file:///F|/rah/L%20Ron%20Hubbard/Mission%20Earth%2004%20-%20An%20Alien%20Affair.txt
Bury introduced me to PR. To stop Heller, he hired Madison, otherwise known as J. Warbler
Madman.
Heller had brought a small Voltarian element converter that was capable of producing fuel
from virtually any source. He wanted to demonstrate it in his Cadillac in a thousand-lap endurance
race at the Spreeport Speedway. Well, J. Warbler got to work.
Madison created a "double" for Heller and called him the Whiz Kid and while Heller prepared
for the race, J. Warbler was getting one front-page story after another, with the bogus Whiz Kid
challenging racing drivers around the world. He put the Whiz Kid on TV talk shows attacking the
oil companies. He got spot ads, skywriting, radio news. The buildup for the race was the biggest
thing to hit the media in ages.
Heller couldn't figure out why all the newspapers, radios and TV stations were claiming to
have interviewed him. He was working on the Caddy. Besides, with the jutting jaw, buckteeth and
glasses, this "Whiz Kid" didn't even look like Heller!
Little did he know the rules of PR! Madison didn't need his consent. And truth had nothing to
do with it. The standard that Madison worked on was "Do whatever would make the front page." So he
simply created and cranked out one story after another while Heller shrugged and went about his
work in a garage beyond Spreeport.
Heller didn't stand a chance. First, Madison got the race converted to a Demolition Derby and
Combined Endurance Run with a dozen and a half killers, all screaming for Heller's blood. Second,
Lombar had earlier sabotaged the Voltarian element converter that Heller was using as a
carburetor. It had only a few hours left, too few for him to finish the race.
But to really make sure Heller was stopped, I followed the advice my Apparatus professors
used to give: if you want a job done right, give it to someone else.
I hired a couple of snipers, armed them with silenced, telescopically equipped rifles and
dressed them in white to blend in with the snow that had been falling steadily for three days. I
rented a van with a nice heater, got myself a good spot on a knoll overlooking the Spree-port
Speedway on Long Island, set the buzzer on Heller's viewer to wake me when he rose and settled
down for the night.
If the bomber cars didn't stop Heller, a .30-06 Accelerator bullet, travelling at 4,080 feet
per second, would.
As I bedded down for the night, I was smiling.
Heller was doomed!
Chapter 1
Heller's viewer buzzed me awake. It was not yet 4:00 A.M.! He must be nervous to be up so
early even on this fateful Saturday. Then I realized that the highways to the Spreeport Speedway
would be choked with crowds and snowplows and cars. Heller would want a head start.
I had spent the night parked on a hill overlooking the speedway. Despite the freezing outside
temperature, the heater had kept the van comfortable. To see how Heller was faring, I pulled up
the viewer. Thanks to Voltarian technology, those bugs planted next to his optic and audio nerves
would transmit in any temperature.
He was in a motel room. Being Jettero Heller, he spin-brushed his teeth and dressed very
neatly in warm, red racing clothes. He threw his kit together. And then, pulling a snow-mask
across his face, he went outside. It was a blizzard. You could hardly see thirty feet through the
motel parking-lot lights.
He was evidently using the front end of his semi for transportation, for there was no trailer
attached to its kingplate, or "fifth wheel." The tractor sat there in its huge metal bulk, exhaust
stacks rearing in the air like factory chimneys. The nameplate said Peterbilt. From the size of
its cab I guessed it must be one of the five-hundred-horsepower diesel jobs they sometimes, by
themselves, use in races. Then I discarded the idea he was going to use it in the race today. It
wouldn't be allowed.
He walked around it. Every one of the ten huge wheels wore big chains. They'd be needed the
way that snow was falling and drifting through the dark.
He stepped up on a fuel tank step, then onto a higher ledge and unlocked the door. As he
opened it and the lights went on, I was amazed: the interior looked like a Fleet spaceship! All
upholstered, chromed beyond belief, even a stereo!
He put a key in a lock and hit the starter. It roared into life. He cut down the revs and
then turned on the heaters and de-icers.
Opening a seat, he took out a medium-sized ball peen hammer. He dropped out of the cab, went
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