Villainy Victorious

by L. Ron Hubbard

  The Countess rose on her elbow and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Darling, I know your reputation with the Fleet and even the Army has been excellent and that is as it should be. But I get a horrible feeling about all this. You have forgotten what happened here on Earth: that PR made an awful mess. All that horrible publicity. All those women and all those lies. Remember Madison?”

  “Aw, they don’t do that sort of thing on Voltar,” said Jettero. “That goofy PR technology isn’t even known there. And as for Madison, he went in the river.”

  “Well, call it woman’s intuition if you will,” she said, “but I’ve got a bad feeling about all this. Please, won’t you worry just a little bit?”

  “Lady mine,” he said, “a lifetime is composed of a finite number of minutes. What is happening now is important. I have seen men who well knew they’d be dead in half an hour enjoy a glass of tup most thoroughly. Others spent the same half-hour worrying. They were just as dead but they had missed a glass of tup.”

  “You’re impossible!”

  Jettero looked at his watch. He said, “You have just wasted one minute of your life. Don’t waste the next one. Give me a kiss.”

  “Oh, Jettero, I wish you knew Lombar like I do!”

  “I assure you, lady mine, that you are just now in much better company. Come here.”

  And though he smothered her with kisses and though he soon had her mind on other things, he did not, that night or in the weeks to come, succeed in smothering her worries.

  Somehow she KNEW it was far more dangerous than he said. But he wouldn’t even listen!

  PART SEVENTY-THREE

  Chapter 5

  Haggard with the smell of his own brand of danger, three days later Madison was returning to the Royal antechamber, escorting Lombar Hisst.

  Keyed up until it felt his whole insides were going to rip asunder, Madison would know now, in just minutes, if he was to stride on to victory or be left expiring in some unpleasant Voltar gutter, a loser cast away. Just a hair’s width of miscalculation could expose all and even bring him death.

  For three days he had worked and worked hard, with the knowledge that a failure at any given point in a complicated chain could leave him lost and condemned forever upon this distant strand and it would wreck forever his last chance to finish Heller.

  The major problem had been to prove to Hisst that he, Madison, was such a magical PR that he could get the Lords to bow to Hisst—a thing which Lombar, a commoner, considered utterly impossible—and to get the action shown through the Confederacy on Homeview.

  The sequence of minor problems had been hair-raising, each one in itself.

  The first incipient nervous breakdown occurred when the son of Snor had been unable to wake his father up long enough to get him to stamp and certify a blanket order giving Madison the run of Homeview. Finally the boy had been persuaded by Teenie to go back and, when no nurses or doctors were about, and out of the sight of the security scanners, get Lord Snor’s seal of the Interior Division out of a desk and stamp the order himself.

  The next threatened crackup happened when the manager of Homeview at the Joy City Studios had been unable to believe that Lord Snor would issue such an order and had tried to call Palace City to verify it. Unable to connect with Snor, he had gotten back at Madison—he evidently did not like the Apparatus—by giving him a lousy crew. No director, a scrub team of drivers and crewmen and, worst of all, a cameraman whose wife had just left him and who was not yet recovered from a five-day drunk. “A stinking order from the stinking Apparatus to do a stinking event only deserves a stinking crew,” he had said, little reckoning that he was putting Madison’s life on the line—and he probably would have cheered if he had found out. “We’ll put it in the Family Hour, so hold it on time, for we won’t reprogram all of Homeview just to insert a stinking clip.” Madison had left him wondering what the blazes a PR man was and had had to be content with what he got. Hair-raising!

  Then a page had had to sneak into a meeting of the Grand Council. It had only been attended by five members and these were all bleary with speedballs. The page had slipped the prewritten resolution under the palsied hand of the Crown who was stamping something else and then he had to get it logged by a clerk who was too deaf to hear things that were being passed. Madison had crouched outside shivering until the page sauntered out, tapping his jacket to signify he now had a legal order to the Master of Palace City to change building names.

  It had taken every credit Teenie could scrape up to bribe the Master to order the name wanted and to make the ceremonial arrangements for the right minute of the day. If this final result, about to be received, did not work, then Teenie would be after his blood again.

  And then there had been the struggle of pages and sons to get most of the Lords to feel indulgent enough toward children to agree to attend the affair, followed by the heroic feat of actually getting them into their robes and out there.

  Throughout the event, Madison had been too tied up with guiding Lombar to keep an eye on the Homeview crew. It had been HARROWING to have to walk along with dignified mien and resist all cravings to watch that (bleeped) cameraman and see if he even had the thing on, much less pointed at the exact required angle. If Madison had looked, the camera would have gotten him subjective—looking into its lens—like some gawker. So as of right here and now, walking across the antechamber, bringing the chief back to his desk, Madison did NOT know what he had in the can.

  Lombar lumbered to his desk in front of the bolted door of the Emperor’s bedchamber and sank down in his chair. There was no telling what his reaction was thus far: he was completely silent.

  Madison went over to the Homeview screen and with a bit of fiddling got it turned on. He didn’t know how to calculate the transmission time as the signal had left Palace City through a thirteen-minute future drag, had been transmitted to the planetary network center at Joy City and then had to come back and go through time relays to get back into Palace City time. So he didn’t know how to set the digitals to be sure he was ahead of the program on the screen’s recording strip, which would give him a replay. His palms were dripping and his hands shook.

  Oh, God, he was about to do a thing which no PR with any brains would ever dream of doing: showing a client a program which the PR himself had not previewed. With a drunk cameraman, heavens knew what was on that strip and if that camera had even wobbled, Madison knew he would be dead.

  He abandoned time calculation. He just yanked the strip ahead at random and hoped he was before the start point he wanted.

  He got the afternoon “Family Hour.” There was a picture of a woman rocking a child and crooning while the commentator went on and on about the joys of motherhood.

  Madison stole a glance at Hisst but Hisst was just sitting there, eyes upon the screen. Madison couldn’t figure the reaction.

  The commentator said that you should never feed a child anything but mother’s milk so that “what gets indrawn with sweet nourishment carries with it, on this channel of deliciousness, a soft and vibrant flow of love and family.”

  Madison wished desperately he knew how to fast-forward the strip. He glanced at Hisst to see how he was taking it: the yellow eyes, aside from their ever-present flicker of insanity, were unreadable.

  The picture showed a lot of shots of strange animals rutting in dirt and the announcer condemned all beast milk as imparting only lust and greed, and wound up in style.

  Now there came a series of views of ancient buildings. SCHOOLS! Oh, thank heavens, this was finally the start of the program they had just enacted.

  A rather nasal commentator voice was running along with a history of schools and began to show those which had been named after members of the Royal family and even Emperors.

  Madison cast a covert glance at Hisst. He was just sitting there in his gaudy scarlet Apparatus general’s full-dress uniform, more like a brutish devil than a man. One couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  Then sudd
enly the part that Madison had been waiting for came on. “. . . but times change and the parade of power across the stage of history can ever glitter to new heights. Yesterday it was determined by Lord Snor, Lord of the Interior, acting through the Master of Palace City, to celebrate our dedication to fineness and decency in tomorrow’s noblemen and courtiers and celebrate as well the glory and dedication of our magnificent and relentless protector of the realm, Lombar Hisst, Spokesman of the Emperor . . .” Madison thought the text was absolutely great, for, after all, he had written it himself; but he didn’t quite like the trumpet fanfare: it sounded more like razzmatazz. He glanced anxiously at Hisst to see how he was taking it but Madison could get no reaction at all!

  “. . . by changing the name of the Page Royal School to the Hisst Royal School.”

  God, thought Madison, he isn’t even blinking. He’s just sitting there! Can’t he see I’ve built in a name association so people will think of him as Royal? Yet, no sign.

  There were pictures of the school and past classes, then a picture of the school as it had been today. (Bleep)! It looked a bit shabbier! It was a round pillbox of a building enclosing a hidden sports field; big enough, but some of the blue and red ropes, in stone, had gaps in them and there was even a broken window!

  But the cameraman, even though his camera was unsteady, had opened up the view and there were the two lines of waiting Lords!

  Martial music!

  And here came Hisst striding along to go between the twin lines of waiting Lords, each Lord flanked by a son or a page. They were pretty drugged-up Lords but at this distance one missed it.

  NOW, right here, this was the tricky part! If the cameraman erred in any way, Madison was dead, dead, dead!

  Hisst strode between the two lines.

  THE FIRST ONES BOWED!

  Then, as Hisst passed, there was bow and bow and bow. The sons and pages were tugging at their sleeves and every Lord was bowing very low.

  Madison was watching so closely he was almost losing his eyeballs. One slightest slip of that camera and he would be executed! And the cameraman had been drunk!

  Hisst was through the lines. But it wasn’t over yet. Hisst would be walking that path again presently at Madison’s utmost peril.

  On the screen, Hisst stepped into the path of the illusion projector. A technician turned it on. And the electronic illusion of Hisst, two hundred feet tall, like a gigantic red devil, seemed to pat the top of the school and the speakers boomed out as he blessed it.

  Screams of cheers racketed. Totally and only boys, and piping and shrill. Were some of them more like animal calls?

  One could not tell what Hisst, there at his desk, thought of any of it. No client reaction! Had Hisst seen something Madison had missed? Oh, pray the Lord, no!

  Hisst was walking back now. The martial music banged and throbbed. Once more he had to pass between the lines of the waiting Lords.

  Would they bow?

  Would the cameraman slip?

  Ah, the first two Lords bowed, then the second two, then the third pair. . . . Madison was watching every inch of that way like a hawk—or more like a chicken that any instant could get its head cut off.

  Every pair of Lords bowed!

  Hisst climbed into his local ground car on the screen.

  The scene shifted to a cathedral and the announcer said, “We will now bring you to Casterly Church for afternoon vespers.”

  It was over.

  Madison, however, knew that his own trial was not. The client may or may not have detected something Madison had not seen. The client reaction was everything!

  Lombar roused himself. He pointed at the screen and said, “Play that again!” Was he angry? Was he pleased? Had he suspected?

  Madison suffered the agonies of the damned while the strip ran through once more.

  Then Lombar uttered a shuddering sigh. He said, “They bowed to me.”

  Then he sat there for a while.

  Then he said, “They bowed to me, Lombar Hisst, a commoner.”

  Then he shook his head. He said, “If I hadn’t been there myself, I would never credit it!”

  Then he sort of rotated his head and blinked his eyes and said, “Lords? Bowing to a commoner?” Then, “It’s never happened before in the whole 125,000 years of Voltar history!”

  Then he was blinking rapidly. “It can only mean one thing. They knew about the angels!”

  “Well, I wouldn’t count on them bowing all the time,” said Madison. “After all, we have to prepare the minds of the people to eventually accept you as Emperor.”

  “Yes,” said Hisst. “Yes. We have to prepare their minds.” And he was off into some daydream, spinning in who-knew-what part of the universe.

  Madison let him spin for a little while but, after all, this was a client and he had to close.

  “So you can now honor your promise to me,” said Madison. “An unlimited budget and a totally free hand.”

  That brought Lombar out of his spin. He fixed Madison with a stare. The yellow lights in his yellow eyes were strange. “You can’t have a budget. Only a department or section can have a budget. And it would take a Royal order to create a new one.” He checked himself. He must never come so close to saying that there is no Emperor or seal back of that door. “His Majesty is far too ill.”

  “But you promised unlimited funds!” said Madison. “You said if the Lords bowed . . .”

  Lombar was shaking his head, annoyed. “Why are you making me listen to you? I don’t have to listen to people.”

  “It’s because the people have to listen,” said Madison. “To BELIEVE you should be Emperor, they have to listen and I have to see that they listen to the right things and get whipped up about it. It will take PR and it will take time to create the favorable climate. And PR costs MONEY!”

  “Money,” said Lombar. “I can only authorize pay. That’s why nobody gets paid much in the Apparatus. I can’t authorize budgets for departments that don’t exist!”

  “Then,” said Madison, “as you are a man of your word and worthy to be Emperor because of that, authorize unlimited pay.”

  “WHAT?”

  “You saw the Lords bow.”

  Lombar suddenly blinked and began to nod, sort of bowing himself. Madison slid his identoplate across the desk. He saw a basket of forms and found “Change of Pay.” He wrote “UNLIMITED” on it and slid it to Lombar.

  Lombar looked at it and then filled it out and stamped it with Madison’s identoplate and then found his own in his hand and stamped again.

  Madison already had the other order written and he slid it under Lombar’s identoplate and it came down on it. The order said:

  J. Walter Madison, in all matters of PR, is to have an absolutely free hand with material, equipment and personnel, and no further authorization required.

  Lombar Hisst,

  Chief of the Apparatus

  and Spokesman for

  His Majesty,

  Cling the Lofty.

  Lombar seemed to have forgotten about him. The chief went over to the Homeview and fed the strip back in. He sat down on a stool before it, cushioned his jaw in his cupped hands and began to watch it again.

  Madison knew the man was hooked now in more ways than one. It was time to split with his spoils.

  He got out into the hall and out of sight and then leaned weakly against a door, for he felt his knees would give way.

  It was an awfully good thing Hisst never listened to anybody.

  And who would tell him anyway?

  In fact, who knew what the swindle was? Everyone else, watching, would have thought Hisst would know.

  The cameraman had made it! He had not missed.

  Right back of Hisst, in the golden dress of a page, amongst the crowd of boys, had come Teenie!

  In the whole walk in and the whole walk out, she had been right back of Hisst, but cut out of the frame.

  The Lords had been alerted by their pages.