Fortune of Fear

by L. Ron Hubbard

  I spun the combination.

  Only I knew that combination. Nobody could get in. Crobe couldn’t get out.

  My sigh of relief came with a gusty rush. In due time, if I needed it, I had a secret weapon I could send against Heller. At the least sign of resurgence or success in the US, I would launch the deadly Crobe.

  Until then, he was safe and I was safe.

  I looked in through the port. He had untangled himself. He was staring at the bookshelves. And just as I had hoped, his interest quickened. He was picking up Psychiatric Stew.

  With a gay and jaunty step, I went upon my way.

  Life had taken a new and pleasant upturn once again.

  PART THIRTY-NINE

  Chapter 5

  After a marvelous breakfast served by Karagoz and a waiter, who crossed the floor only on their knees, it occurred to me that I had better check up on Heller and Krak just to make sure they were still failing.

  With a pitcher of hot sira, I leaned back in a comfortable chair and watched the two viewers.

  Heller was doing a whole bunch of figures at his desk in New York. All sorts of equations, mostly chemical. No threat there: he could do equations until the sky fell in and it wouldn’t disturb the planet in the least.

  I became interested in what the Countess Krak was doing. She was in the secretary boudoir and the door to the office itself was closed. The place was all festooned with cupids prancing around the wallpaper. But that wasn’t what she was looking at directly. It was the cat.

  She was down on her knees and she was teaching him to do backflips. He was working very hard to get them just right.

  “Elegance is the watchword, Mister Calico,” she was saying. “Now let’s do it again. Saunter along—one, two, three, four—without a care in the world. Then FLIP! Takes the audience by surprise. Now here we go again: one, two, three, four . . .”

  What a silly woman! She was still talking to it in Standard Voltarian and it was still an Earth cat! Couldn’t possibly understand her.

  And if this was all she was doing, it was certainly no threat to me.

  The cat must have done a perfect flip. She petted it and Mister Calico purred.

  “All right,” said the Countess. “That’s enough acrobatics for today. Now let’s review yesterday’s lesson. Go get a newspaper.”

  She opened the door a crack. That cat wasn’t so smart after all. Had to have doors opened for it.

  The cat went out into the office. It sprang up on a bar stool. A stack of newspapers was there. The cat caught the edge of one in its teeth and worried it off the bar. The paper hit the floor with a plop. The cat jumped down and again bit into the corner of it and, walking sideways, got it through the boudoir door.

  The Countess closed the door. “That’s fine.” She knelt on the floor. “Now turn it over so I can read it.”

  The cat, with teeth and paws, turned the newspaper over.

  It wasn’t really a newspaper. It was the weekly news magazine, the National Expirer. I guess the cat liked spicy reading.

  It didn’t go smoothly. The Countess flinched back. She gave the cat an absent pat. She leaned forward, reading the front page story. It said:

  IS MISS AMERICA SAFE

  FROM WHIZ KID RAPE?

  This probing question is being passionately asked today by rape experts.

  After his theft of Atlantic City, the thing has raised its ugly head: Is the reigning Miss America, only just crowned this autumn at Atlantic City, now safe from threatened Whiz Kid ravishment?

  Many experts predict that the Whiz Kid will not be able to curtail his ardor now that Miss America is so easily in his clutches.

  Others, reviewing the measurements of Miss America, agree that no oversexed normal male would be able to resist her charms.

  No less an authority than the press agent of Miss America himself stated, “We have tried to hide her photographs from his view and we have her in a narrow bed that won’t take two, but predictions of an early roll in the hay are rife.”

  The story was accompanied by a full-length, half-page picture of a gorgeous, half-naked blonde showing a yard of leg enticingly.

  The Countess Krak sat back on her haunches. She was staring at the photograph. “Oh, dear,” she muttered. “She is beautiful. Oh, dear, and we’re not even married yet!”

  She suddenly folded the paper and shoved it under the edge of the rug. She said, “Cat! Call Mamie!”

  There was a phone on the side table of the couch. The cat jumped up beside it. I was amazed. A cat using a telephone? But then I saw it wasn’t remarkable at all. The phone was a speaker phone and all you had to do was punch a button and it came on with a dial tone. Then it had a row of call buttons on a panel beside it and all you had to do was touch one button and it automatically dialed a whole number. Anybody can do that. Just two buttons.

  “President and General Manager Boomp here,” came out of the phone speaker.

  “Meow,” said the cat. Well, at least it didn’t say “Hello” in Voltarian. That would have been a Code break for sure!

  The Countess gave the cat a stroke and sat down on the couch. “Hello, dear. This is Joy. You know that dinner you were inviting us to attend this week? Well, I just called to say Jettero is very, very busy and can’t possibly come down to Atlantic City.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  Krak said, “How are things, dear?”

  “Oh, just fine,” said Mamie. “That (bleeped) Mafia had all the gambling devices rigged and they were paying off only to their own henchmen and shills, but we reversed the policy and only let popular people win—pretty girls we can get good pictures of and such. You should see them flocking in.”

  “Well, well,” said the Countess Krak. “That confirms it. We won’t be down, dear. Come up to New York anytime. Bye-bye.” To the cat she made a gesture and it punched the disconnect button.

  “Hmm,” said the Countess Krak. “This requires some heavy thinking, Mister Calico. That’s the end of your training for today.”

  She sat there for a while, staring at nothing. Then she primped her hair, smoothed out her eyebrows, straightened up the expensive lounge suit she was wearing and went out into the office. She sat down in the chair across from Heller.

  He became aware of her, looked up and smiled.

  “Dear,” said the Countess Krak, “exactly what are your plans for getting us home?”

  I flinched. I knew what she had her mind on. Those “Royal” forgeries. Until they were presented and hers was signed, she thought she could not get married. The last thing I wanted was a push toward concluding Mission Earth! They could get me shot! I wished she realized that any effort to present those forgeries would also get her shot, but I dared not tell her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, darling,” said Heller. “I guess I haven’t been very exact in telling you about my planning. You see, I’m supposed to put this planet in a condition that will continue to support life.

  “The first thing they need is a fuel that doesn’t pollute. The oil companies are insisting that everyone burn chemical-fire fuels that smoke and get soot and poison gases into the atmosphere. Until they have and are using a better energy source, it’s useless to do anything else to salvage the planet.

  “Also, to do any real building or feed the populations, they need more fuel than is being made available. The inflation you run into is also because of the high cost of fuel, which monthly becomes more expensive.

  “So (a) they are getting dirty and making fresh air scarce by using dirty fuel; (b) they are short on real fuel and can’t build cheap sewage plants; and (c) they are unable to control their economy because they have such expensive fuel.

  “So, whatever else needs fixing, they are going up in smoke unless they have and use proper technology.”

  “Very good,” said the Countess Krak, “then what are your plans for getting us home?”

  “Oh, you mean my immediate program? Well, it goes like this: (1) They won’t listen to an
ybody who doesn’t have a diploma. And in a very few months now, I should have that. (2) I am working on carburetors and fuels within this culture’s own scientific-use-capability framework and should be able to produce these. (3) I need spores to clean up the particles and poison gases in the planet’s atmosphere. I asked Gris for a cellologist and you say Crobe is learning English and will be here soon, so that’s in train. (4) I have some other things to do to prevent continent immersion by floods. And (5) to set up anything as massive as planetary fuel conversion requires billions of dollars.”

  “Yes, dear,” said the Countess Krak. “I find that all very interesting. But could you tell me what you are doing, right now, to get us home?”

  Heller looked at her a bit defensively. “Just now, I was listing the contemporary content of atmospheric pollutants: carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, sulfur dioxide, hydrocarbons, nitrogen oxides and particles from various burning and industrial sources. You see, aside from making it increasingly difficult to breathe, these block the sun out. They also hold reradiated solar reflection in. One gets a heating and a cooling factor at the same time. But the planet has been warming up gradually over the last century and this is connected to increased industrialization. The main danger, however, is that these particles do not permit adequately large water drops to form and so there is an increasing scarcity of rain. Aridity is a factor in reducing life-support capability. . . .”

  “That is very fascinating, Jettero. And I am very glad to know it. However, looking at this head-on, so to speak, what could you DO, RIGHT NOW, to speed up your program? Some VITAL point you could PUSH on.”

  “Well, I suppose I ought to be working on how to make some money. If Izzy doesn’t come through, we’ll even lose these offices.”

  “Oh, Jettero. I could buy what we need with my credit card.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid the finance required is way out of the range of a credit card. We need billions. We have to set up a spore-release plant. We have to get Chryster Motor Corporation out of the hands of IRS and get it producing carburetors. Such things really require billions and billions.”

  Krak looked very determined. She said, “No more Atlantic City!”

  Heller looked shocked. “Oh, dear, no!”

  She tapped the edge of the desk with her finger. “Plans get executed when they are, at least, worked on. Even a little bit at a time. You don’t have to wait until you graduate to make billions.” She wagged her finger emphatically at him. “I think you had better get very busy, Jettero, and make these billions right away. And do it in a manner that does NOT include ANY Miss Americas! Not a single one!”

  I really had to laugh. She was pushing on him, yes. But after the fiasco he had just made I had no fears at all that he would suddenly come up with pots of money. All the money he had gotten so far was hit money put up to waste him that he, by luck, had gotten into his own hands. High finance is an entirely different variety of slaughter. The hit men there wear top hats and are very suave and clever and they do their shooting cunningly across desks. It was wholly out of his field. He didn’t have, in my opinion, the ghost of a chance.

  Billions, indeed!

  What amateurs they were compared to me and the huge coup I had just pulled off.

  I loaded the recorders with strips. I dropped the blanket on them. Let them stew. I had my own high expectations. Madison was on the job. And I had Crobe in reserve.

  And one day, when they had loafed around, Heller and Krak would be caught up with the order from Lombar that it was time to slay.

  It was high time I took some air and saw what daylight looked like once more!

  PART THIRTY-NINE

  Chapter 6

  It was bitter cold but, for all that, a bright and sunshiny day. The shrubs in the villa yard were all bound up for winter like corpses in shrouds and not a single songbird was in sight. Beautiful.

  I stretched my arms and inhaled deeply.

  I stopped right there.

  I gaped.

  Was that a locomotive in the yard?

  The CAR!

  I let out my breath in a swoosh. My Gods, but it was big!

  There it stood, blocking the whole gate. Seen head-on, the vertical chrome slats of the custom radiator grill looked like the cowcatcher on a train.

  I sped forward, traveling to one side so that I could see it in profile.

  Half a block long!

  The black paint was a little dull but, oh, did that limousine have lines! Classic!

  Blazoned on the door was the scarlet eagle, wings outstretched, wearing horns, wild-eyed and savage.

  My, was I impressed!

  I rushed around to the other side. Another eagle.

  I opened the rear door. What space! All along the other side was a kind of bunk. The back of the front seat was a bar. A field radio-telephone was in a ledge. The interior upholstery was all new cloth and leatherette, a dark red.

  I stood back. So this was a 1962 Daimler-Benz, specially built! I tapped a window. Bulletproof!

  I stepped back further. Then I saw it. Below the huge red eagle on the door they had painted my name in gold:

  Sultan Bey

  Magnificent!

  The quiet of the day was marred by an evil laugh. I whirled. The toothless, beak-nosed old man was standing there. He was dressed in an olive-drab chauffeur’s uniform much too big for him.

  The taxi driver came out of the villa staff quarters. “You like it?” he beamed.

  “What is that old man doing here?” I said.

  “Oh, him? That’s Ters. He comes with the car. He was the general’s chauffeur, and unemployment being what it is, he hasn’t had a job for more than a quarter of a century. He drove it down here from Istanbul.”

  Ters? That means “unlucky” or “unfortunate” in Turkish. I hoped it didn’t combine with the taxi driver’s Modon name, Deplor. Unfortunate Fate was something I didn’t want anything to do with.

  “But look at this great car!” said the taxi driver. “And didn’t they do a great job of repairing it? A real Daimler-Benz, probably the only one of its kind left in the world. Distinctive! Fits you like a glove. Look, I even had them put your name on the door, real big, in gold. They’ll know who is coming, believe you me!”

  He jumped around to the other side and hit the horn. It almost blew the roof off the villa!

  “Now,” said the taxi driver, “I just told Karagoz to have a couple shrubs cut down so we can get it fully inside the gate and still get other cars in and out. So don’t have any qualms about its size. Besides, you want people to SEE it. Makes you a big man! And if you park it right over there anyone can spot it going down the road. I tell you, it isn’t everybody that has a car like this! Get in and try out the back seat!”

  I did. The taxi driver got in the front seat. He shut the doors and turned to me confidentially. “Now we’re in business. You wanted women. There isn’t a woman in the world that could resist this car. Right?”

  I allowed he must be correct. It sure was big and impressive.

  “I have all this figured out. As this was a general’s car, we ought to go about this like a military operation, a field campaign. That’s what he used it for. That’s why it has that ledge down the side you can sleep on. Now, in a military campaign, the timetable is everything, so let’s synchronize our watches.”

  We did. I was getting excited.

  “Now,” he said, “I arrive at the villa here each evening at 6:00 in my taxi. I park it over there. I get in the limousine with Ters and he and I go out and get the woman. We’d be back around 8:30.”

  “Why so long?” I said.

  “Finding the woman, time it takes to persuade her, time and distance to make the drive. We will have to go all over the Afyon plateau because we aren’t going to repeat on women. You want them fresh every night.”

  “Go on,” I said, my appetite whetting up.

  “We don’t come back through the gate, here. That would expose the woman to gossip. Instead, we p
ark under that cedar tree just up the road. You know the place. Only a few hundred feet away. Then, when we’re all ready, I blow the horn like this.” He hit it and a chicken that was in the yard took off straight up.

  “Now, the moment you hear that horn,” said the taxi driver, “you come running. I introduce you to the woman. I come back here and get my cab and leave. You do what you want with the woman,” and he leered, “and when you’re through, you simply walk back here and the old man takes her home. Now synchronize our watches again just to make sure. The woman will be so hot for you, you mustn’t keep her waiting. Promise?”

  “Oh, I won’t keep her waiting,” I said and eagerly synchronized my watch again.

  “One more thing,” said the taxi driver. “Give me two hundred thousand lira so I can get a woman this very night.”

  “Two hundred thousand lira?” I said. “That’s two thousand dollars! In Istanbul brothels, that would be a whole year of women!”

  “No, no. You don’t understand the quality you are getting. These women aren’t prostitutes, no sir! These are girls trying to earn their dowries, their bride money. If they have a big enough offer, even the hottest and most beautiful maiden will be slavering to get it. It means they can then marry a good husband. With that much, they’ll come flocking! You’ll have the best-looking women for miles around panting to tear their veils and robes off and get under you. Thin, plump, tall, short, a new one every night. Imagine it! A beautiful, passionate woman lying naked on that ledge, her hips twitching, stretching out her arms to you, begging, begging for it.”

  I ran into the house, opened my safe and got two hundred thousand lira and put it in a big sack and came back.

  The taxi driver peeked in. He nodded.

  The old chauffeur laughed an evil laugh.

  “See you when I blow the horn!” yelled the taxi driver and drove off in his cab.

  I could hardly wait.

  PART THIRTY-NINE

  Chapter 7

  Eight-thirty came. No signal to come.

  I was waiting in the patio, all steamed up to go. I looked at my watch. It was eight thirty-one and ten seconds.