Mission Earth Volume 4: An Alien Affair

by L. Ron Hubbard

  He spoke. “Mudlick didn’t do a very careful job of decorating this place. They left white paint splattered all over the floor. Look at that. A trail of it from the bed to the wash basin.”

  I thought I had better distract him quick! “I’ve been waiting for you for hours! I can’t leave here without clothes.”

  “Oho, clothes, is it?” he said. “Well, you just look what I’ve got for you!” He reached way up and got the top box on the handcart. He threw it on the bed and opened it. I flinched. I thought a wild animal was jumping out!

  “A real Turkmen genuine bearskin coat, full length! Feel that fur! Expert tanning, hardly any smell at all!” He grabbed another box. “A karakul fur hat: straight from Lake Kara Kul, Tadzhik, SSR. Look how glossy the lamb pelt is. Smuggled through by the very best people.” He put it on my head. “Boy, does that give you an air! Classier than a commissar!” He grabbed another box. “Now look at these elegant rolltop snow boots! Isn’t that a beautiful blue? And see? These patent leather oxfords fit inside just right—three whole pairs of them, brown and blue and black. Just your size. Everything is just your size.”

  Ignoring anything I was trying to say, he made another leap to the top of the cart. Boxes came cascading down. He ripped another one open. “Now look at this waterproof silk ski suit. How do you like that horizon blue, eh? Top of the line. Latest fashion from Switzerland! Look at this hood! Feel the inside of it, man. Mink! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  He was grabbing more boxes. “Now for the practical things. Look at this specially cut tan English tweed jacket. Look at it glow! Look at that style! And here’s the flared-side steeplechase jodhpur breeches that go with it. How’s that for a match? Look at that dark brown against the jacket. And here are the jodhpur boots. Look at the leather. Isn’t that beautiful? Name brand. Top of the line. Just your size.”

  He was ripping open more boxes. “Now, here’s the German Tyrolean outfit. Hey, how do you like that pom-pom on the green Tyrol hat, eh? Isn’t it great? And the jacket and shorts and walking boots, all the finest leather. And get those suspenders. Look at that design on them: hand woven! Says so right there.”

  I was trying to stop him. He plowed right on. More and more boxes. “Now here’s the more formal wear. Silk shirts and silk neck scarves. And get this Italian pinstripe gray suit—it goes with the white Homburg. Boy, is that ever classy! Now here’s a dozen silk knitted turtleneck sweaters—”

  “WAIT!” I managed to stop him only by leaping bodily between him and the still heavily loaded handcart. “Where did all these come from?”

  “Why, the Giysi Modern Western Clothing Our Specialty Shop for Men and Gentlemen in town, of course. Days ago they were tipped off you were coming home and they got the whole lot in for you by express order from Istanbul. They know your size. Have no worries. Every bit of this will fit.”

  “My Gods!” I cried. “The message I had relayed to you was to go to the villa and get me some clothes.”

  “No, it was to get you some clothes. But I did go to your villa and they said they were much too busy to bother. It’s awfully cold out and you’ve just been in the hospital and all. I know what a classy gent you are, so I just nipped over to town and got these clothes.”

  “They look awfully expensive!” I protested.

  “Oh, no money needed. You’d just be amazed how great your credit is. I got them on your Start Blanching and Dunner’s Club credit cards!”

  I felt as if I were going to faint. Credit cards! Oh, my Gods, credit cards!

  Inspiration to the rescue. “You don’t have their numbers!”

  “Oh, everybody in town knows the numbers of all your credit cards. And in Istanbul, too! No trouble!”

  Inspiration beyond the call of inspiration was called for. I not only didn’t have any money, I also owed the credit card companies for the whole last month of our fatal trip!

  I had it! “I won’t sign the invoices!”

  “Oh, no problem. You forget I was a convicted forger on the Planet Modon, Officer Gris. I knew how weak you’d be, just getting out of the hospital and all. I signed the lot for you to save you all that trouble!”

  “You set this up just to get a ten percent kickback from the store,” I grated.

  “Oh, heavens no, Officer Gris. How you wrong me! It’s awfully cold weather. Now that you’re home, I can’t afford to have you get sick. Now, why don’t you step over there and have a nice shower while I lay out some silk underwear and some alpaca wool mountaineering socks and the nice tan camel’s hair lounging suit. And this dark brown silk shirt with this white Christian Dior cravat and these cordovan tooled cowboy boots. Don’t take too hot a shower. It’s awfully cold outside. And then you can put on this bearskin coat and karakul cap and I can take you home.”

  What could I say? At least there was one person in the universe who cared about me, for whatever reason. I might as well be shot in a genuine Turkmen bearskin coat as in a Zanco disposable bathrobe. Another fifteen thousand wouldn’t make any difference when added to the maybe half a million I still owed on credit cards. I brightened. This wouldn’t be due for another month after they had shot me for failing to pay my already existing debt.

  It struck me as I soaped that I didn’t know the taxi driver’s right name. Above the shower spatter, I yelled, “You know, nobody ever told me your name.”

  “Ahmed,” he yelled back.

  “No, no,” I shouted. “I know your Turkish name. I mean your right name.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Deplor.”

  Deplor? That, in Modon, meant “Fate.”

  Later I was to have cause to remember that. Just now I was too engrossed in trying to soap myself in spite of these newly acquired appendages. I certainly hoped those virgin pants would take care of it. It sure was big!

  PART THIRTY-FIVE

  Chapter 1

  Despite the taxi driver’s solicitude, I felt fine. I walked across the villa lawn with a spring in my step and the customary scowl on my face in case any staff was watching.

  I felt it was beneath me to order the carrying in of the boxes of new clothes and left that to the taxi driver. He, in turn, marshaled up Karagoz and several of the men and they got a fire-bucket sort of line going and very soon my bedroom looked more like a store than living quarters. At least I was going to go to my financial death in the height of fashion.

  The taxi driver paused by me in the patio as he left. “Those will do you for the cold weather,” he said. “And you be sure to keep warm. But, come spring, they will be too warm so I’ll have Giysi Modern Western Clothing Our Specialty Shop for Men and Gentlemen working on your spring wardrobe.”

  Come spring, I had a feeling, I would be long cold in the graveyard they reserve for people shot by the delinquent accounts sections of the credit card companies. But let him dream. According to his own lights, he was taking care of me.

  “Wear those wool scarves around your throat,” he said. “And don’t get your feet wet.” And he was gone.

  The sound of the closing of the patio door signaled the opening of Utanc’s. I had been standing there wondering how to get in my bedroom. I heard a gasp. I turned.

  Utanc. She looked at the karakul cap. She looked at the bearskin coat. Then she peered at my face, part of which must have been showing between the folds of fur collar.

  “Oh!” she said in what must have been relief. “It’s only you!”

  “I’m just back from the hospital,” I said.

  “Oh. Is that where you’ve been? What are you doing coming around here and scaring people to death? I thought you were a commissar or somebody important at first.”

  Something in her attitude nettled me. “Utanc,” I said. “You and I have to have a talk about credit cards.”

  “Hah!” she said. “There you go flying into one of your rages about the least little thing!”

  She was beautiful, standing there in a Saks Fifth Avenue white satin housecoat trimmed with pearls. I did love her. But also she had
placed both my right and left feet over the edge in the Delinquency Creditor Graveyard. “Utanc,” I said, “could you possibly send back or sell some of the jewelry you bought? I am in deep financial distress.”

  I don’t know what I expected. A slammed door, probably. But she stood there staring at me. She then put her finger in her mouth and thought about it.

  I said, “Utanc, I love you dearly. But if you could just see fit to let me cancel your credit cards and return some of the more valuable purchases, I might be able to weather this somehow.”

  “O Master,” she said, “I am so sorry to hear that I was bought by someone of limited means. However, I share the blame.”

  My spirits lifted. She did care after all!

  She said, “I should have had you looked up in Dunn and Bradstreet before I stepped onto the auction block. I did not, so I am remiss.”

  It was touching. Of course, as a wild desert girl, she lacked facilities to establish credit ratings.

  “I don’t suppose,” she continued, thoughtfully tapping her teeth, “that capitalistic law allows a pauperized slave girl to sell her master. No, it would be too decadent for that.” She frowned prettily and began to weave a lock of her raven black hair. “Certainly, there must be something we can do.”

  I had an inspiration. I suddenly realized that the basis of all her upset with me was unsatisfied sex. She had always wound up unhappy after a bout. Freud cannot be wrong. She was simply frustrated! But now! Now, after Prahd’s great work . . .

  “Utanc,” I said. “Why don’t you come to my room tonight? I have a beautiful surprise for you!”

  “A surprise?” she said suspiciously.

  “A big one,” I said. “And very nice.”

  “Hmm,” she said. Then, “Master, if I come to your room tonight—just that and nothing more implied will you let me keep all the things I bought and my credit cards?”

  I did a very rapid calculation. There was no doubt whatever in my mind that once she found what I had now, all thought of jewelry and credit cards would vanish. Freud cannot be wrong. Sex is the basis of every tiny impulse, everything in fact. If I could just get her in my room for one hour, after that she would be totally content to live with me the rest of her life in poverty if need be.

  I put all my chips on Freud. “Utanc, if you just come to my room tonight and lie down with me upon my bed for just five minutes, you may keep your jewelry and your credit cards.”

  She nodded. “Nine o’clock. I will be there.” She closed her door.

  I did a little dance.

  I had it solved!

  In well under five minutes, all thought of jewelry and credit cards would be gone forever from that pretty head. After that, I would simply ship the offending items back to Tiffany’s and rip, rip, tear up the treacherous cards. She would even laugh gaily as I did it! Wonderful, wonderful psychology! Bless Freud!

  PART THIRTY-FIVE

  Chapter 2

  I was at once all bouncing enthusiasm. I had to get all these clothes stowed and my room straightened up and I wasted no time.

  Problem: I didn’t really have enough closet space. Something would have to go. In one secret closet a lot of the space was taken up with hypnohelmets in their big cartons. I sealed them up, just like new, and with a few assorted threats, got them into the Chevy station wagon and made Karagoz take them to Prahd for storage in the new warehouses. That gave me barely enough room, and by means of a lot of cramming and parking things on top of things, I got the job done.

  New problem. It was only 4:00 PM. Five hours to kill!

  Heller. Raht had said he had turned on the 831 Relayer. I had better check it out.

  I went in the secret office, pushed aside the bogus gold bars and boxes that still littered the floor. I turned on the wall electric fire, mindful of the taxi driver’s advice to take care of myself. I got the receiver and viewer out of my baggage, put them on their former low bench and turned them on.

  Victory!

  There he was in his Empire State Building office.

  I couldn’t quite make it out, though. I was getting various views of the floor.

  Then, finally, his voice. “There it is.” He fished a rubber ball out from a dark corner under his desk and, straightening up in his chair, put it on the blotter.

  The cat leaped up on the desk, moved over to a point about three feet from the ball and sat down.

  Heller rolled the ball at the cat. The cat, with an expert paw, rolled the ball back at Heller. Back and forth, back and forth.

  Kind of pathetic. We really had him slowed down. He had nothing better to do than play ball with a cat!

  All of a sudden the cat hit the ball a terrific lick and sent it bounding off the desk. This time Heller caught it. “You got to watch that strength, cat. Don’t be such a showoff. Somebody will get the idea you’re an extraterrestrial and they’ll get you for a Code break. Here, chase it for a while!”

  Heller tossed the ball the length of the room. The cat was after it like a shot.

  Just before the ball hit the wall, the door opened!

  The cat ignored the rebounding ball and squared away to the door.

  “You missed me.” It was Bang-Bang.

  The cat saw who it was and said, “Yeow?”

  Bang-Bang came across the room. “You got to teach that cat how to shoot better.” The cat was following him, eyes on a bag Bang-Bang was carrying. “No, it’s not ice cream,” Bang-Bang informed it. He threw the bag on the desk.

  “There’s your photographs you had taken, Jet. And here’s a bottle of stuff the man said would float off the emulsion.”

  “Any questions?” said Jet.

  “Hell, no. I told them it was just my G-2 class and they said they were always glad to help a student with his homework.”

  The cat was satisfying himself the package did not contain ice cream. It was quite obvious he did not believe Bang-Bang.

  “Jet,” said Bang-Bang. “While I was waiting for this stuff, I thunk up a great plan. I got to do something. I’m scared to go near the family. I can’t leave my job or I’ll wind up back in Sing Sing. But I got it all worked out.”

  Heller waved to a chair. The cat sat down to listen.

  “It goes like this,” said Bang-Bang. “I get the license plates of all publishers’ cars in the country. Then I simply put bombs in them and BANGO! they’re in Purgatory and we’re in clover.”

  Heller said, “Sounds kind of extensive.”

  “Well, how about this one? I plant bombs under the TV network buildings—NBC, CBS and ABC. This phony Whiz Kid is bound to show up in one and BLOWIE, he’s in Purgatory and we’re in clover.”

  “Then the reporters would mob me.”

  “Jet, I begin to suspect that you do not have the soul of a good demolition man.”

  I snorted. Heller, as a combat engineer, had probably blown up more buildings and forts than Bang-Bang had ever heard of. I was astonished to hear Heller answer, “I bow to the expert. However, I somehow don’t think any of those is the right target.”

  I chilled. It was obvious Heller was talking about ME! Had he really found out? Then I thought it might be Madison he meant. Better Madison than me anytime. I waited breathlessly for Heller to say more. He didn’t and it dawned on me that he just plain didn’t know. I relaxed.

  Bang-Bang got up. “Then,” he said, “I am left with the final solution.”

  “And that is?” said Heller.

  “Go get a drink of Scotch,” said Bang-Bang. “Come on, cat. Your boss won’t miss you for an hour and I hate to drink alone.”

  He departed with the cat trotting after him.

  Heller got busy. He propped open a G-2 manual on identification. He emptied the sack of photographs on the desk. They all seemed to be pictures of Heller but somehow he looked different ages. He got a tray and poured some water and fluid in it. Then he went to a safe and got out stacks of IDs. Hey, these were all the passports and social security cards and driver’s license
s he had been taking off gangsters and Silva. He spread them out. My Gods, I hadn’t realized how many there had been!

  Ten at the garage. The two snipers I had hired—Bang-Bang must have picked their pockets! One from the Midtown Air Terminal. Five CIA-sourced ones he’d taken off Silva.

  There were others he hadn’t taken the ID from: the three at the Gracious Palms, two more at the terminal and, of course, Silva’s own.

  I did a hasty calculation. Heller had wasted nineteen of Faustino’s men. They knew it: no wonder they were terrified of him. He had slaughtered eight hoodlums in Van Cortlandt Park. He had wrecked but not killed Torpedo Fiaccola and two Turk wrestlers. And he had blown up ten IRS agents if, by stretch of the imagination, you could call IRS agents human.

  Forty men!

  They had been after his blood and it was in self-defense. But what might happen if he took it into his head to go hunting people!

  He was dangerous!

  Oh, I better make awfully sure he did not get out of control! And I had better be awfully careful myself! I sometimes forgot that I was dealing with the top combat engineer of the Voltar Fleet. That was the trouble with him. He was deceptive with all those gentlemanly officer ways and pretenses of decency and even religion.

  But never mind. Rockecenter knew his business. Bury knew his business. And thank the Gods, Madison was an expert with a weapon more powerful than I had ever imagined existed—PR.

  And we had him stopped. We had him pinned down.

  He was fooling with those passports and driver’s licenses now. He would put a photograph of himself looking older into the tray of fluid. The thin emulsion of the photograph would begin to separate from the paper backing. Then, using a couple pairs of small tongs, he would slide the emulsion over onto the actual passport picture. Then using a dampened ball of something, he would press the new emulsion down in place so that even the embossing of the seal would come through.