Part Thirty-Two, Chapter Five - On the Edge of the Abyss

Some consistency would be nice, is all.  Of course you'd want to use "Delbert John Rockecenter" instead of John D. Rockefeller, since the real-life Rockefeller didn't consider himself a god and died long before this book's setting.  But why do some groups get stupid new names, like the National Association of Mental Stealth, but other things don't?  It's the Empire State Building instead of the Entire Stakes Building or whatever.

Does Hubbard only rename the things he's "satirizing," like all those newspapers with Grimes in their titles?  That can't be it, 'cause we still have the United Nations as opposed to the Unorganized Nations, and the FBI doesn't stand for the Fascist Board of Interrogation.  And hell, I don't think any Voltarian has boggled at the incredible coincidence of their homeworld and Earth both sporting intelligence agencies with the acronyms of CIA.

Yes, I'm stalling.

Gris is just in time for his plan to work - among the hordes of workers going home along 7th Avenue, he immediately spots Miss Pinch's "bulky, mannish overcoat," and more importantly the purse she's holding that's packed with tens of thousands of dollars.  Gris refers to it as "target-object."  A lot.

Hat down, collar up, I had target-object in close view.  An old hand at such campaigns, trained by the Apparatus to the keenest possible edge, I foresaw no trouble in obtaining target-object.  A quick snatch, a fleet run, a stuffing of target-content into my pockets and a flinging of target-object into nearest trash can and victory would be mine!

I quivered with the thrill of the chase.

A $80,000 quarry does not every day enliven the spirit of the hunt.

All that spy-speak to say, he's gonna snatch a lady's purse and run.

There's some flowery metaphors when Gris describes Miss Pinch's hat as "a beacon calling to a storm-tossed mariner adrift on the heaving and pitiless seas of New York," and a moment of panic when it looks like target-object's owner might slip into a subway terminal ahead of Gris.  But instead Miss Pinch dawdles at a newsstand, torn between Muscle Making for Men Complete with Full Nude Photos or an issue of Panthouse Magazine with Full Nude Cover Folds.

So... is this supposed to be a dig at how debased Earth society is, and how "genuine" journalism is so vulgar as to share self space with pornography?  Or can you really buy girlie mags at New York newsstands?  I dunno, I haven't been to New York.  I suppose it's possible, I mean Times Square has really cleaned itself up since the time Hubbard was alive.  I'll give Hubbard the benefit of a doubt.

Heh.  First time I wrote that I said "Heller."

So while Miss Pinch is distracted by porn, Gris comes up behind her, grabs target-object, and runs for it even as a police whistle begins to blow.  And then even Gris admits he makes a mistake, which you might have spotted as you wondered just how easily a cutpurse can fish eighty thousand dollars out of a lady's purse and get it into his own wallet while fleeing the crime scene.  Gris blindly jams a hand into target-object only to have something snap down onto his fingers, something that keeps him from pulling his hand free.

In agony, I sought to shake the purse off.  It wouldn't leave!

With my left hand, I seized the bottom of the purse and tried to pull it off my hand.

AGONY!

In extremis, I stopped and tried to use my left hand to free my right.  I plunged my left hand into the purse.

SNAP!

YEEOWWW!

And now both his hands are stuck, and Gris realizes that the "police whistle" sound is coming from inside target-object.  Then Miss Pinch comes up behind him, smugly stating that she anticipated all this, before turning off the whistle.  She has a gun on Gris, "quite invisible to the passerby," and suggests he accompany her to her nearby apartment.  Miss Pinch leads our villain to "an old shabby house" (of course) and unlocks a basement apartment, before directing him down a hall into what can only be called a dungeon.

It was dull red of hue.  Instruments of torture hung tastefully upon the walls.  Festoons of whips served in place of curtains.  A huge bed occupied the center of the room, its four posts topped with the grinning faces of gargoyles.  The carcass--stuffed, I hoped--of a dead goat hung head down in a corner.  It was full of darts.

I'm glad it's a carcass of a dead goat.  Carcasses of living animals are always such a mess, like corpses of living humans.

Miss Pinch explains that the basement is totally soundproof and adjacent to a handy garden to bury bodies in.  She tells Gris to do as he's told and that she'll free his hands once certain precautions are taken - men are so violent, after all.  So at gunpoint she strips Gris naked and shackles him spread-eagled to the bed.  Once he's secure, Miss Pinch pulls off the purse and reveals that the objects mangling Gris' fingers are ordinary rat traps.

I'd say we're in Looney Tunes territory if it wasn't for, you know, the whips and chains and life-threatening overtones. 

Miss Pinch takes off her coat and hat and checks herself in a mirror framed by daggers.  Gris complains that she hasn't taken off the traps yet, but his captor assures him "Everything in its own time and place."  Then she calls out "Candy, baby!  Come see what I've got for us!"

And so the chapter ends on a cliffhanger, with an unfortunately nude Gris imprisoned in an angry woman's dungeon waiting to see what she's going to do to him.  There's not many places a story can go from such such a set-up, so you can probably guess what's going to happen next.


Back to Chapters Three and Four

Strongly Reconsider Going on to Chapter Six

Part Thirty-Two, Chapters Three and Four - Squirt Guns and More Satire

A still-broke Gris tries to use his FBI credentials to requisition a ride in a cop car, but the officers refuse to act as a federal taxi.  So Gris steals a moving van to get from Rockecenter Plaza to 42 Mess Street.  He causes a bit of a commotion, what with him leaving the back gate open and depositing furniture (including a grand piano) on the streets of New York at irregular intervals, but he makes it to within a block of his destination.  As he ditches the stolen vehicle, he notes that once again "Crime was the best way after all."  Presumably he isn't including crimes such as stealing from your fellow employee so he has no money to hire a taxi, forcing him to steal a half-loaded moving van to get where he needs to be.

Gris reaches Madison's apartment loft headquarters, which is swarming with both reporters and Satire!

Well, a given value of "satire" anyway.  Gris overhears a Ted Tramp making calls to Mr. Vitriahl of the St. Petersburg Grimes threatening to crush his career so that even the Smearwater Shun won't hire him.  Then Tramp yells at J. Blithering Bonkers of the Los Angeles Grimes to get Whiz Kid stuff on the front page, but Bonkers counters that his wife is head of the National Association of Mental Stealth before starting to cry about her embezzling and infidelity, at least until Tramp inspires him by reminding Bonkers that he's chairman of the Grimes-Smearer Corporation.

And really, what can you say but "what the hell?"  What is this crazy world where "J. Warbler Madman" is a derisive nickname for J. Walter Madison, yet there are apparently people with J. Blithering Bonkers on their birth certificate?  Well, I guess that could be another condescending nickname.  Okay then, why is the public stupid enough to buy papers with the world "Grime" in the title?  In multiple cities?  What the hell is the National Association of Mental Stealth?  A defense course against hostile telepaths?  Just who do you think you're fooling, Hubbard?  Or should I say Shrubbard? 

See, that doesn't make sense, but I changed some letters, so I guess I'm being satirical.

Gris finds Madison and starts complaining, Madison counters that they've gotten day after day of front-page coverage, Gris orders him to stop besmirching the good name of Swindle and Crouch with these lawsuit antics, and Madison concedes that court cases are only good for a day or two of headlines.  So he announces that he's just had "a GREAT idea!" and calls a staff huddle, and Gris leaves.  After complaining again and again about how much of a loose cannon Madison is, and after finally being given an opportunity to see one of Madison's schemes get plotted firsthand, allowing him a chance to try and direct it, Gris leaves.  "A little of Madison is an awful lot" is his excuse.

Well, maybe Gris has something better to do, like... hah, wow.

Chapter Four is a short one.  Gris leaves Madison's place, reminds us that he's broke, and has "a marvelous idea."  Since some "(bleepard)" has stolen his stolen transportation, Gris spots a little old lady stopped at a traffic light, hops into the passenger door, pulls his derringer and threatens to rape her if she doesn't take him to Rockecenter Plaza.

Oh, it gets better.  And that's not sarcasm... well... alright, there's some sarcasm in that statement, but it's not directed at this chapter.

The old lady screams and complies but swerves crazily around, yelling that she can't drive without her glasses and they're in her glove compartment.  Gris finally gets fed up and opens the hatch to get them, only to receive a blast of pepper spray in the face.  Then the old lady somehow opens his door, steals his pistol, and kicks him out of the vehicle.

Let us now meditate on the paradox of an old lady with the foresight to get a pepper sprayer in her glove compartment, but who also forgets to lock her doors.  Obviously a locked door would have prevented this little scene from happening, but it's an oversight that keeps Awesome Old Lady from becoming my new favorite character.

Gris staggers to a novelty toy store and asks for water pistols, then demands a demonstration.  He squirts them in his eyes to rinse out all the ouch powder, declares that the guns didn't work, and flees without paying.  I guess the author couldn't get any humor out of a hum-drum visit to a water fountain or public restroom.

Next chapter, the trauma begins.


Back to Chapter Two

Forward to Chapter Five

Part Thirty-Two, Chapter Two - A Look at Soltan Gris' Problem-Solving Process

Having been given orders from his boss to manage an unmanageable publicist, Gris decides to address his empty pockets first.  He hikes down to Rockecenter Plaza and the Octopus Oil building, where his last attempt to make a withdrawal was foiled by an angry cashier lady.  So this time Gris goes straight to the Chief of Security, flashes his badge, and tells on that mean Miss Pinch!  The security thug grabs his club and revolver, then drags Miss Pinch into a closet.

There were some sharp sounds coming out.  Blows.

Very shortly the Chief of Security emerged.  He said to me as he passed me, "That's the way."

After that disciplinary action, Gris returns to the window and orders that Miss Pinch, now sporting a black eye, give him twenty thousand dollars.  She takes out the money, but rather than the traditional 50-50 split she puts it all in her purse.  Gris asks her if she's sure she's got it right, but she replies "That's the way."

So Gris leaves.  And then comes right back to try again.  After all, "Maybe she was just a bit rattled.  I should give her a chance to get settled in on her job."  Maybe performing the same actions will produce different results.  And sure enough, this time she - oh, look at that, she sticks the twenty thou in her purse, repeating "That's the way."

So Gris leaves.  Again.  And comes back, again, but this time, ah, this time he asks for forty thousand dollars.  Because "Maybe I was giving her the wrong figure!"  But no, Miss Pinch pockets all of it, shouting "AND THAT'S THE GOD (BLEEPED) WAY!"

Denied three times in a row, Gris retreats back to the Chief of Security to complain, but spots a pile of money on his desk.  "So that's the way," quoth Gris.  On the bright side, Gris now has something to report as the Rockecenter family "spi" and goes to Miss Peace, Rockecenter's secretary.  But she freaks and throws him out when he mentions crooked employees, screaming about Gris trying to "spill the beans" on her.

And Gris, having been repeatedly thwarted and unable to think of a better option, departs the building in defeat.

Now a book ago, back in Part Twenty-Seven, Chapter Seven, Gris went through the Petty Cash Disbursements window for the first time and was pretty impressed with the process.

I was awed.  What an efficient organization.  Their spies didn't exist!  And they had developed a graft system unbelievably simple!  I would have to write Lombar about this!  No wonder he made such a study of Earth culture!

So what have we learned since then?  Maybe corruption and inefficiency aren't desirable traits.  Maybe this isn't some sort of Bizarro World where evil groups seek out the opposite qualities of good organizations.  Maybe your Evil Corporation needs reliable and obedient workers to fulfill its schemes, just like the Good Guys do.


Back to Chapter One

Forward to Chapters Three and Four

Part Thirty-Two, Chapter One - Communications Technology of the Year 2000

Suddenly, screaming sirens rise from the streets!  Gris looks out the window to see military vehicles swarming towards his hotel, and snipers on adjacent roofs covering his room!  Military policemen are rushing into the lobby as he watches!  This is it, the locals have finally figured out that he's an alien!

Someone pounds on his door, and Gris, with nothing left to live for now that he's broke, stoically opens it.  A bellhop is knocked aside by armed soldiers who storm into the suite, searching closets and firing shots into the mattress before standing at watchful attention.  An officer takes Gris' fingerprints, technicians wheel in a cart laden with advanced equipment, and... Gris is made to swear to secrecy concerning this "satellite-enscrambled decode-recode."  And they hand him a device from which a voice speaks in Russian, then after some adjustments, in Spanish.  Finally, Bury's voice comes out.

They gave him a secure cell phone.  They sent snipers and military vehicles and soldiers and drew as much attention as possible to the act of Mr. Bury making a long-distance call to Soltan Gris.

Yes, Bury's on an emergency trip to South America because somebody killed the Director of the CIA, so there's been an unexpected outbreak of peace (geddit, these are bad guys so they like senseless conflict hur hur villainous motivation).  But then Mr. Rockecenter called about an even greater emergency, so Bury had to get the US Army Signal Corps to put that extremely complicated equivalent to a modern cell phone in Gris' hands.  There's no phones in the rain forests, you see... which begs the question of how Rockecenter contacted Bury, and what Bury's using to speak to Gris, but whatever.

Rockecenter's complaining that the Whiz Kid is starting a rival oil company, though this is in fact false and the result of being read the day's paper by an illiterate secretary (yes, the man who controls the entire world can't read his own paper and relies on idiots to get information).  Bury has a more important concern - Madison committed a felony when he mentioned Bury's own firm Swindle and Crouch in the same sentence as those ambulance chasers at Boggle, Gouge and Hound, an error that Bury considers manslaughter.  So Gris has to go get Madison back under control.  Because Bury can't call Madison, oh no, Madison would just plead the 5th.  Nope, this is all on Gris, who has consistently had difficulty just getting in contact with Madison, and has utterly failed at directing his activities.

Bury asks if Gris needs anything else, like one of these awesome jungle snakes he's found.  Gris mentions his failure to get some money from the new cashier lady (oh god oh god oh god), but Bury just tells him to work things out with the Chief Security Officer.  And with that phone call completed, all of the soldiers and vaguely-described military vehicles disengage, leaving Gris with a nineteen thousand dollar bill from the hotel for damages.

I think the author intends for all this to provoke a rueful chuckle of "goodness, how can these clowns run an organization that controls an entire planet?"  Rather than having the reader chug something for a headache and groaning "good lord, how can these clowns run an organization that controls an entire planet?"  See, the first one is a response to amusing satire, while the latter is in response to terrible writing. 

Interesting note: Utanc is in this chapter.  Once the MPs and everyone pulls out, she crawls out from under the bed (the bed that they shot up?) all white-faced and trembling, then slams and locks the bedroom door.  Was it the shock at the sudden intrusion, or does she have another reason to fear the US government?  How mysterious.

A mystery that isn't going to be resolved anytime soon, though.  Hubbard has other things in store for us first.


Back to Part Thirty-One, Chapter Seven

Forward to Part Thirty-Two, Chapter Two

Part Thirty-One, Chapter Seven - "YIPPEE!" Shouted the Mob Boss

Gris finds Heller in a swanky leather trench coat, taking a cab to Babe Corleone's penthouse.  Geovani the doorman warns that she's still in a bad mood, and sure enough once Heller is admitted he gets quite a talking to.  Babe complains that despite her orders Heller - or rather, the "Whiz Kid" with buck teeth and glasses who looks absolutely nothing like Heller - is still "carousing around with criminal reporters" (as opposed to criminal mobsters).  She also says "don't interrupt" three times during her page-long rant while Heller remains silent.  Babe is particularly irked about the court battle the papers are shouting about.

"Jerome, this is very wearing and tiring on me. I know I have been neglectful. But Jerome, you don't sue people you don't like. You get a proper heater and you rub them out. Only weaklings and fools and idiots go rushing off to courts. You want justice, the only way you get justice is to buy yourself a proper rifle, learn how to shoot it and, with a proper telescopic sight..."

It's at this point that Heller finally interrupts, handing over a wrapped package.  Babe tears it open with a wrist-holstered stiletto, because she is an Italian mobster lady and all Italian mobsters use stilettos when they want to stab or slash something.  When she finds the passport of "GUNSALMO SILVA!" and realizes that Heller killed him ("'Not exactly,' said Heller, kind of smothered, 'He sort of blew himself up!'"), Babe actually shouts "YIPPEE!" and dances around the room before collapsing into a chair and sobbing that "Holy Joe" is finally avenged.  Then she summons all her staff so they can cheer at the defeat of their hated foe.

And then she orders someone to bring Heller some milk and cookies.

Remember?  Heller's like 30 in Voltarian years, but he looks like a teenager on Earth?  So nobody lets him drink beer and everybody coddles him with food? 

Even though Babe's celebrating because Heller just killed a guy...

Look, Hubbard obviously thought this was important, so deal with it.

So while Heller enjoys his milk and cookies followed by three plates of spaghetti, Babe spends two hours planning Silva's funeral, which of course she will be putting on a festive air for.  Telegrams - in the year 2000-something, remember - come in from the Corleone criminal empire's international interests, all celebrating the death of Silva.  And Gris just sits there and watches it all happen because he is in Narrator Mode.

Heller eventually asks what Babe can make of one of the ID cards he took from the hitmen at the airport.  Babe has someone run it through the Corleone computer system - wonder if it's telegraph-compatable? - and finds that this Inganno John Scroccone was Faustino Narcotici's chief account.  Babe once again scolds Heller for associating with The Wrong Crowd, but Heller stays strangely silent.

With a shock, I became certain he knew he was being watched.  He was afraid of being caught in a Code break!  The grenade!  That was why he couldn't and wouldn't tell even Bang-Bang how Silva had died.  No grenades of such power and type existed on Earth.  That would have to be it.  Any normal man would have bragged and bragged about it.  And he was being so closed-mouthed it was even slopping over into not mentioning the other three hits!

Seriously?  Heller can't say that Bang-Bang blew himself off the building with a more conventional grenade and let others explain where the shrapnel went?  He's concerned that somebody will poke at such a mystery in this city, where corpses turn up with knives in their backs and are written off as a suicide pact?  He can't just lie and say that he judo'd Silva off the building?  And this alien grenade of unmatched power can be avoided by ducking behind a suitcase?

But nice job conveying Gris' character with the whole "any normal man would have bragged" line, Hubbard.  Even if you immediately lost any points with the phrase "slopping over."

Babe decides that she should focus more on being a good mother to Heller, because apparently she adopted him while I wasn't looking, or else has convinced herself he's her own flesh-and-blood.  This will involve buying Heller some polo ponies so he can learn how to be a gentlemen and hit other boys on the head with mallets.  I am not making this up, she actually wants to buy him some ponies, and she says the line about hitting other boys with mallets.

And Heller's gonna need some ice skates.  And a baseball bat.  And a new wardrobe for Silva's funeral.  And she'll definitely be raising Heller's allowance.  Gris turns off the HellerVision at this point, and I can't blame him

Feeling bad about how Heller's being showered with praise and gifts, Gris decides to get a fresh look at the situation and searches a newspaper for information about Silva's demise.  All he can find is a brief article pondering whether the black dress Silva was found in is a sign of a new fashion trend.

The put things in their proper perspective.  The newspapers never lie.  They always tell the exact truth in things of this kind, and things of all kinds, for that matter.  The Rockecenters and Madisons of the world take care of that!

I guess what the author is trying to say here is that because so many people believe what they read in the papers, which are of course full of lies and controlled by shadowy energy magnates and psychologists, the majority of the world thinks like Soltan Gris, and is therefore made up of idiots.

So is the reader supposed to be included in the demographic?  Is Hubbard sneakily expressing his disdain for us?  Or is he on our side?  After all, only a smart person could properly appreciate the sly satire and subtle humor of Mission Earth.

The chapter ends with Gris melodramatically declaring that "trembling, abandoned and alone" he must somehow "struggle further along the sadistic road of thorns some people laughingly call life."  But he warns that as bad as his day has been, there are still some shocks to come.  And holy crap he isn't kidding.


Back to Part Thirty-One, Chapter Six

Forward to Part Thirty-Two, Chapter One

Part Thirty-One, Chapter Six - Gris Throws Another Temper Tantrum

Let's have some more psychological "satire," shall we?

The horrible sight of my hundred thousand dollars U.S. in Heller's hand did something even more horrible to my psyche.  A psyche is, as all psychologists know, located just above the id and, when overreacted upon, bruises the ego.  When these three things are already swollen from past abuses, there ensures what is called the "I'm-going-nuts syndrome."  A case of multiple frustrations is likely to ensue, surcharging the blood vessels and precipitating an epileptic fit.

Yes, it's more of Gris' half-baked and inaccurate amateur psychology.  To stave off his imminent epileptic seizure he decides looking at some money will make him feel better.  Luckily he stashed thirty thousand dollars under his mattress, and surely the sight and feel of all those greenbacks will do him some good - "life might once more begin to flow through my higher nervous centers and make them less nervous."

Gris flunked biology too.

He ends up having that epileptic fit after all when he fails to recover his money from the mattress, even after tearing it apart.  When his seizure doesn't make him feel better, he smashes his head against the wall until he passes out.  By the time he comes to it's daylight, so he orders coffee, takes a shower while forgetting to take his clothes off first (he's still new to bathing, remember), and gets his breakfast and the day's newspaper delivered.

And Gris gets his third shock, because the front page story is of the Whiz Kid's ten billion dollar lawsuit against Octopus Oil.  And I'm a little thrown by the amount, because it's obscenely high, while the price on Heller's head once he earned a reputation as an unkillable bane of hitmen everywhere was a paltry million dollars, which I didn't think was a huge amount even back in 1980-whatever when this assault on literature was committed.  Of course, we'll later learn that the money doesn't actually matter, but we'll all be mentally scarred by then.

So Gris is stunned by the news, and convinced that Madison is going to ruin everything by turning the Whiz Kid into a symbol of defiance against Big Oil.  He collapses in front of the HellerVision to see how his foe is taking advantage of this streak of good fortune.

You might be wondering what's the point of all this, since there's no character development or anything going on and Gris' financial status isn't particularly entertaining.  The answer, as far as I've been able to ascertain, is to move the plot in a specific direction.  Gris had money, now he does not, so he'll have to get more money.  And that will take the story places it has no business of going, unexpected and terrible places.  Just thirty pages now.  Enjoy the relative sanity while it lasts.


Back to Chapter Five

Forward to Chapter Seven

Part Thirty-One, Chapter Five - Heller Keeps Getting Richer

Heller, Bang-Bang, and a cat with Klinefelter's Syndrome go back to the Empire Station Building and the Multinational offices, Silva's luggage in hand.  When Izzy asks what's going on, Heller says "We're making you an accessory after the cat," because apparently the "hit man cat" gag hasn't been wrung dry yet.  Heller makes to pop open the suitcase recovered from the airport, but Bang-Bang scolds him because in New York you never try to pick locks in case there's a bomb wired to them.  Good to know.

While Bang-Bang carefully works on dismantling the new suitcase, Heller goes through the other luggage, more spy equipment that is once again carefully tagged as "Certified CIA Test Lab."  There's a balloon, a dissolving poison spoon, poisoned lipstick, and a Suicide Kit: "Take two before retiring.  The Surgeon General has determined these to be hazardous to your health..." hur hur hur.  When Izzy asks what he's doing (again) Heller describes his looting as "penetrating the most closely held secrets of the CIA," a rather grandiose spin on rifling through some gag gizmos the CIA was dumb enough to label.

Bang-Bang can't get the suitcase open, so Heller just pops the front latches and is immediately shredded by the Claymore mine rigged to... yeah, no, the suitcase is full of money.  Excuse me, MONEY!  Heller dumps it all out to create a "small mountain of MONEY!", and then Izzy... well, up until now I'd been impressed with how Hubbard handled him.  He was Jewish, and made sure to remind us of that with an "oy vey" or two and by calling people goyim, but for the most part it was a surprisingly restrained take on what could have become a caricature, especially given the walking stereotypes of Battlefield Earth.  But when he sees that pile of cash...

But Izzy sat down on the floor.  His bare feet started scrubbing against each other.  His hands, like talons, began to lock upon packets of money.

In a muttering blur of sound, as fast as the blur of his hands as he stacked it, the pile of packets, neatened, grew beside him.  Then he was done.

"Oy," said Izzy.  "Give or take miscounts in the packages, this is a MILLION DOLLARS!"  He rubbed at his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses.  He looked at Heller.  "How do you do these things?"

Maybe this isn't Izzy using a Secret Jew Money-Counting Technique.  Maybe Hubbard views Izzy as an accountant first and foremost, and thinks any economist could learn this power.  Yeah, that's it.

Heller again plays coy, stating that he has "secret admirers" who are "terrified I might go on welfare," and adds the mixed notes from Silva's wallet - including Gris' cash - to the pile.  Izzy resolves to put it on arbitrage and play with foreign currencies until they make up the last $400,000 they owe the IRS.  Heller gives Bang-Bang a ten thousand dollar tip because his friend was complaining about being "low on skirts," so I guess he's buying him a round with the girls at the Gracious Palms?  Then Heller gives Izzy another hundred to buy the Still Unnamed Cat a leash and dish and things, "a decent spacekit."

1) This cat has not been in space and, god willing, will never go into space.  There is no reason to call any items associated with him a "spacekit."

2) Just because you've gone into space doesn't mean you can add "space-" to perfectly normal words.  Michael Collins does not get a "spacehaircut."  Buzz Aldrin does not drive a "spacecar."  Neil Armstrong does not enjoy a "spaceburger" with a "spacecoke" and a side of "spacefries."  Especially when they aren't actually in space.

The cat curls up under Heller's desk lamp and purrs in his sleep, Heller adds the dead goons' IDs to the pile - yes, as always the hired thugs carried their identification with them, I guess you want to get a drink after you double cross and murder an uberassassin - and Heller refuses to explain to Bang-Bang just what happened on the roof that night.  End chapter.

Apparently whoever planned on double-crossing Silva instead of paying him his fee was still willing to put that fee in a suitcase and send it out in to the world.  Lucky for Heller, that.


Back to Chapter Four

Forward to Chapter Six