Mission Earth 6: Death Quest

by L. Ron Hubbard

  I sat back, feeling really great. Then I began to giggle. Even if Crobe spotted them, he would not recognize them. He did not know the names Wister or Krackle. They would probably be delivered drugged, placed in electric-shock machines and ruined for the rest of their lives. Ordinary psychiatry was quite good enough for them.

  The courts and the law and psychiatry were a priceless team. Why had I bothered to hire a hit man when I had them at my beck and call?

  How could I miss? If Heller was not caught at once, he might find Krak and if he found Krak he might bring her straight into this morass the lawyers had made so they could become rich. It was a bottomless pit and would swallow them both! With a grinning gulp! Bless the Earth legal-psychiatric liaison! It might be totally insane but, good Gods, was it useful to the power elite!

  Chapter 3

  When I turned my attention to Heller, he was standing at the water's edge, watching a parade of ships en

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  route to sea. The water before him was tinged with the blue of cloud-flecked sky, almost innocent of smog. It was a bright morning of a spring day. There was no wind; when he looked to his right, the grass was fresh and green. Then his eye shifted to a monument.

  The Battery! Heller was standing near the statue of Verrazano, discoverer of Manhattan, who had landed, the sign said, near this very spot, the southern tip of the island, in 1524.

  In Voltarian, he said to the statue, "Did the natives try to raise the mischief with you, too?" Then he read a recently erected plaque that was more extensive. It said that four years later, Verrazano had been eaten by cannibals. "I'm not at all surprised." It seemed to make him restless and he scanned the walks of the park. "Where are you, Izzy?"

  I acted!

  Now that I knew for certain a warrant was out for him, I knew, too, that Police Inspector Grafferty, that glory hound, would be anxious to be in on the kill.

  I got through to Grafferty's office. I said, "Give me the Inspector quick. I have his quarry in sight!"

  "The Inspector is out on a case," his office man said.

  "I'm sure it's the Wister case," I snapped. "You tell him that the man he wants is right down in Battery Park by the statue of Verrazano. He's waiting for a contact. PICK HIM UP!"

  "Very good, sir." He rang off.

  Heller drifted north up a curving path, the towering skyscrapers of the financial district visible past the stern, red sandstone walls of Castle Clinton. He was looking up at a gunport when a voice spoke behind him.

  "Mr. Jet." It was Izzy.

  "Have you found her?" said Heller, his voice anxious.

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  "No, Mr. Jet. We have three private detectives out. No word."

  "Blast!" said Heller.

  "Mr. Jet, you look awful," said Izzy. "You must have slept in the park. Oh, I can't tell you how sorry I am that you're being put through the wringer of this awful legal system. It's the law that's criminal, Mr. Jet."

  "Did you get the things I asked you for?"

  Izzy handed him a bulky sack. "It's the last thing I can get out. About a minute after I finished collecting these, they'd padlocked your office. Two patrolmen are waiting in the hall in case you show up. There's a warrant out, Mr. Jet. Criminal charges. Bigamy. Look, Mr. Jet, Bang-Bang says they'll be watching all the airports and bus and train terminals but he can steal a helicopter and pick you up anyplace you say. We can land you on a freighter for Brazil. You should go, Mr. Jet. I can't stand the thought of you being in jail for years on some phony charge!"

  "I've got to find my girl," said Heller.

  Izzy sighed deeply. "Then take this," said Izzy, and pushed another thick roll of thousand-dollar bills in his hand. "Please don't shoot anybody. It's cheaper to buy them in the long run."

  "Thank you," said Heller. "You're a true friend, Izzy."

  "It's really your money," said Izzy. "I made that wad just this morning with the future device machine. Cotton went up. I wish I could help more."

  "Keep the projects going," said Heller. "We'll come out of this."

  "Oy, I wish I had your confidence. This legal system was designed only for bad-intentioned men so I'm afraid

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  we haven't got a chance. Please take care of yourself, Mr. Jet."

  Izzy walked swiftly away.

  Heller walked toward the financial district. Shortly he was into the crowds. He began to go quite fast.

  He drew up before a very ratty-looking bar, the Stockbroker. He went in. The place was papered with old issues of shares and the cash register was a ticker-tape-Jooking thing. He sat down at the bar. Big signs said:

  Crash Pick-Me-Up for Those Dow-Jones Blues

  Suicide Special:

  Why Throw Yourself Out of Windows When Our Potion Can Do It Quicker?

  His reflection in the mirror looked awful: hollow-eyed.

  "Give me a Seven Up," said Heller.

  "The market is down this morning, sir," said the barkeep. "More like a Suicide Special."

  "Can you change a thousand-dollar bill?"

  "Seven Up it is, sir; you must be selling them short."

  "Somebody will wish he'd been sold short when I get through with him," said Heller. "Can I use your washroom?"

  "Help yourself, sir. Anybody with a thousand-dollar bill could buy the place."

  Heller went into the washroom. It was a dingy lavatory. Not even scraps remained of the mirrors. Heller hung his coat up on a hook. He opened the big sack Izzy had given him. I couldn't tell what was in it.

  Heller muttered, "Blast, what's this?" He was holding up a triple-blade razor that Izzy must have bought.

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  Then he looked into the sack again and apparently decided he would have to use the thing in lieu of his own spin razor.

  He tried to shave. He cut himself. He tried again and cut himself again. He finished somehow.

  He found a small Voltar vial of lotion. He put it on his face. Then he got out a little light that I had seen used in cellology. He beamed that at his face. Then he got out some bandages and put them on his face.

  He spinbrushed his teeth.

  But I had seen enough.

  I phoned Grafferty's office again.

  "The man he wants is at the Stockbroker Bar!" and I gave him the number on Church Street.

  "I relayed the data to Grafferty," his office man said. "He is on a case but he is taking care of it. Public cooperation is always appreciated in criminal matters, sir."

  I rang off, satisfied. New York's finest was on the job.

  Heller folded up his coat, put it in the bag and then took out a dark blue, engineer's coverall suit, like a workman's. He put it on. Then he put on a plain blue workman's cap. He looked deeper in the bag. "Blast!" he said in Voltarian. "No engineer gloves. Only these cotton things." But he put them on. Then he found a redstar engineer rag and put it dangling out of his hip pocket.

  He tidied up and went back out into the bar.

  The place was still deserted except for the barman, and that worthy had put the Seven Up at a side table with a sandwich. "That Seven Up is awful stuff," said the barman. "No alcohol in it. So I give you a pastrami cushion. What else can I do for you?"

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  "You can show me where the phone is."

  The barman dragged a long-corded phone over to the table. "I see you got some son of a system for sneaking up on the market. Going to make another thousand?"

  "I've got an idea I can hit the jackpot," said Heller.

  "Yes, SIR! I promise not to listen much."

  Heller dialled a number. The other end said, "Really Red Cab Company."

  "Listen," said Heller. "Is Mortie Massacurovitch back on the job yet?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't advise it, sir. The doctor said..."

  "I know all about his eye infection," said Heller. "I've been told about nothing else
for two days! Can you connect me?"

  "Not directly. But he is back on duty."

  "You tell him to dump any fare he has and get down to the Stockbroker Bar on Church Street. Tell him Clyde Barrow needs him bad and right now!"

  The dispatcher said he would and rang off.

  Clyde Barrow? He was a notorious gangster of the thirties! Then I recalled that that was the name Mortie Massacurovitch knew him by.

  "I get it," said the barkeep. "You're going to do a bag job on some broker's office for the insider information. Smart."

  "Yeah," said Heller. "I'm going to make a killing."

  I chilled. That was three times now he had threatened vengeance. It was not like him to be that way. I knew pretty well what I had felt all along. Heller was going to go gunning for ME!

  Hurry up, Grafferty!

  Heller drank his Seven Up and ate his pastrami.

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  The door burst open and Mortie Massacurovitch came in, hit a table, bounced off, hit the bar.

  "Over here," said Heller.

  Mortie had bandages over his eyes, just looking through a slit. "Hello, kid," he said, looking in another direction.

  Heller got his change and gave the barkeep twenty bucks for his trouble. He steered Mortie outside. The cab was parked with two wheels on the sidewalk. Heller got him into the passenger side of the front seat.

  "Mortie, I'm in trouble," said Heller, settling himself under the wheel.

  "Ain't we all," said Mortie. "I'm going broke. A dumb spick hit me in the face with a load of mace and I been off for a week."

  "I know. I been trying to reach you for two days."

  "They disconnected my phone for nonpayment," said Mortie. "The (bleeped) company wouldn't even let me have a cab this morning until I gave the dispatcher a black eye. I ain't never blind enough not to be able to hit what I aim at! So who you driving for now, kid?"

  "Right now, you," said Heller. He shot the red cab away from the curb. I cursed. He had not looked at the number and the city swarmed with red cabs. I listened closely to pick up their destination.

  Heller stopped. All I could see was poles and cobblestones. Where the Hells was he?

  "Now, Mortie," said Heller. "A string of cabs was ordered." And he gave him the exact time and place they were ordered from. "I've got to locate what company and where those cabs went."

  "Oh, hell, kid, that's easy." Mortie began to fumble around under the panel. "I always bring this little device. I hook it into the company radio. I can get every

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  dispatcher of every cab company in New York. Helps to pick up the juicy, long-run fares before their own cabs can get there."

  He started talking to dispatchers, giving fictitious cab numbers of their own fleets. The story was the same, "I got an old-lady fare here that was so pleased with some service that she wants regular service. She's forgotten the company. Was it ours?" And he would give the time and departure point and the dispatchers would look on their logs.

  Suddenly, on his fifth call, Mortie stiffened and nodded at Heller. "Thank YOU!" he said and clicked off. To Heller, he said, "Smeller Cabs. Whole bunch of baggage. Took five cabs. They went to the 79th Street Boat Basin, Hudson Harbor."

  "Hudson Harbor?" said Heller. "Nothing leaves from there. Not even a ferry."

  "Beats me," said Mortie.

  "Well, we're on our way," said Heller. And he shot the red cab into motion up onto the recently completed West Side Elevated Highway, and was shortly speeding north at a high rate.

  I had my destination.

  I phoned Grafferty's office. "Your man is heading north to the 79th Street Boat Basin!"

  "Well, I sure as hell hope you're right. Grafferty just this minute got through chewing my (bleep) out. He wasn't at that statue place, he wasn't in the Stockbroker Bar and the (bleeped) bartender wouldn't even give him the time of day. You sure this is on the level this time?"

  "Tall blond man, blue eyes. You tell Grafferty you got this tip from a Fed and tell him to get a move on!

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  You're dealing with Federal satellite surveillance, buster!"

  "That's different," said the office man. "Yes, sir. Right away! But what's the Federal interest? He'll want to know."

  "Secret Federal New York Grand Jury indictment," I lied. "We want Grafferty to make the public pinch so we don't show our hand."

  "Ah, a standard Federal operation! Get the man for anything at any cost. And Grafferty gets the credit?"

  "Tell him TO GET MOVING!" I half screamed. I hung up. I turned anxiously to the viewer. Heller must not be left to get away, the criminal. He was the cause of all my troubles after all! And he must pay for it!

  Chapter 4

  The 79th Street Boat Basin was in the throes of spring. The long lines of small pleasure craft, winter-landed on the dock in chocks, lay like a forest of leafless trees. Other assorted yachts bobbed around the landing stages. Many workmen swarmed around, apparently readying these millionaire toys for the joys of a boating summer.

  This was the view that met Heller as he slid the red cab along the ranks at low speed, avoiding piles of this and that and people.

  A sign said Dockmaster and Heller stopped. He went in the hut. A small, round man looked up from a desk.

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  Heller gave the probable time and date. "Five Smeller cabs," he concluded. "Did you see them?"

  "Matey," said the dockmaster, "they come and go and I don't pay much attention."

  "It's quite important," said Heller. "I have to find out where they went from here."

  "Wait a minute," said the dockmaster. "The looker! Would the woman have been a real tomato?"

  "I suppose you could say so."

  The dockmaster looked at his log. "Yeah, I remember now. They rented a service boat to take out the baggage. Too much for their speedboats. They used a Squeeza credit card, Sultan Bey and Concubine. I remember the boys saying, 'Jesus, look at that God (bleeped) concubine, those foreign (bleepards) sure are taking over.' What a looker! She sure was sad, though, but I guess anybody would be sad being sold off to some God (bleeped) Turk."

  He got up from the desk and walked outside and looked out at the river. Then he yelled over the side of the dock to a man working with some rope on the deck of a miniature tug. "Remember that looker the other day? What yacht was that you took the baggage to?"

  "The Morgan yacht," the man called back. "The Golden Sunset."

  "Oh, well, that figgers," said the dockmaster. "She's got too much draft to come in here. Too big."

  "How do you find out where yachts go?" said Heller.

  "Oh, I dunno," said the dockmaster. "Nobody keeps much track of documented yachts. They don't have to clear in and out unless they've been foreign. You could try Boyd's of London, the insurance people. They keep track of ships."

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  "Thank you," said Heller.

  "Glad to be of help. That sure was some sad tomato."

  A far-off wail of police screamers was audible, getting louder. Aha! "Bulldog" Grafferty was on the trail!

  Heller went to a phone kiosk near the dockmaster office. He called to Mortie, sitting in the red cab, "I think we've got it."

  He ruffled through the book and got the number. He got a British hello. Heller said, "I want to know where the Morgan yacht, the Golden Sunset, is."

  "Put you onto Shipping Intelligence, old boy."

  Another came on and Heller repeated his question.

  "The Morgan yacht?" Shipping Intelligence said. "We have only one Golden Sunset in the American Yacht Registry but it's crossed out. Oh, yes. It was the Morgan yacht but I'm afraid, old boy, that she is no more."

  "You mean it's been LOST?"

  "Let me check with legal, old fellow. Just hold on."

  Police screamers penetrated the glass of the phone kiosk. He
ller glanced down the dock. Three police cars were racing up, full blast, toward the dockmaster office. I hugged myself in glee.

  "Are you there?" said the British voice. "I'm afraid you caught us with the panties half off, old boy. The yacht fell between registries. She should now be in the Foreign Yacht Registry. Been bought by some barbarian Turk and transferred to the Turkish flag. We simply hadn't reentered it."

  "Could you tell me where she is now?" begged Heller.

  "Oh, really. We can't possibly give out information like that. Confidential, doncha know."

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  "I'm trying to collect something," said Heller.

  "Oh, a bill collector. That's different. Haifa mo'. I'll see if we have it on the board."

  Heller looked out. Haifa dozen cops had off-loaded and were racing around grabbing people, demanding answers.

  Cops raced by the phone kiosk.

  I blinked! They hadn't looked into the kiosk!

  Heller cracked the door slightly. A cop had the dockmaster at bay. "We're looking for the Whiz Kid! If you've seen him, you better (bleep) well report it or we'll run you in as an accomplice!"

  The dockmaster was shaking his head. The cop gave him a shove and went off to grab somebody else.

  "Are you there? Yes, we have the Golden Sunset. She's at anchor off Gardner's Basin, Atlantic City."

  Heller thanked him and hung up. And then I blinked!

  Heller walked out of the kiosk and up to the dock-master. He indicated the rows of dry-landed vessels in their chocks. "Are any of those for sale?"

  "Usually," said the dockmaster. "With the price of fuel, the amount of use is cut down. It's spring, though, and a lot of owners think that's the time to get a high price. You know boats?"

  "Well, not too well," said Heller, "though I was in the Fleet."

  "Yeah, well, then you don't want no sailboat. Get you in trouble if you're not experienced." He started to walk down the line of small craft. "There's a trawler type there I know for a fact is for sale. Diesel. Good sea boat. Patterned after the fishermen." They were looking up at a forty-foot cabin cruiser.

  "Is it fast?" said Heller.

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  "Oh, hell no," said the dockmaster. "Who wants a fast boat? Reason you buy them is to get away from things. But you don't look like you're a yacht buyer. You interested for somebody else?"