Mission Earth Volume 6: Death Quest

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Under “command posts” he wrote in the center of the plot OCTOPUS OIL COMPANY BUILDING and POKANTICKLE ESTATE, HAIRYTOWN, NEW YORK.

  In the center of the plot, in red, he printed, EMPEROR: DELBERT JOHN ROCKECENTER.

  He laughed again and spun the big sheet with its geometric symbols and names to the Countess Krak. “Here. You can use it to teach the cat to run in circles. Now let’s go have some lunch.”

  She looked at it. She carefully folded it up and put it in her shoulder purse.

  She began to help him pile the book tonnage back on the counters.

  My hair was standing straight up!

  Heller was dead right!

  And even though he discounted it, I could see from the careful way she had folded it and preserved it that SHE KNEW IT!

  She seemed very preoccupied as they went down the broad steps of the huge Grecian-design library building.

  They jogged north on Fifth Avenue, dodging adroitly through the lunch-hour crowds. They came to 53rd Street, crossed and went a short distance west. I carefully spotted place after place where a sniper’s bullet could have hit the Countess in the back. And now she was simply standing still, staring at two revolving doors. An easy target!

  “The Museum of Modern Art?” she said. “I thought you were taking me to lunch. Are we going to eat paintings?”

  He laughed and pushed her through the revolving doors and was beside her again in the entrance lobby. He paid four dollars for two tickets and walked her through the main hall. Glass and marble were everywhere, and invitations to go this way and that to special exhibitions, but he steered her right on through the main hall and out a door and they were in a huge garden. Amongst the trees could be seen numerous odd-shaped sculptures, but he was guiding her along a terrace. He turned and edged her through a door. A cafeteria.

  He gave her a tray and knives and forks and they went on down the line. The cases full of attractive food were all a mystery to her. She wound up with five different salads, several sweet rolls, hot chocolate and three different kinds of ice cream. His was not much more sensible than hers.

  Heller pointed the way and they went back outside and sat down at a table. The noonday spring sun was flickering down through the budding leaves of trees. A nearby fountain tinkled. Spread before them was the garden.

  “Nice,” said the Countess Krak. And then she began, experimentally, to eat. She had mastered forks but regarded them with some caution.

  Heller was an old hand by now. He chomped away and then at last sat back. His eyes were on the garden but he wasn’t looking at Rodin or Renoir.

  Suddenly, he started chuckling. “Crown Prince Junior,” he said. He laughed again and then said it again.

  The Countess Krak was still working on the ice cream, but she said, “What are you going on about?”

  He said, “Nothing.” But he was still chuckling.

  She said, “Jettero, you’re always accusing me of being secretive, but you’re the one who isn’t frank. What are you laughing about?”

  He gave another chuckle. “Name I had once,” he said. “How do you like that ice cream? It’s called Picasso Pistachio.”

  “Jettero, you’re going to get Picasso Pistachio in your face if you don’t tell me what you are laughing about.”

  “It’s just a joke. Crown Prince Junior.” And he laughed again.

  “That doesn’t make any sense, Jettero.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s kind of involved. You see, if Delbert John Rockecenter was the emperor of Earth, why then, the name they gave me would have made me Crown Prince Junior. It’s completely silly. It’s just that it is a beautiful day and you’re beautiful and I’m glad to be here sitting with you in the Sculpture Garden of the Museum of Modern Art, watching you eat Picasso Pistachio.”

  “Jettero,” she said in a deadly voice, “you are trying to put me off. And furthermore, royalty is not something one laughs about. When an emperor signs a proclamation it becomes the law of the land. A proclamation is a very valuable thing. Now sit right there quietly and tell me if somebody, since you landed here, made you a Crown Prince or something.”

  “All right,” he said. “You sit there quietly and eat your Picasso Pistachio and the court minstrel will entertain you with the harrowing tale of Crown Prince Junior.”

  “That’s better,” said the Countess Krak, smiling.

  “Well, once upon a time, in a dark wood, a space tug landed in the field of an old Virginia plantation.” And he continued on. He told her about the birth certificate as Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior. He included a humorous account of Stonewall Biggs, the County Clerk, of Stupewitz and Maulin, the FBI agents. He omitted utterly the late Mary Schmeck. He laughed about the fake family butler, “Buttlesby,” and then he went into the events at the Brewster Hotel where Bury had bought the birth certificate off of him, made sure he had no other trace of the name Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior, and then had intended to kill him.

  “So you see,” he concluded, “I was not Crown Prince Junior very long. And you now know how the frog turned into Jerome Terrance Wister. And here he sits today, eating ice cream with a gracious lady of the court. The minstrel bows now off the stage and thinks he’ll have another cup of hot chocolate.”

  When he went inside the cafeteria, the Countess Krak sat there in a deep study.

  He came back, cooled his chocolate and began to sip it.

  The Countess Krak said, “You ought to do something about it.”

  Heller laughed. “My dear, if a combat engineer went diving off the job to pursue justice and wreak vengeance every time his fuses didn’t work, he would get nothing done at all.”

  “Tell me again what that Stonewall Biggs said,” she wanted to know.

  “He said, ‘If’n ah can evah be moah help t’ you, you jus’ yell fo’ Stonewall Biggs.’”

  “No, no, no. When he gave you the birth certificate.”

  “He said, ‘Ah wondered if it would evah come to this.’ And he looked at me closely and said, ‘So you be Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior.’”

  “And this Bury fellow wanted you killed.”

  “He certainly tried,” said Heller.

  “Hmm,” said the Countess Krak. “That proves it.”

  “Proves what?”

  “There really IS a Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior.”

  Heller shook his head. “I’ve looked in the Who’s Who. There is no such person listed. Delbert John Rockecenter is unmarried and has no children or direct heirs.”

  “You men don’t understand these things,” said Krak. “And you certainly don’t understand royal families, Jettero. Even aristocrats do it.”

  “Do what?” said Heller, quite puzzled.

  “Get rid of an heir. Oh, it is all very plain to me. There IS a Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior. And this lawyer Bury is hiding him. He’s never seen him so he thought you were him. And they don’t have any dungeons or castles on remote islands to throw unwanted heirs in, so Bury tried to assassinate you.”

  Heller laughed. “I’m afraid I’m no expert on royal families.”

  “Well, you ought to be. A young emperor gadding about can get snared in by women who are very unscrupulous indeed. There IS a Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior. And Delbert John, Senior, doesn’t know he exists and the lawyer Bury is hiding it from him. You see, I know about lawyers, too, and they are pretty treacherous. My father told me that our family lost all of its lands on Manco generations ago solely because of crooked men of law. There’s tons of historical precedence for such a crime as Bury has in mind. This lawyer Bury thinks he can get the whole empire in his own hands if he hides the fact that there is an heir. It’s been done before.”

  “Honey, I’m told by Izzy that Bury is Rockecenter’s right arm. Rockecenter trusts him completely.”

  “That proves it,” said the Countess Krak. “Bury is hiding the real heir to the Rockecenter empire. You can be as logical as you want. But my intuition tells me that
is the way it is. It just makes no sense at all for Bury to want to kill my Jettero just because he thought he was Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior. It makes my blood absolutely seethe to think of it!”

  “Wait a minute,” said Heller. “There is no emperor. There is no crown prince.”

  “Hmm,” said the Countess Krak.

  “My dearest,” said Jettero, “I can tell you are thinking about something. Hear me. Those are VERY dangerous men. You keep away from them. Promise me?”

  “Hmm,” said the Countess Krak.

  “Listen,” said Heller. “One of the reasons I brought you to lunch here is because they are having an exhibit of illustrations of imaginary spacecraft. Covers of magazines called ‘science fiction.’ And they have movie models of what they think spacecraft look like. Some UFOs, too. I’m sure you will be very intrigued. Some of the artists have painted things that really do look like spaceships. And I want to check them to see if our own craft ever get spotted. I’m sure you will be fascinated. It’s right on the ground floor in the temporary exhibits. And stop worrying your pretty head about the heirs of emperors who don’t exist.”

  “Hmm,” said the Countess Krak. She tagged along, but I could tell her mind was not on it.

  I needed no additional evidence to harden my firm resolve to act. But what had just passed between them, in fact, left me no alternative.

  It was as plain as day to me that the Countess Krak was now intent on killing Bury and blowing up Pokantickle Estate at Hairytown, to say nothing of the Octopus Oil Building at Rockecenter Plaza. She was DANGEROUS!

  As she drifted through the exhibits in front of Heller, I chose several spots in her unprotected back where a lethal bullet could finish this.

  I glanced at my watch.

  I was almost late in seeing Razza.

  I HAD TO GET THAT SNIPER ON THE JOB QUICK!

  PART FORTY-FOUR

  Chapter 2

  Razza Louseini, consigliere of the capo di tutti capi, Faustino “The Noose” Narcotici, sat imperially at his desk awaiting me.

  “Now,” he said with great satisfaction, “we can get those god (bleeped) computers straightened out.”

  Into the waiting hand of the accountant who was standing by his desk, I counted out two thousand hard-earned dollars. I was given a receipt and the man rushed off to untangle the accounts-department computer brains before they sold Manhattan back to the Indians.

  “And now,” said Razza, the scar that connected his mouth with his left ear taking on a peculiar corkscrew look, “here is your hit man.” He was extending a white card that had a black hand in the upper corner.

  “Wait,” I said. “Don’t I just go down to Personnel and have them call the man and send him to me?”

  “Look at the card,” said Razza.

  I did. The middle finger of the silhouette was extended higher than the rest—the Italian symbolism for “up your (bleep)” or “you been (bleeped).”

  Never trust the Mafia! “You haven’t kept your bargain!” I yelped.

  “Oh, yes, I have,” said Razza. “But the way you got the last two snipers wasted, nobody here has any confidence in you. Bad planning or you just shot them yourself for kicks. Turn the card over and you’ll see an address. Take the card there, present it and you’ll have your hit man. You can make your own arrangements, buy his insurance and, probably, bury him or not as you please.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Something tells me there’s something wrong with this guy.”

  “Well, frankly,” said Razza, “there is. He’s such a dirty, rotten (bleepard), nobody will hire him anymore unless they are so god (bleeped) mad at the victim they want something awful done. Lawyers won’t hire him anymore. He’s got a twist. Filthy.”

  “What’s this hit man do?” I said, startled. If somebody was too bad for the Mafia it must be pretty awful.

  “Find out for yourself,” said Razza.

  “But I have to have somebody who can shoot straight and will kill.”

  “Oh, he’ll do that, all right. It’s how he does it that turns your stomach. But there’s your hit man, Inkswitch. Exactly as agreed. And if you get this one wasted, you’ll be a (bleeping) hero. So goodbye, Inkswitch, goodbye.”

  The address was way out in Queens and I rode endlessly on subways getting there. The neighborhood had not ever seen better times: it had been built originally in total decay. The house was on a side street and apparently part of it was rented out. I picked my way over a broken walk, I walked up some broken stairs, I rang a broken bell.

  My presence had been detected. With a yank which almost blew my hat off, the broken door burst open.

  An enormous woman was standing there. She had a mustache like a cavalry sergeant. She glared. I gave her the card defensively. She looked at it and then swept me into the hall with it and closed the door.

  “So you want to see my no-good, worthless son, do you? You’ll find him in the basement with the rest of the rats.”

  I don’t like rats. I said, “Can’t you ask him to come up so I can talk to him?”

  “Blood of Christ, no! He’s hiding out!”

  “From the police?”

  “The rotten filth isn’t even that respectable. Bill collectors! Every day, bill collectors! I can’t look out a window I don’t see bill collectors! But will he go out and get a decent job? No. Will he support his poor old mother that suffered to bring him into the world? No. All he do is hide in that basement! So what the Mafia want with him now? I thought they through with him and good reason.”

  I was a bit staggered by this huge monster. I said, timidly, “I may have a job for him. Then he can pay his bills.”

  “Hah! You give him money, he no pay his bills. He go out and philander. Just like his no-good, rotten father that’s joined the angels, God rest his rotten, stinking soul! Philander, philander, philander, that’s all he good for, the filth. I beat him and beat him. I bring him up right. But he got rotten, putrid blood in him. The blood of his rotten, putrid, no-good father! So you give him a job. He sneak out and blow the money. But he can’t get out. The bill collectors!”

  “What are these bills?”

  “The god (bleeped) hospital. Five hundred dollars a day they throw away saving his worthless life. Oh, I sneak him out when I hear but not in time. He owe $4,900 already! And just a lousy auto accident! He got enough sense to get shot like his no-good father? No! He’s got to get himself in an auto accident and he hasn’t even got the sense to get himself killed.”

  I had an inspiration. “I could give you the money and you could pay the bills and then he could work for me.”

  “I don’t take no blood money! You think I want blood money on my soul when I go to my final reward? Any bills paid, you pay.”

  “Well, let me talk to him, at least,” I said.

  “On your responsibility, not mine. I’ll be no party to the rotten things he does. You want to talk to him, go down through that door. And if you want to shoot him, I close my ears.”

  I went down some dusty, grimy stairs into a dusty, grimy basement. Back of a dusty, grimy furnace, on a dusty, grimy bed, lay a man with penitentiary stamped all over him.

  He was cowering back, holding a double-barreled leopard trained on my chest!

  TORPEDO FIACCOLA! The sniper Bury had used to try to hit Heller at the Brewster Hotel, the very hood that Heller had sent crashing off the Elevated Highway last fall. Oh, this was good! He’d have a grudge to settle!

  “Hello, Torpedo,” I said.

  His gray face went grayer. “How come you know me? I don’t know you.”

  “I saw you working for Mr. Bury,” I said.

  “Jesus!” he said. “Don’t tell Bury where to find me. He thinks I falsified the evidence and collected the hit money without making that contract! I didn’t! The (bleepard) trapped me and must have collected it himself. And believe me, if I knew where to find him, I’d hit him for nothing! The (bleeper) didn’t even carry out the threat to waste my mother!”

/>   Better and better. “Put down the gun, Torpedo. Razza sent me here to offer you a job.”

  “Then it must be a pretty risky hit or Razza wouldn’t have thought of me. That (bleepard) wants me killed.”

  “It’s an easy job,” I said soothingly. I sat down on a box. Torpedo, gradually reassured, laid the leopard aside and sat on the edge of the dusty, grimy bed. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “I’ll pay the bill collectors and give you another $5,000 when the job is done.”