Mission Earth Volume 9: Villainy Victorious Read online

  Without preliminary, Hisst said, “Is Rockecenter all right?”

  Madison weighed up the situation. There was concern and worry, not hostility, in Hisst’s voice. “Well,” said Madison, “he was the last time I talked to him.”

  “You were close to him, then?” said Hisst.

  Any unease Madison felt, he did not show. He was asking himself how good Voltar intelligence was: Did they know the true situation? That Rockecenter would have Madison’s head for failing and running away? He saw what appeared to be a TV screen flickering away: How fast were communications between this place and Earth? He decided he would take a chance. He would name-drop. “Oh, yes,” he said, careful to sound bored. “I handled delicate things for him: telling the prime minister of England or the president of the United States what to think, things like that. My account was several million dollars a year.”

  “What a salary!” said Hisst. “You must have been very valuable to him.”

  “Well, he often said there were a lot of things only I could handle. I was his top PR man.”

  Hisst frowned. This is what the investigators had run into and hadn’t solved. “What is this thing you call PR?”

  “Well,” said Madison, “I noticed, talking around, you don’t have a very good image.”

  Hisst looked angry. “Nothing wrong with my image! I’m six foot three inches tall. I weigh 271 pounds—”

  “No, no,” said Madison. “The way people think of you. The image of you other people carry in their minds.”

  “Huh!” snorted Hisst. “Is it important how I am thought of by the riffraff?”

  “Well, yes, it is,” said Madison. “I have heard that you are the virtual ruler of Voltar.”

  “Well, of course, I am! I can see that what these (bleeped) Lords think of me could matter. But what does the riffraff have to do with it?”

  “Well, you see, PR means ‘public relations,’ though the letters don’t add up to that in Voltarian. The Lords and the riffraff are different publics. But if you don’t have the right image, they could rise up and kill you.”

  Hisst frowned. He was thinking that could very well happen anyway. They were all against him.

  Madison saw the frown. “You know, Mr. Hisst, I was very close to Rockecenter. I call him ‘Rockie’ and he calls me ‘Mad.’ Many a time, late at night, he used to slip his shoes off and put his feet on his desk and, over a companionable Scotch and soda, he’d confide in me. He trusted me when he really wanted something. I was, so to speak, his most intimate confidence man. I think it’s time we opened our coats. Is there something you desire more than anything else in the world?”

  Lombar’s eyes got a bit crazy. The sheen on his face was more pronounced. He leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “It isn’t that I want it so much. It’s that I have an order about it. In spite of my being a commoner and the fact that all the Lords hate me, I am destined to become Emperor.”

  Madison was instantly alert. Ah, he could deal with this. He had heard of it before about Rockecenter. “A call from . . . ?” He left it hanging in the air.

  Lombar whispered, “The angels.”

  Mad knew he had it made. “Did you know they called Rockecenter to rule Earth?”

  “NO!”

  “Fact,” said Madison. “Heard them myself. That’s why I became his PR man.”

  Hisst instantly frowned. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Well,” said Madison, “when somebody doesn’t have a good PR man, the riffraff rises up and kills him. BUT if he DOES have a GOOD PR man, the Lords, the public, the riffraff rise as one man and proclaim him Emperor by acclamation.”

  Lombar blinked. This was a brand-new idea. Usually, he didn’t bother to listen to people or even answer them. But this Earthman sitting here had been close to Rockecenter. Rockecenter, a commoner, had risen to become the ruler of Earth, and this alone had given Lombar hope that it could be done. Now he was alert to the possibility that some secret technology, heretofore unknown to him, had been employed. He mused on it. It came to him that what this man was saying might get around not having a dead Cling to display. Emperor by proclamation of the public! How novel! But then his suspicious nature began to tell him that it might be too good to be true. He started to sag.

  Madison, noting it: “Do you have any other little problems?”

  Lombar stiffened. He was instantly wary. He was not going to tell anyone that there was no Emperor in that room behind him and no regalia either. Instead, he clutched at another worry. He said, “This (bleeped) Soltan Gris!”

  That startled Madison. “Soltan Gris? Is HE here?”

  “You know him?”

  Madison had detected the fury. “Oh, I should say so. On Earth he went by the names of Smith, Inkswitch and Sultan Bey. Got in the road all over the place. Knew NOTHING of PR. Wrecked things. An idiot!”

  “He’s down at the Royal prison and I can’t get to him and can’t execute him the way he deserves.”

  “Well,” said Madison, “that’s a PR problem, too. There are ways. Any other problem?”

  “Heller! That (bleeped) Royal officer!”

  Madison felt like somebody was giving him candy on a silver platter. The whole room went brighter. But he said calmly, “On Earth he went by the name of Wister.”

  Lombar, who had never bothered to listen to anyone before, seized upon the information like a starved hound! THAT was the missing piece of the puzzle of why his strategy had failed. “Aha!” he cried. “Gris didn’t carry out my idea with the birth certificate! It went wrong because that (bleeped) Gris didn’t follow my plans for Heller!”

  Madison’s hopes soared to seventh heaven. Oh, what a chance was opening up in front of him! He could finish the job he had been hired to do! He could go home to plaudits and glory! But he made himself look very calm. “Well, Wister-Heller is a PR problem, too. If you really want these things handled, just give me the account and let me get to work. Just give me an office and a budget—”

  Lombar cut in. “Not so fast, Madison. Things are pretty delicate around here. I don’t know a thing about PR.”

  Madison’s hopes fell. But he pointed to the Homeview screen. “Is that a TV? May I turn on the sound?”

  Lombar shrugged. Madison found a button and upped the volume. The picture was a battle scene on Calabar. Apparatus troops were firing at an enormous snowcapped mountain. The announcer was simply saying that Prince Mortiiy’s troops were being blasted out of caves. Mad turned the sound off.

  “Now, a good PR,” he said, “would have that announcer stating that those Apparatus troops were fighting at your orders to make the Empire safe. And it would have a shot of you leading them to victory even though you weren’t even there.”

  Lombar frowned.

  Madison pulled out the newssheet he had been given. He showed Lombar the front page. “If you had a good PR, your name would be all over this, building up the image that YOU were the one to rule. Pound, pound, day after day, week after week, you’d eventually get the message through that YOU and ONLY you should be Emperor.”

  “They wouldn’t print it,” said Lombar.

  “You would ORDER them to print it,” said Madison.

  “Hmm,” said Lombar.

  “With a good PR,” Madison said, “not just the riffraff but every Lord in the land would be bowing down to you.”

  “Lords bowing to ME? Those stiff-necked (bleeps)? I’m just a commoner! They’d rather die!”

  “But if the Lords DID bow down to you,” said Madison, “and day after day such things appeared on Homeview, the people would have to assume that you WERE their master and you’d be Emperor by acclaim!”

  Lombar shook his head. “Madison, those Lords would never bow.”

  Madison continued to appear calm. He wasn’t. He was playing for very high stakes. He would get another chance at Wister. If he succeeded, Bury would have to admit he had done his job. If he worked Hisst properly, he could be sent home. He would be on top agai
n! He said, “Mr. Hisst (and forgive me if I am already thinking of you as His Majesty), if I get pictures of Lords bowing to you on TV—I mean Homeview—will you retain me as a PR man with an unlimited budget and a free hand?”

  Lombar barked a laugh. “That’s a big contract.”

  Madison said, “But it won’t take much to start: just a few thousand credits.” Suddenly he remembered Teenie. “And the help of my assistant, Teenie Whopper.”

  “WHO,” said Lombar, “is Teenie Whopper?”

  “An Earth girl that came with me.”

  Lombar suddenly remembered there had been another passenger. “Well, Madison, you can have your Earth girl. But as to money, no. It would be just a waste of cash.”

  Madison had a sinking feeling. He would have no resources for bribery, no way to hire actors, no way to order Homeview to screen what he gave them. It looked pretty forlorn! But he had to be bold. “But if I succeed in this first bit, will you okay the big contract?”

  Lombar could never recall having done so much listening before. No wonder he always avoided it: it was so tiring. He said, “It’s impossible to get Lords to bow to me. So I can safely agree to your offer. If you can get such pictures on Homeview, all right. But I’m busy now. Goodbye. Guards! Show this Earthman out.”

  As it stood, right at that moment, dear reader, Madison’s apparent failure with Lombar left Jettero Heller fairly safe; the empty chamber back of Lombar would sooner or later get exposed and the histories of Voltar and Earth might have righted themselves.

  Madison’s chances of getting much further now looked thoroughly zilch. But only at that moment, dear reader, only at that moment. Huge and diabolical forces, already at work on two empires, were about to get a hefty push!

  PART SEVENTY-TWO

  Chapter 3

  J. Walter Madison walked down the long curving steps. Inwardly, he felt downhearted: without connections or knowing channels, without money and without even a press card, things seemed pretty hopeless.

  He raised a friendly hand to the two black-uniformed guard officers and they merely looked through him and away.

  He climbed into his airbus but he didn’t have any place to go: he didn’t even have a home.

  Flick, his driver, said, “Things didn’t go so well, eh? At least thank several Gods you are alive.”

  Was his gloom that obvious? thought Madison. But he did feel down. The chance to get back on the job at Wister-Heller had almost been within his grasp, but his fingers had been too slippery. Curse trying to work with madmen!

  “Who runs Homeview?” he said.

  “The manager of Homeview,” said Flick. “It’s on all their program cards. Here’s one: I keep it so I know when Hightee Heller is going to sing.”

  “Heller? Is she any relation to the Royal officer Jettero Heller?”

  “She’s his sister. Most beautiful woman in the Confederacy, and can she sing! Billions and billions of fans.”

  Well, that wouldn’t do much for him now. He looked at the program. Aha! Homeview was under the Interior Division and that was under Lord Snor. He must be right here in Palace City!

  Maybe he could pull something off! He excitedly told Flick to go wherever Lord Snor lived.

  They drove through innumerable parks and around innumerable round buildings: there must be thousands of them in these few square miles, all different colors, all basking in this greenish light. But the place seemed unpopulated: patrols of Apparatus guards in mustard uniforms were the only ones upon the walks; Apparatus tanks were the only vehicles.

  “Where’s all the people?” said Madison.

  “Oh, there used to be a lot of them, especially at this time of day: it’s near quitting time. Ladies would be strolling with retinues, Palace Guards on every step, concerts going in these parks. But that’s all changed. After His Majesty was taken ill he issued an order replacing the Palace Guards with the Apparatus: a lot of families moved to their town or country estates because the Apparatus would stop and search them. There’s plenty of domestics in these buildings but they don’t show their faces. There must be only a few hundred thousand people left here now. Used to be two million.”

  “You seem very well informed,” said Madison.

  “Ha, ha,” said Flick without laughing. “A lifetime as a breaking-and-entering thief sort of trains you to keep your eyes open. Untenanted houses are a prime target. But a murderer like you wouldn’t know. You probably got all the dark places in these parks already spotted, though. Here’s your address.”

  They were stopped before a huge round building that evidently combined offices and living quarters. It was bright yellow and had gardens jutting out from its walls.

  Madison went up a staircase. An Apparatus guard stopped him, called for an officer. One in mustard yellow came out, looked at Madison’s identoplate. “What the blasts is a PR man?”

  “A special envoy,” said Madison promptly. “I want to see Lord Snor.”

  “Well, you could be a special envoy from the thirteenth hell,” said the officer, “and it still wouldn’t do you any good. You might even get into his quarters and you still wouldn’t make it. He used to have a wife but she’s gone home to her family. He’s got a son but he’s in page school.”

  “What’s all this family got to do with it?” said Madison.

  “Oh, that’s the way things used to run around here. If you couldn’t see the top man, you saw some member of his family and slid your message in on that channel. But, frankly, I don’t think even they could make it now. Lord Snor just stays in his quarters. He hasn’t been seen for weeks. Wait a minute.” He stepped inside and looked into a door marked CHAMBERLAIN. He talked a moment and then came back. “I thought maybe you could make an appointment for next week or month or something, but the chamberlain says the only ones that see him are the resident doctors who take in the little packages.”

  “The little . . . ?”

  “The white stuff. Don’t play dumb. You know as well as I do what’s happening with these Lords. Your best chance of getting anything done in the Interior Division is to go into Government City. The clerks all run it from there anyway.”

  The white stuff. That meant dope. “Well, thank you. You have been of great help.”

  “I wouldn’t give you the time of day if you weren’t from the Apparatus.” And the officer walked off.

  Gloom settled in on Madison. The day he began to transact business through clerks had not arrived. And the top men? In sudden revelation, this deserted city was explained. Any minute he expected to see an IG Barben truck. Lombar Hisst had this place on dope! Did this explain the chief’s interest in Rockecenter? Did Rockecenter have a connection to that Earth base in Turkey? No, he doubted Rockecenter even knew about these people. But they knew about Rockecenter.

  Madison seldom cursed. He felt a bit like cursing now. You could only deal with top men for the things he had in mind, and with insight he knew that from the Emperor on down, here at Palace City, he would be running into hopheads. Suddenly he understood a bit more about Lombar Hisst: the (bleeped) fool must be on amphetamines himself! A speeder! The signs of persecution were there, delusion was obvious. It wasn’t to the point of feeling bugs under the skin or aging or losing one’s teeth, but it would get there. And he probably had been crazy to begin with.

  A chill hit Madison. He had better get his job done on Heller somehow, some way, and get out of this place before Hisst reached raving paranoia and started to kill everyone in sight!

  How long did he have? A few months?

  He groaned. He didn’t even have any place to start!

  “Where now?” said Flick. “It’s quitting time. Do I drive to Government City and find a rooming house?”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Hells of a boss you are,” said Flick. “I’m tired of sleeping in an airbus and I bet you have nightmares: killers always do.”

  “Sleep in a car?” said Madison. This was getting worse and worse. He could see hims
elf becoming an unshaven wreck: not the slightest chance of being believed.

  “Well, I ain’t going to break into any of these palaces,” said Flick. “That would be a fast route to Camp Kill, with all these guards around. Tell you what, we’ll fly to Slum City and rob a store. You can shoot the watchman.”

  Madison wished Flick wouldn’t keep building on that image, yet he could see respect for him was dwindling. “I don’t have a gun.”

  “Blowholes! The assignments I get! My last boss lost all his pay in gambling and finally got stabbed in a dice game. Now I’m going to starve to death.”

  “Don’t you have any pay? Any quarters?”

  “In the Apparatus? A driver’s boss is supposed to provide all that. And I get a murderer who isn’t even packing a gun, that’s dead broke and has no pay status. Can’t you do anything?”