Mission Earth 4: An Alien Affair

by L. Ron Hubbard

  The music had run out. But the beer and marijuana hadn't.

  After a while, Candy was stroking Miss Pinch's hair. She said, "Music. I must have music. Dear Pinchy, something soulful, please."

  Miss Pinch found a medley of death marches and put them on. Then she went and found an even bigger truncheon.

  I didn't even wait for her to hit. I passed out cold to the mournful strains of a dirge. From way off somewhere I could sense the slaps and thuds of blows against my body in funereal cadence.

  It was probably hours later that I came to.

  Candy's body was draped across the end of the sofa. She had designs drawn on her in lipstick. Her hands flopped over on the floor. Her mouth, wet and smeared, was half-open in sleep.

  But Miss Pinch looked deadlier than ever. She saw I had come to. She stood up and with her feet apart and hands on her hips, she said, "You owe me an apology."

  That was enough to startle me into total wariness.

  "You thought I stole your money. I could tell. When I put the last wad in my purse, I knew that that was what you were thinking. Now admit it."

  I wasn't going to talk. But she reached down toward the floor and picked up a truncheon.

  "Yes," I said. "And I thought you'd given part of it to the Chief of Security."

  "Hogger? Why, how could you think that of Chief Hogger? Believe me, Inkswitch, you won't go far in a Rockecenter company thinking lies about the very pillars on which it is built! He's an honest man. Did he say something?"

  "He had a pile of money on his desk," I said.

  "Oh, that was probably his collections from drug sales to staff. He has the pusher monopoly for the Octopus Building and you better be careful not to buy from anybody else. How could you think evil of such a fine man?"

  She looked up and down my bruised and naked body with disgust. "Men are all evil. You prove it. No, Ink-switch, you have not been the victim of any skulduggery. Your entire $80,000 is right here."

  Miss Pinch went over to her discarded overcoat. She began to take packets of money out of the inside pockets. She stacked it up on a table with skulls on each of its four corners. Then she began to flutter it down over my body, a shower of floating, settling bank notes until they covered my thighs.

  Then she took out something else. A small sheaf. She came over and leaned her naked chest close above mine. She was holding a piece of paper.

  "These are copies of the actual receipts in my office," she said. "Knowing what you would do, I ran off the duplicates I am showing you here. Now, three of these, as you can see, are just vouchers, copies of the ones you signed. But look at these other ones."

  I looked. What a strange receipt. Superimposed on it was a picture of my face from below and in the corner, a fingerprint.

  "Few know," said Miss Pinch through thin lips, "that there is a camera below the signing ledge. It shoots a picture of the face seen through the voucher and makes them both one. And few know that the pen that people are handed at Window 13 takes a fingerprint and relays it with electronic scan to make it part of the receipt. So the receipt is a composite of money, date, face and fingerprint. The name you sign it with doesn't matter."

  "You mean Rockecenter ..."

  "Oh, no, no, no, not that idiot," said Miss Pinch. "Miss Grabball had this installed herself. A refinement of the system. These face-and-fingerprint ones don't go in company files. You thought I was untrained. But she showed me exactly how to work it."

  She smiled evilly at me and dug an elbow into my bruised and naked chest. "It's quite clever. It's how Miss Grabball could pick up half of all the petty cash issued. You see, all she had to do, if there was a squawk, was threaten to report the withdrawal to IRS. Unreported income gets three years in a Federal prison. Minimum. And the person who spots the unreported income and tells IRS gets 10 to 20 percent of the money."

  She slapped at me and smiled. "So you see, Ink-switch, you are very much in my power. Miss Grabball liked money. I like other things. I have refined the system. If you don't do exactly what I say, I can send you to a Federal pen for three years just like that. And be rewarded in the bargain with 10 to 20 percent of it, all legal. Miss Grabball was deficient in imagination, even though cunning in her way. Using this system, I can blackmail half the employees of Octopus. And get far more in favors and money than Miss Grabball ever dreamed of."

  She got up. She stood there naked in the red light. She picked up handfuls of money and showered them down on me. They floated eerily this way and that, settling on and around my bruised nakedness. She was humming a little wordless tune.

  At length she said, "So it's all your money, Ink-switch. Every bit of it. Isn't it lovely?" She smeared some against my body and injured thighs.

  Then, in a hurricane of motion, she gathered it all up and stuffed it in a big white bag. She put the bag in the lower part of the casket. When she closed the door I saw it was really a safe. She gave the combination a spin.

  Then she came back to the bed. "Only I know the combination to that safe. And it can't be beaten out of me. So there's your money, Inkswitch."

  She stood there, legs apart, shameless. She held out one hand. It had a hundred-dollar bill in it. "This," she said, "will pay your taxi fare home. It will also pay your taxi fare back here again, tomorrow night."

  She dropped the bill on me in contempt. "And maybe," she said, "tomorrow night, I may take pity on you and give you even more of your money."

  I gazed at this monster in horror!

  "Now promise, if I let you loose right now, you won't kick up a fuss."

  I wanted to kill her and she could see it.

  "There's a bank camera up in that corner of the room," she said, "so don't get any ideas about murder. Promise?"

  What could I do? I promised.

  She undid the wrist and ankle cuffs. As I rose, aching and wounded, she kicked my clothes toward me.

  I dressed. I picked up the hundred-dollar bill.

  "One more thing," this vicious (bleepch) said, "if you come near Window 13 again, I will simply fire off the counter shotgun and say it accidentally discharged. The only place you're going to get any money, Inkswitch, is right here."

  She opened the front door and wrought-iron grate. She stood there, naked and thin-lipped in the icy blast. "The first time you came to my window, Inkswitch, I told you to beat it. I didn't think you'd last. But due to Psychiatric Birth Control, all the males around have lately turned into gays to help cut down world population. And I refuse to risk the danger of separating two dear gays. So you're better than nothing, Inkswitch. Although not much. So I will see you right here tomorrow night. It's better than three years in a Federal pen. The homos there would murder you. Don't be late."

  I would have slapped her but my fingers were too sore.

  I staggered outside into the cold and cheerless night.

  But I was not without hope, no matter if dim. The next time I saw this (bleepch) I would kill her.

  Chapter 7

  I awoke in a world that was against me.

  The repairers had patched up the penthouse. My baggage had not been sitting in the lobby so I had to assume that Utanc had paid the damages bill.

  The resident doctor, with a midnight "Tch, tcn, tch. We must learn we must not let our fingers stray," had patched up my hands.

  Right now, a December sun was streaming in the French doors, closed upon the wintry terrace. It was hurting my eyes.

  Working as well as I could with cotton-thickened hands, I pushed down the sheet. The bruises had not yet turned as blue and yellow as I knew they would. I felt like I had been mistaken for a piece of pavement and run over by a steamroller. That feeling was confirmed whenever I moved.

  But an Apparatus officer is made of stern stuff. I still had a pair of guns. They were black-powder duelling pistols, a pair. I had picked them up cheap one day, thinking they were originals. They were just replicas, modernly built on an 1810 pattern. They were flintlock. They had nine-inch barrels. They were .50
caliber and that half-inch slug could almost cut a body in half. Clumsily, since my bandages were in the way, I cocked and snapped each one. Very gratifying sparks! Powder and balls were in the case. Grunting and hurting my fingers, I got them loaded with enough charge to kill an elephant. That done, I got on to less important things.

  I showered as best I could. Every drop inflicted near mortal injury. I got the bandages wet. I had to dry them by holding my hands in the gas fireplace. I was encouraged. They only caught fire twice.

  Moaning a bit at the pain of holding the phone, I ordered breakfast.

  And with it, of course, came that Gods (bleeped) morning paper.

  Masochism knows no limits.

  I opened it. There it was, front page:

  WHIZ KID COURT TRIUMPH

  In a startling development, the Whiz Kid has won his court battle with M.I.W.

  Boggle, Gouge and Hound, today announced that in the case of Wister vs. Massachusetts Institute of Wreckology, an instant out-of-court settlement had been reached for an undisclosed amount.

  The president of M.I.W. himself verified that Wister was back in class and on the job in the restaurant.

  Student riots ceased at once.

  (See photos page 23, "Victorious Students Flood Back to Classes Throughout Nation.")

  Speculation was rife in court circles as to the amount of settlement. Herman T. Guesswinkle, the noted astrologer, placed it in the millions... .

  I slammed the paper down—and hurt my hands. That (bleeping) Madison had followed orders. He had gotten rid of at least one suit. But he had done it in such a way as to make the Whiz Kid a hero! (Bleep), Bury had been wrong about Madison. The man was far worse than I or anyone else had thought!

  Somehow, I got the doorknob to open. A stack of papers from the news vendor fell in. I kicked them and hurt my foot.

  I did not turn on the TV. I did not—could not actually—manage the radio. I knew what I would find. Whiz Kid, Whiz Kid, Whiz Kid. Jesus!

  Life was much too much for me.

  I went back to bed.

  About four in the afternoon, the ringing phone woke me up. Using two hands, I got it to my ear. A gruff voice said, "Inkswitch?" I grunted, "Yes."

  "This is the local Internal Revenue Service office, Inkswitch. We were just making sure we had your correct address." He hung up. I swung off the bed. Ouch. That (bleeped) Miss Pinch! If I didn't show up, the message was very clear! She would turn me in! It had to be her. She would have this address or could get it if she dug enough into Octopus Personnel. How else would IRS be interested? I had never filed a return in my life! Nothing for it. Miss Pinch had to die. Both she and Candy Licorice. I would have to recover those receipts. I had better figure how to blow up the safe. I got dressed as best I could. I had not brought much in the way of explosives for such purposes. I took all I had. I put it in the pockets of my overcoat. I also stuffed the duelling pistols in, one on each side.

  I hobbled down and got a cab. I had it drop me a block away from Miss Pinch's apartment.

  Since it was winter, it was dark already. The rush hour had ebbed. I limped along the darkened street with grim determination.

  The basement areaway was pitch black. I had to feel my way along. I took out the right-hand duelling pistol. I cocked it. I pressed its cavernous muzzle against the bell. I stood back.

  I wished they had known about silencers in 1810. This was going to make an awful roar!

  I could hear someone coming in the hall inside. A thread of light. It was Candy in her gingham frills. I knew I had made an error. I should have rung three times. That was probably the signal for Miss Pinch. She had used it before.

  This time the signal for Miss Pinch was Candy undoing the inside latch.

  BONK!

  A blackjack hit me in the head from behind!

  At least, I think it must have been a blackjack.

  I went out with stars exploding all around me. I heard the duelling pistol fall.

  Miss Pinch had been standing in the areaway's blackness waiting for me to ring the bell, facing away from her!

  That was all I knew just then.

  When I awoke, all my clothes were off. I was chained, spread-eagled on the bed, bandaged hands offering no resistance.

  Miss Pinch, fully clothed in a mannish suit complete with slouch hat and bow tie, was standing there looking at me.

  "Inkswitch," said Miss Pinch, seeing I had now come to. "I have just voted you the top jackass of the year. And we'll soon see how loud you bray."

  She reached for the brace of duelling pistols lying on the casket with the explosives from my overcoat. She spun them expertly, one in each hand. She pulled back the mammoth flintlock hammers. She pointed them at me, one at my head, the other at my belly.

  She pulled both triggers!

  A flash of sparks!

  She laughed gaily.

  "You forgot to prime them, Inkswitch. Not a single grain of powder in the priming pans!"

  It seemed to amuse her mightily. She cocked them once more. She held them very close to my side. She pulled the trigger of the left-hand pistol!

  A shower of sparks scorched into my skin. I bit my lips. I would not scream. That's what set these idiots off! Candy was peeking through the door of the inner room. "May I come in? Now that I won't see him undressing?"

  "Come in, sweetheart," said Miss Pinch. "Ooo!" said Candy. "Its body is all black and blue!" "Colored meat," said Miss Pinch. "We're going to have colored meat tonight. Now, do you want a drumstick or a wing, you dear girl?"

  Candy flinched. "Oh, horrors! Are you trying to suggest that I actually touch a man? You know that is forbidden to us by the instructor. The thought is horrible to me!"

  Miss Pinch was quite disturbed she had upset her. She stroked her soothingly. "I promise to stand by Psychiatric Birth Control teachings." Then she had a bright idea. She was very anxious to please. "Watch this!"

  She turned the cocked pistol upside down. Too late to yell, I saw powder trickling from the touch hole into the pan!

  She pulled the trigger!

  BLAM!

  The gout of red flame shot across my stomach!

  The heavy bullet plowed into the wall. Down came a display of knives!

  Black-powder smoke rolled through the room.

  That powder burned! The sparks began to eat into my flesh. I could not reach them to beat them out.

  I screamed! I was so deafened for the moment I could hardly hear myself. Then after a bit my hearing returned.

  Neither of those monsters was in shock.

  Candy, panting and hot-eyed, was hauling at Miss

  Pinch and trying to yank down her own clothes at the same time. "Pinchy, Pinchy. Take me!"

  Miss Pinch looked at her. "So soon?" She looked back at me reluctantly. But Candy was kissing her passionately. "All right," said Miss Pinch. She grabbed her, carried her off to the other room and slammed the door.

  Moans, groans and shrieks.

  Silence.

  Low, savage muttering.

  Silence.

  At least I had had a half-hour reprieve.

  Miss Pinch came out. She still had her shoes on. She stood and cursed me. She called me every vile name I had ever heard of and some that I hadn't.

  Finally she ran out of vitriol. She sat down on the couch. "Men!" she said, with burning contempt. "Torturers of women!"

  "Miss Pinch," I said, "I think you have a psychological problem. I think, perhaps, some childhood experience may have caused you to reverse roles with..." I couldn't think of a thing that would account for this monster!

  "Well, go on, Inkswitch. Let's hear some juicy tales about you and the little girls in the neighborhood. Possibly gay little anecdotes of how you threw them on a beach of pointed rocks and did a frolicking dance on their faces! Or perhaps how you had a little sister that you carefully made into a whore. Oh, I'm sure you could tell us lots of stories. We would not be amused. For such crimes, Inkswitch, you should be beaten! You wi
ll be beaten, Inkswitch!" She turned.

  "Candy!" she yelled into the other room. "The (bleepard) just confessed! Come in here!"

  Candy came out. She was naked. She watched with interest while Miss Pinch got a big truncheon.

  "Now," said Miss Pinch. "You're going to hear some real screams, you darling girl."

  "I don't have a sister!" I yelled.

  "You will when I get through with you," said Miss Pinch. And laid on with a will. She drew back at last. "Now confess! Did you make your little sister into a whore?"

  I confessed hurriedly that I had.

  "Then this beating is going to do you lots of good," said Miss Pinch and began in earnest!

  It must have been nearing midnight. They had depleted the record cabinet. The room was full of marijuana smoke. They were both naked and exhausted after numerous trips to the other room.

  Miss Pinch unchained me. I somehow got into my clothes.

  She stood naked in the hall, holding the door open, oblivious to the icy wind.

  "You obviously have not had company training, Ink-switch. It is all too plain to see that you prefer sex-smashing a woman down into a bed. You are perverted, Inkswitch. Don't you know that that makes babies and babies are forbidden? Think Psychiatric Birth Control, Inkswitch. Rockecenter would fire you out of hand if he thought you favored old-fashioned sex! So we are doing you a favor, Inkswitch. We will gradually win you away from your male beastliness. Consider it our blessing, Ink-switch."

  "Oh, I do," I faltered.

  "Very good, you contemptible (bleepard). We will see you here tomorrow night. Without pistols. Primed or unprimed. And without fail."

  She stopped. "Oh, I almost forgot. Here is another hundred dollars. You weren't very good tonight. Maybe more tomorrow night. So show up, Inkswitch."

  She slammed the door.

  The hundred-dollar bill fluttered down beside my feet.

  I shivered, beaten, in the cold wind.

  PART THIRTY-THREE

  Chapter 1

  The next day, when I awoke, I came to the conclusion that things were not going very well.