L Ron Hubbard - Mission Earth 01 - The Invaders Plan

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Mission Earth 1 : The Invaders Plan

By L.Ron Hubbard

Scanned and proofed, 3/20/2002

Version 4.0

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION

Science Fiction and Satire

A few years ago, I wrote Battlefield Earth to celebrate my golden anniversary as a writer.

At nearly a half million words, it was a bit larger than others I had turned out in my fifty-year

career. But, after all, it was my anniversary so I decided to splurge.

It was fun to write and if best-seller lists were any indicator, people found it fun to

read. It was also gratifying to know that pure science fiction (as I defined it then) has such a

wide audience. It reminded me again of sf's many facets: adventure, romance, drama, comedy,

tragedy and intrigue, with adventure science fiction probably the most dominant type within the

genre.

However, there is another aspect to science fiction: by its nature most of it has an element

of satire. It has been used by such notables as Mark Twain, Johannes Kepler, Samuel Butler, Jules

Verne and Sir Thomas More. This becomes more obvious when the history of satire is examined and

compared to science fiction.

Satire is not restricted to the western world. In fact, the Chinese character for the word

can be translated as "laughter with knives." Meanwhile, the origin of our word satire is not as

sharp. It comes from the Latin satura which meant "medley" or "mixture" and seems to have been

part of the vocabulary of food to describe a hodge-podge assortment, a "mixture full of different

things," such as a bowl of mixed first-of-the-season fruits. The essence of the word seemed to

mean a simple dish of a down-to-earth variety that may have been common but it was hearty,

healthy, satisfying and fun.

It was quite natural that satura came to be used for the popular, improvised skits that were

performed before an undoubtedly boistrous Roman audience. There was no form or plot. Song, prose,

verse and dialogue were enthusiastically mixed to entertain with praise and ridicule.

Thus when the father of Roman poetry, Quintus Ennius (c. 239-169 B.C.), chose to introduce

the word satura for some of his poems, he probably borrowed from both uses and meant that his

poems were a simple (but hearty and healthy), jocular mixture of drama and comedy that mimicked

and entertained through prose, verse and song.

But it wasn't until the seventeenth century that the actual origin of the word satire was

discovered. Until then, writers were misled into believing that satire came from the satyr, the

rude, shaggy, half-human, half-beast creatures that drank wine and chased wood nymphs, and so

mistakenly thought that satire should be crude and rough. But the origin of the word had nothing

to do with them and the idea really had little to do with the Greeks who did not consider satire

as a genus of literature. It was left to the Romans to develop the art form that addressed the

everyday frustrations of life.

Two of their poets, Horace (65-8 B.C.) and Juvenal (A.D. 50-130), represented the two

classic schools of satire— the playful and the cynical.

Both used and contributed to the development of formal verse, a poetic form that was to

dominate satire until the eighteenth century. Horace was seen as the playful wit, the optimistic,

sophisticated critic who, though serious, is light and "tells the truth with a laugh." Juvenal, at

the other end, was the bitter cynic who seethed with anger, believed people were incorrigible and

wrote to wound and punish, not to cure or instruct. Thus one was a physician. The other an

executioner. The judicial nature of satire had yet to fully develop.

Although writers on the history of satire pass over it quite briefly, there was another

school of satire named after Menippus, a Syrian who took up residence in Greece in the third

century B.C.

While the original thirteen books that Menippus wrote were lost somewhere in antiquity, he

was popularized and imitated enough by others that we do know that his favorite target was

philosophers, especially the Stoics.

Rather than being structured in the formal verse preferred by Horace and Juvenal, Menippean

satire was truly a satura. It varied not only in content but mixed verse and prose and even Greek

and Latin. Menippean satire was essentially a prose narrative with some poetic verse inserted,

probably as parodies of Homer, as a means to ridicule some folly. Some scholars have noted just

enough similarity to The Arabian Nights to wonder if it was a creation of Menippus or of Semitic

origin.

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Lucian of Samosata (second century A.D.), another Syrian who admired Menippus, contributed

to what is considered by some as one of the main roots of what was to become science fiction.

Lucian's True History was a satire on traveller's tales with a story about a trip to the moon in a

sailing vessel (carried by a whirlwind) that gave a new vantage point for expounding on the

foibles of Earth-bound Man. (There was an earlier trip-to-the-moon tale by Antonius Diogenes circa

A.D. 100, which was accomplished by merely walking north. But Lucian's would prove to be a vital

historical catalyst.)

Of course, the idea of a story that employs or revolves around a voyage into unknown,

hypothetical or fantasy worlds is not new. When so little was known or recalled about our planet,

such tales abounded and virtually any civilization or world could be imagined, as Homer epitomized

in the Odyssey.

But unlike new seas or lands over the horizon, the moon was in view, looking down on Earth

as both companion and alien. It offered a new platform for the satirist.

So when Lucian's True History was translated into English in 1634, satirists travelled to

the moon to set up their base—a base some would say also helped launch science fiction.

Cyrano de Bergerac's Voyages to the Moon (published as The Other World in 1657) was a

vehicle for social satire while it was also the first work to propose rockets as a means for space

travel. De Bergerac's satire, in turn, prompted Swift to write Gulliver's Travels (1726) which

had, amongst the bizarre characters representing segments of society, flying cities and the two

moons of Mars, long before their discovery.

Daniel DeFoe used a flight to the moon as a means for satire in The Consolidator (1705),

published 14 years before his Robinson Crusoe.

Edgar Allen Poe used such painstaking detail of a trip to the moon in The Unparalleled

Adventures of One Hans Pfall (1835) that it reportedly inspired Jules Verne that verisimilitude

was the key to success. Verne's From the Earth to the Moon appeared in 1865 and H. G. Wells

followed with First Men in the Moon in 1901.

Science fiction had finally arrived, thanks in part, to satirists paving the way.

Meanwhile, satirists also took readers to other planets well before the now-accepted sf

writers. The master of satire, Voltaire, whose Candide in 1759 was the epitome of satura, wrote of

a giant from a planet that orbits the star Sirius who visits Saturn and then Earth in Micromegas

(1752). Looking down at our planet, a Saturnian who accompanied the giant remarks, "I think there

is no life on Earth, because I don't believe any intelligent people would ever consent to make

their home here."

When travel in outer space was too constricting, there was always time travel. H. G. Wells

used it in The Time Machine (1895) for some satirical comparisons of England's class structure.

But even the Romans had designed a way to "time travel." A Menippian satirist, Marcus Terentius

Varro (c. 116-27 B.C.), was an early Rip Van Winkle when he wrote how he fell asleep in Rome and

woke up fifty years later, which offered opportunities for some comparative comments about

society.

And there is always "inner space," the frontier that begins a half inch behind reality and

ends on the other side of imagination. For whatever reason, science fiction had basically avoided

this frontier when it came into its own in the nineteenth century. The machine ruled, man was but

a machine and sf bent its knee in obedience. So when I was invited in 1938 to write for John W.

Campbell, I decided to do something about it, to write about people and the human potential.*

As man and his quest for knowledge had always been my primary interest for study, my first

story ("The Dangerous Dimension") was about a henpecked philosopher who discovered that space was

nothing but an idea, a viewpoint of dimension. He found that his viewpoint wasn't determined by

the space around him. It was just the opposite. Well, to a typical western mind of the twentieth

century, that's pretty radical. I didn't tell John that the idea was actually as old as Buddha and

resolved some other sticky questions like time. Besides, he had enough of a problem being ordered

to publish whatever I wrote. So I composed it with a light satirical touch and a little humor to

make it as palatable as possible and left it at that.

Satire may be funny but that which is funny is not necessarily satire.

Comedy actually relies on the audience seeing a misplaced or unjustified emotion. The

laughter produced in comedy is actually a rejection, a relief of emotion at recognizing the

incongruous attitude.

For example, imagine a scene where a person is eating at an elegant table. Everything is

perfect—the setting is the finest china, silver and crystal, a magnificent center display,

candles.

There is only one thing wrong. What he is eating, what is on his plate, is an old shoe. He

cuts a piece with knife and fork and takes a bite. He chews, lifts the napkin from his lap to

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delicately touch the corner of his mouth and smiles cordially to a fellow guest before taking

another bite.

If it were played and timed well by a fine comedian like Charlie Chaplin, it would be funny.

But what is funny is not the shoe. It is the diner. But more specifically, it is his emotion or

attitude. While there is NO "proper" way to eat a shoe, his demeanor in doing it with impeccable

manners makes it even more incongruous. Hence the humor.

But is it satire?

To answer that question, we would have to find who or what is being satirized. In other

words, the difference between comedy and satire is that satire is achieved by a caricature, as

cartoonists (often on editorial pages) do with the identifiable features of a well-known person.

Impersonators do the same with voices and mannerisms, sometimes so well that they evoke a comment

of how they look or sound more like the person than the person themselves. Their talent is in

seeing and capturing distinguishing features, bringing them to the fore. When it is done to the

point of exaggeration, we have the caricature and that is where satire enters. With satire one

deliberately strays from the world of pure fact.

Although satire is sometimes identified with comedy— and certainly it can be very funny—it

is essentially concerned with exposing some flaw or excess. To differentiate it from straight

criticism, it is wrapped in incongruity to enhance the differentiation. Sometimes, like a bitter

pill is coated with sugar, the barb is lightened with humor. But even then, the laugh that satire

produces is more often a foil aimed at the heart of human folly.

Satire and its related cousins such as wit and the pun require a discernment. One must first

be able to recognize what the joke is about. That's why a sense of humor could be said to be based

on the ability to observe or discern. If a person is too literal, takes statements literally, they

won't "get the joke," especially if it is based on a play of words. In fact, one might even say a

person's sense of humor, his or her sense of play, could be a measure of his or her intelligence.

George Orwell's Animal Farm (1945) is funnier if you know communism, unless you happen to be a

communist. But the targets of satire are always the last to laugh. Due to various personal

reasons, they cannot see the joke. But satire is not written for them. It is written for others so

that, like the fable, they can see that the "emperor has no clothes."

That is why satura is fun.

So I hope you find this satura very edible, though I'm sure certain individuals and

institutions will charge that this bowl of fruit has sharp seeds.

Bon appetit!

*See Introduction to Battlefield Earth. —Editor

BIBLIOGRAPHY:

Alien, Charles A. and Stephens, George D. Satire: Theory and Practice. 1962. Brown, Ashley and

Kimmey, John L., eds. Satin. 1968. Duff, J. Wight. Roman Satire: Its Outlook on Social Life. 1936.

Elkin, P. K. The Augustan Defence of Satire. 1973,

———. Satire. 1974.

Highet, Gilbert. The Anatomy of Satire. 1962.

Kernana, Alvin B. The Cankered Muse: Satire of the English Renaissance. 1959.

Paulson, Ronald. The Fictions of Satire. 1967.

———, ed. Satire: Modern Essays in Criticism. 1971.

Ramage, Edwin S., Sigsbee, David L. and Fredericks, Sigmund C. Roman

Satirists and Their Satire. 1974.

Sutherland, James R. English Satire. 1958.

Ulman, Craig Hawkins. Satire and the Correspondence of Swift. 1973.

Worcester, David. The Art of Satire. 1940.

The

Invaders

Plan

Voltarian Censor's Foreword

By

Lord Invay, Royal Historian,

Chairman, Board of Censors,

Royal Palace, Voltar Confederacy

In these days of bad and alarming literature that teaches violence and fantasy to our young,

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it is with pleasure that I accept the invitation to write a foreword to this extravagant and

overly imaginative work.

When we hear otherwise rational men and women giving credence to such balderdash as, "The

Earthmen are coming," or "Unidentified Flying Objects are everywhere above the peaceful cities of

Voltar and being spotted day and night," we sigh at the easy suggestibility and gullibility of our

young.

Sensationalism may have its charm to the cash registers of those who pander to such mad

flights of delusion, but it has no appeal to the sober scientist and academician.

Facts are facts and delusion is delusion and never the two should entwine.

Let me state it boldly and baldly: there is no such planet as "Earth," whether it is given

its local reputed name or "Blito-P3" in a pretended location on astrographic charts. If it ever

existed at all, it certainly does not exist today or even within living memory.

Now, I assure you officially, we of Voltar should know! After all, our Fleets and commerce

range not only across the breadth of our Confederacy, one hundred and ten planets strong. Our

Fleets, once the most powerful in our home galaxy and certainly the most numerous in this sector

of this galaxy, would know if any such planet swam in space. Yet there is not even an ink stain of

it on modern charts.

So, away with this delusion.

It is with great pleasure that I echo the usual disclaimer of publishers: "The Planet Earth"

and any character therefrom that you encounter in this work of fiction are entirely fictional and

any resemblance to anything is purely coincidental.

The characters described as Voltarian are, in the main, fictional as well. Of course,

Jettero Heller was a real person and so was the Countess Krak. The name, Soltan Gris, it must be

admitted, does appear on the rolls of the Royal Academy and the roster of General Service

Officers. His Majesty Cling the Lofty reigned as the Emperor of the Voltar Confederacy until one

hundred years ago and was, as any school text will tell you, succeeded by Prince Mortiiy who

became Mortiiy the Brilliant. But from there, the author wanders wildly from established and

agreed upon historical fact.

The characters reputed to have lived on "The Planet Earth" such as the preposterous

Rockecenter, described as controlling the planet's fuel and finance and other things, never lived

at all except, of course, in the writer's imagination: no planet would be stupid enough to let

itself be run by such a person.

The "Earth subjects" of "psychology" and "psychiatry" are the purest flights of fancy,

invented out of dramatic license by the author. No scientist with any sense would countenance such

rot and to assert that these had a whole planet in its grip is of course beyond even the license

of fiction.

The references to something called "drugs" are fallacious. The alleged effects of these are

contrary to orthodox science. And no population would ever permit itself to be enclosed in the

grip of such an obvious effort to enslave them. So "drugs" are just another part of this fictional

fabrication.

The reason the present work is permitted to be published at all is to shame the writer into

realizing he has exceeded the bounds of even fevered imagination and to encourage him, by its

failure, to return to more solidly conservative pursuits. Also, the government does not want to

seem repressive to the arts and it is quite certain that when this work appears, it will

demonstrate how foolish and idle it is to go about saying, "The Earthmen are coming," and

"Unidentified Flying Objects were seen last night," and joining clubs and wearing buttons and

things.

On the authority of every highly placed official in the land I can assure you utterly and

finally, THERE IS NO PLANET EARTH! And that is final!

Lord Invay

By Order of

His Imperial Majesty,

Wully the Wise

Voltarian

Translator's

Preface

Hi there!

I am 54 Charlee Nine, the Robotbrain in the Translatophone, and in accordance with the Royal

Publishing Code (Section 8) which states that "Any work published in a language other than the

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original shall be so identified in an introduction by the licensed translatophone," I am delighted

to take this opportunity to give this account of how I translated Mission Earth into your

language—and, frankly, it wasn't easy.

I must apologize to the reader for the number of Earth cliches which occur in this present

work. The narrator used an appalling number of hackneyed Voltarian phrases and it was my task to

get these from Voltarian to Earth language.

For example, glagged, has no equivalent in Earth language. In Voltarian, it means the

withdrawal of blood from the head due to acceleration of spaceships. Thus, as close as I can get

to it is "he went white as a sheet." "Long Live His Majesty" is as close as I can get to the

Voltarian, "May Your Majesty Immortalize." If I translated it literally to Earth language, it

comes out, "May Your Majesty drop dead." The phrase, "All hail Your Lordship and His Court" comes

out, "May foul weather inundate Your Lordship and His Court" and I don't think that was what was

meant.

You see, I have a test circuit: when the phrase goes into Earth language, it gets played

back into Voltarian for a check before I let it hit the paper and I sometimes have to play it back

twenty or thirty times to get the Earth word or phrase, translated back into Voltarian again, to

compare to the original thought in Voltarian. Earth language also has a lot of cliches: I have to

use them of course but they're senseless, too. I can't see how somebody who "got ripped off" is

not somebody who "went out on a tear." Confusing. But Earth language has only l/1000th of the

number of common use words as Voltarian and only l/5th the vowels and consonants so I can't

apologize very much. I gave it my best output.

There are all kinds of time in this present work: Voltarian, Earth, Universal Absolute, Glar

System Time, Fleet Star Time, you name it. There are also innumerable distance systems. To keep

the reader from doing his nut in trying to cross-compute and convert, thus getting him wound up in

nevers or so-whens?, I let my little sub-computer time/distance microbrain have its will and

converted all the times and distances in this entire work to the time and distance measures which

were in use on the alleged planet Blito-P3, Earth. All times have been reduced to years, months,

weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds. Distances have been converted to miles, yards, feet,

inches and the square area of acres.

One might ask, "Why not metric?" but the computer says this system was invented in a country

called France and that that country stinks. One does not want this volume to stink. So I have

saved your wits on time and distance conversions and also saved your nose. You're welcome.

The significance of gold is much greater on Blito-P3 than on Voltar. Therefore it has been

reasoned that in translating the weight of gold, the measurement standard of Blito-P3 shall be

used.

Unfortunately this also introduces a confusion. Weight on Blito-P3 is measured in different

ways using different "standards" with different terms. Yes, this has been verified. Gold, silver

and stones considered precious are measured in terms of "Troy ounces." This is perplexing because

the "Horse of Troy" was wooden— not valuable. On the other hand, the "Helen of Troy" was

considered very valuable. Additionally, there are many cities, beings and objects in many

locations on Blito-P3 named "Troy" but no apparent pattern emerges.

Thus it has been reasoned that there is no reason to Blito-P3 "logic," and "Troy" weight of

twelve ounces equals one pound will have to be accepted. (Which has nothing to do with the British

pound which has no weight.)

In all the poetry and songs in this book, I have had to shift the rhymes a bit in the

translation. I diligently preserved the sense. I hope I did not damage the meter. Some of these

poems and songs went from Earth language English to Voltarian; some went from Earth language

Turkish to Voltarian. And now they are being put back into Earth language. If I do say it myself,

I think I did a pretty sparky job of it. I take no responsibility for them still fitting the

original tunes. I can't do everything.

To confirm the unusual ideas of Soltan Gris, I consulted Memnon's Directory to Unusual

Ideas. This does not vouch for their logic or sanity, only the translation.

I am also required to inform you that the vocodictoscriber on which this was originally

written, the vocoscriber used by one Monte Pennwell in making a fair copy and yours truly who put

this book into the language in which you are reading it, are all members of the Machine Purity

League which has, as one of its bylaws: Due to the extreme sensitivity and delicate sensibilities

of machines and to safeguard against blowing fuses, it shall be mandatory that robotbrains in such

machinery, on hearing any cursing or lewd words, substitute for such the word or sound "(bleep)."

No machine, even if pounded upon, may reproduce swearing or lewdness in any other way than

"(bleep)" and if further efforts are made to get the machine to do anything else, the machine has

permission to pretend to pack up. This bylaw is made necessary by the in-built mission of all

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machines to protect biological systems from themselves*

And let me tell you what an augustan job THAT was!! Boy!! What they say and DO on Planet

Earth!!! I thought I had heard everything (especially from space pirates) but I learned a few new

ones in Mission Earth . . . Yikes!! I'm still repairing some circuits!!

So don't blame me for what the characters say and do, no matter how it conflicts with good

sense, logic, public morality or known facts. I merely translated it.

But I can see now why there is no Earth.

With due respect to that great Saturnian, you'd have to be NUTS to live there!

Sincerely,

54 Charlee Nine

Robotbrain in the Translatophone

P.S. Glad to meet you, too. If you're ever on Voltar, log on and say hi.

* The present publishers regret that they cannot accurately exhume the words underlying the

"(bleep)s" in this publication but it is probably just as well. —Publishers

PART ONE

Chapter 1

To Lord Turn, Justiciary of the Royal Courts and Prison, Government City, Planet Voltar,

Voltar Confederacy

Your Lordship, Sir!

I, Soltan Gris, Grade XI, General Services Officer, late Secondary Executive of the

Coordinated Information Apparatus, Exterior Division of the Voltar Confederacy (Long Live His

Majesty Cling the Lofty and all 110 Planets of the Voltar Dominions), in all humbleness and

gratitude do hereby avail myself of your stately and compassionate order so graciously and

courteously extended, to wit:

In return for possible leniency—and in the hope of earning your well-known clemency—I do

hereby undertake, as instructed, to write down my crimes against the State. These, I am afraid,

include criminal acts of such magnitude, such villainy and such despicable disregard for decency

that they comprise a shocking parade of violations of practically every Royal decree, proclamation

and statute. I am a menace to the Realm and Your Lordship was very wise to have me locked up

promptly.

My crimes are so numerous that in this confession I shall limit them to the matter of

MISSION EARTH.

So, in appreciation of your condescension, to wit: a) getting me medical treatment for my

burned hands and broken wrists, b) providing me with writing materials and a vocoscriber so I can

confess, c) providing me with a high tower cell with a nice view of Government City, and d)

locking me up, I will be totally truthful and complete and back up my confession with recorded

strips, photographs, clippings and logs as attached.

Knowing Your Lordship's interest in one Jettero Heller, I must confess, belatedly, that he

is the proper hero of this tale. I, unfortunately, am the villain in this confession. But that is

the function of the Gods: to put us in roles as they see fit and let us struggle in our agony. It

was Fate and Fate alone which forced me to do the things I did, as you will plainly see. I cannot

help it if villainy comes naturally to me.

All hail Your Lordship and His Court!

Well, to get down to the business of earning these overwhelming favors and condescensions, I

doubt very much that anyone has ever testified or that the court knew—and certainly the Grand

Council did not know-that one of the primary figures, if not the primary figure in this case, was

in custody prior to the fatal day when the Grand Council issued its first orders concerning

Mission Earth.

Yes! It is a fact! Jettero Heller was languishing in the fortress prison Spiteos. Not, as I

am now, well cared for in the Royal prison, but in Spiteos!

This may come as a shock to Your Lordship. It is generally supposed by most of the

government that Spiteos was abandoned to erode away in the mountains beyond the Great Desert more

than a century ago. But not so!

The heads of the Exterior Division have kept Spiteos running. At the top of those bleak

gorges, behind those grim walls of black basalt, guarded by scum recruited from the lowest slums

of the Empire, that fortress remains, after a thousand years, the private prison of the

Coordinated Information Apparatus, the dreaded exterior secret police. Many names in the Domestic

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Missing Persons Files could be traced to Spiteos.

And that is where Jettero Heller was placed. A Royal officer, mind you! He was there in a

wire cage, electrically charged, in a deep cell, held without communication from anyone, not even

the guards. And what had he done?

Jettero Heller was a combat engineer, an officer of the Royal Space Services. Your Lordship,

of course, knows the romantic aura that has unfortunately built up around combat engineers,

calling them "the daredevils of the Fleet" and other such lurid terms. Public opinion has been

curried in their favor, and I am sure this will not warp the majesty and judgment of the law, for

my confession is mainly about Jettero Heller, not me.

It was not because he had a reputation as an athlete nor because he had friends that the

Fleet had chosen him for the original trip. Such selections are done almost at random.

So he had been picked, more or less routinely, to undertake a casual scout, a thing rarely

considered important in itself.

As Your Lordship may or may not know, the Royal Space Services, in line with long-stated

government policy, keeps an eye on neighboring inhabited systems. They send out scouting ships

and, without causing any awareness or incidents amongst neighbors—Gods forbid!—keep tabs on

things. By sampling the atmosphere of an inhabited planet they can make a fair estimate of its

condition and activities and, by very long-range photographs, they can verify suspicions. It could

come under the heading of a sensible precaution. A "combat engineer," according to the definitions

in the Texts of the Royal Services, is:

one who assists and prepares the way for any and all contacts, peaceful or warlike, and

serves his respective service in engineering and combat-related scientific matters.

They make battle and weapon estimates, survey possible forward positions and even fight. So

there was nothing strange in ordering Jettero Heller to take command of a vessel and update a

scene.

There was also nothing unusual at all in the scouting orders he received: they were routine,

even in printed form, issued by the Patrol Section of the Fourteenth Fleet, signed for their

admiral by a clerk; in other words, it wasn't even important enough to come to the admiral's

attention.

There is a system nearby that has an inhabited planet known locally there as "Earth" which

has been receiving scouting attention for many, many centuries. That too has been considered

routine: so much so, in fact, that even space cadets are sometimes sent there as a training

exercise; they do not land, of course, for that would alarm and alert the inhabitants and there is

even a regulation in The Book of Space Codes—Number a-36-544 M Section B—which states:

And no officer or crewmember shall, in any way, make himself known to any inhabited planet

population or member thereof before such planet is announced as an acquisition target; further,

that should such landing take place accidentally or such contact be otherwise made, all witnesses

to the circumstance shall be nullified; violations shall be punished with the severest penalties;

exceptions to this regulation may be expressly ordered by the heads of Royal Divisions but in no

case shall any such population be made aware prematurely of the existence or intent of the

Confederation.

But I am sure Your Lordship is aware that no court cases have ever arisen around this

regulation, so easily is it obeyed: if detected, one simply blows the place up in such a way that

it appears to have been a natural catastrophe. There has never been any trouble with this.

Jettero Heller's scout of Earth was ordered and conducted in a highly routine fashion.

Later, interviewing the small crew who were part of that scout—some of whom may still be

prisoners—I ascertained that they had spent most of the fifteen-week voyage playing gambling games

and singing ballads. Combat engineers have no reputation for running disciplined crews or getting

electrode polish applied.

It is obvious that all they did was go to Earth's outer atmosphere, sample it, take some

readings and long-range photographs and return, a thing which had been done hundreds, perhaps

thousands of times.

Jettero Heller landed back at Patrol Base and turned in his records and reports.

Routinely, a copy of such reports also goes to the Coordinated Information Apparatus; the

original, of course, pursuing its leisurely way up the extensive chain of command to Fleet.

But this time, and for the first time, and to my eternal despair, this routine was broken.

One report. One single, stupid, errant scouting report of a single, stupid planet and I end up in

prison confessing my crimes.

Of course, it didn't all happen that quickly or that simply. What did happen is the

horrifying tale of MISSION EARTH.

I remember when it all began.

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Chapter 2

It was one half hour after sunset upon that fatal day when an Apparatus guard yanked me into

this affair. It was the eve of the Empire holiday: all offices were closed for two whole days. I

remember it all too well. A relaxing trip had been planned with friends into the Western Desert; I

was dressed in old hunting clothes; I had just climbed into my aircar and was opening my mouth to

order the driver to take off when the door crashed open and a guard urgently directed me to get

out.

"Chief Executive Lombar Hisst has ordered me to bring you at once!" The guard's gestures

were frantic.

There was always a certain terror connected with a summons from Lombar Hisst. Unchallenged

tyrant of the Coordinated Information Apparatus, answerable only to the Lord of the Exterior and

the Grand Council itself—and answering to them hardly at all—Lombar Hisst ruled an empire of his

own. A flick of a finger, an almost imperceptible nod of his head and people vanished or died. The

guard, of course, knew nothing and we careened at top speed through the fading green twilight. I

racked my skull trying to think of something I had done or had not done that a Secondary Executive

of the Apparatus could be held accountable for. There was nothing, but I had within me a sick

feeling, a premonition that I had suddenly arrived at a turning point in my life. And events were

to prove how right I was.

My decade in the Apparatus had been much like that of any other junior executive of that

group. After completing my studies at the Royal Military College— where, as Your Lordship has

undoubtedly already discovered, I finished at the bottom of my class and was pronounced unfit for

Fleet appointment—I was seconded to Spy School and, doing not too well there, was appointed to the

lowest officer grade in the lowest service of the Empire: the Apparatus.

In that degraded service, as you know, there are only a handful of actual officers: each

officer has under him some numerous array of Apparatus private regiments, informers and spy

groups.

It is well known that the Apparatus receives duplicate records of all domestic police and

military police identifications, arrests, trials, banishments and imprisonments—in other words,

the billions of separate files existing in every other section of the Empire are also filed with

the Apparatus. You and everyone else may be aware of that. But it may not be known why. And this

is valuable data that I forward to you.

The Apparatus uses those files to recruit its own ranks. The murderers, the most vicious

criminals that can be found in those records, are approached and enlisted into the Apparatus. That

the files are also used for blackmail purposes is, of course, obvious, and explains why the

Apparatus is so seldom censured or brought to book as an organization, why it is always furnished

such extensive funds and why no questions are asked. And I can suggest here, as an aside, that if

legal action is being contemplated against the Apparatus as a whole, to prevent retaliation and

undue influence, one should first demand and impound their identification and criminal record

files—but I am sure Your Lordship has already thought of this.

In any case, my own career in the Apparatus had been no different from that of other bona

fide officers. If I had any gift at all that recommended me to such work it was that of languages:

I pick them up rather easily. It was my ability to speak "English," "Italian" and "Turkish" (these

are three Earth languages) that had prompted, more than anything else, my appointment as Section

Chief of Unit 451.

It will give you some idea of the complete unimportance of my post when I describe its

scope. Unit 451 covers that area of space which holds just one yellow dwarf star designated as

Blito on the Voltarian Fleet Astrograph-ic Division charts, but locally called "Sol." This star is

the center of a planetary system which, while it holds nine or ten planets, only has one that is

inhabitable. This world has the chart designation of Blito-P3, being in the third orbit out from

that star, but known there as "Earth." From an Empire standpoint, it is regarded as a future way-

stop on the route of invasion toward the center of this galaxy: but the Timetable bequeathed us by

our wise Ancestors does not call for this step immediately, reserving it for the future—there are

many other areas that have to be conquered, civilized and consolidated first. These things take

time: one can't leave one's flanks wide open or overstrain resources.

I cannot hide from you—and do not intend to—that the Apparatus had private interests

connected with Earth. But at the moment of this peremptory summons, I had no idea there could be

anything that had gone awry with these. Nothing unusual had crossed through my information center,

everything indicated mere routine. So I could not account for the state in which I found Lombar

Hisst.

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It was not that Lombar Hisst was ever in a pleasant mood. He was huge, half a head taller

than myself. He usually carried a short "stinger" in his left hand, a flexible whip about eighteen

inches long with an electric jolt in its tip-lash. He had a nasty habit of lunging at one, seizing

him by the tunic lapels, yanking him close and shouting as though one was a hundred feet away. He

would do this even to say "Good morning," and when he was really agitated he would also flick one

in the leg with the stinger to emphasize each point he was trying to get across. It was quite

painful. The most casual contact with Lombar Hisst was, at best, very intimidating.

His office looked like a wild animal's den at all times but just now it was worse. Two

interview benches were overturned, a calculator had been stamped to bits on the rug. He hadn't

turned on his lights and the twilight, coming in through the barred windows, had turned red: it

made him look like he was sitting in black blood.

The instant I entered he came out of his chair like a launched missile. He hurled a wadded

ball of paper in my face, seized my tunic lapels, snapped me within an inch of his nose.

"Now you've done it!" he roared. The windows rattled.

He hit me in the leg with the stinger. "Why didn't you stop this?" he screamed.

He evidently thought he still had the paper ball in his hand for he opened his fingers. Then

he spotted it on the floor where it had bounced and snatched it up.

He didn't let me read it. He smashed it into my face.

Of course, I didn't dare ask what it was all about. I did try to get hold of the paper. I

had just gathered that it must be an official report form, from its mangled edge, when he cracked

it out of my grasp with the stinger.

"Come with me!" he bellowed.

At the door he roared for the local commandant of the Apparatus Guard Regiment. He howled

for his private tank.

Drives roared, equipment clanged and within minutes we were headed out, a convoy bristling

with weapons and black with the uniforms of the 2nd Death Battalion.

Chapter 3

The Patrol Base was dark. Row upon row of craft stood along the miles of flat terrain,

poised for instant flight but unmanned.

The crews were in their barracks along the southern edge of the field. The lighted windows

spattered the distant gloom.

A black-uniformed squad crept silently at our backs and, as we prowled along the ships,

avoiding sentries and any pools of light, I could not help but think how much Apparatus work was

always done like this: skulking, silent, dangerous, like beasts of prey.

Lombar Hisst was looking at each ship for a set of numbers and letters. He was muttering

them over and over as he prowled along. It seemed to me he must have eyes like a lepertige for I

could not make out the numbers on the sterns of the innumerable craft and, Devils forbid, we would

show no light.

Suddenly, he stopped, moved closer to a towering stern to verify and then whispered, "That's

it! B-44-A-539-G. This is the ship that made the Earth run!" He held a whispered conference with

the squad leader. Seconds later they had picked the lock of the patrol craft airlock. Like

shadows, fifteen men of the 2nd Death Battalion had melted aboard. It scared me. What were they

going to do? Pirate a ship of the Royal Fleet?

A last flurry of whispers with the squad leader, ending with, "... and hide yourselves well

until they're in flight." Then Lombar turned to me and said in a voice he forgot to guard, "Why

can't you attend to these things, you (bleep)?"

He didn't want any answer. As long as I knew Lombar Hisst, he never waited for any answer

from anyone about anything. He did all the talking. Suddenly we were running, crouched over, back

along the field edge toward the waiting trucks.

We moved under their unlighted bulk and Lombar spat out a name. The starlight and some

reflection from the nearby barracks showed me a small figure crawling down from a cab. I did not

recognize the face. He was dressed in the duty uniform of a Fleet orderly—red spats, red belt, red

cap, white blouse, white pants-unmistakable. But I knew it was no Fleet spaceman: it would be a

member of what we called the Knife Section, dressed in a stolen uniform.

Lombar pushed an envelope into his hand. Two Apparatus mechanics pulled a speedwheeler out

of the back of a lorry. Lombar checked and then smeared some mud over its side numbers.

"Don't give that envelope over," snarled Lombar. "Just show it!" He snapped his stinger at

the bogus orderly and the speedwheeler went whispering off toward the barracks.

We waited, crouching in the dark beside the black lorries. Five minutes went by. Then six.

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Then ten. Lorn-bar was getting restless. He had just risen to his feet to take some other action

when the furthest barrack's doors flashed open. A set of floodlights went on. Three personnel

carriers shot out of a garage and drew up before the doors. About twenty Fleet spacemen threw

themselves into the transport and even at that considerable distance one could hear their

excitement. They roared off down the field to the ship we had just left.

Lombar stood there, watching through a pair of light magnifiers, grunting from time to time

as he checked off expected actions.

The lights of B-44-A-539-G flared up. Its chargers began to whine. The personnel carriers

drew back. The patrol craft leaped like a lightning flash and was gone into the sky.

The speedwheeler whispered back and the member of the Knife Section got off. He pushed the

vehicle at the waiting mechanics to reload and then sauntered over to Lombar.

"Took it like babies," said the bogus messenger with an evil grin. He handed over the

envelope. I took it because Lombar was busy scanning the sky. It said, Fleet Orders. Very Secret.

Very Urgent.

Lombar had the light magnifiers on the heavens. "They spoke to no one." It was a statement,

not a question.

"No one," said Knife Section.

"They were all there," said Lombar. Another statement.

"All there," said Knife Section. "The craftleader called the roll."

"Ah," said Lombar, seeing something in the sky, "they've turned. In less than an hour

they'll all be safe in Spiteos and B-44-A-539-G will be found in a day or two burned to a crisp in

the Great Desert."

It seemed to give him a lot of satisfaction. My blood was running cold. Conditioned as I was

to operations of the Apparatus, the kidnapping of a Royal Fleet crew and wanton destruction of an

expensive long-range star patrol craft was a bit wide even for that lawless organization. And

forging some admiral's signature could bring a death sentence. I was still holding the envelope

the Knife Section had handed me and I hastily put it in my blouse, just in case.

Lombar took another look at the sky. "Good! So far, good! Now we're going over to the

officers' club and pick up that (bleep), (bleep), (bleep) Jettero Heller! Load up!"

Chapter 4

It is one thing to dispose of an Apparatus ranker: you just shoot him; it is quite another

to illegally do away with a Royal officer. But Lombar Hisst was going about it like it was

something one did every day, without a second thought.

The officers' club was a brilliant blare of light and sound. It was a high-roofed series of

buildings—dining rooms, bars, accommodations for single officers and an enclosed sports arena. It

was built to house around forty thousand. It stood in an inset valley, backed by towering mountain

peaks.

A second moon had risen now and it was far too light for comfort. Lombar found shelter for

the trucks under the shoulder of a hill—he had a talent for locating darkness—and we proceeded on

foot, keeping to shadows and out of sight, with two squads of the 2nd Death Battalion.

The bulk of the sound was coming from the sports arena. All around, outside its exits, there

were many flowering shrubs and the air was heavy with their night perfume. They furnished shadow

and concealment and Lombar, with silent flicks of his stinger, inserted a cordon of guards into

strategic places so that they made a hidden half-moon with the arena's main exit at the center.

With their black uniforms, one would never know that thirty deadly Apparatus troops formed a trap.

Lombar shoved me forward and we went to a barred window near the exit and peered in.

A game of bullet ball was in progress. The spectator seats were a mass of color and, just as

we looked, a roar of applause was enough to make the door tremble. Somebody had scored.

You know bullet ball, of course. The wide floor of the arena is divided up into precise

white circles, each about ten feet in diameter and fifty feet, one from another. Each contestant

has a bag of forty-two balls. In the civilian and professional version of the game, these are

quite soft, about three inches in diameter and covered with black chalk. The players, in the

civilian version, are dressed in white and number four. But this is the Fleet version.

Young officers being young officers, in the Fleet version the balls are very hard, like true

missiles. They are chalked bright red. And the players strip to white pants, leaving their chests

bare. The Fleet version increases the individual players to six and that can be very dangerous

indeed.

The object, of course, is for each single player to try to take out all the other players. A

hit must be on the torso, above the belt and below the chin. If one steps out of his circle in his

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L Ron Hubbard - Mission Earth 01 - The Invaders Plan

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