Mission Earth Volume 4: An Alien Affair

by L. Ron Hubbard

  It was going to be an awfully near thing. I clenched my teeth. Duty was a burden but I had to make sure Heller was wrecked before I could go. Otherwise, I would be assassinated by the unknown spy on my return to Turkey. It would do no good to leave New York alive if I would then wind up in Turkey dead. Then, with a new surge of horror, I remembered the assassin had threatened to kill Utanc first!

  Somehow I had to suffer through the next twenty-four or so hours. Tomorrow would be the crucial time, for then, observing that I had not shown up on schedule, Miss Pinch would call the Internal Revenue Service.

  Bury would surely have noticed by this time, no matter how deep he was in the Central American jungle, that once more Boggle, Gouge & Hound had been coupled with Swindle and Crouch.

  I managed the phone with two hands and ordered some breakfast. It was an unwise action. The room-service waiter, noting all the papers outside the door, added the mound to my burdens.

  It was the push that sort of sent me over the edge.

  Just as Madison had predicted, the Whiz Kid was all over the front page.

  In an action “unprecedented in history” he had presented “anything he had won in settlements” to the farmers of Kansas.

  I knew now that, factually, it was a nothing amount that he was retaining a nothing of. But this thing about farmers of Kansas was quite beyond me. What did they have to do with it?

  Maybe I was sort of feverish already but this puzzle turned it into a kind of strange delirium.

  All the rest of that day I lay there with my eyes fearfully on the door. I expected two deadly IRS men to slither through the crack at the bottom or a snake to call me via the US Army Signal Corps before I could check out. An uncomfortable frame of mind. It got worse when dark came. I knew what the reaction of Miss Pinch would be when there was no ring at her front door. The tension would mount to an explosion syndrome! She would be more than slightly peeved! Her reactions would become more and more unprintable.

  As the night wore on, every time a curtain stirred, I knew it would be Lombar’s unknown assailant, magically transported by magic carpet from Turkey with a communication from the Widow Tayl informing me that she, too, had called IRS. It didn’t even do any good to sleep. That brought nightmares and prominent in them was Candy pleading with Lombar and the assassin pilots to make me scream harder!

  And through it all, echoing in the room, were the first words Heller had ever spoken to me: “From your accent, you’re an Academy officer, aren’t you? What sad route brought you to the drunks?”

  It was very confusing. How had he known about Bury?

  The hours and the fog dispersed.

  Voices. Real voices!

  It was the resident doctor. Winter sunlight was coming in the hotel penthouse terrace doors. Morning had come once more. It was D-day! “He seems to have had a fever. It’s broken now. If he drops off to sleep and begins the screaming again, just give him one of these aspirin.” He closed up his bag and left.

  Utanc! She was standing over by the mirror. She was dressed in a silk lounging robe and primping at her hair. She must have felt my eyes on her. “You kept screaming and I couldn’t hear my radio well so when the doctor came, I let him in.”

  Dear Utanc! She was all I had. How thoughtful of her! How tender.

  I said, “They’re after me!”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” she said, putting a strand of her hair in place under a diamond clip.

  “No, no! They really are after me! The Feds are liable to send the US Army here with snakes any minute!”

  She whirled. Ah, I had her attention. She did care for me after all! “The wallet!” she said. “The wallet with blood on it! The man you had killed!”

  I was too weak to argue. “Yes. Yes, that’s it. If I get good news this morning we have to flee! Although we’ve got to delay, we can’t. We must get out of New York!”

  Her face went white! She said, “There’s a plane at four. I will pack at once!” Practical, efficient girl. She was gone like a shot!

  I was too wobbly and hoarse to call her back. If I didn’t get the good news, I would only be going home to my death.

  With two bandaged hands I managed to get room service on the phone. This was going to be a near thing. The US Army Signal Corps was liable to bring the snakes covered with IRS red pepper any minute.

  I told room service, “Send me two scrambled newspapers, overdone.”

  I waited in mental and physical stress. The waiter came and finding stacks of newspapers at the door, brought those in, too, and dumped them on the bed: the movement sent waves of agony through me but newspapers always do.

  I opened one with shaking hands.

  Was this victory or death?

  PART THIRTY-THREE

  Chapter 6

  Ye Gods!

  Headlines!

  WHIZ KID BRIBED

  TO THROW RACE!

  And the story with its titles:

  WHIZ KID FUEL DIDN’T FAIL

  The famous investigative reporter, Bob Hoodward, the Nixon Nailer, has ferreted out the facts. The famous Spreeport Race was thrown by the Whiz Kid for payola!

  FUEL VALID

  Earlier belief that the race was lost due to defective fuel has now been exposed as false.

  MOB FIGURE

  The Whiz Kid had the honor to be bribed by the most famous Mafia mob mogul on the planet, no less than Faustino “The Noose” Narcotici, capo di tutti capi.

  CONFESSION

  In an exclusive interview with Hoodward, Wister confessed. “I thought I would not have money enough to develop my fuel, so I did it the American Way: for cash, I threw the race.”

  I gaped! I had never realized the extent imagination played in PR!

  But how convincing!

  And here was the photo, front page, three columns wide! A smiling Faustino was handing a grinning Whiz Kid the most huge wad of filthy lucre anybody would ever care to have. And the Whiz Kid was obviously lifting his helmet in salute to his benefactor. No matter that a tenth of a second later, Faustino had been running like an electric rabbit on a greyhound track! Those photographers had gotten it in the nick of time! What experts!

  The caption under the photo said:

  Secret candid shot proving the bribe: In the chair once used by Boss Tweed, the Bribe Baron of New York in the ’90s, the Whiz Kid, Gerry Wister, receives his payoff from capo di tutti capi Faustino “The Noose” Narcotici, Crime Czar of the world.

  I was stunned! What virtuosity PR had! I had never realized the headlines of this world were the product of overheated imaginations, staged events and tons of nothing! It took my breath away.

  And how cunningly they had linked it up with NAMES! Nixon, Narcotici, Boss Tweed. The Whiz Kid was now positioned with criminals! How convincing! Who could doubt it?

  The other papers were the same. This story would be bouncing coast to coast and even around the world. TV would be carrying that photo as a still. Radio would be spot-newsing it every hour. What coverage! An avalanche!

  And, my Gods, it was also all over the sports pages! They were running still shot reviews of the race! That meant TV sports programs would be running the moving color footage!

  All was revealed! So this was how news was made! Madison was right. I had not really been a professional PR.

  But wait a minute, how was Heller taking this?

  PART THIRTY-THREE

  Chapter 7

  I got the viewer on.

  Heller was driving the old cab down the Jersey side of the river. He had a stack of the newspapers on the floor under the meter and was glancing at them from time to time.

  He was PERTURBED!

  I turned back the strips. Yes, Heller had been summoned by Giovanni when he had reached the office. Giovanni had simply said, “You better get over here, kid, but I advise you not to come.” That voice was very tense.

  Heller was in trouble!

  Ah, PR, PR, what a beautiful tool for trouble. I realized now that nobody was
safe from such a weapon. It might strike anywhere at anyone. There was no predicting it at all! One minute he had been happily going about his business and then, bang, through no action of his own, he was shot by PR. And he didn’t even have any inkling it was a shot. Maybe he thought it was just how the world ran: that newspapers were unreliable or made mistakes or simply catered to the public taste for sensationalism.

  An expert in hand-to-hand combat, a Fleet combat engineer that could blow up fortresses and bases without a single scratch, Heller was a leaf in the wind before the mighty hurricane of PR, just a chip to be exploded at will by a master like Madison. And Heller not only didn’t know, there was absolutely no one he could fight, nothing whatever he could do about it! Madison had reduced him, with a few paragraphs, to a helpless pawn!

  All Heller knew was that he was in trouble. He drove that way. He had even ignored a disguise when he left New York.

  Just a pile of paper. A pile that could be burned with a single match. But that pile of paper was on its way to wrecking Heller!

  I could tell it just from Giovanni’s voice.

  At Babe’s he parked the cab.

  Giovanni met him in the elevator. “Kid, I wouldn’t go in.”

  Heller handed Giorgio a tan leather trench coat and cap but Giorgio wouldn’t take it. It fell to the floor.

  Heller knocked on the living room door. It did not open. He turned the knob and went in.

  No Babe.

  Some sounds were coming from beyond another door across the room. Heller went over and opened it.

  It was a sort of den. It had a fireplace but there was no fire in it. A crucifix hung on the wall. The rug was black.

  And there sat Babe. She was crumpled up on her knees. She had a sackcloth over her head. She had taken ashes from the fireplace and was smearing them on her face.

  “Mea culpa,” she moaned. “Mea magna culpa. It is my fault, it is my great fault.”

  She was crying.

  She sensed someone had entered.

  She looked up, tears coursing through the ashes on her face, making two clean streaks.

  She saw him.

  “Oh, Jerome,” she groaned. “My own son a traditore!” She bent over, weeping. “My own son, my own son!”

  Heller tried to walk forward to her. “Mrs. Corleone, please believe me. . . .”

  Rejection was instant. Palms flat toward him, she blocked his further approach with a gesture. “No, no, do not come near me! Somehow, somewhere you have tainted blood! You have stained the honor of the family! Do not come near me!”

  Heller dropped to his own knees, distant from her. “Please, Mrs. Corleone, I did not have . . .”

  “Traditore!” she spat, scuttling back to get away from him. “You have broken your poor mother’s heart!” She made a grab at the fireplace. She took out a newspaper that was only partly burned. The face of Faustino could be seen. The movement fanned the sparks that clung to it. They fanned into sudden flame as she shook it in the air.

  “You have brought dishonor to the name of Corleone!” she cried. “My own son has turned against his family!”

  She cast it out from her into the fireplace. “I have tried and tried to be a good mother to you. I have tried and tried to bring you up right! And what thanks do I get? What thanks, I ask you! The mayor’s wife was on the phone!” Her voice rose to a wail. “She said I was such a stupid fool I did not even know I had a traitor in my own camp! And she laughed! She laughed at me!”

  She was trying to find something suddenly. The fire tongs! She threw them at Heller. “Get out!” They landed against the wall with a clang.

  She got the poker and threw it. “Get out of my sight!” It bashed into a chair with a splintering thud.

  She grabbed the shovel and pitched it. It almost struck Heller in the face. As it clattered against the floor, she was shrieking, “Go away!”

  She got hold of the stand they had been in. She threw it with all her might. It smashed against the door! “Go! Go! Go! Get out, out, out!”

  Heller backed up. He went out of the room.

  The sound of her renewed weeping was like a dirge. Heller walked slowly to the hall.

  Neither Giovanni nor Giorgio were in sight.

  He picked up his coat and cap from the hall floor. He got into the elevator.

  At the cab, he slowly got in and drove away.

  Oh, my Gods! Madison had done it! With just a simple trick of paper and ink and newspaper influence, out of whole cloth and without even an ounce of truth, he had turned Heller’s most powerful ally against him!

  What genius!

  What a beautiful tool!

  And Heller did not even suspect who was shooting at him! Or that anybody really was!

  But this might still take a turn for the worse. Heller was tricky, too!

  PART THIRTY-THREE

  Chapter 8

  Heller drove to the Gracious Palms. He parked the old cab in its usual stall.

  He took the elevator up. It was still early in the day and there was no interference on my viewer. I could see what he did. There were two whores in his suite. They were practicing ways to undo a wristlock. One of them asked, “Pretty boy, is it the thumb you use in this grip or the first finger? Margie says . . . Why, what’s the matter?” She saw something must be very wrong when she looked closely at Heller’s face.

  He was opening cabinets and getting out suitcases. He was beginning to pack.

  In alarm the two whores ran out. I could hear one pounding on doors down the hall, one door after another. The other whore was on the hall phone talking quickly.

  Heller just kept on packing.

  When he turned around, there were numerous women standing in the door in different states of undress. They looked alarmed. A high-yellow came forward, “Pretty boy, are you leaving?”

  Heller didn’t answer. He just went on packing.

  There were more girls at the door. They were beginning to cry.

  Heller was getting out the racks and racks of clothes and binding them with cords.

  There was a commotion at the door. Heller looked up. Vantagio had shouldered his way through the mob of weeping girls.

  “What the hell is this, kid?” said Vantagio.

  Heller said, “Has Babe called?”

  Vantagio said, “No,” in a puzzled voice.

  “She will,” said Heller. “She will.”

  Vantagio said, “Oh, kid. Babe sometimes gets upset. I should know. She gets over it.”

  Heller reached into his inside pocket. “Have you seen the morning papers?”

  “I just got up,” said Vantagio. “What have the morning . . . ?”

  Heller had handed him a ripped-off front page of the New York Grimes.

  Vantagio stared at it. He took it in. He went white. “Good God!”

  Heller was indicating the piles of clothes. “These are no good to anybody else. What would you say the bills were?”

  “Oh, kid . . .” said Vantagio, sadly.

  “How much were the tailor bills on these clothes?” demanded Heller.

  “Kid, you don’t have to . . .”

  “Fifteen thousand?” said Heller.

  “Five,” said Vantagio. “No more than five. But kid . . .”

  “Here’s five thousand,” said Heller and began to count out the bills. “My safe downstairs is empty. Now there’s the matter of the old cab. Bang-Bang will need it so he can still say he has a job. He’s on parole, you know. And he has to go on with my military classes at Empire University. So how much is the cab worth?”

  “Oh, kid . . .” said Vantagio. He himself was beginning to look teary-eyed.

  “Five thousand,” said Heller. “We’ll call it five thousand. It was expensive to rebuild. Now, was there anything else I owe here? . . .”

  Vantagio didn’t answer. He had his face buried in a silk handkerchief.

  Heller took his hand and put the ten thousand in it. He finished up stuffing things into his bags.

/>   There were girls all around him, pleading with him. “Don’t go, pretty boy, don’t go!”

  They were tugging at him.

  He asked them to help carry his clothes. They would not touch them. He had to go get a cart himself. He loaded it.

  “Kid,” said Vantagio, pleading. “I think you are making an awful mistake. If she had intended you to go she would have called.”

  Heller said, “She intended.”

  He pushed the loaded cart to an elevator.

  He went down to the basement. The girls, bare of feet and crying, came down in the other elevator.

  Heller loaded the cab.

  He looked back at Vantagio and the crowd. Two security men were standing there, looking sad, shaking their heads.

  My viewer was misted.

  Heller had tears in his eyes!

  He drove away from the silent crowd. He could still see them in the rearview mirror. Then they were out of sight.

  At the Empire State Building, he parked in a cab rank and got a hand truck. A cabby friend offered to take the old taxi to its nearby lot.

  Heller wheeled the handcart to his office.

  There was a side resting room there and he put some of his luggage in it. He put his toilet kit in the bathroom. He didn’t have room for his clothes and he piled them on the sofas.

  Izzy came in, saw the clothes. He didn’t speak. He just looked aghast.

  “I’ll be living here,” said Heller.

  Izzy finally spoke. “I knew it would come to this. Fate has a way with it, Mr. Jet. And it always has more tricks waiting up the path.”

  “Is there something else wrong?” said Heller.

  Izzy twisted around. Heller pressed. Izzy finally said, “The IRS won’t wait. They’re demanding everything we have. I wasn’t able to make enough on arbitrage. Word just came in from the IRS District Office. They’re going to impound every corporation whether it is legal to do it or not. I didn’t want to tell you. I saw your morning press. But that’s not all of it, I’m afraid. When IRS finds they are not going to be paid, they’ll turn their public relations people loose, smear these corporations all over the media. It’s ruin. Unless a miracle happens, we won’t even have this office in another month.”