Mission Earth Volume 2: Black Genesis

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “That other one just had a weak spring, Joe,” said the fat man. “You ought to keep this equipment under repair.”

  I laughed. Heller couldn’t punch so hard after all. He’s always bragging and showing off. Good to see him come a cropper now and then.

  The theater crowds had gone in. “Y’ever want to see the last end of a show,” said Bang-Bang, “wait for intermission when the crowd comes out to smoke and then walk back in with them. You get to see the last acts but I always get to wondering how they got into all that trouble in the first acts, so I don’t do it.”

  They came to a huge, glittering restaurant with a huge, glittering sign:

  Sardine’s

  The maitre d’ spotted Bang-Bang in the line and dragged him out. He led them to a small table in the back.

  “Some of them diners,” said Bang-Bang, “is celebrities. That’s Johnny Matinee over there. And there’s Jean Lologiggida. The theatrical stars all come here to eat. And after the opening night, when the stars come in, if it’s a hit everybody claps and cheers. And if it’s a bomb, they turn their backs.”

  The maitre d’ put them at a small, secluded table and handed them menus. Heller looked at the prices. “Hey, this place isn’t cheap. I didn’t intend for you to invite me to dinner. I’ll pick up the tab.”

  Bang-Bang laughed. “Kid, for all the glitter, this is an Italian restaurant. The Corleone family owns it. There ain’t no tab. Besides, he’ll just bring us antipasto, meatballs and spaghetti. Good, though.”

  Bang-Bang was hauling at his side. He brought out a full, unsealed fifth of Johnnie Walker Gold Label and set it on the table. “Don’t look so surprised, kid. It’s just going to sit there and be admired by me. I got cases of it left but I won’t have any in Sing Sing for eight months. I just want it to tell me I’m not in Sing Sing yet.”

  The antipasto came and they got busy on the crisp odds and ends.

  A waiter drifted by, a different one, with huge spiked mustaches. “Che c’e di nuovo, Bang-Bang?”

  “All bad,” said Bang-Bang. “Meet the kid here. One of the family. Pretty Boy Floyd, this is Cherubino Gatano.”

  “Pleased,” said Cherubino. “Can I get you anything, Floyd?”

  “Some beer,” said Heller.

  “Hold it, hold it!” said Bang-Bang. “Don’t let this bambino kid you, he’s a minor and they’d have our (bleep). Got to keep it legal.”

  “Hold it, hold it yourself,” said Cherubino. “If he’s a minor, he can still have some beer.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since now.” Cherubino went off and came back shortly with a squat bottle and a tall Pilsener glass on a tray.

  “You’re breaking the law!” said Bang-Bang. “And me about to go back up the river. They’ll add ‘contributing to the delinquency of a minor’ this time and never let me out!”

  “Bang-Bang,” said Cherubino. “I love you. I have loved you since you were a child. But you are stupid. You can’t read. This is Swiss beer all right and the very best. But in this case they have taken all the alcohol out!” He pushed the bottle label at Bang-Bang. “Imported! Legal!” Then he poured the Pilsener glass full and gave it to Heller.

  Heller tasted it. “Hello, hello! Delicious!”

  “You see,” said Cherubino, starting to take the bottle away. “You always were stupid, Bang-Bang.”

  “Leave the bottle,” said Heller. “I want to copy the label. I’m so tired of soft cola I could burp!”

  Cherubino said, “Bang-Bang and I used to stand off all the Greeks in Hell’s Kitchen together, so don’t get the idea we’re not friends, kid. But he was always stupid and when he came back from the war they’d made him even stupider and that’s impossible. See you around.” He left.

  Bang-Bang was laughing. “Cherubino was my captain in that same war, so he ought to know.”

  “What did you do in the war?” asked Heller.

  “Me? I was a Marine.”

  “Yes, but what did you do?” said Heller.

  “Well, they say a Marine is supposed to be able to do anything. They have to handle all kinds and types of weapons so they specialize less than the Army and get shot at with more variety.”

  “What training did you get?” said Heller.

  “Well, it was pretty good. I started out real good. When I got out of boot camp, I went right to the top. They made me a gunship pilot.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Gunship, whirlybird, Green Giant, chopper. A helicopter, kid. Where you been? Don’t you ever see old movies? Anyway, there I was dashing about shooting the hell out of anything that moved on the ground and suddenly they sent me to a specialist school.”

  “In what?”

  “Demolitions.” Their meatballs and spaghetti had arrived. “Oh, well, hell, kid. We’re pals. I might as well tell you the truth. I crashed so many whirlybirds a colonel one day said, ‘That god (bleeped) Rimbombo shows talent but he’s in the wrong branch of the service. Send him to demolitions training school.’ I tried to point out that choppers full of bullets don’t fly well but there I went and here I am. Nobody else knows that, kid, so don’t spread it around.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” said Heller. After a bit he said, “Bang-Bang, I want your opinion about something.”

  Ah, now we were getting to it. This Heller was sneaky. I knew all the time he was not there for nothing. I was alert. Maybe he would antagonize Bang-Bang. He sets people’s nerves on edge. I know he does mine. Dangerous!

  He was taking a form out of his pocket. It said:

  RESERVE OFFICERS’ TRAINING CORPS

  It was an enrollment form.

  “Bang-Bang,” said Heller, “look at this line here. It makes one promise to be faithful to the United States of America and support the Constitution. One is supposed to sign it. It looks like a pretty binding oath.”

  Bang-Bang looked at it. “Well, that’s not the real oath. This next line here says you promise that when you graduate from the ROTC you will serve two years in the US Army as a second lieutenant. Hmm. Yes. This is the junior or senior year form. Now, when you get out of the ROTC, they make you take the real oath. You stand up, hold up your right hand and repeat after them and get sworn in for real.”

  “Well, I can’t sign this allegiance form,” said Heller. “And later, when I graduate, I can’t take any such oath.”

  “I understand completely,” said Bang-Bang. “It’s true they’re just a bunch of crooks.”

  Heller laid the form aside and ate some spaghetti. Then he said, “Bang-Bang, I can get you a job driving a car.”

  Bang-Bang was alert. “With real Social Security, withholding tax and legit? That would satisfy the parole officer?”

  “Absolutely,” said Heller. “By Tuesday I’ll have a corporation, all legal, and it can hire you as a driver. And that will beat your Wednesday deadline.”

  “Hey!” said Bang-Bang. “And I won’t have to go back up the river!”

  “There are a couple of conditions,” said Heller.

  Bang-Bang looked even more alert.

  “The driving itself won’t amount to much. But during the day you’ll have to run some errands. It isn’t really hard work and it’s actually in your line.”

  Bang-Bang said, “Do I smell some catches in this?”

  “No, no, I wouldn’t ask you to do anything illegal,” said Heller. “There are lots of girls around the place of work.”

  “Sounds interesting. But I still smell a catch.”

  “Well, actually, it isn’t much of a catch,” said Heller. “You’ve been a Marine and know all about this sort of thing, so it’s no strain. What I want you to do, in addition to these other duties, is sign this ROTC form as J. Terrance Wister, report to three classes a week and do the drill period.”

  “NO!” said Bang-Bang, refusing utterly.

  “They don’t know me by sight and I realize we look different, but if I know such organizations, all they’re interested in is somebody to yell ‘Y
o’ when the roll is called and somebody to march around as part of the ranks.”

  “NO!” said Bang-Bang. And, of course, he was right. He was a small Sicilian, a foot shorter than Heller, brunette where Heller was blond.

  “If you keep telling people your name is Terrance, and if I keep getting people to call me Jet or Jerome, other students will think we are two different people but the computers will think there’s just one of us.”

  “NO!” said Bang-Bang.

  “You could give me the material they teach and coach me in the drills. I’d be earning the credits honestly.”

  “NO!”

  “I’ll pay you whatever you ask a week to do these other things and this and you won’t be sent back to prison.”

  “Kid. It isn’t the pay. A couple hundred a week would be great. But it isn’t the pay. There are just some things one can’t bring himself to do!”

  “Such as?” said Heller.

  “Look, kid. I was a Marine. Now, once a Marine, always a Marine. The Marines, kid, is the MARINES! Now, kid, the Army is a hell of a downstairs sort of organization. It is the Army, kid. Dogfaces. I don’t think you realize that you’re asking me to throw away all my principles. I couldn’t even pretend to join the Army, kid. I’d feel so degraded I wouldn’t be able to live with myself! And that’s everything, kid. Pride!”

  They ate some more spaghetti.

  There was a change of noise level. Bang-Bang looked toward the distant door. “Hey, a new show must have just let out. I think that commotion at the door must be the stars. Now watch this, kid. If it’s a great show, this whole crowd of diners here will applaud and if it was a flop, they’ll turn their backs.”

  Heller looked. Johnny Matinee was half out of his chair, looking toward the door. Jean Lologiggida was craning her pretty neck. Three of the Sardine photographers, that had been running around taking flash pictures of diners for personal albums, got ready to shoot a big scene.

  The buzz at the door increased. The crowd there parted.

  In walked Police Inspector Grafferty, resplendent in full uniform!

  The diners turned their backs on him with a groan.

  “That’s Grafferty,” hissed Bang-Bang. “Got his nerve walking into a Corleone place. He’s in Faustino’s pay!”

  Grafferty knew exactly where he was going. He was coming straight through to the back. To Bang-Bang’s table!

  He stopped with his right side to Heller. His interest was in Bang-Bang. “The undercover cops in the street spotted you coming in here, Rimbombo. I just wanted to get one last look at your face before they sent you back up the river.”

  But Heller was not looking at Grafferty. He had picked up the corner of the tablecloth and was tucking it into Grafferty’s coat pocket with a fork! What a crazy thing to do! Clearly showed he had a trivial mind.

  “What’s this?” said Grafferty. He was reaching out for the bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold Label. “Hooch without a revenue seal on its cap! I thought I could find something if I just came . . .”

  Heller’s voice cut into the speech and into the room for that matter. The drone of diners’ voices vanished. “Don’t try to pinch my friend for contributing to the delinquency of a minor!”

  Grafferty let go of the Scotch and turned to face Heller. “Who’s this? Haven’t I seen your face before somewhere, kid?”

  In that penetrating Fleet voice of his, Heller said, “This beer is legal!”

  “Beer?” said Grafferty. “A minor and beer? Oh, boy, Rimbombo, you are in for it now! And this is a licensing matter! I can get the Corleone license revoked for this whole place!”

  “Look here!” said Heller. “It’s nonalcoholic beer. Look at the label!”

  Heller was fumblingly, hastily, pushing the empty beer bottle forward toward Grafferty. It seemed to slip. Grafferty grabbed for it.

  The beer bottle hit the bottle of Scotch!

  The Scotch went over the table edge!

  Grafferty grabbed for the Scotch!

  The Scotch hit the floor with a splintering crash!

  Grafferty was still going down. He seemed to trip.

  The whole tablecloth was pulled off!

  Bowls of spaghetti, utensils, dirty plates and red tomato sauce hit Grafferty in an avalanche!

  Jean Lologiggida was half out of her seat, looking white, hand pressed to her bosom.

  Heller was up. “Oh, my goodness!” he cried and raced around the table to help Grafferty. His spikes stepped on the broken glass of the Scotch. He looked down and kicked the cap and label far away with a twitch of his foot.

  He was assisting Grafferty up. From a nearby table he grabbed a red-checked cloth. He began to swab at Grafferty’s face.

  What a horribly bad job of cleaning! He was smearing spaghetti all over Grafferty’s face, in his hair, on his tunic.

  Jean Lologiggida was pressed back against the side of her booth.

  Heller took Grafferty by the elbow and led him toward the star’s table.

  The photographers were batting out shot after shot!

  Heller got Grafferty to her table. “Oh, Miss Lologiggida! Inspector Grafferty demanded the right to tell you how terribly sorry he was to disturb your dinner. The tablecloth caught in his belt. And you are sorry, aren’t you, Inspector?”

  Grafferty didn’t know whether he was up or down. He stared at the star. He said, “Oh, my God, it’s Lologiggida!” Then he saw he was still trailing the tablecloth and plates. He tore the corner of it off his belt. And while the flashguns flashed, rushed from the restaurant.

  Suddenly Jean Lologiggida burst into gales of laughter! She was doubled up with it!

  Johnny Matinee rushed over. “Ye gads, I wish I’d been part of that. It’ll make the front page!”

  Somebody, evidently Johnny Matinee’s public relations man, was grabbing the photographers and having a hurried consultation with the proprietor.

  The PR man said, “It’s nothing to you, kid,” to Heller. “Do you mind if Johnny takes your place on the front page? We’ll overpaste the shots they took.”

  “Feel free,” said Heller.

  They put Johnny Matinee where Heller had stood in front of Lologiggida, got him to assume the same pose. The flashbulbs flashed.

  Heller went back to the table. The restaurant was still rocking with laughter. Somebody belatedly started to applaud and Heller turned and took a bow but indicated, with his hand, Johnny Matinee. This seemed even funnier to people.

  Bang-Bang was sitting there, doubled over with laughter. “Oh, sangue di Cristo! That Grafferty won’t come near a Corleone place for a while. And you bought the joint a million in publicity!”

  Heller said, soberly, “And Grafferty won’t connect that bottle up with the warehouse job.”

  Bang-Bang looked at Heller as Heller sat back down. “Hey, I never thought of that!”

  Cherubino came over. He had another nonalcoholic beer. He was grinning when he set it down. “This a good kid you got here, Bang-Bang. I’m glad he’s part of our family and not some other mob! Maybe you ain’t so stupid as I thought!” He went off.

  Bang-Bang sat there, looking at Heller. “You know, kid, I’m going to take you up on that offer. I’ll even swallow my scruples and join the Army for you.” He thought for a bit. Then he said, “It’s not because it’ll save me from going back to jail. It’s just because you’re kind of fun to be around!”

  But I was not as impressed as they were. Heller’s tablecloth trick was something we used to do at the Academy to dumb recruits. And any spacer has vast experience in handling barroom brawls. Heller was just taking advantage of the fact that Voltar technology was far higher than that of Earth’s. Still, he was too tricky, too sneaky. And he was making too much progress!

  Where the Hells was the communication from Raht and Terb? I couldn’t abide the idea of seeing Heller fool all these people into thinking he amounted to something. All that (bleeping) applause!

  PART NINETEEN

  Chapter 1

>   Bright and early, Heller and Bang-Bang got off the subway at Empire Station. This morning Heller was wearing tailored gray flannel tennis slacks and a gray shirt with a white tennis sweater tied by its sleeves loosely around his neck. And he wore his inevitable red baseball cap and his spikes. He was carrying two heavy rucksacks evidently jammed with things I had no clue about.

  Bang-Bang was something else. He had on some nondescript jeans and denim shirt. But on his head he wore an olive drab cap and across it in black was stenciled USMC.

  They came up College Walk. Students were moving along, burdened with books, on their way to classes.

  But Heller and Bang-Bang, much to my surprise, did not seem to be headed for a class. Heller striding along and Bang-Bang double-timing to catch up, they turned north past High Library and, threading their way around buildings, came almost to 120th Street. There was an expanse of lawn and a tree. Heller headed for the tree.

  “All right, this is the command post. Synchronize your watch.”

  “Right,” said Bang-Bang.

  “Here is the schedule of plantings we took up last night in the suite.”

  “Right.”

  “Now, you’ve got to look at this from the viewpoint of timed fuses.”

  “Right!”

  What in Hells were they up to? Was Heller trying to get out of his promise to Babe by blowing up the school?

  “You put them in undetectably.”

  “Right.”

  “And what happens if you don’t need an area mined anymore?”

  “You pick them up undetectably,” said Bang-Bang. “It’s a secret operation. Run no risks of barrage.”

  “Right,” said Heller. “Wait a minute. What does USMC mean?” Heller was looking at Bang-Bang’s cap.

  “Christ! ‘United States Marine Corps,’ of course!”

  “Give it to me.”

  “And leave myself under enemy fire with no moral support?”

  Heller took it off his head. He removed his own baseball cap and put it on Bang-Bang. Of course, it was miles too big. Heller put the USMC cap on his own head. I couldn’t see it but it must have looked very funny.

  “I can’t see,” said Bang-Bang. “How am I going to plant a sensitive—”