Mission: Earth "The Enemy Within" (26 page)

Yes, women were a trial. I could agree with that. "Now," he said, "hitting the American consul from Ankara is awful God (bleeped) close to home!"

Desperation is often father to inspiration. I had to get rid of this Silva. He was not only a menace to the base, he was also a threat to my continued possession of Utanc. He might persuade her to run off with him!

What was the most dangerous thing I could ask him to do? One that would be sure to get him killed. Who was the best-protected person on the planet?

"How about hitting the president of the U.S.?" I suggested.

He shook his head. "Hell, I don't want to be no hero like Oswald."

Then I had it. This would surely get Silva killed! "How about the director of the CIA?"

He thought about it. He scratched his chin with the muzzle of the leopard. "Has its points. (Bleepards) and their American consuls. Has its points." Then he fixed me with his opaque eyes. "All right," he said. "I'll do it for a hunnert big ones." Then he added, "And expenses."

I did a rapid calculation. I was slightly hazy on whether "big one" meant one hundred or one thousand. But let's say it did mean one thousand. One hundred thousand Turkish lira was probably only about a thousand dollars U.S. And besides, he'd never make it. They'd shoot him to Swiss cheese.

"It's a deal," I said. Anything to get him away from Utanc. Even money. I reached into my pocket and got out a fistful of lira. I handed it to him. "You go get a room in town. And stay away from here so as not to compromise the plan. Sign in at the Castle Hotel: we haven't shot the place up lately. Tomorrow you'll receive money and a ticket to the United States."

"You got some loads for this leopard?" he said. "I think the loads got wet in that God (bleeped) toilet bowl."

I had some number-twelve-shot shotgun shells that would fit his gun. A dealer had been selling them cheap because number twelve shot is so tiny a pellet it is useful for nothing, not even canaries. I told him to go out in the yard. I got to my gun racks. I found the box. I even put a piece of lead in the side of it to make sure it showed up on aircraft detectors.

I went out. I gave him the box. I shook him by the hand. "Good luck," I said fervently. But I did not say good luck to whom.

I told Karagoz to drive him to town.

Good riddance! Trying to steal Utanc!

I went into my office and wrote the order for the money and ticket to Faht Bey. I knew he'd squeal but this was an emergency. GOOD-BYE GUNSALMO SILVA!

WHY hadn't that helmet worked?

I examined it. I put the stolen meter under it. Sure enough, it was dead! The light went on but no waves went through the helmet itself.

Just as I was about to call the technician, Flip, I remembered he'd been given a posthypnotic suggestion to forget it.

Something was definitely wrong here. But if I am good at languages, circuit diagrams and such are gibberish to me.

I laboriously got out all the other helmets. I tested each one with a meter.

They were all dead! The lights went on but they didn't work!

My roseate dreams of controlling everybody on this planet with hypnotism were at stake.

Carefully, I went back over what had been done to them. They had all worked when he first fixed them.

Aha! I still had the cartons and boxes for the switches. I got one out. It said Mutual-Proximity Breaker Switch. Wait. It had some small print: Yippee-Zip Manufacturing Co., Industrial City, Voltar. No, no. Not that. The other side of the box. More small print. It said:

Warning:

Minimum-Range Model. For Use Only in Spacevessels Operating in Formation. Active range: 2 miles.

The world fell in. Spacevessels travel so fast that a two-mile warning zone was nothing. Probably these switches were here in such abundance because they used a longer range switch normally—maybe a thousand miles.

But two miles!

Any time I was within two miles of one of these helmets it wouldn't work!

Forlornly, I tried to figure out how to put a helmet on somebody and then drive more than two miles away.... No, it was quite impossible.

Get the thing taken out of my head?

Oh, no, never! Not with Nurse Bildirjin sitting on my chest! Not any of that agony again! That Part B was in my skull from here on out!

Sadly, I put the helmets back in the vault.

And then, being of an optimistic temperament, I brightened. There was one thing very sure.

Krak would never be able to use a hypnohelmet on me again.

No more Manco Devils!

It had all turned out successfully after all!

The Blixo was gone. Gunsalmo Silva was gone. Bawtch and the forgers would be dead. Heller had been set up to get his brains bashed in by Krak.

Maybe I could take a long snooze. And maybe go hunting. I had done splendidly well, really. The Apparatus would be proud of me. I had really earned a rest!

If only I could think of something that would please Utanc and bring her once again into my lonely bed.

In an optimistic mood, I conceived of a plan to make things even more all right.

My nights were pretty lonely and miserable without Utanc. I was certain I knew of something that would appeal to her.

I was planning a nice, quiet hunting trip. I had bought a Franchi Deluxe Automatic Shotgun during my last visit—twelve-gauge, thirty-two-inch barrel, full choke, three-inch magnum loads, five-shot magazine. I had never fired it. With No. 00 buckshot, each one .33 indies in diameter, it was the very thing for songbirds.

That shooting songbirds is illegal in Turkey goes without saying. They have odd ideas. But it is open season all year round for wolf, lynx and wild boar. And the season was open now for wildcat, fox, hare, rabbit, duck, partridge, woodcock and quail. The trick is to pretend you are hunting one of these and then, turning quick, shoot a songbird and say it got in the road.

My permit was all in order.

The Ford station wagon was running, if a bit oddly.

There would be sparkling campfires in the wilds. And where did Utanc fit in? As a wild girl from the Kara Kum desert, she, of course, would greatly admire a man who could go out, go bang and bring home game to fill the old stew pot, while she sat beside the campfire. I could just see the adoring look come into her eyes as I came up loaded down with wild canaries or such. The primitive instinct. In my Earth psychology textbooks, it is called atavism. Everybody is a caveman, even though Freud passed a law against it, and gets thrown back to primitive instincts like any other beast or animal. So you see, my hopes were not founded on nothing.

There are also bear to be hunted in Turkey, and while it sounded attractive to drag a bear into camp and stand there and sort of beat my chest to show her what a great hunter I was, bear are pretty tricky things to shoot. If you only graze them, you've probably had it. I thought I'd better stick to impressing her with wild canaries—maybe shoot lots of them to make a show.

As I saw it, it was all carefully thought out. I had earned the rest. The Apparatus doesn't give medals in public so I thought I'd better pin this trip on myself as a sort of substitute for labors well done. I spent two nice days planning it.

Undoubtedly she had forgiven me by this time over the little boy. He was still in her room and so was the other one. But frankly, who cares about a little tap on the nose? You can't cry about it forever.

I checked with Karagoz. No, Utanc had not come out of her room for two days now. Not since Silva had left.

I listened outside her garden wall. No laughter in the garden.

Ah, well. She really should be cheered up.

I wrote a note. On it I said, "Utanc, you adorable, beautiful creature. You are invited to go on a nice long hunting trip. I will shoot songbirds and you can boil them in the wilds." I knew it would appeal to her atavism.

I slid it under her door.

Aha! The corner of it vanished instantly!

Breathlessly, I listened. After several minutes, I heard the iron bar lifting.

Success! I knew atavism would be stirred. Throw-back to cave days. Works every time!

The knob rattled!

The door swung open!

And suddenly a torrent of everything female you could name started to hurl out of that door at me! Shoes! Cups! A potted plant! A looking glass soared through the air and shattered against the far patio wall!

She was standing there, her nostrils flaring, her hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to get into some hair!

In pure venom her words lashed out, "You dirty (bleepard)! It's not enough to ruin forever a beautiful boy! Now, (bleep) you, you want to kill SONGBIRDS!"

A small hand boosted something up behind her. It was a chair!

She launched it at me like a cannon shot! It shattered into splinters!

I only got the edge of it. I ducked into my room.

I had aroused atavism all right. The wrong kind!

I locked my door very thoroughly. I sat down and pondered this.

Amazing as it might seem, she was still upset about that (bleeped) little boy. Imagine it!

Well, women are funny. You really can't ever tell. I thought she might get over it.

Well, she hadn't. My first conclusion had been right. She would never forgive me. And all over one (bleeped), useless, small boy.

Gloom settled over me. Actually, it was only Utanc that had motivated my desire for a hunting trip.

I wandered into my secret office. I slumped in the chair. The viewer was in front of me, untouched for days. Maybe Heller was in some kind of trouble that would cheer me up. Listlessly I turned it on.

It seemed sort of dim. I turned up the picture gain.

A cathedral!

An awfully big cathedral!

Something was going on.

A funeral!

It was a big crowd. There were gowned priests going through various motions. A choir was singing beautifully.

It fitted squarely in my mood. What soulful music! So sad. So beautifully sad!

Heller was sitting on a bench. He was holding somebody's hand. Somebody in a black veil. Babe Corleone! She was sobbing! Heller patted her hand.

There was some sort of casket lying in state. Evidently there had been a file-by already.

Then I understood. Jimmy "The Gutter" Tavilnasty. It was his funeral! In possibly the biggest cathedral in America? St. John the Divine? St. Patrick's? It was awfully big. All gold and glittering candles and high, imposing arches.

The music swelled in majesty.

And here came somebody to a lower altar or pulpit. A choir boy. A hush fell. He was speaking into the great vaulted room, his clear, tenor voice trembling with emotion.

He said, "If it had not been for our dear, departed Jimmy, I never would have learned to let the other boys love me!"

And then he raised his voice in the saddest song I have ever heard. The choir swelled in solemn beauty behind him.

The Latin music faded away. Here came another to the small pulpit, an elderly man, stooped with age.

"As head of the reform school, I counted Jimmy as my friend. My fondest memories of him are those when he organized, all by himself and out of charity, the greatest riots the youth prison has ever experienced. And today, without his coaching, we would have hardly any new prisoners at all. A great man, idol of a thousand street gangs. He will be missed."

The choir lifted their voices in saintly chords that faded away into the vaulted dome toward heaven.

And here was another man coming to the pulpit. He bowed his head reverently, and there were tears in his voice as he spoke. "I was his prison psychologist many times. Jimmy Tavilnasty was a model patient. I have never seen a man who took to behavior modification therapy so well. He went from bad to worse and finally, under my careful coaching, became the very embodiment of American crime." His voice broke with emotion. "He was the All American Boy that became the hit man we will never forget."

The choir swelled in reverence and awe.

Oh, it was beautiful.

The funeral progressed. Eight pallbearers bore the casket. They were dressed in black. They were all Sicilians. They all had bulges where their guns would be beneath their coats.

And then I saw why my screen had been dim. Everyone was wearing heavy, dark glasses, including Heller. I noticed this because the screen got even darker than it had been and once more I had to turn up the brightness. A gloomy, gloomy day! It was raining!

The casket was carried through an arch of switchblades made by twenty street gangs.

At the cemetery, there were wreaths and wreaths and flowers everywhere. A huge horseshoe of lilies had a banner on it:

Jimmy Our Pal

Another stand of flowers was in the shape of a stiletto. Its banner said:

To Jimmy from the Faustino Narcotici Mob

It got kicked down and trampled under solemn feet.

Five chorus girls in widow's weeds stood weeping at the grave, pressing black handkerchiefs to their sobbing mouths.

The reason for the dark glasses appeared. The whole funeral was being covered by TV crews that had the good grace to wear black armbands at the last. The bands were being handed out by a mobster who held a gun in his other hand.

The huge procession wound down into a crypt. It said:

Family Crypt Corleone

Jimmy's casket was slid into a vault. The sobbing was much louder.

Babe's fingers were trailing over a stone:

"Holy Joe" Corleone

She was breaking down. Heller led her toward a limousine. He gently got her away from people who were trying to touch her hand or kiss her cheek in sympathy. She was really crying hard.