Mission: Earth "The Enemy Within" by Ron L. Hubbard Read Free Book Online

glimpse of her.
    In late afternoon, when it had become cool, she came out of her garden door. She was wearing an embroidered cloak. She was unveiled, unaware of scrutiny. Her face was so beautiful that I could not breathe. Her walk, so easy, so poised, was poetry itself.
    She went back in her room.
    That night I sat in vain in the salon. No boy came to inform me. She did not come.
    I sat there all night, alert to the tiniest sounds.
    In exhaustion, I fell into a sleep knifed with nightmares that she had only been a dream.
    Around noon of the next day I woke. I took hardly any breakfast. I paced in the yard. I went in and tried to interest myself in something else. It was impossible.
    About three, I went outside again.
    Voices!
    They were coming from her garden!
    I quickly scrambled to the small hole in her fence and peered through.
    There she sat!
    She was unveiled. She was gorgeous. She was dressed in another cloak but it was fallen carelessly open. It revealed a brassiere and tight, short pants. Her legs and stomach were bare.
    So magnetized were my eyes to her that at first I did not even notice the two small boys. They were sitting at her feet in the grass. They were wearing little embroidered jackets and pants. They were scrubbed and clean. Each was holding a little silver cup on his knee.
    She said something I did not get and they both laughed. Smiling, she leaned back indolently, exposing more stomach and the inside of her thigh. She was reaching. It was toward a silver teapot and another silver cup on a silver tray.
    With grace, she picked up the cup in one delicate hand and the teapot in another. She poured from the pot to the cup. Then she leaned over and poured into the cup each had on his knee.
    A little tea party! How charming!
    She raised her cup, the two small boys raised theirs. "Serefe!" she said, meaning "Here's to you" in Turkish. They all drank.
    The tea must have been awfully hot and strong. The two small boys drank theirs and gasped and coughed. But they smiled and watched as she sipped hers.
    "Now," said Utanc, in her low, husky voice, "we will get on with the next story."
    The two small boys wriggled with delight and hitched themselves closer, fixing their eyes on her adoringly. How utterly charming she was—telling them fairy stories.
    Utanc spread her arms along the top of the garden seat. "The name of this story is 'Goldilocks and the Three Commissars.'" She settled herself comfortably. "Once upon a time there was this beautiful little girl named Goldilocks. That means she had gold-colored hair. And she was ramming around in the woods getting into things. Nosy. So she came to this cottage and picked the lock and trespassed with illegal entry.
    "Now this Goldilocks had a horrible appetite because she came from capitalistic parents and, as usual, she thought she was starved. And there on the table sat three bowls of porridge. So she decided it was a worker's cottage and she better exploit it.
    "She sat herself down in the biggest chair and had at that porridge. But it was too hot. So she went to the next-sized chair and tried to wolf that porridge. But it was too cold. So she sat down in the smallest chair and, wow, that porridge was great. So her capitalist tendencies got the better of her and she ATE IT ALL UP. Left absolutely nothing.
    "Now, actually, this cottage belonged to three commissars and they had been out to a party meeting to help the workers and it was an awful joke on this Goldilocks pig that they weren't workers at all but real rough, tough, friends-of-the-people, no-nonsense commissars. A real bad break for this kid Goldilocks, but the little pig should have known better. So she split.
    "So the biggest commissar put his whip down on the table and suddenly looked at his porridge and he said, 'Who the hell has been at this porridge?' And the medium-sized commissar put his brass knuckles down on the table and said, 'Hey, what (bleepard) has been at my porridge?' And the smallest