Mission Earth 09 - Villainy Victorious

by Villainy Victorious [lit]

  "Are you going to be my driver now?" he asked Flick.

  "Unless the chief throws you into that thing," said Flick, pointing to their right.

  On the horizon stood a huge black castle, fronted by a camp that must contain thousands of men.

  "That's Spiteos. The camp is called Camp Endur­ance on the maps but the real name is Camp Kill. If the Apparatus gets unhappy with you, they send you there to be thrown into that chasm. It's a mile deep. You're in the Apparatus now. By the way, what was your crime?"

  "I haven't committed any crimes!" said Madison.

  "Oh, space gas!" said Flick. "If I'm going to have to drive for you, we might as well open our coats. I was one of the best thieves on Calabar until I got caught and sentenced to death and the Apparatus grabbed me. And here I been ever since. You must have done something."

  Madison thought fast. He did not want a bad image with his driver. "I failed to finish a job," he said. And then he knew for sure that this strange planet was rat­tling him: he had told somebody the truth. He better watch it!

  The driver laughed. "Well, if you don't cut their throats when you get a chance, they'll catch up with you sooner or later. I think you and me will get along just great."

  Heavens, the fellow had catalogued him as a mur­derer! Hastily he changed the subject. "What are those mountains over there to our right? I can't even see their tops."

  "Them's the Blike Mountains. Fifty thousand feet. We can't fly over them. Not in this junk heap. Where we're headed is right down there."

  The driver was pointing.

  NOTHING!

  No, it was a sort of greenish mist.

  They were diving so fast toward that mist he knew they would crash! Oh, to come this far and not even have an obituary:

  Madison dead...

  Then suddenly he was nauseated. It was a strange feeling. So this was how it was to die. Maybe the shock of the crash was so awful he had started for heaven at once.

  No, he was going through a gate!

  Round buildings were glittering on every hand, bathed in a greenish light. What strange structures! They had round staircases, jewels everywhere. Huge, expan­sive grounds with enormous, lifelike statues painted in natural colors. The giants were surrounded by round pools and flower beds. A glittering sign pointed across a grassy circle. It said Royal Chambers.

  SUDDENLY HE SAW TEENIE!

  She was in a sackcloth dress, filthy with mud from head to foot. Her ponytail was undone.

  Oh, he knew she'd come a cropper. Here she was a slave. Two old gnarled men were beside her, also grub­bing away. An Apparatus guard with what must be a rifle was standing by.

  She had an implement in her hand. Madison's car was skidding along five feet off the ground and it went close by her. She was just standing up, placing her muddy palm against her obviously aching back. SHE SAW HIM!

  Then he was by her. Oh, she must have done some­thing awful, to assign her to filthy manual labor. The knight-errant rose in him. "Never mind, Teenie," he whispered, "I'll rescue you if I can."

  They stopped in front of a huge, jewelled building with twin curving stairs you could have marched a regi­ment down.

  Two tough-looking officers in black rushed up.

  "Delivering J. Walter Madison," said Flick.

  "In the name of seven Devils," said one, "where have you been? The old (bleep) is tearing his toenails out waiting for you! Get the Hells up those stairs! Guard, guard! Shove this guy through to the chief, triple pace!"

  Hefty hands seized Madison on either arm and pro­pelled him up the stairs and into a corridor at a dead run.

  The fatal moment had arrived. J. Walter Madison was about to meet Lombar Hisst.

  I have dwelt upon it at length, for it was a moment which would mean much to Voltar's history and Jettero Heller. And, dear reader, I assure you, not for the good of either!

  Chapter 2

  On every hand the pomp of millennia rose: the golden ropes curved in intricate patterns along jewelled friezes depicting parades and battles down the ages; the glowering eyes of long-dead monarchs frowned at Madi­son as he went along the curving hall. The consciousness reached him that he was dealing with power ensconced in the awesome traditions of history far longer than man, on Earth, had even known how to use an axe of stone.

  He was rushed at length into a huge circular room, jewelled and glittering. It was the antechamber of the Emperor's sleeping quarters.

  On the other side of it, a huge desk, carved from a single block of onyx, seemed to be barring a door. All around the desk, machines and equipment had been set up to make an impromptu office.

  At the desk sat a huge man, rather swarthy, an odd sheen on his skin. He was dressed in a scarlet uniform, corded round with gold. His eyes had a crazy light.

  LOMBAR HISST!

  The guards had dumped Madison in the center of the room. Not one to be overly impressed by the trap­pings of the mighty, Madison straightened up his clothes, picked a bit of imaginary lint from his lapel and sauntered forward.

  Without preliminary, Hisst said, "Is Rockecenter all right?"

  Madison weighed up the situation. There was con­cern and worry, not hostility, in Hisst's voice. "Well," said Madison, "he was the last time I talked to him."

  "You were close to him, then?" said Hisst.

  Any unease Madison felt, he did not show. He was asking himself how good Voltar intelligence was: Did they know the true situation? That Rockecenter would have Madison's head for failing and running away? He saw what appeared to be a TV screen flickering away: How fast were communications between this place and Earth? He decided he would take a chance. He would name-drop. "Oh, yes," he said, careful to sound bored. "I handled delicate things for him: telling the prime min­ister of England or the president of the United States what to think, things like that. My account was several million dollars a year."

  "What a salary!" said Hisst. "You must have been very valuable to him."

  "Well, he often said there were a lot of things only I could handle. I was his top PR man."

  Hisst frowned. This is what the investigators had run into and hadn't solved. "What is this thing you call PR?"

  "Well," said Madison, "I noticed, talking around, you don't have a very good image."

  Hisst looked angry. "Nothing wrong with my image! I'm six foot three inches tall. I weigh 271 pounds-"

  "No, no," said Madison. "The way people think of you. The image of you other people carry in their minds."

  "Huh!" snorted Hisst. "Is it important how I am thought of by the riffraff?"

  "Well, yes, it is," said Madison. "I have heard that you are the virtual ruler of Voltar."

  "Well, of course I am! I can see that what these (bleeped) Lords think of me could matter. But what does the riffraff have to do with it?"

  "Well, you see, PR means 'public relations,' though the letters don't add up to that in Voltarian. The Lords and the riffraff are different publics. But if you don't have the right image, they could rise up and kill you."

  Hisst frowned. He was thinking that could very well happen anyway. They were all against him.

  Madison saw the frown. "You know, Mr. Hisst, I was very close to Rockecenter. I call him 'Rockie' and he calls me 'Mad.' Many a time, late at night, he used to slip his shoes off and put his feet on his desk and, over a com­panionable Scotch and soda, he'd confide in me. He trusted me when he really wanted something. I was, so to speak, his most intimate confidence man. I think it's time we opened our coats. Is there something you desire more than anything else in the world?"

  Lombar's eyes got a bit crazy. The sheen on his face was more pronounced. He leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. "It isn't that I want it so much. It's that I have an order about it. In spite of my being a commoner and the fact that all the Lords hate me, I am destined to become Emperor."

  Madison was instantly alert. Ah, he could deal with this. He had heard of it before about Rockecenter. "A call from... ?" He left it hanging in
the air.

  Lombar whispered, "The angels."

  Mad knew he had it made. "Did you know they called Rockecenter to rule Earth?"

  "NO!"

  "Fact," said Madison. "Heard them myself. That's why I became his PR man."

  Hisst instantly frowned. "What's that got to do with it?"

  "Well," said Madison, "when somebody doesn't have a good PR man, the riffraff rises up and kills him. BUT if he DOES have a GOOD PR man, the Lords, the public, the riffraff rise as one man and proclaim him Emperor by acclamation."

  Lombar blinked. This was a brand-new idea. Usual­ly, he didn't bother to listen to people or even answer them. But this Earthman sitting here had been close to Rockecenter. Rockecenter, a commoner, had risen to become the ruler of Earth, and this alone had given Lombar hope that it could be done. Now he was alert to the possibility that some secret technology, heretofore un­known to him, had been employed. He mused on it. It came to him that what this man was saying might get around not having a dead Cling to display. Emperor by proclamation of the public! How novel! But then his sus­picious nature began to tell him that it might be too good to be true. He started to sag.

  Madison, noting it: "Do you have any other little problems?"

  Lombar stiffened. He was instantly wary. He was not going to tell anyone that there was no emperor in that room behind him and no regalia either. Instead, he clutched at another worry. He said, "This (bleeped) Sol-tan Gris!"

  That startled Madison. "Soltan Gris? Is HE here?"

  "You know him?"

  Madison had detected the fury. "Oh, I should say so. On Earth he went by the names of Smith, Inkswitch and Sultan Bey. Got in the road all over the place. Knew NOTHING of PR. Wrecked things. An idiot!"

  "He's down at the Royal Prison and I can't get to him and can't execute him the way he deserves."

  "Well," said Madison, "that's a PR problem, too. There are ways. Any other problem?"

  "Heller! That (bleeped) Royal officer!"

  Madison felt like somebody was giving him candy on a silver platter. The whole room went brighter. But he said calmly, "On Earth he went by the name of Wister."

  Lombar, who had never bothered to listen to anyone before, seized upon the information like a starved hound! THAT was the missing piece of the puzzle of why his strategy had failed. "Aha!" he cried. "Gris didn't carry out my idea with the birth certificate! It went wrong because that (bleeped) Gris didn't follow my plans for Heller!"

  Madison's hopes soared to seventh heaven. Oh, what a chance was opening up in front of him! He could finish the job he had been hired to do! He could go home to plaudits and glory! But he made himself look very calm. "Well, Wister-Heller is a PR problem, too. If you really want these things handled, just give me the account and let me get to work. Just give me an office and a budget-"

  Lombar cut in. "Not so fast, Madison. Things are pretty delicate around here. I don't know a thing about PR."

  Madison's hopes fell. But he pointed to the Home-view screen. "Is that a TV? May I turn on the sound?"

  Lombar shrugged. Madison found a button and upped the volume. The picture was a battle scene on Calabar. Apparatus troops were firing at an enormous snowcapped mountain. The announcer was simply say­ing that Prince Mortiiy's troops were being blasted out of caves. Mad turned the sound off.

  "Now, a good PR," he said, "would have that an­nouncer stating that those Apparatus troops were fight­ing at your orders to make the Empire safe. And it would have a shot of you leading them to victory even though you weren't even there."

  Lombar frowned.

  Madison pulled out the newssheet he had been giv­en. He showed Lombar the front page. "If you had a good PR, your name would be all over this, building up the image that YOU were the one to rule. Pound, pound, day after day, week after week, you'd eventually get the message through that YOU and ONLY you should be Emperor."

  "They wouldn't print it," said Lombar.

  "You would ORDER them to print it," said Madison.

  "Hmm," said Lombar.

  "With a good PR," Madison said, "not just the riff­raff but every Lord in the land would be bowing down to you."

  "Lords bowing to ME? Those stiff-necked (bleeps)? I'm just a commoner! They'd rather die!"

  "But if the Lords DID bow down to you," said Madi­son, "and day after day such things appeared on Home-view, the people would have to assume that you WERE their master and you'd be Emperor by acclaim!"

  Lombar shook his head. "Madison, those Lords would never bow."

  Madison continued to appear calm. He wasn't. He was playing for very high stakes. He would get another chance at Wister. If he succeeded, Bury would have to admit he had done his job. If he worked Hisst properly, he could be sent home. He would be on top again! He said, "Mr. Hisst (and forgive me if I am already thinking of you as His Majesty), if I get pictures of Lords bowing to you on TV-I mean Homeview-will you retain me as a PR man with an unlimited budget and a free hand?"

  Lombar barked a laugh. "That's a big contract."

  Madison said, "But it won't take much to start: just a few thousand credits." Suddenly he remembered Teen­ie. "And the help of my assistant, Teenie Whopper."

  "WHO," said Lombar, "is Teenie Whopper?"

  "An Earth girl that came with me."

  Lombar suddenly remembered there had been anoth­er passenger. "Well, Madison, you can have your Earth girl. But as to money, no. It would be just a waste of cash."

  Madison had a sinking feeling. He would have no resources for bribery, no way to hire actors, no way to order Homeview to screen what he gave them. It looked pretty forlorn! But he had to be bold. "But if I succeed in this first bit, will you okay the big contract?"

  Lombar could never recall having done so much lis­tening before. No wonder he always avoided it: it was so tiring. He said, "It's impossible to get Lords to bow to me. So I can safely agree to your offer. If you can get such pictures on Homeview, all right. But I'm busy now. Good-bye. Guards! Show this Earthman out."

  As it stood, right at that moment, dear reader, Madison's apparent failure with Lombar left Jettero Hel­ler fairly safe; the empty chamber back of Lombar would sooner or later get exposed and the histories of Voltar and Earth might have righted themselves.

  Madison's chances of getting much further now looked thoroughly zilch. But only at that moment, dear reader, only at that moment. Huge and diabolical forces, already at work on two empires, were about to get a hefty push!

  Chapter 3

  J. Walter Madison walked down the long curving steps. Inwardly, he felt downhearted: without connec­tions or knowing channels, without money and without even a press card, things seemed pretty hopeless.

  He raised a friendly hand to the two black-uniformed guard officers and they merely looked through him and away.

  He climbed into his airbus but he didn't have any place to go: he didn't even have a home.

  Flick, his driver, said, "Things didn't go so well, eh? At least thank several Gods you are alive."

  Was his gloom that obvious? thought Madison. But he did feel down. The chance to get back on the job at Wister-Heller had almost been within his grasp, but his fingers had been too slippery. Curse trying to work with madmen!

  "Who runs Homeview?" he said.

  "The manager of Homeview," said Flick. "It's on all their program cards. Here's one: I keep it so I know when Hightee Heller is going to sing."

  "Heller? Is she any relation to the Royal officer Jettero Heller?"

  "She's his sister. Most beautiful woman in the Con­federacy, and can she sing! Billions and billions of fans."

  Well, that wouldn't do much for him now. He looked at the program. Aha! Homeview was under the Interior Division and that was under Lord Snor. He must be right here in Palace City!

  Maybe he could pull something off! He excitedly told Flick to go wherever Lord Snor lived.

  They drove through innumerable parks and around innumerable round buildings: there must be thousands o
f them in these few square miles, all different colors, all basking in this greenish light. But the place seemed unpopulated: patrols of Apparatus guards in mustard uniforms were the only ones upon the walks; Apparatus tanks were the only vehicles.

  "Where's all the people?" said Madison.

  "Oh, there used to be a lot of them, especially at this time of day: it's near quitting time. Ladies would be strolling with retinues, Palace Guards on every step, concerts going in these parks. But that's all changed. After His Majesty was taken ill he issued an order replac­ing the Palace Guards with the Apparatus: a lot of fam­ilies moved to their town or country estates because the

  Apparatus would stop and search them. There's plenty of domestics in these buildings but they don't show their faces. There must be only a few hundred thousand peo­ple left here now. Used to be two million."

  "You seem very well informed," said Madison.

  "Ha, ha," said Flick without laughing. "A lifetime as a breaking-and-entering thief sort of trains you to keep your eyes open. Untenanted houses are a prime target. But a murderer like you wouldn't know. You probably got all the dark places in these parks already spotted, though. Here's your address."

  They were stopped before a huge round building that evidently combined offices and living quarters. It was bright yellow and had gardens jutting out from its walls.

  Madison went up a staircase. An Apparatus guard stopped him, called for an officer. One in mustard yel­low came out, looked at Madison's identoplate. "What the blasts is a PR man?"

  "A special envoy," said Madison promptly. "I want to see Lord Snor."

  "Well, you could be a special envoy from the thirteenth Hell," said the officer, "and it still wouldn't do you any good. You might even get into his quarters and you still wouldn't make it. He used to have a wife but she's gone home to her family. He's got a son but he's in page school."

  "What's all this family got to do with it?" said Madison.

  "Oh, that's the way things used to run around here. If you couldn't see the top man, you saw some member of his family and slid your message in on that channel. But, frankly, I don't think even they could make it now. Lord Snor just stays in his quarters. He hasn't been seen for weeks. Wait a minute." He stepped inside and looked into a door marked CHAMBERLAIN. He talked a moment and then came back. "I thought maybe you could make an appointment for next week or month or something, but the chamberlain says the only ones that see him are the resident doctors who take in the little packages."