Mission: Earth "Black Genesis" by Ron L. Hubbard Page A
Authors: Ron L. Hubbard
Tags: sf_humor
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truck wheel wear.
He bent over and picked up some dust and then, to wipe his hand, I suppose, he put his hand in his pocket and brought it out clean.
Unconcerned, he just went on clickety-clacking along with the occasional POP.
Again he stopped. He was sniffing the air. He was looking at a huge barred door. And he certainly wouldn't be able to get in there—it was the heroin conversion plant!
He went up to it and knocked. How silly. Nobody was in there. It only operates once in a while. But still he knocked, very sharp raps.
Heller must have given it up. He made some notes. Just some figures. Pointless.
And there he went again, clickety-clacking, POP along.
He'd stop by an exit tunnel, go down it a bit and come back. I had to laugh. He even went up the exit tunnel which led to my room! He could never suspect the villa lay on the other side. He didn't even try the switch which opened the door, didn't even see it, apparently. It would have brought him within ten feet of where I was sitting.
Some spy!
It had only taken him an hour.
Then he'd done a little sketch, all neat, very fast. Apparently there was nobody near to give it to, to show them how good he was—or maybe he had understood they weren't talking to him. He just climbed back up into the ship.
And that was that.
I had to laugh. What couldn't he have discovered if he had been a real trained spy! And what did he have? A silly map he could have gotten in the base construction office anyway.
I packed it up. It had turned ten and I had really important things to do—namely, making Soltan Gris rich!
Chapter 2
The villa had three cars, all more or less in what Turkey considers running condition. I went out and considered them. The Datsun pickup was more or less full of the remains of vegetables from the morning marketing. The Chevy station wagon had an empty gas tank. That left the French Renault sedan. I think the car had been left over from the wreckage of World War I: they believe in making cars last in Turkey.
The body was dented from several direct hits, the windshield was cracked. It had to be cranked because the battery was dead. It kicked and had been known to break somebody's arm, so I got Karagoz to crank it. And off I went to town.
I dreamed that soon I would buy a long, black, bulletproof limousine, the kind gangsters have. I even knew where there was one: a Turkish general had been killed in the 1963 military take-over and the car was for sale cheap.
The Renault, however, had its advantages. It steered erratically and could be counted on to drive carts off the road. They are stupid gigs, usually heavily laden, drawn by donkeys, and they really clutter the place up. If you swerve in close to the donkey as you pass, the cart winds up in the ditch. It is very comical. You can watch the driver shaking his fist in the rearview mirror.
I was just enjoying my fifth cart upset when I
noticed I was passing Afyonkarahisar: the vast bulk of the rock rose 750 feet in the air.
Abruptly, I pulled to the left and stopped. I blocked a chain of carts coming from town, but they could wait. I leaned out and looked up the face of the rock.
Even though it was powdered with cement dust, you could see that it had handholds if you didn't mind losing a few fingernails. Still, I would never attempt to climb it. Never. And in the dark? Absolutely never!
My interest in this was a matter of character, not the character of Heller—I already knew he was crazy—but in the character of a man who had suddenly become vital in my plans of riches: Jimmy "The Gutter" Tavilnasty. He said he had seen Heller climbing it. Obviously, the feat was impossible. Therefore Jimmy "The Gutter" Tavilnasty was a pathological liar. Good. I would watch it when I spoke with him later today and made him my offer.
The engine had died so I got out and cranked it. The drivers of the halted carts were screaming and shaking their fists. I screamed and shook my fist back, got in and drove the
He bent over and picked up some dust and then, to wipe his hand, I suppose, he put his hand in his pocket and brought it out clean.
Unconcerned, he just went on clickety-clacking along with the occasional POP.
Again he stopped. He was sniffing the air. He was looking at a huge barred door. And he certainly wouldn't be able to get in there—it was the heroin conversion plant!
He went up to it and knocked. How silly. Nobody was in there. It only operates once in a while. But still he knocked, very sharp raps.
Heller must have given it up. He made some notes. Just some figures. Pointless.
And there he went again, clickety-clacking, POP along.
He'd stop by an exit tunnel, go down it a bit and come back. I had to laugh. He even went up the exit tunnel which led to my room! He could never suspect the villa lay on the other side. He didn't even try the switch which opened the door, didn't even see it, apparently. It would have brought him within ten feet of where I was sitting.
Some spy!
It had only taken him an hour.
Then he'd done a little sketch, all neat, very fast. Apparently there was nobody near to give it to, to show them how good he was—or maybe he had understood they weren't talking to him. He just climbed back up into the ship.
And that was that.
I had to laugh. What couldn't he have discovered if he had been a real trained spy! And what did he have? A silly map he could have gotten in the base construction office anyway.
I packed it up. It had turned ten and I had really important things to do—namely, making Soltan Gris rich!
Chapter 2
The villa had three cars, all more or less in what Turkey considers running condition. I went out and considered them. The Datsun pickup was more or less full of the remains of vegetables from the morning marketing. The Chevy station wagon had an empty gas tank. That left the French Renault sedan. I think the car had been left over from the wreckage of World War I: they believe in making cars last in Turkey.
The body was dented from several direct hits, the windshield was cracked. It had to be cranked because the battery was dead. It kicked and had been known to break somebody's arm, so I got Karagoz to crank it. And off I went to town.
I dreamed that soon I would buy a long, black, bulletproof limousine, the kind gangsters have. I even knew where there was one: a Turkish general had been killed in the 1963 military take-over and the car was for sale cheap.
The Renault, however, had its advantages. It steered erratically and could be counted on to drive carts off the road. They are stupid gigs, usually heavily laden, drawn by donkeys, and they really clutter the place up. If you swerve in close to the donkey as you pass, the cart winds up in the ditch. It is very comical. You can watch the driver shaking his fist in the rearview mirror.
I was just enjoying my fifth cart upset when I
noticed I was passing Afyonkarahisar: the vast bulk of the rock rose 750 feet in the air.
Abruptly, I pulled to the left and stopped. I blocked a chain of carts coming from town, but they could wait. I leaned out and looked up the face of the rock.
Even though it was powdered with cement dust, you could see that it had handholds if you didn't mind losing a few fingernails. Still, I would never attempt to climb it. Never. And in the dark? Absolutely never!
My interest in this was a matter of character, not the character of Heller—I already knew he was crazy—but in the character of a man who had suddenly become vital in my plans of riches: Jimmy "The Gutter" Tavilnasty. He said he had seen Heller climbing it. Obviously, the feat was impossible. Therefore Jimmy "The Gutter" Tavilnasty was a pathological liar. Good. I would watch it when I spoke with him later today and made him my offer.
The engine had died so I got out and cranked it. The drivers of the halted carts were screaming and shaking their fists. I screamed and shook my fist back, got in and drove the
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