Mission Earth Volume 2: Black Genesis

by L. Ron Hubbard

  Vantagio blew up. “Gambling! You must be crazy! We run the numbers racket and let me tell you, kid, you’d lose your shirt! They’re crooked!”

  Oho, Vantagio was antagonistic! Was he jealous of Heller?

  “All right, then,” said Heller. And he took out a copy of The Wall Street Journal and opened it. It was the Commodity Futures Market page. “I make out that you buy and sell these as they go up and down, day by day.”

  Vantagio brushed it aside. “That’s a good way to lose an awful lot of money, kid!” He was glowering.

  It occurred to me right that moment that maybe I had an ally in Vantagio. He was obviously hostile to Heller. I began to work out why.

  Heller was unfolding another spread of paper. “Then how about these? They apparently change in price, day to day.”

  “That’s the stock market!” said Vantagio. “That’s a great way to go bankrupt!”

  “Well, how do you buy and sell them?” said Heller.

  “You need a broker. A stockbroker.”

  “Well, could you recommend one?”

  “Those crooks,” said Vantagio. Quite obviously, he did not want Heller to get ahead. He was nervous, edgy. I became more convinced there was something here—that maybe I could cultivate an ally.

  “You know of one?” said Heller.

  “Aw, look in the phone book classified. But I don’t want anything to do with it. And listen, kid, you don’t either. Listen, kid, you told me you were going to go to college.”

  “Yes,” said Heller. “Nobody will listen to you if you don’t have a diploma.”

  “Right,” said Vantagio. But he was edgy. “That’s why I called you in here, kid. You know what day this is?” And to Heller’s head shake, “It’s the second day of registration week at Empire College. You got your papers?”

  “Right here,” said Heller, tapping his pocket. “But if it’s a whole week . . .”

  “You,” said Vantagio harshly, “have got to go up there right now and register!”

  “But if I have a whole week . . .”

  “Be quiet!” said Vantagio. He reached into a drawer and got out a book, Curriculum, Empire College, Fall Term. “Giovanni Meretrici” was on the catalog. I thought his name was Vantagio. “What subject is your major?”

  “Well, engineering, I suppose,” said Heller.

  “What kind?” demanded Vantagio.

  “Well, if you give me the book there, I can study it over and maybe in a couple of days . . .”

  Vantagio was really cross now. What was this temper all about? He was reading from the book, “‘Aerospace Science and Engineering’? ‘Bioengineering’? ‘Civil Engineering and Engineering Mechanics’? ‘Electrical Engineering and Computer Science’? ‘Mineral Engineering’? ‘Nuclear Science and Engineering’? Just plain ‘Engineering’?”

  “Nuclear Science and Engineering,” said Heller. “That sounds about right. But . . .”

  Vantagio raised his voice. “They have a Bachelor, Master, Doctorate and other degrees in it. So, that’s it! Nuclear Science and Engineering! Sounds impressive.”

  “However,” said Heller, “I would like to look . . .”

  “All right!” said Vantagio. “Now, here is a map of Empire University. See, here is the library and all that. But this is the administration building and this is the entrance. And here is a map of subways. You walk over to this station near here. Then, you go across town. And you transfer at Times Square to Number 1 and you get off at Empire University at 116th Street and you walk along here and right into that administration building and you sign up! You got it?”

  “Well, yes. And I appreciate your help. But if there is a whole week . . .” He trailed off because Vantagio was sitting there looking at him in a strange way.

  Vantagio started up again. “Kid, have you lived around New York before?”

  “No,” said Heller.

  Vantagio assumed a confidential air. “Then you don’t know the customs. Now, kid, when you’re in a strange place, it is absolutely fatal not to follow the customs.”

  “That is true,” said Heller.

  “Now, kid,” said this master of political science, “it so happens that there is a mandatory, American Indian custom regarding saving a man’s life. And Indian law remains in full force by prior sovereignty. Did you know that when you save a man’s life that man is responsible for you from there on out?”

  I boggled! Vantagio was telling Heller an Earth Chinese custom! And he was telling Heller absolutely backwards! In old China, according to our Apparatus surveys, when you saved a man’s life you were then and there responsible for that man forevermore! So we warned operatives never to save anyone’s life in China! Vantagio was using his learning with a twist and he must know very well he was lying!

  “Are you sure?” said Heller.

  Vantagio looked at him, smug and superior. “Of course, I am sure. I am a master of political science, ain’t I?”

  “Yes,” said Heller doubtfully.

  “And you saved my life, didn’t you?” said Vantagio.

  “Well, it seems so,” said Heller.

  I suddenly got it! Vantagio! He was a tiny man, only five feet two inches tall. Right next door to Sicily lies Corsica, same people. And a small man in Corsica named Napoleon also felt inferior to everyone. Vantagio was suffering from an inferiority complex in the face of Heller’s deeds and acclaim! The things Heller had done had the Sicilian writhing with insecurity. And then I really got it: Vantagio was not his given name—it was his nickname! It means “Whiphand” in Italian!

  Vantagio rose to his full five feet two and looked sternly at the seated Heller almost at eye level. And then this master of political science said, “You saved my life, so therefore you have to do absolutely everything I tell you! And that’s the way it is now from here on out!”

  Heller must have looked contrite. “I see that that’s the way it seems.”

  Suddenly, Vantagio was all smiles and cheer. “So, we have settled that! Have a cigar. No, I forgot, you mustn’t smoke. Here, have some mints.” And he shoved a box at Heller.

  Heller took one and Vantagio came around and patted him on the back. “So, now we know where we stand. Right?”

  “Right,” said Heller.

  “So, you go straight down to the subway and go register right now!” But he said it with cheer.

  Heller got up and walked to the door with Vantagio, who opened it for him and gave him another pat.

  When Heller glanced back, Vantagio was all beaming and waving goodbye.

  Well, it is very hard to understand Sicilians. This Vantagio appeared pretty treacherous, changeable. I had reservations about trusting him and including him in my plans. Still, there was a chance I could turn that burning jealousy and inferiority to account.

  PART SEVENTEEN

  Chapter 7

  Expecting, of course, that Heller would now do everything Vantagio had told him to do, I was not paying much attention. Heller went down into a subway station and looked into a phone book. I thought he might be calling the college.

  He got on a subway and roared along. He seemed to be interested in the people. It was a hot New York day and in such weather the subways are very, very hot. The people were sweaty, soggy.

  I was not being any more alert than they were. I suddenly saw a station sign flash by that said:

  23rd St.

  Then one went by which said:

  14th St. Union Square

  Hey, he was on the wrong subway. He was going DOWNtown, not UPtown! And he wasn’t on the proper line! He was on the Lexington Avenue subway!

  Hastily, I backtracked on the second screen. He had changed, not at Times Square, but before that, at Grand Central! I backtracked further. I got to the phone book he had looked at. He had found Stocks and Bonds Brokers in the yellow pages. Then his finger had halted at Short, Skidder and Long Associates, 81½ Wall St.

  He was playing hooky!

  Oho, maybe all that with Vantagio was
not in vain. Maybe I could gather data and show Vantagio that Heller was not obeying him and Vantagio would let me into Heller’s room. A beautiful daydream of a smiling Vantagio, waving an arm to bid me go in and saying, “Yes, Officer Gris. Feel free! Ransack the place! I’ll even call housemen to help you find the platen! And it serves this disobedient young kid right, doesn’t it, Officer Gris.” A beautiful dream!

  But back to reality.

  Heller, red baseball cap on the back of his head, trotting along on baseball spikes, found 81½ Wall Street and by means of elevators was very shortly breasting a counter at Short, Skidder and Long Associates. There were big blackboards with current prices on them. Ticker tapes were chattering.

  A gum-chewing girl said, “Yeah?”

  “I want to see somebody about buying stocks,” said Heller.

  “New account? See Mr. Arbitrage in the third cubicle.”

  Mr. Arbitrage was immaculately groomed and all dried up. He remained seated at the cubicle desk. He looked Heller up and down as though somebody had thrown a fish into the room, a fish that smelled bad.

  “I want to see somebody about buying stocks,” said Heller.

  “Identification, please,” said Mr. Arbitrage, going through the motions out of habit.

  Heller, unbidden, sat down across from him. He pulled out the Wister driver’s license and Social Security card.

  Mr. Arbitrage looked at them and then at Heller. “There is probably no need to ask for credit references.”

  “What are those?” said Heller.

  “My dear young man, if this is some kind of a school assignment, I am afraid I have no time to teach the young. That is what we pay taxes for. The exit is the same door you came in.”

  “Wait,” said Heller. “I have money.”

  “My dear young man, please do not trifle with me. My time is valuable and I have a luncheon appointment with the head of JP Morgan. The exit door . . .”

  “But why?” demanded Heller. “Why can’t I buy stocks?”

  Mr. Arbitrage sighed noisily. “My dear young man, to deal in stocks, you must open an account. You must be of age to do so. Over twenty-one in our firm. To open an account, you must have credit references. You obviously have none. Could I suggest that you get your parents to accompany you the next time you call? Good day.”

  “My parents aren’t on Earth,” said Heller.

  “My condolences. Please hear me when I say you have to have a person, over twenty-one, who is responsible for you before you can deal with this firm. Now, good day, please.”

  “Do all firms have this restriction?”

  “My dear young sir, you will find all firms will slam their doors in your face even harder than I am doing! Now, good day, young sir. Good day, good day, good day!” And he reached up and got his bowler and left for lunch.

  Heller went down to the street. The luncheon mobs were beginning to boil out of the buildings—luncheon on Wall Street looks like a full-fledged riot in progress.

  Thoughtfully, Heller bought a hot dog from a pushcart and drank some orange pop on the sidewalk. He noticed that Mr. Arbitrage was doing the same thing further along.

  Heller looked at the towering, cold buildings, the hot and sweating throngs. He checked the pollution dirt on the building sides. He seemed to find it of great interest. He took some pages from a notebook, wrote an address on one and wiped it against a building. Of course, it came out black. He trotted through the throngs and took a similar sample on another building. Then he went back down into the subway station and reached over the platform edge and did the same thing. He put the carefully folded and labeled papers away.

  He studied the subway map, apparently decided you couldn’t get from Wall Street over to Chambers by subway, caught a train to Grand Central, shuttled over to Times Square, transferred to a Number 1 and was soon roaring north.

  At 116th Street he debarked and was shortly trotting along College Walk through mobs of students of every color and hue, a throng that was going here and coming from there or standing about. It was a drably somber crowd.

  A young man walked up to Heller and said, “What should I take this term?”

  “Milk,” said Heller. “Highly recommended.”

  Like someone who knew where he was going amongst a lot of people who didn’t know where they were going, Heller went up steps and found himself in a hall where registration was being administered to long lines. Registrars sat at temporary desks, barricaded in paper. He looked at his watch and it winked the time at him. He looked at the long lines.

  A young man, apparently clerical help and a student at the same time, entered, carrying a huge stack of computer printouts of class assignments. Heller walked over to him and said with the ring of Fleet authority, “Where are you taking these?”

  “Miss Simmons,” said the young man, timidly, nodding toward one of the registrars at a temporary desk.

  “You should be on time,” said Heller. “I’ll take these. Go back and get some more.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the young man and left.

  Heller stood back until the girl Miss Simmons was interviewing and registering began to gather up her things to depart. Heller went over and put the stapled computer printout booklets down on Miss Simmons’ desk and sat down in the chair, bypassing the unattentive waiting line. He took out his own papers and handed them to Miss Simmons.

  Miss Simmons did not look up. She was a severe-looking young woman, her brown hair pulled into a tight bun. She had thick glasses and began to paw about the desk in front of her. Then she said, “You haven’t made out your application form.”

  “I didn’t know how,” said Heller.

  “Oh, dear,” said Miss Simmons, wearily. “Another one that can’t read or write.” She got a blank and started to fill it in from Heller’s papers. She wrote and wrote. Then, she said, “Local address, Wister.”

  “Gracious Palms,” said Heller and gave her the street and house number.

  Miss Simmons gave him an invoice. “You can pay the cashier. But I don’t think it will do any good. Payment of fees does not guarantee enrollment.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Is something wrong?” mimicked Miss Simmons. “There is always something wrong. But that’s beside the point. It’s these grades, Wister. It’s these grades—a D average? They clearly show that your only A was for sleeping in class. And in a practically unknown school. Now, what major are you demanding?”

  “Nuclear Science and Engineering,” said Heller.

  Miss Simmons gave a shocked gasp like a bullet had hit her. She glared. She ground her teeth. When she had recovered enough to continue, she said in a level, deadly voice, “Wister, some of the prerequisites are missing for that. I do not see them on your transcript of grades. I am afraid all this is irregular. It does not conform. You are seeking to enroll here for your senior year. It does not conform, Wister.”

  “All I want is a diploma,” said Heller.

  “Ah, yes,” said Miss Simmons. “Wister, you are demanding that at commencement next May, Empire University certify on a diploma that you are a Bachelor of Nuclear Science and Engineering, lend you its prestige and send you out, a totally uneducated savage, to blow up the world. Isn’t that what you are demanding, Wister? I thought as much.”

  “No, no,” said Heller. “I’m supposed to fix it up, not blow it up!”

  “Wister, the only thing I can do is take this application under advisement. There must be other opinions gotten, Wister. So be back here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. I can offer no hope, Wister. NEXT!”

  It was a bright moment for me. Heller always had such a marvelous opinion of himself, always bragging. And here was a sensible person who saw through him completely. And Bury was a very clever fellow to lay such an adroit trap. I drank a whole glass of sira straight down in a toast to Bury.

  Heller was slowed to a crawl!

  PART EIGHTEEN

  Chapter 1

  Heller slowly paid the fe
es at the temporary cashier’s desk and then, hands in pockets, wandered about, not looking at very much, apparently immersed in thought.

  After a while, he studied the posted building layout.

  He began to read bulletin boards. Students were looking for rooms and rooms were looking for students and Mazie Anne had lost trace of Mack and Mack had lost touch with Charlotte and Professor Umpchuddle’s classes were transferred to the left wing. Then his eyes clamped on to a formally printed plastic sign. It said:

  THOSE DESIRING TO HIRE GRADUATES

  ARE NOT PERMITTED TO RECRUIT

  ON THE CAMPUS DIRECTLY.

  THEY MUST SEE

  THE ASSISTANT DEAN OF STUDENTS

  IN THE JUMP BUILDING.

  Promptly Heller was out on College Walk again, trotting through the throng of milling students, clickety-clacking on a zigzag course and presently clickety-clacked into the office labeled:

  Mr. Twaddle, Assistant Dean of Students

  Mr. Twaddle was sitting at his desk in shirt sleeves filling out stacks of forms. He was a small, bald-headed man. He pointed at a chair, sat back and began to pack an enormous briar pipe.

  “I want to hire a graduate,” said Heller.

  Mr. Twaddle stopped packing his pipe. Then he stopped staring. “Your name?”

  Heller showed him the invoice.

  “Possibly you mean your family wants to hire a graduate?”

  “Do you have any?” said Heller.

  “A graduate in what, Wister?”

  “Stocks and bonds,” said Heller.

  “Ah. A Doctor of Business Administration.” Mr. Twaddle got the pipe going.

  “He’d have to be over twenty-one,” said Heller.

  Mr. Twaddle laughed indulgently. “A Doctor of Business Administration would certainly be over twenty-one, Wister. There are so many changes in the rules each year, it practically takes them forever. But I am afraid this is the wrong season of the year. You should have been here last May. They all get snapped up, you know. There won’t be another crop until the October degrees are awarded almost two months from now and it just so happens there aren’t going to be any in that October crop.” He smoked complacently.