up on the cab of an old truck, looking off in the direction of the courthouse fire. He saw them and climbed down.

  Heller had put Horsey Mary Schmeck down and she sat on her suitcase, tears running down her cheeks. She was perspiring and her nose was running. She let out a huge yawn, one of the symptoms.

  The man came up, looking at them. He was plump but big. He was about thirty. He had a weak, flabby face. “Mary?” He wasn’t glad to see her. He looked at Heller. “Hey, what you doin’, Mary? Robbin’ th’ cradle?”

  “Harv, you’ve got to get me a fix! Even a nickel bag, Harv. Please, Harv.”

  “Aw, Mary, you know that new Fed narco dried up this district. And he says he’ll keep it dry until he gets fifty percent of ever’body’s traffic. There ain’t no junk to be had!”

  The girl moaned. “Not even some of your own? Please, Harv.”

  He shook his head very emphatically.

  Then she got hopeful. “Maybe they got some in Lynchburg. Harv, sell this kid a car.”

  I turned up the gain so I could hear the police cars if they started to come this way. I was sure they would. The longer these stupid idiots fooled around, the less chance they had and the happier I would be.

  The idea of selling a car inspired Harvey “Smasher” Lee. Right away he went into his act. “Here’s a Datsun! Another man wanted it but if you buy it quick, I can put him off. It’s a B210. It only has seventy thousand miles on the clock and it’s less than two years old. Only seven thousand dollars! And I’ll throw in five gallons of gas.”

  The car was a beat-up wreck. One wheel was folded under. This salesman was pretty good. That was only double what the car had been worth new. I began to have hopes for him. Maybe he would run Heller out of money, for Heller only had two thousand.

  “Ah think,” said Heller, “you got somethin’ foah less.”

  “Oh, well! Of course, I have. Now take this Ford pickup. It’s a real bargain. It’s only been used for hauling fertilizer and we’ll wash it all out for you. For five thousand . . .”

  “Harv,” called the girl, “you better hurry up. We’ll have to leave any minute!”

  Heller had been looking at the row of wrecks. There was a huge one at the end, light gray in color. He approached it. It was covered with dust. “How about this one! It’s the right color to be invisible.”

  “Hey, kid!” called Mary. “You don’t want that one. It’s a gas hog! It won’t get eight miles to the gallon!”

  Harv took position quickly to block the girl from Heller’s sight. “Now, kid, I see you got a real eye for cars. This here is a Cadillac Brougham Coupe d’Elegance! It’s one of the last real cars they made. It’s a 1968! Before they clamped down with pollution controls. Why, there’s five hundred horses right under that hood.” He pointed at it proudly.

  “Horses?” said Heller. “You mus’ be kiddin’ me. Let’s see!”

  Harvey instantly jumped to the front of the huge gray vehicle and, with some trouble, got the hood up. It was a giant engine. It didn’t look too bad.

  “She has a 10.5-to-1 compression ratio,” said Harvey. “A real fire-eater.”

  “What’s it burn?” said Heller.

  “Burn? Oh, you mean octanes.”

  “No. Fuel. What fuel does it burn? You said it was a fire engine. What fuel?”

  “What the hell . . . Gasoline, kid. Petroleum!”

  “A chemical engine!” said Heller, suddenly enlightened. “Hello, hello! Is it solid or liquid?”

  Harv yelled back at Mary, “Is this kid a kidder or what?”

  “Sell him a car!” wailed Mary, staring now down the road to town in anxiety.

  “Kid, this car is spotless. It was owned by a little old lady who never drove it at all.”

  “Harv, stop lying!” Mary yelled. “You know (bleeped) well it was owned by Prayin’ Pete, the radio preacher, before they hung him! Sell him the god (bleeped) car! We got to leave!”

  “It’s only two thousand dollars,” said Harvey in desperation.

  “Harvey!” screamed the girl. “You told me just last week you couldn’t even sell that car to the wholesalers! Kid, quit letting him snow you under! He’s had that thing for six months and he only uses it to (bleep) the local talent in because it has draw curtains in the back!”

  “Fifteen hundred,” said Harv frantically to Heller.

  “Two hundred!” screamed the girl.

  “Aw, Mary . . . .”

  “Two hundred or I’ll tell your wife!”

  “Two hundred,” said Harv sullenly.

  Heller fiddled with the money, trying to sort out its unfamiliar colors and numbers.

  “Wait,” said Harv, grasping at a reprieve. “I can’t sell it to him. He’s under age!”

  “Put it in my name and hurry up!”

  Harv snatched the two one-hundred-dollar bills out of Heller’s hands and then grabbed enough more for tax and license. He angrily wrote up a sales contract to Mary Schmeck.

  I turned up the gain again. (Bleeped) inefficient police. Must be looking in the wrong places as usual. They certainly would have discovered those two maimed cops by now.

  Harv left the hood up. He opened the door and let off the brake. He started to go behind the car to push it and then
must have realized it was a hot night. He went to the office and came back with some keys. He slid under the wheel, turned on the ignition. The engine roared into powerful life.

  “Hey,” he said in amazement, “it started! Must be a Penny battery.”

  “Fill it up,” yelled the girl. “Check its oil, water and tires! Fast!”

  Harvey eased the car over to the pumps. He checked the automatic transmission fluid, saw it was all right. He shut off the engine. He topped it up with water. He checked the oil, which, to his disappointment, seemed all right.

  “There you are,” said Harvey. “I’ll file for these plates in the morning.”

  Heller put the suitcases in the back. The girl got in front. Then the girl reached over and turned on the switch. “Harv! You owe us five gallons of gas! It’s empty!”

  With no good graces, Harvey unlocked a pump. Then he had a bright idea. “I’m only allowed to sell tankfuls now. It’s a new rule!”

  “Oh, God,” said the girl, looking down the road toward town. “Hurry it up!”

  Gas was shortly gurgling into the monstrous tank. The girl said, “You didn’t check the tires!”

  Harv grudgingly went around and filled the tires up. Then he took the gas nozzle out of the filler pipe and put on the cap. “That’ll be forty dollars!” he said. “The price just went up again and we haven’t had time to post it on the pumps.”

  Heller paid him. The girl took the sales receipt. She scribbled her signature on a power of attorney card for the new license and threw it at Harv. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Heller apparently had seen Harv start it. He turned the ignition key all the way over and the engine blasted into life.

  “Hey,” said Heller, “so that’s the way horses sound.”

  “Beat it, kid,” said Harvey.

  “There’s just one thing,” said Heller. “How do you fly it?”

  Harv looked at him bug-eyed. “Can’t you drive?”

  “Well, no,” said Heller. “Not a chemical-engine Cadillac Brougham Coupe d’Elegance,” he added, wanting to be exact. “With five hundred horses.”