The Enemy Within

by L. Ron Hubbard

  We rode along through two more traffic jams. Then he looked at me and smiled a sort of wintry smile—a twitch at either corner of his mouth below bleak eyes. "Inkswitch, after taking consultation with myself, I have come to the conclusion that you're one of the wiliest, craftiest sons of (bleepches) I have ever met. No, let me enter a correction on the record. You ARE the wiliest, craftiest son of a (bleepch) I ever met. I think our part­nership will justify the findings of the highest court!"

  "And you, Mr. Bury, are the most vicious, conniving (bleepard) I have ever had the privilege of working with."

  We shook hands solemnly in mutual admiration.

  We had arrived at our destination. "Now," said Mr. Bury, "let's go get this Wister's life so (bleeped) up and ruined, he'll never again be able to lift his head! Let's do it beyond any appeal and carry it straight through to total condemnation!"

  With what enthusiasm we alighted!

  Bury lifted his hand slightly, indicating the skyscrap­ers which reared imposingly all about us. "We are in the advertising center of the world. We are about to call on F.F.B.O., the largest advertising and public relations firm in America. Let me do all the talking."

  "F.F.B.O.?" I said. "What does that stand for?"

  "Fatten, Farten, Burstein and Ooze. It is the prime test of the qualified advertising man to be able to say it quickly and without stammering. That means you're in the know. But, I repeat, let me do all the talking. As I'm a lawyer, they can't hold me for perjury or defamation."

  We went into a huge, ornate lobby. Metal fish swam around the murals. They appeared to be suckers.

  Our elevator shot up. It spilled us into a small room.

  There were no chairs. People were idling about, obvi­ously not belonging there, looking frustrated. A high, bulletproof glass cage was in one corner with a single girl behind the maze hole. The walls of the room were dark red. There was an upper port and I could see a sawed-off shotgun muzzle with an alert eye behind it. There were no signs or directions.

  Bury took a card out of his wallet. He put it against the bulletproof glass. The girl flinched.

  "Foreign public relations vice-president," demand­ed Bury.

  The girl snatched a phone. She barked into it hyster­ically. She instantly shouted through the maze hole, "Floor 50! Go right up, Mr. Bury!"

  The people in the room flinched, crowded back to get out of our way.

  We got into an elevator. Out of the corner of his mouth, without moving his lips, Mr. Bury said, "I didn't like the slow response. I understand their corpo­rate delay tactics very well: there's something wrong here. This may require the third degree. Pull your hat down over your eyes. Now, when I cough, look very tough. When I stamp my foot, put your hand inside your coat as though you are going to draw a gun. Got that?"

  I was learning the world of corporate expertise. I said I had it.

  Bury suddenly added, "But on no account draw Or shoot anybody. We own the insurance company that has their policy and we don't want to be paying damages. Let any recourse to mayhem be theirs. Then the policy will lapse."

  We had arrived. The elevator door slid open. A beau­tiful waiting room stretched on either side.

  Two girls, scantily dressed like ushers, had a roll of carpet between them on a rod. The carpet was red.

  Marching backwards, they began to unroll the carpet so that we could walk forward on it.

  Two flower girls, dressed in gauzy white, leaping this way and that, daintily strewed flowers from their bas­kets in our path.

  Two violinists in Hungarian costume walked along with us playing seductive melodies.

  "I hate these (bleeped) advertising formalities," said Bury.

  "Do they always do this?"

  "No. Only for me. They know I despise it."

  We went down a long hall. Two young men with herald's trumpets blew a blast, then made an arch of their trumpets.

  A girl in a lamb's costume prettily opened a door that said on it:

  J. P. Flagrant

  Vice-President

  Foreign Public Relations Department

  The office was banked with flowers.

  A rather fat man in a scarlet tuxedo was bowing and scrubbing his hands. "I am J. P. Flagrant, Mr. Bury. Wel­come. Welcome. Welcome."

  Three little girls raised their angelic faces on the other side of the room and began to sing:

  Happy welcome to you,

  Happy welcome to you.

  Happy welcome, dear Mr. Bury,

  JELO scrubs and rinses, too.

  They bowed and tripped prettily out, throwing kisses and doing a shuffle-off-to-Buffalo at the same time. Difficult.

  Flagrant scrubbed his hands some more. "Now what would you like, Mr. Bury and guest? A Havana Havana Havana cigar? Some 1650 Vintage Raire Cham­pagne? Or perhaps a nice, ripe secretary to refresh you? That door leads to a bedroom and there's one in there now all waiting in JELO!"

  "If you will tell this court to recess," said Bury acidly, "we can get down to business."

  Flagrant slapped his fat hands together and, still beaming, made shooing motions. The violin music stopped. People in the hall scattered frantically in all directions.

  Bury picked a flower petal off his dark suit as though it were smut. He dropped it on the floor and cleaned his fingers on his handkerchief. He said, "We are here to retain you as a public relations account. But we demand the right to select our own public relations man."

  "Oh, my goodness, Mr. Bury. We are honored. Any­one from the Rockecenter interests has only to command us and we will do anything, anything, anything at all to be of total satisfactory and agreeable service number one position to you."

  He swatted his hands together.

  A secretary raced in with her notebook ready for dic­tation in one hand and a bag of contraceptives in the other.

  Flagrant swatted his hands three times. A young man in a severely cut Ivy League suit raced in holding an enormous book. At Flagrant's command, the young man, holding the book to us, began to show us smiling photographs of PR men with graphs and biographies.

  Bury coughed.

  On cue, instantly, I looked my toughest.

  "We want, on this case," said Bury, "no other than J. Walter Madison."

  The young man flinched.

  The secretary flinched.

  J. P. Flagrant went white. "Oh, my God, no, Mr. Bury!"

  "I insist!" hissed Bury, looking deadly.

  Flagrant got down on his knees. The young man got down on his knees. The secretary got down on her knees.

  All three of them raised their hands in supplication. They said in chorus, "NOT J. WARBLER MADMAN!"

  Out of the side of his mouth, Bury said to me. "We've got to have the man. He's an artist beyond com­pare". He stamped his foot.

  I dived my hand into my coat as though I were about to draw a gun.

  They screamed!

  Pounding feet in the hall.

  A huge, portly man in a purple pinstripe suit came rushing into the room. "What's going on here?" he roared. He saw Bury. He flinched.

  "These idiots," said Bury, in a thin, acid voice, "are refusing the Rockecenter account. And, to you, Mr. Buhl-shot, as chairman of F.F.B.O., that should serve as Exhibit A!"

  Mr. Buhlshot got down on his knees in an attitude of prayer. "Please, God, don't cost us that account! Please, Mr. Bury!"

  Flagrant wailed to Mr. Buhlshot, "He's demanding we put J. Walter Madison on it!"

  "Oh, my God," said Mr. Buhlshot. He was wring­ing his hands in desperation. "Please don't do that to us, Mr. Bury! On his last job for you, he wrecked all the international PR of the Republic of Patagonia! He caused a revolution! Every scrap of Octopus property was seized and nationalized! The president committed suicide! And J. Walter Madison did it all himself!"

  Bury said out of the corner of his mouth to me. "It's not working. Step back to the wall and cover me with your gun. This could get rough."

  I did what he said. They all screamed
! Doors in the hall could be heard being slammed and hastily locked.

  Bury said in a deadly voice, "You will not accede to these reasonable demands, Buhlshot?"

  "No, my God, Bury! Have a heart! You could cost F.F.B.O. its reputation!"

  "You will not let us have J. Walter Madison?"

  Mr. Buhlshot, on his knees, hitched himself for­ward, bent over and began to lick Mr. Bury's shoes. Bury stepped back. "You leave me only one alternative, Mr. Buhlshot."

  Bury stepped to the phone. He picked it up. He said, "Get me the Grabbe-Manhattan Bank."

  The four kneeling on the floor stared at him, unbe­lieving.

  "Bury here. Put Mr. Caesar of the Delinquent Loan Department on please."

  Buhlshot screamed! "Oh, my God, Bury. Don't call in the loans of F.F.B.O.! We're in a cash deficiency!"

  Bury was calmly waiting on the line for Mr. Caesar. I suddenly grasped the scene. Rockecenter owns Grabbe-Manhattan Bank! One of the biggest banks in the world! And it controls most of the other banks! What a ploy! I swelled with pride at being part of such an efficient co­lossus! But I kept my gun on them.

  Buhlshot suddenly howled, "But all our loans aren't delinquent!"

  "They will be shortly," said Bury.

  "Wait! Wait! Wait!" said Buhlshot. "You've reached market saturation!"

  Bury covered the phone mouthpiece with his hand.

  "I'll try to get him!" said Buhlshot.

  The young man and the secretary prevented Fla­grant from trying to open the window and jumping out.

  Buhlshot rushed off.

  He came back in thirty seconds. He looked haggard. "Nobody knows where he is!"

  A loudspeaker was calling all staff, all floors. It said, "An immediate inspiration conference is called in Hall Five!"

  Staff began to crowd into the hall. An excited buzz of voices. Looks of shock when they heard the name J. Warbler Madman.

  Buhlshot rushed among them. "I need an instant response! Where is J. Walter Madison? Come up with a slogan and you get a month's paid vacation in the Bahamas!"

  Bury was still holding his hand over the phone. He looked my way, slit-eyed. "I told you it might get rough," he said. "But we've got to have that man!"

  They were barking instant responses. "Death to Madison!" "(Bleep) Madison." "Loan Madison five bucks today and lose your girl tomorrow!" "Position Madison as Number One above the Four Horsemen." "Show Madison sitting laughing on a world in flames." "Montage Madison killing his mother, but I think it's been done." "Two Madisons in the furnace is better than one in the fist."

  A high, clear voice cried, "Miss Dicey might know where he is!"

  There was a rush. They got Miss Dicey out of a mop closet where she had been hiding and, passing her over the tops of their heads, dropped her into Flagrant's office.

  She was a frail-looking brunette, mostly eyes, and they stared at us in terror.

  Buhlshot towered over her. "Miss Dicey! They say you were the last model to be used by J. Walter Madison. Where is he?"

  She was shaking with fear.

  "An all-expense tour to the top of the Washington Monument if you tell us," wheedled Buhlshot.

  Miss Dicey was trying to shrink into the floor and wasn't making it.

  "You'll be fired unless you tell me this minute," said Buhlshot.

  "I promised not to!" screamed Miss Dicey, terror making her voice crack. "He knows you want to kill him and if I tell, he'll come back and PR me! I know it! Even his ghost would be dangerous!"

  Buhlshot snapped his fingers. Two young account executives in bright yellow afternoon dress stepped in. One picked up Miss Dicey's wrists. The other picked up her ankles. They stretched her out horizontally between them. A third account executive went to the window and opened it wide. Fifty stories of space gaped. I went giddy.

  The two account executives at her head and feet began to swing her back and forth, ready to sail her out into space when they got the arc going high enough.

  "Wait! Wait!" said Buhlshot. "The lighting is all wrong! Get me a director from the Commercials Film Department!"

  There was a scurry. A middle-aged man in a beret elbowed through the crowd. He was carrying a small megaphone. Somebody brought him a chair. It had Direc­tor across the back. A gaffer came in carrying lights. He set them up with rapidity and decision.

  Buhlshot said to the girl, "Are you going to tell us where he is?"

  She shook her head. "There is no fate worse than J. Walter Madison," she said. Although she was frail and frightened, she meant it.

  "Over to you, Lemley," said Buhlshot to the director.

  "All right," said Director Lemley. "This is MOS— Middout Sound. I want violins!"

  A violinist appeared and began to play "Hearts and Flowers."

  "Now, what I want here," said Lemley, through his little megaphone, "is cool, detached naturalness. This isn't Hollywood, you know. No mugging. And that goes for you, Miss Dicey. I want you to look perfectly natural and smile. The public has to WANT to buy the product. All right. Let's make this a cut and print the first time. Film costs the Earth. All set? Lights! Camera!"

  Somebody rushed in with a clapboard and said very rapidly, "JELO Ad. Shot 1. Take 1!" They slapped the top of the board and dashed out. Confusing as there was no camera.

  "ACTION!" cried Mr. Lemley.

  The two young men began to swing Miss Dicey back and forth in wider and wider arcs, glancing toward the window at the end of each swing toward it.

  "Cut! Cut! Cut!" said Lemley. "Jesus Christ, Dicey, keep your God (bleeped) eyes open. How can you reg­ister with your eyes shut!"

  "She fainted," said one of the young men.

  Buhlshot rose to the occasion. "Where the hell is a props man!"

  A props man rushed in. He picked up the cham­pagne bucket. He upended it, ice, 1650 Vintage Raire Champagne, tongs and all over Miss Dicey's face.

  Miss Dicey came around.

  "Retake," said Lemley. "Now, this time, the models holding her head and wrists should keep their faces

  toward the camera. Smile. Look pleased. Got it? All right! Here we go. Lights! Camera!"

  Somebody rushed in with the clapboard. "JELO Ad. final Shot 1, Take 2!" The clapper banged.

  "Action!" cried Lemley.

  "I'll tell! I'll tell!" shouted Dicey. "My makeup is too ruined for a shot! What would my public think!"

  "Cut!" said Lemley. "Ad lib dialogue. Not in the script."

  "Take five!" shouted Buhlshot. And everyone rushed off to take their five-minute break. He sternly stopped Dicey from going out the door.

  "Do I get a trip to China?" said Miss Dicey.

  "Yes," said Buhlshot.

  "And attached thereafter to offices behind the Iron Curtain?" said Dicey.

  "Yes," said Buhlshot.

  "All right. He's hiding out at Pier 92. It's the new Free Zone and he's outside territorial limits. He's sleep­ing in his car and it's in a box marked 'Export.' His mother is feeding him every night at nine o'clock. Now let me out of here. I've got to pack my bag!"

  Bury hung up the phone. He gave me a thin, pes­simistic nod. I put away my gun.

  Buhlshot said, "Flagrant, you're fired for risking the Rockecenter account!"

  "You're not out of the woods," Bury whispered to me. "We've got to capture him now. We will handle it as it's a matter of international law."

  As we left, the two violinists walked beside us play­ing mood music, the flower girls tossed small paper good­bye banners across our way. The two uniformed ushers rolled the red carpet up behind us.

  Buhlshot, in the hall, was mopping his face with a purple, silk handkerchief. He said, "Jesus, what it takes to salvage some accounts!"

  Chapter 4

  The second we emerged into the street, I knew we were in trouble. Rush hour! The advertising district was rushing home! We were buffeted by torrents of people. There were no cabs.

  "Oh, dear!" said Bury. He looked at his watch. "We have so little time! Only four h
ours to 9:00 P.M.! Ink-switch, we've got to have Madison, no matter what the cost or difficulties."

  We hurried down the avenue. We couldn't do much else as it was like being caught in an avalanche of people.

  "We're up against international legalities," he wor­ried as we were swept along. "It just shows you what a cunning (bleepard) Madison is: he's got himself down there on Pier 92 in the Free Trade end of the shed! Right out at the end! He's beyond the territorial jurisdiction of the United States authorities."

  We dodged a liquor store delivery boy who was bash­ing through the crowd on a delivery tricycle. I reached back and with my foot upended the vehicle.

  The smashing of bottles seemed to make Bury feel better. "Hatchetheimer!" he said. "If this were simply a legal problem, I would know what to do. But it's mili­tary, Inkswitch. Raw force! Hatchetheimer is the last sur­viving officer of Hitler's general staff. He was a mere child then. He must be pushing ninety now. I've got to contact Hatchetheimer and get his advice. A telephone.

  I've got to get to a telephone. It's absolutely vital we get Madison: we have no other appeals left!"

  The nearest thing was a Jewish delicatessen. It was jammed with people. But that wasn't all that was wrong with it: a score of Ku Klux Klan members in white robes and hoods were picketing the place, marching back and forth with poles which bore signs:

  DOWN WITH THE JEWS

  "You can't pass a picket line," said Bury. "We own the unions. There! The subway station!"

  Just beyond the Klansmen, steps led down through the walk. With Bury leading anxiously, we plowed through the crowd.

  The underground platform was a milling turmoil. Bury, an accomplished New Yorker, elbowed his way through them. I saw a young black decorating the white tile with graffiti. He had two spray cans, red and blue. He was drawing an American flag with (Bleep) You across it. I thought Bury was heading for him, perhaps to correct the drawing, and then I saw Bury's target was an underground telephone kiosk.

  There was a woman in it, using the phone. Bury banged on the glass door. The woman glared at him fero­ciously and went on with her conversation.