Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns (2 page)

Pinky certainly did; she grunted with porcine pleasure. Other than this happy swinish chuckle, silence filled the room. Elmo smiled moronically and nodded. I realized that my mouth was hanging open. I shut it on a slug of bourbon and reached for the bottle.

Swathed in gloom I saw only trouble ahead. All my dreams of swinicide and mass murder vanished with my darling’s newfound amour.

“So, Elmo, you must tell me all about your travels with this adorable swinelet.”

“Her name’s Pinky, Miz diGriz.”

“How charming—and of course I’m Angelina to family.” A chill look in my direction informed me that all was still not
forgiven. “While we’re chatting Jim will pick up a bit in the kitchen before he brings in the drinks trolley—so we can join him in celebration . . .”

“Just going, great idea, drinks, munchies, yes!”

I made my escape as Elmo’s nasal drone hurried me on my way.

I shoveled all the crockery—broken and unbroken—into the disposal and ordered a new set from Kitchgoods. I could hear its clunking arrival in the cabinet as I stepped out of the kitchen and hit the nuclear unbinder in the floor. The binding energy that held the molecules together lessened just enough so that the spilled garbage sank out of sight; there was a satisfying crunch as it became one with the floor when the binding energy was restored.

A sherry for Angelina, a medium-dry one that she enjoyed. I rooted deep in the drinks closet until I found a bottle of Old Overcoat coal-distilled whiskey—proudly displaying in illiterate lettering, “Aged reely over two hours!” Elmo would love it.

I added a bowl of puffed coconuts and wheeled my chariot of delight into the family room.

“. . . and that’s how we done ended up here at yore place, Miz Angelina.”

The nasal phonemes died away into blessed silence.

“That is quite an adventure, Elmo. I think you are all so brave. Thank you, Jim.” She smiled as she took the glass of sherry.

The room temperature rose to normal. The sun emerged from behind the clouds. All had been forgiven! I poured a tumbler of Old Overcoat for Elmo who glugged it—then
gasped as his mucous membranes were destroyed on contact. I sipped happily until the voice I loved spoke the words that sealed my doom.

“We must make plans at once to see that your relatives and friends—and their sweet companions—are well taken care of.”

A shipload of refugee rubes and their companion swine well taken care of . . .

I could see my bank balance depleting at lightning speed with nothing but zeroes looming on the horizon.

Most of my attention was on my drink when the nasal whine of Elmo’s voice cut through the dark thoughts of my coming fiscal failure.

“The captain said
what
?” I broke in.

“Just that we was longer getting here than he thought so we owe him eighteen thousand an’ thirteen credits. He ain’t letting any more critters—human or swine—offen the ship until we pay up . . .”

“That’s called kidnapping—and pignapping—and is against the law,” I growled. Cheered to have a target for my growing anger. “The name of this miscreant?”

“Rifuti. His first name is Cap’n. Cap’n Rifuti.”

“And the ship is called . . . ?”

“
Rose of Rifuti
.”

I shuddered.

“Don’t you think it’s past time we paid the captain a
visit?” Angelina said. She smiled down at the snoring Pinky—but the chill of death was in her words as she thought of the crooked captain.

“We shall—but in some style,” I said, turning to the viewscreen and punching in a number. The screen instantly lit up with the image of a robot—apparently constructed out of groundcar parts.

“Moolaplenty Motors at your service Sire diGriz—how may we aid you this lovely summer’s day?” it said in sultry soprano voice.

“A rental. Your best eight-seat vehicle.”

“A Rolls-Sabertooth, gold-plated, satellite-guided with real diamond headlights. It will be in your drive in . . . thirty-six seconds. Your first day’s rental has been debited to your account. Have a good one.”

“We leave,” I announced, leaning over and scratching Pinky under her ear-quills. She grunted happily, stretched, climbed to her trotters and gave herself a good rustling shake.

The groundcar was waiting for us, humming with barely restrained power; the robot chauffeur nodded and smiled mechanically. The albedo was so high, with the sun glinting off the gold plating, that I had to squint against the glare. I handed Angelina into her seat, waited until the porcuswinette curled up at her feet, and joined her. After Elmo clambered aboard I pressed the pearl-studded
GO
button on the armrest.

“To the spaceport.”

“Arrival time three minutes and twelve seconds, Sire Jim and noble passengers.” The robot chauffeur had obviously not looked too closely at Elmo. “And welcome as well to their pet
dog . . . errr . . . cat . . . pszip . . .” Its voice chuntered to a halt, its computational software undoubtedly unacquainted with porcuswine.

For a few moments I was cheered by the gold-and-diamond luxury; then deeply depressed when I thought of the coming assault on my bank balance.

Moolaplenty was a holiday world and catered to the very rich and even richer. The glint of the diamond headlights drew a salute from the spaceport gate guard as that portal swung wide.

“We’re going to the
Rose of Rifuti,
” I said. His nostrils flared at the name; unflared when I slipped a gold cinque coin into his tip pocket.

“You jest, sire.”

“Alas, it is our destination.”

“If it is, I suggest that you stay upwind. Row nine, pad sixty-nine.”

The carputer beeped as the driver heard the location and we surged forward.

While all about me the riders smiled, laughed, grunted porcinely, I was struck down and immersed in the darkness of gloom. I hated the fact that Elmo had ever been born and grown up to invade my happiness. I was cheered that Angelina was cheered, but I had the depressing feeling that all was not going too well.

I was right. Our magic motor stopped, the doors swung open—and we must have been downwind because a certain effluvia crept over us. The eau de barnyard flashed me back to my youth.

“Porcuswine . . .” I muttered darkly.

“Not the most welcome reception,” Angelina said, frowning at the spacer.

An understatement if there ever was one. Each of the landing fins of the battered, rusted spaceship was attached to a thick chain, which in turn was bolted to the ground. A heavy chain-link fence circled the pad. There was a single large gate in the fence, that was just closing behind an official-looking vehicle. A dozen armed guards scowled at our arrival while a grizzled sergeant stepped forward and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“No visitors. All inquiries at the guardhouse.”

“But that car just went in!”

“Officials only. They’re an inspection team from Customs and Quarantine.”

“Understandable. Now Sergeant, would you be kind enough to do me a favor? See that this donation reaches the Old Sergeants’ Rest Home and Bar.”

The thousand-credit note vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. It tempered our conversation.

“The ship’s quarantined. Just those medical officers allowed inside now.”

But it wasn’t quite working out that way. A gangway had been run out from the lower spacelock. The officials had just started up it when loud cries and a fearful squealing sounded from the open lock. An instant later there was a thunderous pounding as a black horde of quill-shaking, galloping porcuswine poured out of the ship. The officials dived for safety as the stampede swept by. The thundering herd headed for the gate, which was now closed and locked. The lead boars snorted
with porcine rage and turned, leading the pack around the circumference of the fence.

Then, waving shovels and prods, the angry farmers poured down the gangway and ran after them in hot pursuit. Round and round the fenced enclosure they rushed. I leaned back against our groundcar and beamed happily.

“Beautiful!” I said. Angelina frowned at me.

“The swinelets might get hurt . . .”

“Never! The sows are the best mothers in the known universe!”

Eventually the great beasts tired of their circular performance and were herded back aboard the ship. I resisted the urge to clap in appreciation of the performance. The sergeant waited until the clatter of hooves had died away and considered his litany of woe.

“Quarantined with good reason, I would say, sir. In addition to these sanitary problems there are financial ones. Landing fees, rubbish removal and site-rental charges have not been paid. If you wait here I’ll send for an officer to give you the gen.”

Then he moved like a striking adder. Kicking the gate open, grabbing the yiping Elmo by the collar and hurling him through it, hauling a squealing Pinky by the leash right after him. The gate slammed shut behind him and he dusted off his hands.

“This guy and that thing got out before the quarantine came down. Somebody is in very bad trouble.”

I sighed tremulously and suspected that that person would surely turn out to be me. I dug deep into my wallet again. All I could see ahead was my bank balance spiraling downwards,
ever downwards. I also saw that one of the guards was hauling Elmo and the loudly protesting Pinky to the spacer. They went up the elevator in the access gantry. Their arrival in the ship provoked almost instant results. Short moments later a uniformed figure emerged and retraced their footsteps.

As he came towards me I saw the wrinkled uniform, battered cap and even more battered, unshaven face. I turned away from the sergeant and looked coldly at the approaching figure. This repellant creature had to be Captain Rifuti.

“I want to talk to you!” he shouted.

“Shut up,” I suggested. “I’m the only chance you have of getting out of this mess. I talk and you answer? Understand?” My patience was wearing thin.

His face was twisted and dark with anger. He took a deep breath and, before he could say anything, I made a preemptive strike.

“Sergeant, this officer appears to have violated quarantine procedures. He is commander of an unsafe ship, has kidnapped his passengers, as well as committing a number of other crimes. Can you put him behind bars—at once?”

“Good as done.” He reached out then stopped; no moron, the sergeant and he quickly twigged as to what was going on, then added in a growling voice, “Unless he shuts his cakehole and follows your instructions.” For punctuation he grabbed the protesting captain and gave him a quick shake that rattled the teeth in his head.

Crooked he certainly was, but stupid he was not. His face darkened and I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel. “What you want?” he asked, albeit with great reluctance.

“Slightly better. You have told your passengers that they
have additional fees to pay. You will produce records justifying these payments. Only then will I pay these and the spaceport charges that you have incurred. After that we will discuss what is going to be your next port of call, to which you will transport your passengers and their cargo.” This last was a feeble attempt to get rid of my friends and neighbors—not to mention their porcine companions.

“No way! I gotta contract that says I bring ’em here and here they stay!”

“We’ll see what the quarantine authorities have to say about that.” Grasping for straws, aren’t you, Jim?

Some time later—and a good deal lighter in the bank account—I sat in the base commander’s office sipping a very fair domestic brandy that he had been kind enough to open for us. The mayor’s first assistant had joined us. They smiled—as well they might with all my money in their coffers—but they were firm.

Elmo’s pilgrims and their quilly creatures were not welcome on the holiday world of Moolaplenty. This was a vacation planet for tourists—as well as home for well-heeled residents like me. And all the food was imported. Not a single farm or tilled field sullied the well-manicured countryside. Dreadfully sorry, but this policy was entrenched in their constitution, pinned down in the law books, inviolate and unchangeable. We are desolated, Sire Jim, but do have another bit of brandy the base commander smarmed. With no reluctance whatsoever I accepted. All I could see was gloom and unhappiness and a prevailing blackness in my future.

Blackness—the color of porcuswine quills . . .

Lighter in bank balance and heavier in heart, I led the way to the gantry elevator and thence into the welcoming airlock of the
Rose of Rifuti.
My Angelina smiled, then laughed aloud when she heard the distant squeals and grunts of a porcuswine herd. My bucolic youth down on the farm flashed before my eye—with concomitant black depression. I had fled the agrarian cesspit of Bit O’ Heaven for a successful—and happy—life of crime. Now I felt myself retrogressing through time, returning to a life-choking farming fate that I thought I had left far behind me. I went down the entrance corridor, staggering under a dark cloud of gloom.

I was jarred back to the present by sudden loud squealing that assaulted my ears—accompanied by shouts of pain and picturesque cursing. More crashing and the sound of mighty hoofbeats sounded down the corridor. Then, squealing and
grunting, a porcuswine thundered around a bend in the corridor and galloped towards us.