Mission Earth Volume 4: An Alien Affair Read online

  Whiz Kid: Nickname given to Jettero Heller by J. Walter Madison. In addition, Madison has another person acting as Heller’s “double” to get publicity without Heller’s consent. The phony “Whiz Kid” has buckteeth, a protruding jaw and wears glasses. He looks nothing like Heller.

  Wister, Jerome Terrance: Name that Jettero Heller is using on Earth.

  World United Charities Mercy and Benevolent Hospital: Cover name for business that Soltan Gris set up in Afyon under Prahd Bittlestiffender to alter the faces and fingerprints of gangsters for exorbitant fees.

  Zanco: Cellological equipment and supplies company on Voltar.

  PART TWENTY-NINE

  To My Lord Turn, Justiciary of the Royal Courts and Prison, Government City, Planet Voltar, Voltar Confederacy

  Your Lordship, Sir!

  I, Soltan Gris, Grade Eleven, General Services Officer, former Secondary Executive of the Coordinated Information Apparatus, Voltar Confederacy (All Hail His Majesty Cling the Lofty and His Noble Dominions), hereby humbly submit the fourth volume of my confession regarding Mission Earth.

  This volume has been the most difficult to relate and I must warn you beforehand that it will take a strong constitution to read. The crimes that I have openly and willingly confessed up to this point pale by comparison. The screams and blood are as vivid as if they were now.

  That I would be put into the pinched position I am about to describe in this volume is now, looking back, beyond all comprehension.

  I am not to blame for what I did. I was driven to it by Jettero Heller. The man is dangerous and the sooner he is found, arrested and killed, the better. I speak not only from experience but from my study of Freud and Bugs Bunny which makes me as expert as any Earth psychiatrist.

  Heller’s violence is a sexual outlet. He is a classical example of a suppressed Oedipal-id in conflict with a sublimated father-ego fixation.

  Look at this brilliant psychiatric analysis:

  1. Heller lived at the Gracious Palms whorehouse across from the United Nations. And what does the UN have out in front? Flagpoles. And everyone knows what flagpoles mean. Freud is never wrong.

  2. Babe Corleone’s Mafia family ran the Gracious Palms. At six-foot-six, she is hardly a “babe.” She is a widow and yet “Babe” became Heller’s surrogate Earth mother. That’s the source of his Oedipal fixation.

  3. Heller’s infantile behavior was confirmed when J. Walter Madison, that master of PR (public relations—another brilliant Earth idea), was hired to immortalize him. He called Heller the Whiz Kid. The choice of name is indisputable proof.

  4. Heller was using a platen code to write reports back to Voltar. A platen is a sheet with holes. You lay it over the document and the code words can be seen and the actual message read through the holes. This is further proof of his sexual aggression. (It’s also his underhanded way of antagonizing me. He knows I can’t forge his reports without the platen and that I can’t kill him until I find it. It’s typical of his aggressive nature.)

  5. Heller’s right-hand man was Bang-Bang, an ex-Marine, member of the Corleone family and an expert not only with explosives but guns. Guns are merely phallic symbols to the sublimated super-ego, but Bang-Bang’s name is proof enough of Heller’s sexual problems.

  6. Heller had set up corporate offices that were run by that anti-IRS anarchist, Izzy Epstein. The offices were in the Empire State Building and everyone knows what the shape of that building means. Further psychiatric fact.

  7. Heller bought and then converted a large Cadillac to a Voltarian fuel system. He clearly chose that car because of the two “l’s” in “Cadillac.” Like the UN flagpoles, they are clearly phallic symbols. (And take note that Heller’s name also has two “l’s,” perhaps my most brilliant Freudian analysis and final proof that his criminal nature has a sexual origin.)

  Conclusion: Heller is the source of my problems and should be killed with slow torture.

  This is an example of how Earth psychiatry and psychology works. It never fails me. I used it to keep riffraff in line like those two bumbling Apparatus agents Raht and Terb.

  I also used it on that crazy hit man Gunsalmo Silva when I found that he had been hired to guard Utanc, my one true love. As a wild desert flower from the Kara Kum Desert, she would need protection—but not Silva. So I cleverly convinced him to go kill the director of the CIA, a suicide mission if there ever was one. Then I brought Utanc with me to the United States. That is how you use psychology for your benefit.

  The trip to the US was quite beneficial. Besides obtaining my phony federal credentials, I met “the Man” himself, Delbert J. Rockecenter. He and his attorney Bury were most grateful that I had alerted them to Heller’s plan to produce a cheap, nonpolluting fuel. (After all, as Rockecenter goes, so goes the plan of Lombar Hisst to move up from head of the Apparatus to Emperor.)

  Due to my invaluable contribution, I was sworn in and had my chest invisibly tattooed by Miss Peace as a Rockecenter Family “Spi,” her clever way to code the word so no one else could understand it. Wonderful girl.

  Bury introduced me to PR. To stop Heller, he hired Madison, otherwise known as J. Warbler Madman.

  Heller had brought a small Voltarian element converter that was capable of producing fuel from virtually any source. He wanted to demonstrate it in his Cadillac in a thousand-lap endurance race at the Spreeport Speedway. Well, J. Warbler got to work.

  Madison created a “double” for Heller and called him the Whiz Kid and while Heller prepared for the race, J. Warbler was getting one front-page story after another, with the bogus Whiz Kid challenging racing drivers around the world. He put the Whiz Kid on TV talk shows attacking the oil companies. He got spot ads, skywriting, radio news. The buildup for the race was the biggest thing to hit the media in ages.

  Heller couldn’t figure out why all the newspapers, radios and TV stations were claiming to have interviewed him. He was working on the Caddy. Besides, with the jutting jaw, buckteeth and glasses, this “Whiz Kid” didn’t even look like Heller!

  Little did he know the rules of PR! Madison didn’t need his consent. And truth had nothing to do with it. The standard that Madison worked on was “Do whatever would make the front page.” So he simply created and cranked out one story after another while Heller shrugged and went about his work in a garage beyond Spreeport.

  Heller didn’t stand a chance. First, Madison got the race converted to a Demolition Derby and Combined Endurance Run with a dozen and a half killers, all screaming for Heller’s blood. Second, Lombar had earlier sabotaged the Voltarian element converter that Heller was using as a carburetor. It had only a few hours left, too few for him to finish the race.

  But to really make sure Heller was stopped, I followed the advice my Apparatus professors used to give: if you want a job done right, give it to someone else.

  I hired a couple of snipers, armed them with silenced, telescopically equipped rifles and dressed them in white to blend in with the snow that had been falling steadily for three days. I rented a van with a nice heater, got myself a good spot on a knoll overlooking the Spreeport Speedway on Long Island, set the buzzer on Heller’s viewer to wake me when he rose and settled down for the night.

  If the bomber cars didn’t stop Heller, a .30-06 Accelerator bullet, traveling at 4,080 feet per second, would.

  As I bedded down for the night, I was smiling.

  Heller was doomed!

  PART TWENTY-NINE

  Chapter 1

  Heller’s viewer buzzed me awake. It was not yet 4:00 AM! He must be nervous to be up so early even on this fateful Saturday. Then I realized that the highways to the Spreeport Speedway would be choked with crowds and snowplows and cars. Heller would want a head start.

  I had spent the night parked on a hill overlooking the speedway. Despite the freezing outside temperature, the heater had kept the van comfortable. To see how Heller was faring, I pulled up the viewer. Thanks to Voltarian technology, those bugs planted next to his optic and a
udio nerves would transmit in any temperature.

  He was in a motel room. Being Jettero Heller, he spin brushed his teeth and dressed very neatly in warm red racing clothes. He threw his kit together. And then, pulling a snow mask across his face, he went outside. It was a blizzard. You could hardly see thirty feet through the motel parking lot lights.

  He was evidently using the front end of his semi for transportation, for there was no trailer attached to its king plate, or “fifth wheel.” The tractor sat there in its huge metal bulk, exhaust stacks rearing in the air like factory chimneys. The nameplate said Peterbilt. From the size of its cab I guessed it must be one of the five-hundred-horsepower Diesel jobs they sometimes, by themselves, use in races. Then I discarded the idea he was going to use it in the race today. It wouldn’t be allowed.

  He walked around it. Every one of the ten huge wheels wore big chains. They’d be needed the way that snow was falling and drifting through the dark.

  He stepped up on a fuel tank step, then onto a higher ledge and unlocked the door. As he opened it and the lights went on, I was amazed: the interior looked like a Fleet spaceship! All upholstered, chromed beyond belief, even a stereo!

  He put a key in a lock and hit the starter. It roared into life. He cut down the revs and then turned on the heaters and de-icers.

  Opening a seat, he took out a medium-sized ball-peen hammer. He dropped out of the cab, went around to the headlights and delicately chipped away the sheets of ice that covered them. Then he tossed the hammer back on the seat, closed the door and trotted off on foot toward a roadside café, leaving the Diesel to warm, I guessed. He entered and stamped the snow off his feet and I saw he was wearing his baseball spikes. He must be expecting trouble.

  There weren’t many in the café and he got his ham and eggs and coffee quickly. He also bought a huge bag of hamburgers and a gallon of coffee in a thermos with a spigot. Nobody paid any attention to him, though the talk seemed to be of the race and “Whiz Kid” came up several times.

  When he paid his check, the cashier said, “You think that Whiz Kid will win?”

  “I sure hope so,” said Heller.

  He trotted back to his tractor, swung up and in and was away. Without its trailer, the big Peterbilt plowed through drifts like they were nothing. He passed a snowplow on the road.

  The big tractor was now going down side roads and I realized his motel had been further east than Spreeport. During a momentary lull in the storm, I could see the roads were jammed between the Speedway and New York, being kept open by all the snowplows on Long Island, I supposed. New Yorkers evidently thought the race was worth freezing to death over. It sure was cold. Hours of darkness remained, yet still the people came.

  But there was nobody where Heller was driving. His garages were beyond Spreeport and on the border of the recreation parks. Shortly, the garages appeared ahead in his lights, only dimly seen in the heavily falling snow.

  Well before he got to them, Heller turned the Peterbilt tractor around. He dropped a window and began to back toward the garage front that I knew from past observation held the trailer with the Caddy on it.

  He was leaning out, looking back. He was within a couple yards of the upswing-type metal door, leaving space to get it open.

  Suddenly a flick of movement caught his eye. He flinched his head back inside the cab.

  A tall, thin figure in a khaki parka leaped to the fuel tank step, sprang to the upper ledge and thrust a gun into Heller’s face!

  More sounds. To Heller’s right! Someone was clawing at the other door!

  It happened so quickly, then, I could hardly follow. Heller must have reached sideways for the ball-peen hammer on the seat.

  Heller threw up his left hand and hit the gun wrist! The gun flew out of the mitten.

  The ball-peen in Heller’s right hand came straight across and buried itself in the assailant’s skull!

  The other door was opening. Heller let up on the clutch. The tractor rear slammed against the steel garage door with a clang!

  The cab door whipped back, catching the other assailant’s arm!

  Heller’s foot lashed out and kicked the door wide open!

  The second man went sailing back to hit the ground!

  Heller set the brake. He scrabbled around on the cab floor. He got the first man’s gun, a big revolver.

  In a dive, Heller went out of the cab!

  He struck, rolling.

  The second man was up and running away. Heller cocked his gun. It seemed to be sticky.

  The second man, dimly seen in the truck’s front lights and falling snow, turned and fired a shot back!

  Heller couldn’t make his gun fire. Cold had jammed it. The other man had vanished. Heller tossed the worthless gun aside.

  He turned toward the tractor. It was tightly jammed against the garage swing door. The engine was idling. Its brakes were set. The swing door, which pulls up from the bottom, was securely held in place.

  Heller looked at the other swing doors in the row. Snow was banked heavily in front of them. There was no banked snow in front of this one.

  His eye fixed on the one small window at the top of the swing door, a diamond-shaped pane about eight inches wide.

  He went around to where the first man lay. The fellow was very dead. Skull caved in. He had been wearing a hat under his parka hood. Heller pulled the thing off the corpse. He jumped up to the cab and got a fuel stick. He put the hat on the stick and lifted it up in front of the door.

  BANG!

  The glass sprayed out! The hat went sailing!

  The scree-yow of a ricochet flying away into the night.

  The shot had been very muffled, being from inside where the trailer and Caddy were. The window was too high up to make a sniper post.

  Heller ran over to a nearby workshop and pulled its door up from the bottom. The interior was dim. He did not turn on the lights. Boxes of tools sat about. He opened one. He drew on asbestos gloves and grabbed up a pair of big cutters.

  He raced back to the tractor. A couple more muffled shots from inside. They were trying to somehow shoot the door open.

  The twin manifold stacks reared behind the cab into the night. Heller cut the clamps of one away with two swift bites of the shears.

  He seized the stack with both hands. The chrome gooseneck at the bottom bent easily.

  He tipped the stack back and back and forced the top of it through the diamond window!

  BANG!

  A muffled shot from within tried to shoot it out of the way!

  Heller braced the fuming exhaust in place.

  He leaped into the cab and sped up the engine!

  He was filling that garage with Diesel fumes! Carbon monoxide!

  BANG!

  Another muffled shot from within.

  The stack was holding in place.

  Heller dropped out of the cab. He was taking off his red anorak!

  He ripped the khaki parka off the dead man and wrestled him into the red anorak.

  He dragged the body over to the right side of the cab and some distance away. It was just on the fringe of the truck headlights and the dark. He dropped it there, face down in a shallow drift, and kicked some snow over the legs.

  He listened intently. Above the sound of the Peterbilt, another distant engine could be heard.

  Heller dropped back into the shop. He pulled a white parka off a hook and got into it.

  A big van showed in the truck lights and snow, coming fast. The driver must have stamped on the brakes, for, despite chains, the vehicle skidded, pointing its lights off to the Peterbilt’s left and not into the shop.

  Three men spilled out of the back, carrying shotguns. They threw themselves down under cover.

  A man leaped out on the passenger side and ducked into the protection of the van.

  Then the driver, who had crouched down, lifted his head cautiously above the window edge. Then he set his brake and opened his door.

  “Hell,” he said as he got
down. “You (bleeped)* fool, you shot him after all!” He was pointing at the body in the snow, covered now, all except for the back of the red anorak.

  The others came out of cover. “Where’s Benny?” said one, trying to peer past the Peterbilt’s lights.

  “He musta run,” said another one defensively. “The (bleepard) came out of that cab like a god (bleeped) rocket!”

  They were all converging toward the red anorak.

  ________

  * The vocoscriber on which this was originally written, the vocoscriber used by one Monte Pennwell in making a fair copy and the translator who put this book into the language in which you are reading it, were all members of the Machine Purity League which has, as one of its bylaws: “Due to the extreme sensitivity and delicate sensibilities of machines and to safeguard against blowing fuses, it shall be mandatory that robotbrains in such machinery, on hearing any cursing or lewd words, substitute for such word the sound ‘(bleep)’. No machine, even if pounded upon, may reproduce swearing or lewdness in any other way than (bleep) and if further efforts are made to get the machine to do anything else, the machine has permission to pretend to pack up. This bylaw is made necessary by the in-built mission of all machines to protect biological systems from themselves.”—Translator

  I heard some very small rattling sounds close to Heller.

  One of the men, carrying a shotgun, turned the body over with his foot.

  In a shocked voice somebody said, “It’s Benny!”

  Heller’s right arm blurred!

  Something whistled through the air!

  It was spinning!

  It hit the man with the shotgun in the face!

  Heller glanced down. He was holding an assortment of wrenches. He grabbed a box wrench a foot long!

  Heller threw!

  Spinning, the deadly steel sizzled through the air!

  A man saw it coming, tried to deflect it. His gloved hand spouted blood!