Battlefield Earth

by L. Ron Hubbard

  They were busy on many projects. They built a large-scale model of the compound in the huge loft of the Empire Dauntless Mining building and drilled every team member.

  They marked out approximate distances in a meadow– without betraying anything to a drone– and timed everything: how fast did one have to go to get from this place to that, what were the starting times from zero time in order to converge simultaneously. There was much information they did not have and could not get, so they made up for it with flexibility.

  A problem they had to solve was replacing the horses. By rounding up and training wild ones, and working very fast, a small group was able to do this.

  They had all become excellent marksmen with the assault rifles and bazookas.

  With the relentless drilling by Robert the Fox, that past master of raids, they were really getting someplace.

  "If we miss,” Robert the Fox repeatedly told them, “and slip up on the tiniest detail, those plains out there will once again be crawling with transshipped Psychlo tanks and the sky studded with battle planes. The home planet of the Psychlos would retaliate with ferocity. We would have no course open save to withdraw into the old military base and probably perish of asphyxiation when they resort to gas. We have one thin chance. We must not miss in any tiniest detail. Let's go through it all again.”

  A strike force of only threescore men taking on the whole Psychlo Empire?

  They would harden their determination and go through the drill again. And again and again.

  But they did not yet have the vital, crucial chip: the gold.

  Chapter 7

  They labored in the mine twenty-four hours a day with three shifts. Inward further and further they drove along the barren, white quartz vein.

  And then on Day 60 the vein faulted. Some ancient cataclysm had shifted it up or down, to the right or left. Suddenly there was just country rock before them. No more vein.

  The possibility that they would lose it had not been missing from their calculations. For weeks now they had been sending out scouts to locate any stored gold within their range of recovery.

  They had been given hope by Jonnie's earliest discovery of a gold coin in a bank vault in Denver. But most of the coins left were just curiosities, worthless souvenirs: they were silver-plated copper. Only five more gold coins were in that vault, and these few ounces were a long way from making up a ton of gold.

  A few bits from what must have been jewelry shops added another pitiful two ounces.

  Mining company officials at old mines through the mountains had no gold in their vaults, though they found plenty of receipts: the receipts all said “Shipped (so many) ounces to the U.S.

  Mint, Denver” or “Shipped (such and such) poundage of concentrate to the smelter.”

  In a perilous journey in a plane, carrying heavy supplies of fuel in reserve, Dunneldeen, a copilot, and a gunner, flying by night to escape drone detection, went all the way to the eastern coast to a place once called New York. They found the buildings mostly knocked down but some gold vaults: tunneled into and

  empty.

  They also visited a place the historian had found called Fort Knox, but it was just a gutted ruin.

  Dunneldeen had accumulated a remarkable fund of information and picto-recorder shots: bridges gone, tumbled rubble, wild game, wild cattle and varmints abundant, no trace of people, and they had had some hair-raising experiences.

  But they got no gold.

  They had to come to the conclusion that the Psychlos, as much as a thousand years ago, had thoroughly gutted this planet of gold. They must have even taken it from corpses in the streets, rings from fingers and fillings from teeth. Possibly this, along with the Psychlo sport of hunting humans on days off, accounted for the thoroughness of population wipeout. There was evidence that in

  the early days of conquest they had even massacred people just for their rings and fillings. They began to understand Terl a little better in his dangerous enterprise to possess the yellow metal for himself. To the humans, the metal meant very little: they had no experience of using it in trade; it was pretty and didn't tarnish and was easily pounded into shape, but stainless steel had a lot more utility. Their own ideas of trade and thrift had to do with useful items that were real wealth.

  None of this got them any closer to getting a ton of gold. They frantically test-drilled for the lost vein.

  On Day 70 they found the vein again. It had been shifted by some past upheaval two hundred thirty-one feet to the north and only thirty feet from the surface.

  They wiped off their sweating faces, the droplets tending to freeze in the bitter winter winds of these altitudes, made a new level area for equipment and a new shaft, and began to drift again along the white quartz. The vein had thinned down to about three feet in width. They drove on, filling the dark air of the drift with white chips and blast fumes.

  Jonnie went back to studying the battle reports. They must know Psychlo tactics very precisely. He was once again struck with the oddity of this attack on a “tank” in Denver where no tank existed. He narrowed down the location on the faded satellite photos– they had kept coming off the machine even after the president was dead. Yes, there was smoke at that place.

  They had scouted out Denver thoroughly. Typically, Terl had not intended to work in the U.S. Mint to refine his gold; he had set up a place in the basement of the remains of a smelter a few minutes' drive away. He was just using the U.S. Mint as a receipt point.

  But all the gold invoices they found in the mines said, “U.S. Mint,” and it seemed to Jonnie that where so much gold was funneled in, there might be further traces there, in case they missed at the lode. Also this tank that didn't exist to the U.S. military might have been guarding the mint.

  In a swift foray, he and Dunneldeen swooped down to the U.S. Mint. They had made very sure there were no ground cars or planes as the afternoon faded. They landed in a park in the cover of giant trees and sped on silent feet to the mint.

  The place was still. It had been scouted before, but once more they went over it just in case the Psychlos had missed a vault. Inside they found nothing.

  They lingered outside in the darkness. Dunneldeen amused himself by prying into the mounds that had once been cars, wondering what they looked like in the days when they could run. Jonnie was thinking about the views Terl had shown him. He went around to the back and played a mine lamp on the ground so it would reflect a dim light up.

  Shortly, he was looking at the largest mound. It came to him that this must be the tank the battle plane had

  destroyed. The nonexistent tank.

  He lifted some turf– blown sand and grass had overlaid it. He cut the turf very carefully so it could be laid back and leave no sign of disturbance. The thing wasn't an ordinary car. It was so thickly built that it had endured the rust of time. The metal was twisted where it had burned out. He had never seen anything like this. It had a slot one might fire out of, but that would be its closest resemblance to a tank. The window frames had bars over them, a bit like a cage. What was this thing? He pried a section of metal aside with a mine crowbar and got inside. The interior had been blackened by fire and floor plates had warped. He pried up a floor plate.

  Half a minute later a smiling Jonnie was making a bird call and beckoning for Dunneldeen. He took the Scot inside.

  As one might piece together, when the Psychlo attack came, the U.S. Mint had sought to evacuate its vaults.

  GOLD! How much?

  In extremely heavy ingots, there it had lain neatly for a thousand years. Overlooked, for everyone thought it was a tank.

  They estimated its weight with excited heftings. And then their

  excitement dimmed.

  “It’s less than a tenth of a ton,” said Dunneldeen. “Would Terl be satisfied

  with that?”

  Jonnie didn't think so. In fact he knew Terl wouldn't. It was also far less than suited their own project.

  “A tenth of a loaf is bette
r than none,” said Dunneldeen.

  They packed the two hundred pounds of gold in the plane and put the “tank” back together and scattered snow on it and around it to cover tracks.

  They now had about three hundred pounds in gold.

  They needed a ton.

  It was enough to make one take up alchemy, the mythical conversion of lead to gold, said the historian when they returned. And in fact he spent hours that night fruitlessly studying just that.

  The parson made a visit to Jonnie's village to prepare the people for the possibility of withdrawal into the old base. He told Jonnie his Aunt Ellen sent her love and for him to be very careful in the wild places he went. Jonnie detected the parson was sweet on Aunt Ellen and privately wished him luck.

  They felt bad they couldn't warn other peoples on this planet.

  If they failed, man might indeed become extinct.

  Chapter 8

  The shift that went on duty at the end of Day 86 began like any other shift. The vein had been narrowing lately– pinching out. They tried not to be hopeful, but shift ends, when they had not found the pocket yet, were always a bitter disappointment.

  Dunneldeen, recovered from the cave-in, was operating a chattering spade bit, sweat streaming off him in the closed, hot confines of the drift. He had a sudden illusion that a drop of sweat had turned color as it dropped into his eye. He switched off the spade bit to clear his vision. He looked again in front of him through the swirling smoke and white dust. The illusion was still there.

  But it wasn't an illusion!

  A single, round spot of glowing yellow marked the shining white vein.

  He put the spade bit against it and turned it on. The chattering edge bit further. He shut it off and walked closer to the vein.

  He stood stock-still and then let out a blasting whistle to stop the shift.

  He pointed. And then bedlam broke loose!

  It was gold!

  They had finally hit the second pocket!

  The shift abruptly left off shouting and every bit and drill they had down there began to cut into the vein.

  The wire gold began to blossom against the white.

  An excited call went to the duty watch in town, and in a handful of minutes they had the third shift helping them.

  The town went wild.

  Every Scot and even two of the old widows helped form a human bucket line out of the mine; weighing, sacking, and loading bag after bag of mixed wire gold and quartz. To the devil with the odd bits of rock. The gold was like twisted springs and small cages of gleaming yellow.

  Before sunset on Day 88 they had the whole pocket out.

  Sixteen hundred forty-seven pounds, it weighed out, subtracting the rock.

  Adding to that the three hundred six pounds they already had, it made one thousand nine hundred fifty-three pounds.

  It was short of a ton but it would have to do.

  The project was on its way!

  They began to oil their assault rifles.

  The parson prayed long and earnestly for their success. There were no parallels for odds such as these.

  Chapter 9

  Terl waited, trying to be casual, in front of the U.S. Mint. It was two hours after sunset on Day 89. It was good and dark; there would be no moon these next three nights.

  The weather on this cursed planet was on the edge of spring. There had already been a warm day or two. All the snow was gone. It was reasonably warm tonight and he had been prepared to wait. Animals were pretty stupid about time.

  He was leaning against a flatbed truck he had driven in from the base. It was a shabby relic, not even on the inventory. It wouldn't be missed. He had prepared it carefully.

  But, right on time, there were the animals.

  With only a pinpoint of light, pointed at the ground, their vehicle rolled up and stopped a few feet from Terl.

  It was heavily laden. So they had kept their part of the bargain after all. Yes, animals certainly were stupid.

  There were three man-things in the cab. But Terl couldn't restrain his eagerness. He walked over to the flatbed and began to poke talons and a light into the sacks. Wire gold! Unrefined, unmelted, a bit of the white quartz clinging...no, here were some melted chunks.

  He remembered himself and stood back and played a radiation detector on the sacks. Clean.

  He estimated the load by a practiced glance at the pistons that supported the body over the driving mechanism. Allowing for the slight weight of the man-things– maybe four hundred pounds– and for the debris, he must have about nineteen hundred pounds here. Recent trade papers told him that gold in its scarcity at home had soared to eighty-three hundred twenty-one Galactic credits an ounce. This load was worth about...he was very good at figures in his head...about C 189,7 18,800.00. Several dozen fortunes!

  Wealth and power!

  He felt very expansive.

  The animals hadn't gotten out of the cab. Terl went to the side of it and flashed a subdued light into it. These fellows all had black beards!

  Actually, it was Dunneldeen, Dwight, and another Scot.

  Terl went through a pantomime seeking to ask where the animal Jonnie was.

  The pantomime might or might not have been comprehensible, but Dwight, who spoke Psychlo, knew exactly what was meant. Purposely speaking in broken Psychlo, Dwight said, "Jonnie not can come. Him have accident. Him hurt foot. He say we come. Much apology.”

  Terl was a bit taken aback by the information. It upset his planning. But yes, in the recon drone pictures this afternoon he had noticed an overturned blade scraper at the site and had seen no sign of the blond-bearded Jonnie who for months had always been visible. Well, no matter. It didn't upset much. It just delayed getting rid of the females. A hurt foot wouldn't stop that animal's “psychic powers” if he touched the females ahead of time. And if aroused, they could cause mischief. No mischief that he, Terl, couldn't handle.

  “We help transfer sacks to other truck,” said Dwight.

  Terl had never intended that. “No,” he said, making wide explicit motions-rather hard to see in the dark-'we just swap trucks. You get it? I keep your truck. You take this truck.”

  The three Scots piled out of the huge cab of the Psychlo truck they had brought and got into Terl's.

  Dunneldeen took the controls. He started the motors and made a wide sweep in the street, turning back the way they had come.

  Terl stood with a waiting smile upon his mouthbones.

  The truck went up to the corner and turned into a side street, out of sight of Terl.

  Dunneldeen hastily punched in the numbers to keep it going down the slope.

  He looked sideways to make sure Dwight and the other Scot had the door open.

  “Go!” he barked.

  The other two dove out the door.

  Dunneldeen shot his own door open and in a rolled ball hit the soft turf of the street.

  He glanced back. The other two were

  up and running for cover, a pair of darker blurs in the dark.

  He yanked a heat-detector shield out of his belt and began to run to an alley. He made it.

  The flatbed went on down the street for another hundred yards.

  It exploded with a battering, violent concussion that blew in the buildings on both sides of the street.

  Back at the gold-laden flatbed, Terl chuckled. He could hear the patter of pieces beginning to hit as they returned to earth for blocks around. There was a roaring sigh as some buildings collapsed. He was pleased. He would have been more pleased if the animal had been in it. He didn't have to go and look. He wouldn't have found anything anyway. The distance-fused demolition charge had been placed under the cab seats.

  Terl got in the laden truck and drove to the smelter he had rigged.

  He had done number five of seven alternate, possible actions in boobytrapping and sending the truck back. It had been dicey precalculating the options.

  The teams in antiheat capes drew back from the surrounding build
ings. They collected Dunneldeen and the other two and went off for stage two.

  Would they be this fortunate next time? Dicey indeed outguessing a mad Psychlo.

  Chapter 10

  The workroom in the ancient smelter had been all set up by Terl. The windows had been shuttered and the doors made snug. The only piece of equipment of the original man-setup that he was using was the huge metal cauldron in the middle of the floor, and this too he had reworked, surrounding it with Psychlo speed-heaters.

  Tools, molds, and molecular sprays were all laid out.

  The marking equipment was that of the morgue down at the compound.

  Terl parked the flatbed in front of the unlighted door and with practically no effort at all carried in ore sacks six or eight at a time and emptied them into the cauldron.

  He hid the flatbed, came in and barred the door, and checked to see that all the shutters were in place. He did not notice a newly drilled hole in one. He turned on the portable lights.

  With practiced ease he darted the point of a probe around the interior to make sure there were no bugs or button cameras. Satisfied, he laid the equipment aside.

  The instant it clattered to the bench, an unseen hand unfastened an ancient ventilator door and placed two button cameras in advantageous positions. The ventilator door, well oiled, was shut again. A bit of dust, dislodged in the action, drifted down across a lamp beam.

  Terl looked up. Rats, he thought. Always rats in these buildings.

  He turned on the speed heaters of the cauldron and the wire gold and lumps began to settle down and shrink.

  Bubbles began to form. One had to be careful not to overheat gold; it went into gaseous form and much could be lost in vapors. The roof beams of this old smelter must be saturated in gold gas that had recondensed. He watched the thermometers carefully.

  The yellow-orange content of the cauldron went liquid and he turned the heaters to maintain.