Mission: Earth Fortune of Fear

by Ron L. Hubbard

  "You mean we would make a billion a month?"

  "Whatever you say," said Heller.

  "How do you operate the machine?" said Izzy.

  "Well, I can't demonstrate that until you take an Oath of State Secrecy. The Fleet is very touchy about these."

  Izzy promptly raised his right hand.

  "No," said Heller. "Put your hand on your heart."

  Izzy did.

  Heller said, "Repeat after me: 'I do hereby solemnly acknowledge that I have been entrusted...' "

  Izzy did.

  Heller continued, "'... with a secret of state and swear never hereafter to impart its portent or content in any way whatsoever...'"

  Izzy repeated it.

  Heller went on, "'...to any unauthorized person, even under the threat or fact of torture or extinction.'"

  Izzy repeated that with his eyes a bit round behind his glasses.

  Heller continued, " 'And should I violate this oath, I hereby surrender all my rights and privileges as a citizen, my rank as an officer and my name as an individ­ual.' "

  Looking a bit white, Izzy did so.

  Heller concluded, " 'Long Live His Majesty!'"

  Izzy looked at him, cocking his head over oddly. I knew what had happened. Heller was so used to simply spilling out the Oath of State Secrecy he had overrun it accidentally.

  Izzy said, "Long Live His Majesty?"

  "Correct!" said Heller, hurriedly. "Now I can show you how to operate this."

  "His Majesty?" said Izzy. "Then it is black magic after all. You made me take an oath to Satan, the King of the Nether Regions!"

  I hurriedly grabbed a pen. Heller was skidding right on into an outright Code break. He'd have to tell Izzy now that he was an extraterrestrial, a Royal officer of the Voltar Fleet and a subject of the Emperor, Cling the Lofty.

  But instead, Heller replied, "Of course. Isn't it said that money is the root of all evil?"

  Izzy thought that over. He nodded. "How do you run the sight?" he said.

  I threw down my pen in disgust. Heller was getting too knowledgeable about this planet!

  Heller was showing him, in some detail. Izzy, looking through the eyepiece, said, "Wait. Look at those pork bellies! The March contract will go down to thirty-four, the lowest I've ever seen them. Hurry, Mr. Jet. Finish showing me. I can sell them short in the next half hour and make three hundred thousand dollars!

  Pork bellies will really get us out of the mud today!"

  I mourned. Now, with Izzy's expertise on commodity futures, the money would roll in!

  I turned my attention to the Countess Krak. With Heller making money absolutely at will with the time-sight on the commodity market, she mightn't use her credit card. MY credit card.

  Yikes! She wasn't in the fur shop now. She was in an auto salesroom-Porsche!

  A huge sign said:

  Who Cares about the Cost

  When You Can Ride in Foreign Luxury?

  A salesman was bustling up to her. She was looking at a sparkling blue Porsche 1002 coupe.

  "Do you have any disposable cars?" said the Countess Krak. "We won't be on the planet very long."

  The salesman caught his breath. He, however, was up to it, (bleep) him. He said, "Oh, yes, miss. Disposable cars? That one right there."

  She regarded it thoughtfully.

  "It's eighty-five thousand dollars," said the sales­man. "It's turbocharged for track and street. It's the fastest thing in America. Its slalom is 8.0 seconds, five-speed box, overhead cams..."

  "I'll take it," said the Countess Krak. "It matches the color of his eyes."

  "Time payment?" said the salesman.

  "Oh, no. He had a sort of birthday a month ago and the present was a bust. So I'll want the car right away. Tie a nice blue ribbon around it and send it over. And just put it on this Squeeza credit card."

  Chapter 2

  I was frantic.

  I had to act.

  In a blur of action, I made up my mind.

  I would send Crobe!

  Only Crobe could be counted upon to do Heller in!

  Ters was in the yard. I flew into the car. With tensely pointing finger, I had him race me to the hospital.

  A wild search through the Zanco shelves of the warehouse revealed a third audio and visio set, complete with an 831 Relayer, hidden under the other cases.

  With this box under my arm, I sped into the hospital.

  Prahd was in the basement operating room, working to alter the fingerprints of a newly arrived criminal. He was fortunately at a rest point and was just telling the hunted man he could go back to his cell.

  Prahd looked up and saw me. "Ah," he said, "you've come to tell me my pay has started."

  I gritted my teeth. I was in no mood for labor-relations conferences. "Grab whatever you need to install these you-know-whats," I said. "And come with me! You have a colleague in dire peril. There must be no delay."

  "A cellologist?" he said, blinking his big green eyes.

  "No, me!" I said. "Get going!"

  He grabbed what he thought he would need. I even helped him carry it.

  We got into the car and sped for the archaeological workman's barracks.

  We hurried down the tunnel. We crossed the vast hangar floor. We went up the cell block corridor.

  I peered in. We were in luck! When there is no sun to watch going up and down, one can lose track of day and night. Obviously, this was the case with Crobe. He was lying in the bunk, sound asleep.

  With a firm push on the remote control button, I activated the bed clamps.

  The metal arms swung over and pinned the body firmly to the mattress.

  I undid the combination lock of the outer door. I turned the key on the inner door.

  Crobe was looking around wildly, staring down at the metal arms and then at me and Prahd. "Wh... wh... wh...?"

  "Feed him the gas!" I said.

  Prahd instantly had the mask ready. He clamped it on.

  "Wh... wh... wh...?" sputtered Crobe.

  He was out.

  I covered the viewport on the inside of the armored door. I thrust the box at Prahd.

  "Install them quick," I said. "There is no time to lose."

  "Wait a minute," said Prahd. "These are a different type. There are three units. Unit A alters the vision response of one eye so that it sees through solids like metal or clothes or bone, depending on where the person focuses his vision. Unit B registers the emotional response of the spy to what he sees. Unit C is just the usual audio bug."

  I looked at the box. He was right. So Spurk had lied when he told me that he had only two units and then lied again when he said they didn't make any that monitored emotions. No wonder I felt justified in killing him and emptying his safe. Spurk was a crook.

  "Details, details," I snapped. "Do they all operate as respondo-mitters? Do they have a two-hundred-mile activator-receiver? Is there an 831 Relayer for them?"

  "Yes," he said.

  "Well, put them in! What are we waiting for?"

  Prahd set up some burners and catalysts on the desk. He sprayed the place with disinfectant-it was pretty filthy, as Crobe had not used the toilet to relieve himself– and shortly got to work.

  I rushed out. I went to see Faht Bey. He sat at his desk and said icily that he was out.

  "You've got to help me," I said.

  "That would be a distant day," he said.

  "No, no. This affects the security of the base. I have to ship Doctor Crobe to New York."

  "You mean he'll be out of this base?"

  "Yes."

  "Never to return?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll give you all the help you need."

  We made the arrangements at once. Crobe would be put in a Zanco restraint coat-something like a strait-jacket they use on Earth, except it is held magnetically and has no ties. Two guards in plain clothes would accompany him to make sure he got there. The guards would have instant two-way-response radio contact with the base in case
he got loose or anything went wrong.

  While Faht Bey finalized those vital steps, I went back to the cell.

  Prahd was working away, using a perpetual scowl mark to cover up the implanting of the bugs.

  I looked at the library. Yes, he had been employing the language strips. But the things which showed wear were the psychiatric and psychological texts. Oh, I had been right! He had really been fascinated!

  That was what gave me my biggest idea. I went into the false I.D. department and we got to work.

  Using I. G. Barben drug-runner blanks, we gave him a passport declaring him to be "Dr. Phetus P. Crobe, M.D." We made a beautiful certificate, making him a doctor of medicine and psychiatry from the Vienna Institute of Psychiatry. Using other blanks, we made him a graduate of the People's Medical Institute of Poland as a neurosurgeon. And we gave him a membership in the Royal British Medical Association as a Fellow.

  It was a stroke of genius because I could not be sure he could speak English at all and any strange accent would be accounted for by the different nationalities of certificates. But more than that, psychiatrists always have a funny accent and nobody seems to be able to understand what they are talking about. Pure genius on my part.

  We worked hard, for I was going to get him on the morrow's morning plane, come whatever. Heller was out of hand! Crobe would finish him!

  I recalled vividly that day when Crobe had positively slavered at the thought of shortening Heller's bones.

  Heller could not help but be stopped completely in his tracks!

  Chapter 3

  I sat at the viewer tensely.

  All was going well.

  At the Afyon airport I had given Crobe his final briefing. "You once wanted a chance to shorten a certain man's bones," I said. "He was too tall, remember?"

  "Funny," said Crobe, "I can see right through you with my left eye. You must have altered the optical nerve."

  "Yes, yes," I said impatiently. "Now listen with care. The Countess Krak is not to know why you are there. You will tell her you are helping the man with a spore formula. But the moment you get him alone, you will handle his bones."

  "I can see right through that girl's dress," said Crobe. "She has nice boobs. Easy to alter them to squirt semen."

  "Pay heed," I insisted. "The man is drawing attention to himself because he is too tall. Cut him down to size."

  "On the other hand," said Crobe, "it might be more interesting to change her tongue to a penis. That would cure her penis envy."

  "Do you hear what I am telling you?" I snarled.

  "Very distinctly," he said. "Your stomach-rumbles indicate you want a woman. Wouldn't a little boy do? I could fix up his behind so it looked like a goat's."

  "You must follow instructions!" I threatened.

  "Oh, I intend to," said Doctor Crobe, scratching him­self inside his restraint jacket as best he could. "Psychiatry is a wonderful subject."

  I had to agree with that.

  The viewer that had come with the set had only one face. But it had a set of electronic letters all across the bottom that registered the emotion of the person the bug was in. It was pretty hard for me to tell exactly where Crobe and the guards were as their flight progressed, because the viewer only registered the bugged eye that saw through things, according to what depth Doctor Crobe focused it.

  Worn by a spy, it was supposed to be able to read through envelopes or enemy code-book covers and into gun breeches to identify the shell type. But Doctor Crobe wasn't using it for that.

  By focus, he undressed every stewardess. The letters of emotion spelled:

  DISSATISFACTION

  I suppose when this unit was designed, it was thought that it would give a spy-master, ten thousand miles away, the opinion of the spy wearing it as to whether the spy thought the enemy invention was good or bad or to what degree. I wondered if it were just stuck on DISSATISFACTION. How could one visually undress stewardesses and not enjoy it? I know the sight of seeing them running up and down the aisles stark naked made it rather hard on me.

  But when they changed planes at Istanbul, there was a shift. A fat man was sitting in a seat across the aisle and behind Crobe and the doctor began to examine the fat man's brain, seeing through the skin and bone. It sure was a weird-looking brain on my viewer!

  Crobe seemed to have thought of some way to alter it. The letters flashed:

  EXHILARATION EXCELLENT

  Satisfied that the third bug was working, I went out and had breakfast.

  Something else was mildly disturbing me. I had missed my appointment with a woman the previous night-which shows how devoted an Apparatus officer must be to duty-and yet Ahmed the taxi driver had left no message today saying how he had handled it.

  I had Musef, who was standing guard, go find Ters and get the data.

  Musef came back, "Ters said that Ahmed didn't appear yesterday evening."

  "Tell Ters to call and make sure the taxi driver will be here tonight," I said.

  "Ters," said Musef, "doesn't think he'll come."

  "He didn't say why?"

  "You can't get much out of him with that crazy laugh of his," said Musef.

  That was true. I tried to call Ahmed on the phone. No answer.

  Well, maybe he'd had trouble finding a woman to bring. Yes, that must be it. I'd get on to him later when things were less pressing.

  Meal finished, I went back to my secret room and the viewer.

  I must not miss any part of Crobe's arrival in New York. Too much depended upon it!

  I hitched the two-way-response radio close to me, ready to give the guards coaching if anything went wrong.

  If Crobe failed, my own life could be hanging by a thread. Heller must NOT succeed!

  Chapter 4

  It was predawn dark in a February New York.

  After a six-hour delay in Paris that pushed my nerves to their limit, Crobe had finally arrived.

  I looked at my other two viewers. No visio. Slow breathing. Aha! Both Heller and Krak were sound asleep. Crobe would catch them totally off guard!

  His two security escorts got Crobe into an elevator in the Empire State Building. They got out on the right floor. The hall was empty of people and dim. One of them was carrying a big case with operating tools in it. The other one scouted ahead, apparently found the right corridor and door and came back.

  They pushed Crobe forward. Then, before they turned the last corner, they got blasticks ready, took the restraint coat off Crobe, and while one stood by, the other took him up to the door with the jet plane on it. He knocked very loudly and then skipped back.

  Crobe focused on the jet plane. Then he focused on the inside office, seeing it through the door. He started to walk through it, bounced and recoiled. He probably would not have remained there if his eye had not focused on the cat. It had been asleep on Heller's desk but had awakened now and was looking at the door to see what all the knocking and bumping was about. Crobe had probably never seen a cat before. Through the door, he was studying it. The digital letters said:

  MYSTIFICATION

  One of my other viewers had flashed at the first knock. I couldn't tell which one it was, Krak's or Heller's, until I looked at the letter on it: K. The Countess Krak had awakened.

  She turned on a bedside lamp. She looked at an alarm clock: 5:39. She looked at the window and saw snow on the pane and behind it the greenish glow of the predawn city.

  She got up, slid into some slippers, got into a red silk bathrobe and glanced at Heller. He was peacefully asleep, facing the wall.

  My plans were not going quite right.

  She went out of the "thinking room," closed the door behind her, turned on a light in the main office, crossed the snowy rug and opened the door.

  Crobe got his attention off the cat. As the door sprang open before him, he stared.

  "The Countess Krak!" he said. The digital-type letters said:

  SURPRISE FEAR

  "Come in," said the Countess, in Voltarian
.

  He moved forward timidly. She closed the door behind him. She said, "Sssh." She moved Crobe over to the secretary-boudoir room, pushed him in and closed the door.

  Crobe stood there, staring at her, eyes fixed on the surface of her face. Anyone who had worked in Spiteos was completely aware that the Countess Krak could kill on sight.

  "Now, just what are you supposed to do here, Doctor Crobe?" said the Countess Krak.

  On Crobe's screen, the letters flared:

  TERROR

  It was my fault. I accept all the blame. I had not specifically told him she was in New York. I had only told him what to tell her if he met her. Suddenly I realized that he was probably unaware of the relationship between "the man" he was supposed to handle and the Countess Krak. Would he remember what he was supposed to tell her? Or would he mess up and get himself stamped into the rug?

  "I... I... I forget," he said.

  "Hmmm," said the Countess Krak. I certainly did not like the sound of that "Hmmm." She knew Crobe's twist for messing up bodies; she had worked making trained acts while he made freaks. She knew very well what he was capable of. She might suspect I had sent him to physically cripple Heller. What she said now would tell all. "What," she said, "did Soltan tell you to do?"

  My hair stood up! If Crobe spilled the real data, the Countess Krak would come looking for me and I was a dead man!

  Oh, this wasn't going well at all.

  Crobe was stammering. My life thread was getting frayed!

  It is wonderful what the presence of death can do for the mind. Men have even been known to think.

  "I'm supposed to help the man with the spore formula," blurted Crobe. He had remembered.

  "Ah," said the Countess Krak. "Well, I am sure your help will be most welcome. Why don't you sit right there?" She pointed to a chair against the wall. "You must be very tired after your long journey."

  My two-way-response radio crackled. A guard's voice. "I think he's there all right. We got his bag here. What do we do? Just shove it in the office and come back?"

  I said into it, "No, no. You wait right there out of sight. I don't like the way this is going."