Mission: Earth "Fortune of Fear" by Ron L. Hubbard Page A
Authors: Ron L. Hubbard
Tags: sf_humor
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certificates chained to my wrist and the bag of junk stones under my feet, looking down at the Alps, where I had not been dumped, so rosy in the glow of dawn.
A telephone was at my elbow in the jet. I picked it up. I got the taxi driver in Afyon right away. My Gods, but things were going smooth. Not even a foul-up in Turkish phone connections.
"Meet me at the airport in Istanbul," I said.
"What flight?" he said.
"My flight," I said. "You think I'd stoop to travel by commercial jet? My own flight, Ahmed. I own the whole (bleeped) world!"
Chapter 9
It was an eager and walking-on-air-type Gris who stepped out of the jet at Yesilkoy Airport, Istanbul.
Immigration stamped me into Turkey without noticing Sultan Bey had not left.
Customs took one look at the wrist cuff and chain, ignored the guns, and sped me on through into the country. They knew me, anyway.
And there amidst the colorful airport throng was Deplor from the planet Modon, alias Ahmed, the taxi driver.
"Jeez!" he said in gangster English, "you look like you et fifty canaries, boss."
"At one gulp," I said. "Lead on, lead on, for we have lots to do. There are going to be some changes made!"
A lot of people didn't know it yet, but this was just the start of fatal days for them. I had plans!
We battered our way out of the crowded airport and then battered our way along the seventeen miles which led to the city. The minarets which made a masonry forest all along the Golden Horn had never looked so good. Roaring along, we soon sped through the breach made in the city wall to accommodate the car traffic and began our tortuous course through narrow, noisy streets. Ignoring the protests of how close we came to pointed-toed slippers, giving vendors' carts the necessary bumps and sounding our horn continuously to clear the way, at length we drew up before our first destination: the Piastre Bankasi.
I trod like a conqueror across the tile floor. I pushed the lowly clerk aside who would have inquired my business. I stalked into the office of Mudur Zengin, czar of the biggest bank chain in Turkey.
Fat and immaculate and manicured, dressed in a pinstripe Western suit of charcoal gray, he looked up from his mother-of-pearl inlaid desk to see who it was tracking up his priceless Persian carpet.
He wasn't used to having people with crossed bandoliers and a shotgun coming in for business conferences. Maybe it was that he was short-sighted-his glasses had fallen off-and seeing the bearskin coat thrown over the shoulders, mistook me for a bear.
"Allah!" he said.
I advanced. I unsnapped the case and opened it. I riffled 515 engraved certificates under his nose.
"O Allah, I was going to say. Sit down!"
He found his pince-nez glasses, polished them and
put them on. He evidently didn't need glasses to see money. He only needed them to see people. He peered at me. "Aha," he said. "You must be Sultan Bey. You do business, I believe, with our Afyon branch. The Zorich Banking Corporation said you were coming but we did not expect you so soon. Now, what can we do for you?"
"A safe-deposit box," I said, "that nobody can get into but me. Nobody."
Buzzers buzzed and guards paraded. We were shortly in the safe-deposit department.
"Two combinations," said Mudur Zengin. "The latest thing. One is yours and one is ours. Only you can appear. No one else can sign the card. Your photograph appears on it and the guards will look at you for sight recognition."
I was shortly in a private cubicle with the box. I laid the precious certificates in it. I laid the gold-sale original receipt on top. I then took out five certificates, each a half a million dollars. It hurt to do so but I did it. There were still 510 of them left in the box.
I rejoined Mudur Zengin. He was polishing his hands. I ended that by pushing a certificate into them. "I want this in cash," I said.
He stared at it. "Cash?"
He suddenly pushed me into his office. He sat me down in the most comfortable chair. He would not
A telephone was at my elbow in the jet. I picked it up. I got the taxi driver in Afyon right away. My Gods, but things were going smooth. Not even a foul-up in Turkish phone connections.
"Meet me at the airport in Istanbul," I said.
"What flight?" he said.
"My flight," I said. "You think I'd stoop to travel by commercial jet? My own flight, Ahmed. I own the whole (bleeped) world!"
Chapter 9
It was an eager and walking-on-air-type Gris who stepped out of the jet at Yesilkoy Airport, Istanbul.
Immigration stamped me into Turkey without noticing Sultan Bey had not left.
Customs took one look at the wrist cuff and chain, ignored the guns, and sped me on through into the country. They knew me, anyway.
And there amidst the colorful airport throng was Deplor from the planet Modon, alias Ahmed, the taxi driver.
"Jeez!" he said in gangster English, "you look like you et fifty canaries, boss."
"At one gulp," I said. "Lead on, lead on, for we have lots to do. There are going to be some changes made!"
A lot of people didn't know it yet, but this was just the start of fatal days for them. I had plans!
We battered our way out of the crowded airport and then battered our way along the seventeen miles which led to the city. The minarets which made a masonry forest all along the Golden Horn had never looked so good. Roaring along, we soon sped through the breach made in the city wall to accommodate the car traffic and began our tortuous course through narrow, noisy streets. Ignoring the protests of how close we came to pointed-toed slippers, giving vendors' carts the necessary bumps and sounding our horn continuously to clear the way, at length we drew up before our first destination: the Piastre Bankasi.
I trod like a conqueror across the tile floor. I pushed the lowly clerk aside who would have inquired my business. I stalked into the office of Mudur Zengin, czar of the biggest bank chain in Turkey.
Fat and immaculate and manicured, dressed in a pinstripe Western suit of charcoal gray, he looked up from his mother-of-pearl inlaid desk to see who it was tracking up his priceless Persian carpet.
He wasn't used to having people with crossed bandoliers and a shotgun coming in for business conferences. Maybe it was that he was short-sighted-his glasses had fallen off-and seeing the bearskin coat thrown over the shoulders, mistook me for a bear.
"Allah!" he said.
I advanced. I unsnapped the case and opened it. I riffled 515 engraved certificates under his nose.
"O Allah, I was going to say. Sit down!"
He found his pince-nez glasses, polished them and
put them on. He evidently didn't need glasses to see money. He only needed them to see people. He peered at me. "Aha," he said. "You must be Sultan Bey. You do business, I believe, with our Afyon branch. The Zorich Banking Corporation said you were coming but we did not expect you so soon. Now, what can we do for you?"
"A safe-deposit box," I said, "that nobody can get into but me. Nobody."
Buzzers buzzed and guards paraded. We were shortly in the safe-deposit department.
"Two combinations," said Mudur Zengin. "The latest thing. One is yours and one is ours. Only you can appear. No one else can sign the card. Your photograph appears on it and the guards will look at you for sight recognition."
I was shortly in a private cubicle with the box. I laid the precious certificates in it. I laid the gold-sale original receipt on top. I then took out five certificates, each a half a million dollars. It hurt to do so but I did it. There were still 510 of them left in the box.
I rejoined Mudur Zengin. He was polishing his hands. I ended that by pushing a certificate into them. "I want this in cash," I said.
He stared at it. "Cash?"
He suddenly pushed me into his office. He sat me down in the most comfortable chair. He would not
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