Mission Earth 6: Death Quest

by L. Ron Hubbard

"Now that this heah event is full recorded," said Biggs, "you fo'ks come along. Ah got somethin' else to show yuh." He went down the steps beckoning.

  The Countess followed to the last two steps and then she stopped. "You go along, dear. I'll stay here. When he comes to, he'll need somebody to hold his hand."

  "Wait a minute," said Heller. "I don't like to leave you here."

  "Oh, I'll be all right. Now, listen, all of you, Mr. Biggs and Mr. Sweeney. You keep this find quiet, do you

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  hear? That poor boy is going to need weeks and weeks of coaching and training to take his proper place in the world. So no publicity. The papers always get things wrong."

  "Nobody ever believes me anyway," said Sweeney.

  "Yes, ma'am," said Biggs.

  "Now, Bang-Bang," said the Countess Krak, "you follow Jettero in the jeep just so he can get back to the circus wagon over there on the other side of the farm." * "Yes, ma'am," said Bang-Bang. "I'll handle it."

  They left her at the foot of the stairs in all that glaring floodlight. She would be all alone in an isolated part of the farm. And if Torpedo had any sense, he'd kill the boy, too! A setup if there ever was one! Even quiet enough for the corpse rape!

  The men walked the considerable distance back to the main building. The drivers had pulled the motor homes over to the side of the drive. Sweeney went into the building to finish his sleep. Heller climbed into the Buick beside Biggs. They drove off and shortly lights showed up, following behind.

  Biggs drove over bumpy roads for quite a while. Then he turned at a rural mailbox and went much slower, his lights pointing through an orchard and, as the entrance road twisted, playing back and forth across some decrepit farm buildings. He stopped and before them lay an old-fashioned, two-story, brick farmhouse.

  "You probably don' remembah this place, Junior. It's passed to th' Hodges now through death duties an' taxes. But it's th' ol' Styles farm, yo' granpappy's on yo' mothah's side. Early tonaht I got me a hunch, so le's see ifn she bears fruit."

  He got out of the car, walked up the porch steps and began to bang with an old brass knocker much corroded

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  with age. It took quite a while but finally a woman in a nightcap and dressing gown turned on the porch light, peeked through a window and opened the door.

  "Whut you doin' here at this ungodly hour, Stonewall Biggs?" she said. "Don' you know it's the middle of the naht?"

  "Miz Hodges," said Biggs, "ah do apologize. But have you clean yo' attic recently?"

  "Biggs, you know danged well theah ain't no Yankee regoolation that anyone has to clean a attic. Don' tell me theah be a county one. Nobody nevah cleans no attic! An' if n you come here this time of naht to tell me to clean mah attic ..."

  "No, no," said Biggs, with great charm. "Ah sho'ly wouldn' insult th' fines' housekeeper fo' miles aroun' with that! But taxes can be reduced fo' unused space. An' ah jus' wanted t'see if you was ovahtaxed!" "Oh, well, tha's better." "So could ah have a look in yo' attic?" "He'p y'self so long as you let me go back to bed!" "Chahmed," said Biggs.

  Biggs went in and Heller sat down on the porch and waited. At long length, the porch light went off, Biggs came out and closed the door of the house behind him. He was carrying what appeared to be a big hatbox.

  They got in the car and drove out. The jeep at the gate backed out of their way. They went down the road and Biggs stopped. He turned on the dome light.

  "People," said Biggs, "nevah throw nothin' away. This was stuck cleah back undah th' eaves along with a bundle of election pohstahs fo' Jeff Davis an' a bundle of Confederate notes. They hid it but ah know mah people heah in Hamden. They hold on!" He dropped

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  the hatbox into Heller's lap. The dust geysered up. The strings had already been untied.

  Heller sneezed and opened the cover. Lying there were packets of letters, all tied, some loose envelopes and a photo album.

  Heller opened the album. The first picture, somewhat yellow, was that of a very beautiful blond girl in a dancing costume.

  "That yo' mammy," said Biggs. "She was jus' abaht th' mos' beautiful girl in these pahts. A belle fo' shuah! You take aftah her. Ah knowed it th' firs' moment ah laid eyes on you. Same hair, same eyes."

  A yellowed clipping was wedged under the photo. Heller took it out.

  LOCAL GIRL

  JOINS

  ROXY CHORUS IN NEW YORK

  Mary Styles, the only child of Ben and Charlotte Styles of the Styles farm in Hamden, graduate of the Fair Oakes High School and winner of last year's State Beauty Contest, has made good in Yankeeland.

  It went on but Heller slid it back in place. He opened more album pages. They were pictures of chorus lines and publicity photos.

  Slid loosely into the book were several enlarged nightclub and snapshot photos. The first was Delbert John Rockecenter, a better-looking man in his mid-twenties,

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  sitting at a table with Mary Styles, surrounded by waiters and champagne. Another was the pair of them, arms around each other in a bar. Another was of them semi-dressed at a beach resort sipping from the same Coke with two straws.

  "The boy at the farm," said Biggs, "take mo' aftah his fathah, but that w'd be the case with unidenticals, ah guess."

  Heller closed the book. He picked up a pack of letters and glanced through them. All were handwritten from "Delie" to "Mary Yum-Yum." They concerned arranging secret rendezvous in resorts and hotels and were heavy with caution about being seen.

  Crumpled up over at the side of the box was a pair of half-torn sheets. Heller spread them out. It had an embossed letterhead. The date was over eighteen years ago. It said:

  AGNES P. MORELAY, Ph.D., M.D.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Styles,

  It is my sad duty to inform you that your daughter Mary, after a hasty and ill-conceived marriage, could not stand the strain of sudden elevation in the world. She contracted a serious mental disease known as delirium altaphasis. Whik she appears sane at times, she can be very dangerous to herself and those around her.

  She is unfortunately pregnant. Until the child is born she cannot be treated professionally as the convulsion therapies would produce

  miscarriage which I am sure you do not want.

  To announce or even whisper her marriage would subject her to wild mental states in which she might seek to destroy herself.

  As soon as the child is born, she can be treated with professional psychiatric care. So please assist us in quietly placing her in the fully competent care of my colleague, Dr. Tremor Graves.

  If word of her marriage or condition were to leak out, even if she didn't destroy herself, she would have to be committed to the state insane asylum for life.

  Adequate funds for her care, which is extremely expensive, running into the thousands of dollars per month and quite beyond your means, will be given Dr. Graves and yourselves from time to time, but these will be cut off if she becomes formally committed and a charge of the state.

  I know you have her welfare at hean and so does her poor, distracted husband and will realize that this is all for the best.

  Once the child is born, she can be cured by the most professional possible means and can take her rightful place in the world.

  Please do not cost her that chance.

  In professional confidence, AGNES P. MORELAY

  L. RON HUBBARD

  "So that's how they kept the parents quiet," said Heller.

  "They didn't have to ver' long," said Biggs. "They was kilt in a auto accident. But this, ah think, is what you'ah lookin' fo' an' which ah came to fin'."

  jHr itrauteu1 iir urnr1 pmlbtr1 our air diffnin'-iboihrtg-envelope. He opened it and gave it to Heller.

  It declared that DELBERT JOHN ROCKECEN-TER and MARY CHARLOTTE STYLES had been joined in marriage at Elkto
n, Maryland, the place of instant marriages, a year before the date of birth. It was an imposing certificate, all stamped and sealed.

  Stonewall Biggs said, "So you ain't even a bastard, Junior."

  "Valuable," said Heller.

  "Now ah got to go back and write that other boy's birth certificate," said Biggs. "We'll jus' call him Del-bert John Rockecenter, th' Second, if that all right with you, Junior."

  "Fine," said Heller.

  "An' whahl ah'm at it, ah'll do a duplicate of yo' mothah's death certificate an' some additional copies of yo' own. You may need them. Ah'll bring them ovah to th' fahm in th' mo'ning iPn you'll still be theah."

  "Tha's what the captain said," Heller replied.

  "Now, Junior, onto othah things. Ah don' think that chief has got much muscle in him. Do ah get a grant fo' that new cohthouse?"

  "Only if you guarantee to build a absoloot ohriginal that George Washington slept in."

  "Tha's mah boy!" cried Stonewall Biggs. "Smahtest thing ah evah did was to get th' late Tremor Graves drunk that night!"

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  Cfeagtes

  Since Heller now would be going back, I hastily turned to the viewer of the Countess Krak to see if Torpedo had his opportunity and could shoot her in time.

  She was sitting in the upper room of the pig building, back to the window, a perfect target for anyone outside.

  The young man had come around. He was sitting on the edge of the littered bed, his blond hair in disarray, his eyes dazed. "It's nahce of you t' sit up with me. Ah'm too confused to sleep. Who'd evah thought ah had a real ma and pa jus' like pigs do!"

  "Well, listen," said the Countess Krak, "I know it's late at night but if you're to get any sleep, there's something I could do. You know football?"

  "Oh, yes, ma'am. Ah played it at the aggie college."

  She reached into her shopping bag and pulled out the hypno rig. "This is a new type of football helmet. It teaches you."

  "Aw, youah kiddin'."

  "Try it on," and she put it on his head and threw the switch.

  Torpedo's voice! "GOT YOU!"

  I tensely stared at the viewer. Had Krak not heard him? She didn't turn around.

  Then suddenly I realized that the voice had not come from the speaker.

  IT WAS IN THIS ROOM!

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  I whirled.

  Torpedo was standing in the open door!

  His gray, prison-pallor face was contorted with rage!

  The huge rifle was ready in his hand!

  He was frothing! "You set me up, you son of a (bleepch)! You knew the car we had was stolen! You tipped off the cops! They were laying for me at the hospital! You're going to pay for that!

  "I had to abandon the car and walk back here all night! You're going to get gut-shot for that!

  "But, you (bleepard), you never told me that that was the girl of the man who trapped me at the Brewster and pushed me off the elevated and collected my fee and cost me all my future with Bury. You just sent me there so he could kill me! And for that, after I shoot you, I'm going to rape your corpse and give it syph, clap and all!"

  He was raising the gun to shoot!

  The arrangements I had earlier made had been needed after all! I closed my hand on the Apparatus radio relay ring I had put on. It activated the vibration speaker I had planted on the balcony rail outside the door.

  A scream went off behind him!

  He whirled!

  He was standing on the door end of the runner rug.

  I reached down and grabbed my end and yanked.

  With a flip he went forwards.

  He staggered.

  He hit the balcony rail.

  With a clatter he went over and fell fifteen feet to the ground!

  I wasted no time.

  I grabbed up my things and jammed them in a suitcase.

  I snatched up my viewers.

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  I scrabbled around. I couldn't find my gun! The (bleep) must have stolen it or I had dropped it earlier in the day.

  No time now to search.

  I streaked out of the room.

  Running like mad, I got to the manure truck.

  I threw my things into it. I jumped under the wheel. I jimmied the ignition. It started.

  I tore out of there, horse biscuits flying behind me in the wind!

  Had I had my gun, I might have shot him. But I certainly would not have touched anything he touched, so using his rifle was out. In retrospect, as I drove, I thought it might have been smarter to have gone over to him on the pavement and stamped his head in. But again, I hadn't wanted to touch him. Yes, I was doing right. Just get out of there and fast!

  I thought I was safe. The motel proprietor would never suspect anyone would steal this manure truck. He probably wouldn't even notice it was gone until much later in the day, for he never seemed to be around. And if the police stopped me I could say it was a Federal commandeer of transport.

  So I felt safe as I drove in to an all-night trucker's station to the north of Lynchburg and filled up with gas and oil.

  I was just pulling out of the island when I chanced to look back.

  Here came Torpedo! Wild-haired and wild-eyed, insane for revenge, he was driving an old Toyota subcom-pact!

  I stepped on it!

  With screaming wheels I went tearing up Route 29.

  I was outdistancing him!

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  Charlottesville, Culpeper, Warrenton, Arlington. In the dawn I was rocketing around the Capital Beltway of Washington, D.C.

  Anxiously stopping again for gas, I looked behind. I thought I had lost him. For the next hour, I drove more sensibly. I was on the John F. Kennedy Memorial Highway and just passing Elkton, Maryland, when—BLAM! SCREEYOW!—zn elephant slug hit the car top and went ricocheting away!

  Oh, after that I drove!

  The prospect of not only being dead but raped and not only being raped but infected totally gave me a very heavy foot upon the throttle.

  The New Jersey Turnpike is usually fast but it was too slow for me that awful day.

  I had almost come abreast of Staten Island when the horrible realization came to me that I had no place to go!

  Torpedo knew my phone number at Miss Pinch's. And furthermore my welcome at that apartment would be very violent.

  Driving in that stinking truck, my head spun in a quandary. Then Apparatus training took over. Go to the least expected place. Go to the place where one might get protection.

  HIS MOTHER!

  She would defend me, that was for sure! She hated her son.

  The Goethals Bridge lay just ahead. I turned off the New Jersey Turnpike onto it. I went down the Staten Island Expressway like a fired cannonball. I got across the dizzy heights of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and was shortly speeding up the Queens Expressway.

  Rounding corners on two wheels, I rocketed toward safety. I slammed on the brakes before the house and

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  leaped out of the steaming car. I raced up the steps and pounded on the door.

  The hulking monster of a woman recognized me. I crowded past her into the hall. In a voice I was carefully keeping from sounding hysterical, I told her that her son was after me with intent to kill.

  She nodded, seeming to understand. She went up the stairs and was gone a bit. Then she leaned over the banister and beckoned. I went up.

  Apparently the room at the top of the stairs had once been Torpedo's. He had painted bars on the window-pane. The bedstead was cold iron. A portrait, a photograph, hung on the wall. The man in it had a crooked, leering face. It was autographed:

  To Torpedo,

  my best con,

  J. Q Conikul, Ph.D.

  His prison psychologist!

  Mrs. Fiaccola pointed to the closet and indicated I should enter it.

  A POUNDING OF FEET ON
THE STAIRS!

  TORPEDO!

  "Where is the son of a (bleepch)?" he was screaming and I realized he had seen the car.

  "Torpedo!" she said. "You want a kill. You're going to get one!"

  His mother was beckoning him up to the room. Her right hand was obscured in the folds of her skirt.

  He was snarling and agitated. But he was obeying.

  Firmly, she pushed him into the room and made him sit down on the bed.

  She made a shushing signal with her left hand and

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  then used it to gesture at the closet. "He's in there," she said. My hair stood on end!

  His mother lifted her right hand. She was holding his leopard, the sawed-off shotgun!

  She pushed it vertical at his chest as though to force him to take it.

  He reached out to grab the breach.

  With a quick movement, his mother lowered it so that the barrel was against his chin from below.

  SHE PULLED BOTH TRIGGERS!

  The noise was deafening!

  The whole of Torpedo's jaw and head hit the ceiling!

  His mother wiped off the triggers with the hem of her skirt. She curled his dying fingers around the guard.

  She then opened a drawer and got out some gun cleaning materials and put them on the bed.

  Then she stood back. "Ever since you been out of the Federal pen," she said to the dead body, "you talk psychology, psychology, psychology. So I read up. Now you got some psychology, you no-good, filthy, rotten philanderer of corpses! I hope the devil makes you read psychology the rest of infinity!"

  She turned to me and beckoned me out of the closet. "You witnessed it. He was cleaning his gun and it went off, wasn't he?"

  I nodded numbly.

  "So that's the end of my no-good, carrion-{bleeping) (bleep) of a son. And a pleasure it is to see him lying there dead even without the twenty-five thousand insurance I now get."

  Only then, at that very moment, was the brutal truth borne in upon me.

  Torpedo had failed.

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  I personally would now have to handle the whole situation.

  The fate of Earth, of Rockecenter, of Lombar and the entire Voltar Confederacy depended upon one haggard and worn frail reed, Apparatus Officer Soltan Gris.

  And it was more vital than ever to remove the vicious Countess Krak.