Mission Earth 02 - Black Genesis

by Black Genesis [lit]

  I wasn't going to tell him the real meaning: Black Opium Castle. I said, "It means 'Black Fortress.' The base rock rises 750 feet. The ramparts on top of it are the remains of a Byzantine fort which replaced the orig­inal built by the Arzawa, a tribe of an ancient people called the Hittites."

  "It would probably be blacker if it wasn't for that fac­tory near it pouring out white dust."

  "That's the cement plant. Afyon is a town of about seventy thousand people."

  He pulled back the scene to get a wider view and sat there admiring it. There were still some white streaks of snow on the taller mountains around Afyon. The tiny outlying villages were a patchwork. None of the savage winds which came down from the high plateau were felt from such a height as this. Turkey is a pretty brutal coun­try for the most part.

  "What's all this yellow and orange?" He was look­ing at the vast panorama of flowers which blanket the val­leys. And before I could stop him he twisted the controls and we were looking at them very close. It made me feel

  awful, like I'd fallen five hundred miles. Spacers are really crazy.

  "Flowers?" said Heller.

  "The yellow ones in the fields near the road are sun­flowers. They are huge. They produce a vast number of seeds in the center which people love to eat. It's a food crop."

  "Wow," he said. "There's enough square miles of them! But what are those smaller ones in the other fields? The ones with various colored petals, dark centers and gray-green leaves?"

  He was looking at Papaver somniferum, the opium poppies, the stuff of deadly sleep and dreams, the source of heroin—the real reason the Apparatus had this base. He was too close for comfort. Afyon is the opium grow­ing center of Turkey, perhaps the world.

  "They sell them in the flower markets," I lied. He was such a child at a game he didn't know. "Now, what I wanted to point out was the actual base. Pull that view wider. Good. Now draw a line from that lake there. Got it? Through Afyonkarahisar. Now, right on that line is a mountain. Got it?"

  He had. I continued, "The top of that mountain is an electronic simulation. It doesn't exist. But the wave scanners they use on this planet—and any they will develop—react on it normally. You just land straight through it and you are into our hangars."

  "Pretty good," he said.

  "It's quite old, really," I said. "Rock disintegrator crews came in here several decades ago from Voltar and built it and the subterranean base. It's quite extensive. Last year we enlarged it."

  He seemed impressed, so I said, "Yes, I had a hand in its extension. I added a lot of burrows and twists and

  turns. You can emerge in several places quite unexpect­edly. But I had a real master to work from." "Oh?" he said.

  I checked myself. I had almost said Bugs Bunny. He wouldn't understand. I hurried on. "Center in on that mountain and nearby you will see a satellite tracking sta­tion. Got it? Good. Now, at the end of that canyon, you see that square block building? Good. That's the Inter­national Agricultural Training Center for Peasants. All right, now do you see that new earth there in the north of the canyon? That is an archaeological dig in an old Phrygian tomb and those houses around it are where the scientists live."

  "Well?" he said.

  I wanted to startle him. He wasn't the only bright one in the universe. "The satellite engineers, the whole school staff, all the scientists at the dig—they're all us!" "Well, I never! Really?"

  I knew I had him. "Turkey is so crazy to get mod­ernized, has been for over half a century, that a lot of our work is even state and internationally funded by Earth!" "But how do you get papers? Identoplates and so on?" "Listen, these are very primitive people. They breed heavily. They have disease and babies die. Typical riffraff. So for over half a century, when a baby is born, we've made sure the birth is registered. But when it dies, we've made sure the death isn't registered. The officials are corrupt. That gives us tons of birth certifi­cates, more than we could ever hope to use.

  "Also, the country is waist-deep in poverty and work­ers go abroad by the hundreds of thousands and they reg­ister overseas and this even gives us foreign passports. "Once in a while—they have a thing called the draft for the Army—one of our birth certificates gets drafted. So an Apparatus guardsman answers the call and does

  his tour in the Turkish army. The Turkish army runs the country so we even have officers in Istanbul. Naturally, we choose people who look somewhat like Turks but this country has dozens of races in it so who notices?"

  "Brilliant," said Heller. And, in fact, he was impressed. "Then we kind of own this little piece of the planet."

  "Pretty much," I said.

  "I wish you controlled some of the Caucasus," he said. "I'd really like to look it over."

  He was hopeless. I smiled indulgently. "Well, tonight we'll be groundside and you can catch a ride into Afyon and look over our little empire anyway." I wanted to really test those bugs that Prahd had implanted in him.

  "Good," he said. "Thanks for the conducted tour. I really appreciate it."

  We almost parted friends. On his side, anyway. The poor sap. He might be an expert in his own field. But not in mine. I really had him where I wanted him, over a score of light-years from home and friends and into an area we controlled. He had no Fleet pals here! And I had friends by the thousands!

  He might as well get used to Earth. He would never leave it, even if I let him live!

  Chapter 6

  We slipped down secretly through the darkness toward our base on Planet Earth. I had formulated my instructions. I had them all ready to issue the moment we landed.

  That afternoon, I had taken time to think it all over and review policy.

  It is a sound maxim in covert operations that when you find you are acting on the orders of an insane per­son, you take complete stock of your own position in the mess. I had found that, without any slightest doubt, Lom-bar Hisst was a paranoid schizophrenic, compounded by pronounced megalomania, confirmed by aural hallucina­tions, complicated by probable heroin addiction and con­solidated with a consumption of amphetamines: in other words, stark, staring mad. Nuts. Executing any of his com­mands could be very dangerous.

  So I did a little resume of position. I even did it in the proper resume form. I wrote:

  RESUME OF POSITION

  1. Lombar Hisst needed drugs on Voltar to under­mine and overthrow the Voltar government and take power.

  1-a. Blito-P3 was the only known source of such drugs.

  1-b. The Earth base existed to keep the drugs coming.

  2. Delbert John Rockecenter, by nominee, owner­ship and other means, controlled the pharmaceutical companies of the planet.

  2-a. Delbert John Rockecenter, through his banks and another means, controlled, amongst the rest, the Government of Turkey.

  2-b. Delbert John Rockecenter's wealth depended upon oil and the control of all Earth's energy sources.

  2-c. Delbert John Rockecenter could go broke if anyone monkeyed with his energy monopoly.

  2-d. Conclusion of 2: If the pharmaceutical mo­nopoly passed into other, less criminal hands, we could be out on our stinking ear!

  3. From the viewpoint of Earth, Jettero Heller's presence here would be extremely beneficial.

  3-a. Earth would have cheap and abundant fuel.

  3-b. As economic stresses are caused by scarce fuel, then Heller's technical assistance would, as a side benefit, abruptly end the raging inflation and bring about wide prosperity.

  3-c. If Heller changed the fuel type, the air would clean up.

  3-d. If Heller did not succeed, the planet would be liable to self-destruct from pollution.

  3-e. If word got to the Grand Council that Heller had failed, it would launch an immediate and bloody invasion, costly to Voltar and fatal to Earth, just to prevent the present inhabitants from rendering the tar­get worthless with their filthy housekeeping.

  3-f. If Heller succeeded, the threatened invasion would go back on schedule to be undertaken a hun­dred years f
rom now per the original Invasion Time­table.

  3-g. In a hundred years, during which it had abundant and practical fuel, the planet could probably raise itself to a higher technological level and the type of "invasion" Earth would experience then is known as a "PC Type Invasion," meaning "Peaceful Coopera­tion" wherein Voltar would just want some bases and would minimally interfere in the planet's internal affairs. There would be no blood or destruction and everybody would be happy.

  3-h. Jettero Heller's presence on Earth was a God­send both to Earth and Voltar.

  4. Soltan Gris had evidence that Lombar Hisst had put an unknown assassin close to one Soltan Gris.

  4-a. If said Soltan Gris did not carry out the or­ders of said Lombar Hisst, said assassin would emphatically terminate the life of said Soltan Gris with malice aforethought and ferocity!

  CONCLUSION: Carry out the exact orders of Lombar Hisst cleverly, painstakingly and with enor­mous care! And with no questions whatever!

  If I do say so myself, it was a brilliant resume of the situation. It covered not only the essentials but every sa­lient point of any importance. A masterpiece!

  So down we slid, undetected by the crude surveil­lance equipment of the primitive planet's military forces. They have what we call "bow and arrow"-type radar. Easily nullified.

  We went through the electronic illusion of the moun­taintop right on target. And I will say this, pirate or not, Captain Stabb was a good spaceship handler. We came down on the trundle dolly with only a severe jolt.

  The ship vibrated as the trundle dolly moved us over to the side, into a bay within the mountain, clearing the landing target for other arrivals and take-offs.

  I patted Captain Stabb on the back. We were fast friends now. "A good groundfall," I said. "Couldn't have done it better myself."

  He beamed at me.

  "Now, what I want you to do," I said, "is warn, as a friend, any Apparatus people you meet, that this bird we're carrying is actually a Crown agent armed with secret orders to execute anybody he finds anything out about. Just tip them off they'd take their life in their hands if they talked to him."

  Oh, Captain Stabb went for that! The moment the airlock was opened, all three hundred pounds of him were down the landing ladder like an earthquake to spread the word while he pretended to be concerned only with clearing us in. A real jewel.

  A door swung open down the passageway and Heller climbed up the rungs. "Any objection if I wander around?"

  "None, none," I said cheerfully. "You can even absorb some local color. Here's a slip so they'll hand you appropriate clothes at the Garb Section, right down that passageway over there. And why not take a spin around town? It's early yet. Here's a transport authorization slip: you can hook on to one of the trucks. Lots of people speak English in Turkey, so that's okay. You haven't any papers yet, but nobody will bother you. Just say you're a new technician at the satellite tracking station. Feel free, have fun, live it up!" I added in commercial Eng­lish with a gay laugh.

  I watched him as he went smoothly down the ladder and disappeared into the Garb Section tunnel. He was just a stupid baby at this game, but after all, I had been a professional for a long time.

  My baggage was all ready. I barked for a hangar han­dler and in minutes I had a motor dolly loaded up and was on my way.

  There is one flaw in the Blito-P3 hangar. Earth­quakes are common and severe in Turkey and this big of a space disintegrated out of solid rock needs an awful lot of pressure-beam supports. They turn off the cone ones when ships arrive and depart and then they turn them on again. I had not been down here for nearly a year and I had forgotten about them. I was right in the path of one when they were turned back on and it almost knocked me flat. Perhaps this made me a little more exacting and

  severe than I would have been, for truthfully, I was awfully glad to be out of that (bleeped) tug!

  I stopped by the Officers' Section and grabbed me a trench coat.

  Using the exit through the "archaeological work­man's barracks," I ordered up a "taxi," piled in my bag­gage and had the Apparatus driver take me directly to the base commander's office. It is in a mud hut near the International Agricultural Training Center for Peasants. It seems to be accepted that he is its superintendent. That excuses all the traffic in and out of his place, for peasants come there to be trained—in how to raise a lot more opium for a lot less price.

  The Turks are actually Mongols. The word Turk is really a corruption of their original name, "the T'u-Kin," which is Chinese. They invaded Asia Minor in about the tenth century, Earth time. But they don't look Chinese and they invaded and commingled in an area that already had hundreds of other racial types, so it is very simple to find, in the Voltar Confederacy of a hundred and ten planets, vast numbers of people who can pass for Turks.

  The base commander was one of these. His real name was Faht, so he calls himself Faht Bey—the Turks put "Bey" after their names for some reason. He had grown pretty plump on his easy post. He had a fat wife and an oversized old Chevy car and western-style over-stuffed furniture that would take his weight and he was pretty comfortable. He was wanted for a mass murder on Flisten and any thought of being relieved as base com­mander scared him into waves of shaking fat.

  Obviously, the sudden news of my arrival, of which he had had no warning word, had perspired ten pounds off him in the last hour since the ship had called in for permission to land.

  He was at the door when I came in. He was mop­ping his face with a huge silk handkerchief and bowing and trying to open the door wider and quivering all at the same time.

  Ah, the joys of being an officer from headquarters! It scares the daylights out of people!

  His wife got through the door with a tray bearing both tea and coffee and almost spilled them. Faht Bey was trying to wipe off a seat for me with his hand­kerchief—which only greased the chair up.

  "Officer Gris," he quavered in a high-pitched voice. "I mean Sultan Bey," he quickly added, using my Turk­ish name. "I am delighted to see you. I trust you are well, that you have been well, that you will be well and that everything is all right!" (By the last he really meant, "Am I still base commander or are you carrying orders to have me disposed of?")

  I put his mind at ease at once. I threw down my or­ders. "I have been appointed Inspector General Over­lord of all operations related to Blito-P3—I mean Earth! At the slightest hint that you are not doing your job, coop­erating and obeying me implicitly, I will have you dis­posed of."

  He sat down so hard in his overstuffed office chair, it almost collapsed. He looked at the orders. He was ordi­narily quite swarthy. Now he was gray. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

  "We can dispense with formalities," I said. "Get on your phone. Make three calls into Afyon right away. Your usual contacts, the cafe bartenders. Tell them that you have just received a secret tip that a young man, about six feet two in height, blond hair and passing himself off as a satellite technician, is actually an agent of the United States Drug Enforcement Agency, the

  DEA, and that he is here prying around and not to talk to him."

  Faht Bey was on that phone like a shot.

  The local natives are very friendly with us. They overlook everything. They cooperate one hundred per­cent. They, and even the commander of the local army barracks, think we are really the Mafia. It puts us in all the way.

  Faht Bey finished and looked up like an obedient dog,

  "Now," I said, "call two local toughs, give them the description and tell them to find him and beat him up."

  Faht Bey tried to protest. "But the DEA is always friendly with us! We have every agent they got in Turkey on our payroll! And, Sultan Bey, we don't want no dead bodies in any alleys in Afyon! The police might hear of it and they'd have to go to work and they wouldn't like that!"

  I could see why they needed an Inspector General Overlord!

  But Faht Bey was just quavering right on. "If you want somebody killed, why don't you jus
t do the usual and take him up to the archaeological dig..."

  I had to shout at him. "I didn't say kill him! I just said to beat him up. He's got to learn it's an unfriendly place!"

  That was different. "Oh, he ain't really a DEA man!"

  "No, you idiot. He's a Crown agent! If he learns any­thing, it could be your head!"

  Oh, that really was different! Worse. But he made the call.

  When he finished, he nervously drank both the tea and the coffee his wife had set out for me. It was nice

  to know how thoroughly I could upset him. I gloated. It was so different from Voltar!

  "Now, are my old quarters ready?"

  This upset him further. I finally got it out of him. "That dancing girl you had there got to playing around with anybody and she gave the (bleep) to four guards and stole some of your clothes and ran off."

  Well, women always were unfaithful. And factually, there aren't any real dancing girls left in Turkey. They've all emigrated elsewhere and what remains are just the bawds in the big city, not real belly dancers. "Get on that phone to our contact in the Istanbul Sirkeci quarter and have him ship one in on the morning plane."

  Faht Bey's wife came in with some more tea and cof­fee. Now that important things were cared for, I sat down and drank some of the coffee. It was as thick as syrup to begin with and the heaps of sugar in it made it almost solid.

  The base commander was through so I said, "Are Raht and Terb here?"

  He bobbed his head. "Raht is. Terb is in New York."

  I produced Lombar's now-sealed orders to Raht. "Give these to Raht. Have him on the morning plane to the U.S. Give him plenty of expense money as he's going to Virginia to get something ready."

  "I don't know if I can get him a seat," said Faht Bey. "Turkish airlines..."

  "You'll get him a seat," I said.

  He bobbed his head. Yes, he would get him a seat.

  "Now," I said, "speaking of money, here is an order." I threw it on the desk. It was a pretty good order. I had typed it myself on the tug's administrative ma­chine. It said:

  KNOW ALL: