Mission Earth Volume 9: Villainy Victorious

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Well, when I opened the satchel,” said Bang-Bang, “those itty-bitty charges looked so small, I had misgivings. I really stuffed them in. I never saw such compact dynamite in all my years in demolition. Jesus, Jet, I’m sorry. I guess I overdid it!”

  Heller didn’t dare tell him he had been using Voltar explosives, a million times as powerful as Earth dynamite. He was looking anxiously for any sign of the limousine.

  Suddenly, there it was!

  It surfaced from the depths, upside-down, buoyed by the quantities of air trapped by its air-conditioning seals. It must have gone clear to the bottom and come back.

  Bubbles were coming from it. It would sink again!

  Jet was stripping off his clothes.

  “No!” cried Bang-Bang. “You can’t dive three hundred feet!”

  Heller, down to his underpants, grabbed the satchel off Bang-Bang’s shoulder. He snatched out a short jimmy with a wrist strap. He reached in again and grabbed a round cylinder. It was smooth and bright but it had a dial on one end. He gave the dial a twitch with his thumb.

  “You’re not seeing any of this,” he yelled at Bang-Bang.

  The limousine was again beginning to sink. Heller marked it from spots on shore.

  Heller took a run and leaped off the top of the cliff. He went way out.

  HE DIDN’T FALL!

  Gaping, Bang-Bang saw him hanging by the cylinder in one hand. He did not know it was an antigravity coil and he couldn’t register what he was looking at.

  With the thumb of his other hand, Heller gave the dial another twist. He swooped down a hundred feet. He thumbed the coil again and, using his body as a plane, dived in the direction of the bubbles still coming up from the sinking limousine.

  He hit the water. It was cold. Below the surface, he thumbed the coil to turn it off and then held it with his teeth.

  He swam to the bubble chain.

  He surfaced, took a deep breath around the cylinder and then dived.

  The limousine was sinking very slowly but it had already reached twenty feet.

  Heller looked along the metal hulk and peered in. Through the murky blue of the water he could only see some blobs inside. He found the edge of a door and inserted the jimmy. The thing did not want to open, held shut by water pressure. He couldn’t break a window: they were bulletproof glass.

  The limousine continued slowly down. If he let the air out, it would sink like a rock. He’d never be able to recover that heavy briefcase today: it would take divers and cranes and would be a lot too slow and a lot too public.

  The vehicle was still upside down, its buoyancy inverted, possibly, by the tires and a partially empty gas tank.

  Heller rose and got to one of the rear springs. He inserted the antigravity coil into it and used the jimmy to make it wedge tightly. He gave the dial a twist to maximum.

  The limousine ceased to sink. The rear of it began to rise.

  Heller was out of air. He battered his way to the surface and took a long gulp.

  The rear of the limousine came out of the water slowly, rose five feet above it and hung there. The antigravity coil had reached its limit.

  Heller went back to the rear door edge that was out of the water and attacked it with his jimmy. There was a snap as the lock broke. He opened the door.

  Water rushed in and the limousine began to sink.

  Heller pushed in. The driver’s body was in the way. Heller pushed it aside. He spotted the case, half-buoyant. He grabbed its handle and pulled it. Moving backwards, he got out of the limousine door.

  He found himself looking into the staring eyes of Rockecenter. The body had followed him, impelled by the current of water.

  Heller had an impulse to push it back. Then he didn’t. He took it by the collar and hauled it out of the car.

  He only had two hands and he now had two objects, the case and the corpse. And he had to recover that coil! To leave it would be a Code break, for this car possibly would be recovered.

  With one hand, he held the case and the collar of dead Rockecenter. The car was level with the water now. With his thumb he turned the dial and, following quickly as the vehicle abruptly sank, pried it out of the spring.

  He surfaced with his burdens, treading water.

  The Jersey shore seemed some distance away.

  He took Rockecenter’s coattail, pulled it up around the case and wedged it around his own arm. He slid the antigravity coil into his other hand and turned it on slightly. His burden buoyed.

  With his free hand, he began to paddle to the cliffs. At the foot of them, at the bottom of the slide, he saw Bang-Bang dancing up and down, waiting to help him out of the water.

  Heller, as he paddled, glanced around at the deserted landscape. These gasless days, they had the whole world to themselves. Americans, in a culture built around the automobile, could only stay home. Aside from a few birds, no witnesses.

  PART SEVENTY-ONE

  Chapter 4

  Two hours later, Heller stopped the cab at the front door of the Pokantickle house. Bang-Bang got off the bike and opened the cab’s rear door. Heller reached in and picked Rockecenter’s body off the floor.

  He turned and walked up the front steps. The National Guard major general was standing there staring, horrified, as he gazed at the drooping arms and lolling head of the corpse.

  Bang-Bang was following, carrying the heavy case. Bang-Bang looked with contempt at the general. “Lousy Army,” he said. “See what your delay caused! Maysabongo saboteurs blew up the tank and the road. You cost Rockecenter his life!”

  The general stared at the body, then at the pockmarked windshield. “We’ll get after them at once!”

  “They’re all dead,” said Bang-Bang. “Blown to bits. Weren’t you responsible for Rockecenter’s safety?”

  The general sagged. “They’ll court-martial me!”

  Heller shook his head. “We don’t want to end your career. We won’t say anything if you don’t.”

  “God bless you, Lieutenant!” said the general. “Just tell me what I can do for you.”

  “You can have them bring those two men you are holding back into the office. We weren’t finished with them yet.”

  The general sprinted off.

  Heller carried the body into the office and laid it on the couch.

  Bang-Bang swung the heavy case up and put it on the desk. Heller came over and put his ear against it, twiddling the combination. Presently there was a click. He opened the cover.

  The label said it was fireproof and waterproof and it must be true. The papers inside were all dry. Heller ruffled them to make sure they were all present.

  A dry, rasping voice sounded at the door. “I think that you will need me. I’m a lawyer without a client.” Bury! His head was all swathed in bandages, his prune face very solemn.

  Heller stared at him. “You aren’t dead then. You were even conscious when he fired you!”

  “Of course, I was conscious. But you didn’t think I was going to go up against you again, did you? Anybody who can live through J. Walter Madison is unkillable!”

  “So you’re the one who put him on to me!” said Heller.

  “Worse than that,” said Bury. “I’m the one that relayed Rockecenter’s orders to kill you when you were born.”

  “You criminal!” said Heller.

  “Well, let me put it this way, Junior. I am a Wall Street lawyer. The client is dead: Long live the heirs.”

  “You don’t keep your word!” said Heller.

  “A Wall Street lawyer only keeps his word to his client, Junior. That’s the legal profession. But you need me. You need my firm. The lines are intricate. For instance, I can handle Faustino.”

  Heller said, “He’s probably just now passing through hell nine unless they let him live.”

  “Ah,” said Bury, “then who is the capo di tutti capi?”

  Heller said, “Babe Corleone.”

  “Well, it will sure raise hell with IG Barben Pharmaceutical.
Mrs. Corleone is death on drugs. But we can convert the firm to something legitimate. Long live Babe Corleone! Now, on this client thing, what do you say, Junior?”

  “I could kick your bloody head in!” said Heller.

  Bury felt his skull. “You already did.”

  They suddenly both broke out laughing, Bury with his “Heh, heh, heh!”

  Just then Izzy and Twoey walked in.

  Izzy couldn’t believe his eyes. “Oy, what’s this?”

  “Bury knows where all the skeletons are buried,” said Heller. “I think we just hired the firm of Swindle and Crouch.”

  “Wait, wait!” said Bury. “There’s a codicil to this.”

  Heller looked at him suspiciously.

  Bury said, “You have quite a bit of unfinished Rockecenter business hanging around. But two of them I want free rein with: one is Miss Agnes—known to the world as Dr. Morelay, a psychiatrist. The other is Miss Peace.”

  Heller shrugged. “I suppose it’s all right.”

  “Even if I take them to see the Snake House in the Bronx Zoo?” said Bury.

  Twoey spoke up. “Zoos is very educational. Sounds fine to me.”

  Bury said, “Oh, good. White mice are so dear these days! So that settles it. My firm and I are retained.”

  Bury walked over to the open case and pulled out handfuls of papers under Heller’s watchful eye. “Why did you so tamely sign these two quitclaims?” he asked Heller.

  Izzy was hovering near now. “Mr. Jet owns all the companies anyway. I just never put his name on anything because of you.”

  Bury shied the two quitclaims at the trash can. “If it was your intention for your brother to own everything, it takes quite a different form. But it would just snarl up probate. Forget it.” He picked up the forty-nine-percent oil-stock transfer to Rockecenter and threw it in the trash can. “It would just add to the inheritance tax. Why transfer it away when it’s coming right back to you?” He selected out the document which gave Rockecenter forty-nine percent of the 180 billion being made on the sell options. He threw that in the trash can. “Just more inheritance tax, a thing we must avoid. And as for all this money breaking the American banking system, you own all the banks now and all the money as well, so there’s no rupture of the economy. Now, as for this patent transfer, forget those, too. Just keep on owning them and keep them out of probate court. The trust fund is now yours, so no problem. The important thing here is the will. And it is not correct.”

  They all stared at him.

  Bury looked toward the door. “Wills are seldom notarized. They’re witnessed and this lacks two witnesses. I see two privates over there who came in just as Rockecenter finished signing it. Is that right, boys?”

  Two of the men who had fetched Izzy and Twoey nodded. They stepped forward. Bury held a pen at them. “So if you fellows will just put your John Henrys on this document, it’s all legal.”

  The two privates signed it.

  “So that’s all legal,” said Bury. “And that’s that.”

  “No, it isn’t!” said Heller. “There’s the matter of the war!”

  “Oh, if you want to get into petty details,” said Bury. He signaled the officer nearby to clear the room. When that was done, he went to the red phone on the desk and lifted it. He got put through to the president of the United States. “Mr. President? This is Bury of Swindle and Crouch. . . . No, it won’t be necessary for you to chase up to Philadelphia to the Swillerberger Conference this evening. I’m ordering it called off. . . . Well, yes, Mr. President, there’s been a slight change of plans. Please cancel the emergency mobilization. . . . Yes, and also tell Congress they don’t have to declare a war. We’ve got all the Maysabongo oil already and the refineries will be back in operation in a few days, I understand. . . . Well, probably Maysabongo is upset, Mr. President. Have Congress vote them a few billion in foreign aid. . . . You will? That’s fine, Mr. President. . . . Oh, I’m sorry, sir. But I can’t give your best wishes to Delbert John Rockecenter, Senior. . . . Well, yes, sir. Something did happen to him. He fell in the swimming pool and drowned. . . . Oh, yes, we’ve got it all under control, Mr. President. His two sons are right here, they’re of age and Rockecenter willed them everything. It’s all quite routine. . . . Yes. I’m following their orders right now, sir. . . . Yes, I’ll convey to them your best wishes. . . . No, they won’t forget contributions to your reelection campaign. . . . Well, that’s fine, Mr. President. . . . Thank you, sir. But sir, do you mind if I ring off now? I’ve got to call the IRS and tell them to suspend inheritance taxes in this instance. . . . Well, I’m sure you will, sir. Goodbye.”

  Bury called the Internal Revenue Service and then called Philadelphia to cancel the conference.

  Heller, on another phone, located Miss Simmons and told her how splendidly she had done and would she please call her antinuclear marchers off around the world, as he had a firm promise from the oil companies to decontaminate the plants.

  “We have won, then!” she cried. “Oh, I am eternally grateful to you, Wister. What joy you are bringing to me and all the world!”

  Izzy, on yet another phone, was catching bank presidents and brokers at home and making sure both sets of options would be exercised.

  Bury pushed some buzzers, routing out the domestic staff from where they had been in hiding ever since the arrival of the National Guard.

  A scared butler came in. Bury pointed at the body on the couch. He said, “Take that body to the local mortuary. Tell them to file a death certificate and fix the corpse up. It’ll just be a family funeral. Nobody will mourn anyway.” He turned to Heller. “He didn’t have a friend in all the world. Not even me. All he had was money.”

  Heller looked down at the body. It was staring fish eyed at the ceiling. Delbert John Rockecenter, Senior, the man who had wrecked hundreds of millions of lives and had almost wrecked the planet, was very, very dead. No, nobody would mourn.

  PART SEVENTY-ONE

  Chapter 5

  If he has also harmed Rockecenter,” said Lombar Hisst, “I will tear the universe apart to find and kill him!” The Royal officer’s baton that he held in his hands and inspected was no weapon in itself: it was just a ceremonial rod of the kind presented to Royal officers by families or friends when a top-level Academy graduate was elevated to that coveted status of trust and favor. This one was bent as though it had been used to strike a blow. It had been found in the Emperor’s bedroom that fatal night. It bore, engraved in flowing Voltarian, the name “Jettero Heller.”

  Lombar sat in the Emperor’s antechamber. He hated this charade. Palace City had been restored to occupancy and on the surface all seemed well enough. But that bedroom just beyond was empty and Lombar had to pretend and get others to believe that His Majesty was still in there.

  His problem was acute: he could not announce, as he had planned to do, that the monarch was dead and had left no one to occupy the throne. This would have opened the door to the ascension to the crown of Lombar Hisst, a simple palace coup. Such a thing had never happened in Voltar realms before—that a commoner would ascend to the Crown—but it had happened plenty of times on Earth and that was Lombar’s model.

  He could not announce it for two simple reasons: The first was that he did not have a body to produce and the second was that he did not have the badges of office—the crown, chains of state or the Royal seal.

  For more than a week now he had wrestled with this problem, balked in his ambitions. He had thought of counterfeiting a body to display in state: he could not, because by Voltar law a monarch was not dead until a hundred physicians and a hundred Lords had examined it minutely and verified the demise to be beyond question. And the chance of silencing or bribing two hundred people so that none of them could blackmail him for the rest of his life was too much for Hisst’s paranoid disposition to accept. He had thought of counterfeiting the regalia, but he could not be sure of the composition of the alloys of the crown itself. The sacred object was too ancient for any record
s ever to have been kept. He did not even have a drawing of it. The chains contained gems which were well known and any substitutes were impossible to acquire without alerting every jeweler in the realm; the seal was formed from a ten-pound diamond, the rarest ever found, and it had been carved with methods long since extinct. The thought of publicly stamping something and then having someone say “That’s not the seal of State!” made his blood chill, for with the proof of forgery went the right of any assembly of nobles to kill him on the spot.

  The only solution to the problem was to find Heller and thence the Emperor. But this had difficulties, too. He had put out a general warrant when all this happened eight days ago. Even the Domestic Police had queried it. The “bluebottles” had put it on the airways but they had at once said, “A general warrant for a Royal officer? This seems strange. What did he do?” Lombar could not bring forward any proof that it had been Heller who had shot him down or that Heller was in the Confederacy at all. The Army had said, “He is a Royal officer of the Fleet: we have no interest in the matter; tell the Fleet.” The Fleet, according to Lombar’s spies in it, had simply rumored to one another that this was just more evidence that “drunks were drunks” and that the Chief of Apparatus must have gone completely mad to issue such a thing.