Mission Earth Volume 9: Villainy Victorious

by L. Ron Hubbard

  WHAT A BACKWARD CIVILIZATION!

  He had better reform them fast!

  Although his determination was strong, he knew he needed more than that. He needed some point of entrance to penetrate this media wall.

  He went to bed and stared at the ceiling. No ideas. Eventually, he slept.

  Factually, dear reader, not just Heller’s fate but that of both Voltar and Earth were hovering in the balance in that dark chamber.

  PART SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter 4

  At dawn, the searching fingers of the sun pried gently at his eyelids.

  He lay in the semi-world, half-awake, half-asleep. A thought was drifting through his semiconsciousness.

  One of the proper purposes of newspapers, ran the thought, was to cause trouble and worry people. Thus, it followed, a primary intention of all Earth media is to make people go mad.

  He stirred. Something was tugging at his mind for recognition. He suddenly realized that he had never seen any psychiatrist on Voltar or any sign of one. Not even a psychologist.

  Aha! The Confederacy, through its deficient media, was not only not causing insanity, it was not even curing it! Suddenly an idea hit him.

  He struggled out of bed. He got on a robe. He went into Flick’s room.

  Flick, black eyes now yellowing, was lying spent between the naked bodies of Cun and Twa, both of whom were snoring peacefully through gently smiling lips.

  “Flick,” said Madison, “what do they do with the insane on Voltar?”

  “They sic two women on them and kill them,” said Flick, trying to free his arms and sit up.

  “No, seriously,” said Madison. “It’s important that I know.”

  Flick crawled weakly down to the foot of the bed and sat, too spent to progress further. He said, “The insane? Let’s see. Well, when they say somebody is insane, it’s not very hard to figure out they’re right. They get staring eyes and rush about or flop. They don’t know anybody and, when they talk, they say crazy things. So they send them to a big prison far up north and that’s that.”

  “What happens if they get well?”

  “Get well? That’s a funny term. You mean if they go sane again? Well, if that happens, they watch them for a while and then they let them out.”

  “You mean they don’t shock them or operate on their brains?”

  “For pity’s sakes, why? How come somebody should punish them? They don’t work on them or touch them at all. I had a cousin once was sent to the Insane Detention Camp on Calabar: he went crazy as a gyro with half a wheel gone. They kept him for half a year, didn’t do a thing but feed him, and then they let him back out. He was all sane again. I’m sure glad they didn’t damage him: my aunt would have raised a thousand devils if they had.”

  “Have you ever heard of a mental doctor?”

  “Nope. Don’t think I ever saw a doctor that went crazy.”

  “I mean a psychiatrist?” said Madison.

  “Look, Chief, I been sitting here awfully patient and every muscle aches, but couldn’t we lay off foreign words at least until I have had some breakfast and wake up?”

  All this talk had stirred the girls. Twa said, “You don’t need any breakfast yet,” and reached for him.

  Madison left. He felt blocked again.

  He went back to his room and paced.

  The idea he had had was not really his. It was a historic milestone of the PR trade. It had come to him when he realized the primary purpose of Earth media was to make people go mad. And this had jarred into view one of the PR triumphs of the century.

  The American Psychiatric Affiliates, many decades ago, had had a terrible problem with the media. At that time, nobody in his right mind would print anything serious about psychiatrists; the breed was regarded as just a bunch of vicious fakes and quacks, destructive at the very least with their electric shocks and murders.

  But PR had saved the day. In league with the World Federation of Mental Stealth—an organization composed of ex-Nazis who had murdered the millions of Jews as well as all the “insane” in Germany, and who were running from the Allied forces—the American Psychiatric Affiliates had pulled the most cunning coup of the age.

  They had done such a marvelous job on the media that now, today, a psychiatrist could commit murder several times a day, including Sunday, and could do anything, even exhibit himself in front of children, and the media and every page and frame of it would praise him to the skies and say how scientific and necessary it all was.

  Yes, their PR procedure had indeed worked and continued to work. Resoundingly, psychiatry and psychology were now considered totally above all law and even the highest in the land licked their scruffy, bloodstained boots.

  Madison, with his command of PR history, knew exactly what they had done, how they had gone about it and continued to go about it down to the finest, minute detail.

  But there was one small flaw in his plan: he didn’t have a psychiatrist.

  PART SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter 5

  Madison, grim determination in his eye, got dressed and had some breakfast and then got on the viewer-phone. He was trying to locate Lombar: he was not at Palace City, he was not at his office in town. He seemed to have vanished.

  From what he knew now of Apparatus offices, he hazarded that Lombar must have a chief clerk. By using his blanket order from Hisst that gave him a free hand in all matters of PR, he finally got through several shunts and wound up looking at an old man of very bitter visage.

  “I need information,” said Madison.

  “Well, I’m not giving any over a viewer-phone, no matter what authority you’ve got. Tell your driver to land you at Camp Endurance.” He clicked off.

  Flick, up and around now, went into a deeper gloom. “I knew it would happen sooner or later: you been ordered to Camp Kill. They’ll simply take us out of the car and throw us in the chasm. That’s what they do with criminals the Apparatus can no longer use.” And he would have gone off to bid the staff farewell if Madison hadn’t grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the hangar.

  Far above the traffic lanes, at six hundred miles an hour, they went over the mountains, crossed the Great Desert with its dust dancers and, after a harsh challenge, were permitted to land at the camp.

  Troops were marching here and there and for some time the three of them simply sat in the landing area, unapproached.

  “They’re getting the execution squad ready,” Flick told Cun. “They will probably rape you first. Then over we go. I’ve just got time to re-re-reform so I can go to my death thinking about Hightee Heller.”

  Cun hit him.

  A smart young officer, followed by a squad, came out to the car. He looked somehow different than others who were around. His squad came to a military halt, very precise. The officer leaned in the window. “I’m Captain Snelz.” By chance of changing duty rosters, it was the very same man who had been the fast friend of Heller and the Countess Krak. “Is your name Madison?”

  Flick cowered back and Madison had to reach over and get his identoplate, just used in the slot. Snelz looked at it. He clicked the buttons on the back.

  “Hello, hello,” said Snelz. “Unlimited pay status? Well, it just so happens the canteen is on the way and you won’t mind setting up some drinks for me and the squad before we proceed. I’m your escort.”

  Madison got out. The hot desert wind hit him. He stared at the huge black bulk of the castle and then he felt himself being pushed along. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I am supposed to see Lombar Hisst’s chief clerk, not attend a military review. What is this place?”

  Snelz said, “You must be new in the Apparatus not to know this is Spiteos. Where are you from?”

  “Earth,” said Madison.

  “Earth?” said Snelz. “You mean Blito-P3?”

  “That’s what they call it here,” said Madison. “The right name is Earth.”

  “Hmm,” said Snelz.

  They got to the canteen and Snelz ordere
d tup all around. When he had washed the desert dust out of his throat, he said, “By any chance did you run into an officer named Jettero Heller on Earth?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Madison. “One of my dearest friends.”

  “Hmm,” said Snelz. “How is he?”

  “Oh, splendid, splendid,” said Madison.

  “You didn’t come back here with him, did you?” said Snelz.

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t have that pleasure,” said Madison.

  “Then you know his lady,” said Snelz.

  “Oh, yes,” said Madison. “Lovely person.”

  “What does she look like?” said Snelz. “Just to make sure we’re talking about the same person.”

  “Oh, lovely, lovely,” said Madison. “Very lovely.”

  “But, confidentially,” said Snelz, “didn’t you think she was a little short for him? I mean, a girl only five feet two when Heller is six feet six.”

  “Oh, I thought her slightness was one of her most charming features,” said Madison.

  “Well, drink up,” said Snelz, “and I’ll run you on through to the chief clerk.” Other than that, Snelz didn’t seem to have much more to say, which was not strange, now that he knew Madison was a fake.

  Madison paid for the drinks and they got onto a zipbus and were shortly speeding through the tunnels. They got out and made their way to an elevator. They sped to the high tower where Lombar had his main clerical office, and Snelz pushed Madison in and composed himself and his squad in the passageway to wait.

  The criminal old chief clerk frowned at Madison. “I know you have a blanket order. You probably think, by seeing me, you can get to see the chief. . . .”

  “No,” said Madison. “Actually, I want to see you. I know very well that chief clerks really run things.”

  “Well, you’re the first one to ever mention that! What can I do for you?”

  “Two things. As the Apparatus is actually an intelligence activity, I can only suppose that you have lots of information on people. So the first one is, I want to know if you have data on publishers and editors.”

  “Blackmail, you mean. It’s a fact that we have informers in their houses and in their offices, but it’s a dry run. We’ve tried for years to get something really good on them but all we hear about is just domestic spats. Tiresome trash. You won’t find any twists.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Madison, “I want everything on every publisher and editor and everyone around them.”

  The old chief clerk shrugged, called another clerk and led Madison to the central data console.

  With the clerk operating it, they shortly had torrents of printouts coming from the machine.

  After a while the chief clerk came over. “You remind me of Gris. He sneaked in here one day and ran this machine totally out of paper.”

  “It’s important,” said Madison.

  “It’s trash,” said the chief clerk. He picked up a corner of the roll and in a snide voice read, “‘Lady Mithin this morning accused her husband of being an unreasonable boor when he complained the jolt was not hot.’ I can see you now trying to blackmail Noble Mithin, publisher of the Voltar Vigilant, with that!”

  Madison suddenly found himself looking at reports from informers, doormen and such, who had noted his calls on publishers the day before. Yes, the Apparatus ran quite a network. Well, he could run quite a network himself: he would have to see that proper false reports were fed into their system.

  The paper eventually amounted to a formidable bale: the rolls had had to be replaced twice.

  “I hope that’s all,” the old chief clerk said.

  “Well, no, it isn’t,” said Madison. “Anywhere on Voltar or in the Confederacy, is there a real psychiatrist?”

  The old chief clerk shook his head.

  “A psychologist?” said Madison.

  The old chief clerk shook his head again.

  “A psychoanalyst?” said Madison. “You know. Somebody who handles mental illness?”

  “Mental illness?” said the chief clerk. “That’s a funny term. Mental things don’t have any germs or virus connected . . . Wait. I just remembered something. What was that first word you used again?”

  “Psychiatrist.”

  “Aha, yes! That crazy Doctor Crobe, when he came back from Blito-P3, was yapping about treating ‘mental illness.’ He was refusing to go back into his laboratory because he was now that funny word you just used. He’s right down on the first sub-level here.”

  “Crobe? Can I have him?”

  “Oh, and welcome,” said the chief clerk. And he promptly wrote out the order of custody.

  PART SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter 6

  Doctor Crobe was lying on a filthy operating table, obviously in a bit of a haze.

  The rest of Snelz’s squad had stayed outside, guarding the cart of printouts, but two of them and Snelz preceded Madison into the rooms.

  Snelz punched at Crobe with a stinger a couple of times and the man writhed around, blinking.

  The smell of the place hit Madison like a club. Old dried blood and decayed tatters of flesh stained the floor and furniture. He stared at the dirty doctor.

  Suddenly, Madison recognized him. Too long a nose, too long in limb, weirdly misshapen. This was the same man Smith had sent to his office and that he had sent to Bellevue Mental Hospital in New York! His luck was in!

  “Get up,” said Snelz. “You’re being handed over to this man.”

  “I will not go,” said Crobe. “I am busy.”

  Madison, looking at Crobe’s eyes, had a strong suspicion.

  A twisted sort of assistant was timidly peeking in. Madison said to him, “What’s the doctor so busy on?”

  The assistant shook his head. “There are no more freaks being made: the chief is interested in other things. He must be talking about his bottles and pans. He has been working for a week on them and just yesterday, he flopped down on that table and this is the first time he’s moved.”

  “Show me,” said Madison, with a sudden flare of hope.

  The assistant led him deeper into the maze of rooms and stopped, pointing at a laboratory bench.

  Madison smiled a smile of exultation. It was more than he had ever hoped for. There was a pile of moldy seeds. There was a pan to collect the fungus. There were the tubes and vials. Doctor Crobe had been making lysergic acid and from it, lysergic acid diethylamide, LSD!

  Yes, there was a gallon jar full of crystals and next to it, three gallon jars full of liquid!

  He had suspected it the moment he had taken a close look at Crobe’s eyes. Many a psychiatrist and psychologist augmented his income by making LSD in his kitchen and spreading it around. And Crobe had been so industrious he had enough there to knock out a billion people: it only took one one-hundred-thousandth of a microgram to produce a full-blown trip.

  “Pack up all this stuff,” Madison ordered the assistant. He went back to Crobe and looked at him. The man had evidently finished his task and had celebrated by sampling his wares!

  “Don’t worry,” said Madison to Crobe. “We’re taking your cookout along and all your LSD.”

  “You know it?” said Crobe, suddenly interested.

  “Oh, yes,” said Madison. “LSD is wonderful stuff. Don’t know what I would do without it.” Which was a complete lie: he had never touched it in his whole life and wasn’t ever going to, nor any of his crew either. Talk about poisoning wells! That was nothing compared to what Crobe could do. With that much LSD poured into waterworks, he could disable the whole planet.

  The assistant came out of the back, wheeling the LSD and paraphernalia on a cart.

  “What the hells is this?” said Snelz. “Are you carting away the whole castle?”

  Madison flashed his blanket order in front of Snelz. Then he had the assistant push the cart out the door and into the hall.

  Crobe rose right up and followed the cart.

  Snelz stared. He had thought it would take two soldiers to f
orce Crobe to leave. He made an experiment. He pushed the cart along himself. Crobe ambled right on after it. “Magnets,” said Snelz. “It must be magnets.”

  Back once more in the landing area, Madison shuddered at the idea of letting the filthy Crobe ride in the Model 99: he could hardly bear to be near him, such was the stench. Using his order, he commandeered an air-coach and loaded Crobe in.