Mission Earth Volume 3: The Enemy Within

  Out of Pier Ninety-two came the car!

  “NOW!” Bury shouted.

  The four forward machine guns of the tank opened up!

  The concussions almost knocked me flat!

  The car veered away from us!

  With a scream of tires, it turned. It sought to escape to a side street. Banked squad cars turned on their chortling cacophony!

  The car tires screamed.

  The Excalibur raced up Twelfth Avenue.

  Under me the tank got into motion. Faster and faster we went.

  I held on to the handhold desperately.

  Bury was barking into the walkie-talkie. The wind was tugging at his snap-brim. The NATO flag streamed out.

  We were really going!

  Eighty? Ninety? A hundred!

  The car ahead of us began to draw away, its huge power plant beginning to assert its mastery!

  We were on the West Side Elevated Highway. The British tank driver was driving on the wrong side!

  The rails and lampposts fled by in a giddy blur. All New York seemed to be turning.

  I could barely hold on!

  Now, in sudden bursts, the tank’s guns were firing once more! The concussion almost finished the job of knocking me loose.

  Bury, framed against the bowed antenna pennons, backed by the cracking, whipping flag, leaned forward in his snap-brim hat.

  “Any moment now!” he roared into the wind.

  It happened!

  Ahead of us the Excalibur gave a jerk. It abruptly slowed!

  The tank slewed and skittered sideways on its treads. The scream was deafening!

  The Excalibur had mysteriously come to a stop!

  So had the tank! Halfway over a rail!

  More roars!

  Fifteen tanks in a double line surged out of the highway entrance roads left and right.

  Fifteen deadly muzzles cranked down and centered upon the driver of the car!

  “Hatchetheimer is a genius,” Bury was saying. “The aircraft-landing-arrest gear worked perfectly!”

  And then I saw what he meant. The USS Saratoga had installed the trip wires and arrests they use to brake a landing plane in each lane of the highway. The Excalibur had tripped one!

  Bury was clambering down.

  We approached the car.

  There was a huddled figure behind the wheel.

  A voice! It was speaking in a dull monotone. “Banner Headline Obituary 18-point type quote MADISON DIES BEGGING FORGIVENESS unquote subhead 12-point ROCKECENTER FOREVER LAST WORDS unquote text quote Yesterday on West Side Elevated Highway comma J. Walter Madison comma misunderstood publicist comma gave up the unwilling ghost period. He will be buried in Bideawee Cemetery at 4:00 PM today period. Public will probably demand removal of body from consecrated ground. . . .”

  The poor man was composing his obituary notice!

  Bury stood beside the car, close to where Madison could see him. “Shut up, Madison!”

  The fellow looked up and went white. “Oh, my God! Bury! Hold the press. Change type size to billboard quote MADISON MURDERED exclamation point unquote subhead quote MANGLED BODY. . .”

  Bury said, “Shut up. You’re not in trouble.”

  Madison gaped. “But the president of Patagonia committed suicide! All Octopus holdings were expropriated—a loss of eighteen billion dollars!”

  “Tut, tut,” said Bury.

  “But I just ran over my very own mother! I’ll be up for motherslaughter!”

  Bury said, “Your mother is all right. The Navy crew is right this minute treating her for shock. They just wanted to know on my radio, does she always demand canned heat when her heart acts up?”

  “But. . . but . . . how about all the other jobs I’ve failed on? How about the time I was supposed to popularize the American Indians for Octopus and they were all exiled to Canada?”

  “Pish, pish,” said Bury. “Octopus has a big heart. Small errors can be overlooked. I forgive you. Rockecenter forgives you and God forgives you, which is mostly the same thing.”

  “You mean the headlines should read quote MADISON MIRACULOUSLY RESURRECTS unquote?”

  “A last minute, motorcycle-rushed reprieve just arrived from the governor. Here.” He handed Madison an envelope. “You are back on FFBO staff. You can move back into your mother’s condo. Be at the enclosed address at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” wept Madison. “Next time I will justify everything you have ever thought of me!”

  Bury walked down an entrance road and I went with him. A New York squad car was blocking it. Bury climbed in. I sat down beside him.

  “Take me home,” said Bury to the driver. “And then drop this man off wherever he wants to go.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Bury,” said the cop and quickly drove away with us.

  I said to Bury, “Wasn’t it pretty kind of you to forgive him after all that loss?”

  “No, no,” said Bury. “We never tell him the truth. You’ve got to see behind these things. As soon as he got the Indians driven out, we grabbed their oil lands. And on this Patagonia thing, he was sent to the republic to ruin our PR. The government there, on public demand, expropriated all Octopus properties and refineries. The Patagonian Central Bank, to preserve its international credit, had to try to pay for them. It couldn’t, of course, so Grabbe-Manhattan foreclosed and we now own the whole country. He has ably created the same havoc on other jobs. But don’t tell him what we really expect him to do or accomplish. Hide it. He actually believes he is a great PR man. So don’t ruin his morale. Cheer him on with only a tip or two. He’s a genius. I don’t know how he does it!”

  We shortly arrived at his West Side condo. “Thank heavens,” he said, “I got home on time. I couldn’t stand a real fight after tonight. Be at the office early.”

  He was gone.

  Riding back to the Bentley Bucks Deluxe, I knew I had been right. It had taken an aircraft carrier and tanks and the whole New York police force to get this thing started.

  Not even the Gods could help Heller now!

  PART TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter 7

  Quivering with anxiousness now to get on the job, I reported in bright and early the following morning. I wanted to really be up to handle Madison: I didn’t have any office to work out of.

  I made my way through the unenthusiastic throng of fellow workers on their way to work. Slow going. But I found an office labeled New Personnel Assignments and went in.

  A beefy office-manager type was at a desk. He looked at me curiously.

  “Inkswitch,” I said. “I . . .”

  He held up his hand to halt me. He turned to a computer and punched it. It came up blank.

  “Ah,” he said. “A family spy! Well, I have one word of advice for you. Don’t punch any time clocks around here even if you see your name on them. It would blow your cover.”

  “Wait,” I said. “I have work to do. Don’t I even get an office?”

  “Oh, no!” he said, aghast. “Somebody could find you to shoot or poison you. It’s promoting crime and that’s illegal.”

  “Hey,” I said, “how do I get paid?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. But let me warn you. Don’t endorse any checks they may give you. IRS would nail you for sure.”

  “No pay at all?”

  He said, “Of course, you’re entitled to pay. It comes out of Petty Cash. That’s Window Thirteen. But don’t sign any voucher with your real name or they’ll ask for your receipts for reimbursement.”

  “Well, all right,” I said, “so long as I don’t get in trouble with my superior.”

  “Oh, you don’t have any boss. And don’t look at me. You’re a family spy.”

  “I do thank you for all you’ve done,” I said.

  “Well, I’ve never seen you so I’ll forget that you weren’t here.”

  I went at once to Window Thirteen. It was labeled Petty Cash Disbursements. A very prim old lady was sitting behind the wicket. “N
ame?” she said.

  “Inkswitch,” I said.

  She pressed her computer keys. The screen came up blank. She nodded a severe nod. Must be one of the firm’s most honest employees to hold such a post of trust. She said, “How much?”

  I picked a number out of the air. “Ten thousand dollars,” I said.

  She extended a disbursement voucher in triplicate. Mindful of the advice just received, I signed it John Smith.

  She took the voucher back. She reached into a drawer and counted out ten thousand in small bills. Her actions were meticulous, her mouth was prim. She gave me five thousand and put the other five thousand in her purse.

  I was awed. What an efficient organization. Their spies didn’t exist! And they had developed a graft system unbelievably simple! I would have to write Lombar about this! No wonder he made such a study of Earth culture!

  Hurrying now, I rushed down the hall to Bury’s office. His door was ajar. But to be polite, I knocked.

  He came to the door. He scowled. “What the hell are you doing, Inkswitch, knocking! You scared me half to death! I thought it was some enemy that didn’t know his way around!” It was only then I noticed the sign on his door:

  Benevolent Association

  He was putting a flat Beretta M-84, .380 Auto pistol in his shoulder holster. “We’ve got a date with Madison right away.”

  “Is that for Madison?” I said and instantly started checking the Colt Python .357 Magnum/.38 Special I was now carrying.

  “No, no!” said Bury. “There isn’t an ounce of violence in him. This is for the Slime-Tripe Magazine Building across the way. Dangerous place: they always have people they have featured, hanging around killing editors! Come on. That’s where we meet Madison!”

  He rushed out with me following him.

  PART TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter 8

  We didn’t have any distance to go at all. The forty-eight-story building was right across the way from the Octopus Building. We crossed a two-tone terrazzo pavement set with fountains. The building reared in limestone, aluminum and glass splendor. We entered a huge lobby done in polished and dulled stainless steel. We stood before an enormous abstract mural, entered an elevator and shot skyward. It spilled us into an enormous room.

  A huge ladder of signs confronted us. The top one said:

  Owner-Publisher Inspiration Floor

  It was followed with the list of magazines published in the building: Slime, Tripe, Riffraff, Dirt Illustrated and Misfortune.

  The atmosphere of the room was hazy thick. It smelled like marijuana and opium smoke. There were some people moving about: they were wearing blindfolds, being led by people wearing blindfolds.

  We went further into the vast room. I saw numerous posted signs:

  All the News That Gives You Fits

  Unreality Is the Only Reality

  Slime, the Magazine That Doesn’t Lie or Cheat

  Anyone but Its Public

  Always Check Your Facts in the Cloakroom and

  Then Write Your Story

  They Want Blood,

  Give It to Them–Even If It Is Your Own

  There were some doors opening off: Libeler in Chief, Scurrility Editor and Head Pervert.

  But we were not heading for any of these. Parting the clouds of smoke, we went to a mammoth door at the end of the room. It said:

  Owner-Publisher

  Private

  Sacred

  Bury barged right on in.

  Where the desk should be, there was a couch. There was no one on it.

  I became aware of lights flashing on the wall over to my right. I saw that there was an organist seated at a huge console organ. It was a woman of middle age in a tail-coated suit—complete, male, white-tie evening dress. She was playing with elaborate gestures on the organ keys. But there was no music!

  I noticed that the vast panorama of pictures on the wall were flashing on and mingling in rhythm. She was playing the pictures!

  I looked at them. One had to stand back, they were so big. It was a flowing, flashing montage in full color. The pictures were of dead bodies, train wrecks, aircraft crashes, murdered children and graves. And through it all flowed, rhythmically, decay and blood. A symphony of disaster. Rather appealing, I thought.

  Bury walked over to the woman. He said, “Get out.”

  She protested, aghast. “But how can you dream up imaginary news if you don’t have substance before you?”

  “Beat it,” said Bury.

  She picked up her baton and top hat, very miffed, muttering about people who did not have a true reporter’s soul. But a final look at Bury’s face took her out the door quickly.

  “Are we here to meet the owner-publisher?” I said.

  “Oh, no,” said Bury. “He’s an LSD addict and always off having an affair with his male psychiatrist. It’s always empty, so I use it for meetings.”

  “Then we own this place?”

  “What? And inherit all its libel suits? I should say not. Sit down, Inkswitch, and I’ll fill you in.”

  There was no place to sit but the color-montage organ bench. I sat on it. I accidentally touched a key and a nude body being strangled flashed on the wall. Not a bad-looking girl, I thought.

  Bury was pacing about restlessly. “We don’t have to own any newspapers or magazines. It’s done this way: they’re all in debt; they and their TV and radio stations are into the banks for billions. So when they want to renew or borrow, the banks tell them they have to put a bank-selected director or six on their boards of directors. And they do it in order to get the money. Then, whatever we want to appear in the press, we simply pass it to a director and he tells the editors and they tell the reporters and they (bleep) well print whatever they’re told.”

  How wise, I thought. Lombar would be fascinated.

  But there was more: “Then, if the government gets out of hand, we release stories into the press to embarrass them or get them kicked out. So the government always releases the press releases that we tell them to. It’s a very tight system. We control all the banks, you see.”

  Oho! Lombar indeed would be interested. A masterful system! Closed-circuit propaganda! The truth couldn’t even get into it edgewise! So that was how the Rockecenters had remained in control so long and now owned so much! That and chicanery, of course. Totally controlled free enterprise!

  I tried to play “St. James Infirmary” on the organ with one finger. I got a series of Japanese movie monsters smashing and gobbling people. Then I found one good key: when you tremoloed it, rivers of blood gushed down the wall in rhythmic waves.

  The door opened.

  It was Madison!

  I had not gotten a good look at him in his car last night under the mercury-vapor highway lights and all.

  I was amazed!

  Here was a clean-looking, rather handsome young man. He was impeccably dressed, quite conservatively. He had brown hair and very appealing brown eyes. He might well have been a model for a shirt ad. He seemed quiet, well-mannered, totally presentable.

  He said, “Social notices. Madison arrived late and was deeply apologetic. Unquote.”

  Bury, I noticed, backed up a bit as though talking to a bomb. “Did you get your credentials?” he said.

  “Oh, yes. Today, Madison received the supreme award of the very best credentials of a Slime-Tripe reporter. Deeply honored, he expressed his gratitude. . . .”

  “And you are now on special independent assignment?” asked Bury.

  “Quote Credentials Department Unaccountably Pleased that no Direct Assignment Contemplated. News spread rapidly throughout buildings. Thousands cheered. . . .”

  Bury said, “This is Smith, John. You will be receiving tips from him. Give him your mother’s phone number and that of the FFBO office.”

  Madison bowed and then walked over and gave me the most sincere and genuine handshake I have ever had. Then he got out a notebook, wrote the numbers on a page and gave them over.

  Then Ma
dison walked over toward Bury—who stepped back—and looked at the attorney with appealing courtesy. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Bury reached into his pocket. He took out one of the passport pictures of Wister. He handed it over.

  Madison took it and gazed upon it in a friendly way. “He looks like a very nice fellow.”

  “He is, he is,” said Bury. “His name is Jerome Terrance Wister.”

  Bury glanced toward me. I took my cue. “He has an office in the Empire State Building.” I gave him the number. “He has developed a new fuel. He will try to get it known through racing.”

  “And?” said Madison.

  Bury spoke. “You will act in the capacity of a Slime-Tripe reporter on special assignment. Actually, he is a modest man. He would not hire a PR directly. But as his friends, we know he needs one to help him on his way. Really, he would not accept our help so we must be nameless. It is a charitable way to contribute to this great society, to have this fellow and his invention helped. Do you understand, Madison? That is your sole assignment.”

  Instantly Madison became ecstatic. “You mean I am to really, truly help him?”

  “Indeed so,” said Bury. “Make his name a household word, make him immortal!”

  “Oh,” said Madison. “Glorious, Stupendous and Gala! Mr. Bury,” he said with eyes glowing, “I can make him the most immortal man you ever heard of! One way or another his name will be known forever!” He could not contain himself for joy. He walked around the room, almost bouncing.

  He stopped, “Quote Labor Negotiations Today Hit Snag. It was learned from unimpeachable sources that Madison wished to know what budget . . .”

  “The sky is the limit,” said Bury. “Within reason, of course.”

  Madison glowed. “Oh, I can see it now! Immortal! His name known everywhere by everyone forever!” Joy and enthusiasm leaped out of every pore. He couldn’t stand still. Had he been wearing a hat, he would have thrown it in the air!

  Bury pulled me out of the room. We waded through the clouds of marijuana smoke and stench of opium. We held steady as reporters bumped into us. We got to the elevator.

  Bury looked around for any snipers as we left. He got us safely outside the building. We stood beside a tinkling fountain and breathed deeply to get rid of the stench.