Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns (27 page)

“My goodness . . . that’s shore no good, no good at all.
Them sows, they’ll be no problem. They’ll lie down, right lazy. The piglets, the small ones, they’ll nurse . . .”

“But the boars—”

“Yep, the boars . . .” He echoed hollowly, face even paler.

I dredged through forgotten memories of my dismal past life down on the farm, groped around among the shards. Vague memories of ill porcuswine—that was it!

“Swine fever—we had a plague of it once!”

“Them days happily long gone, Cousin Jim. Inoculation at birth done wiped it out and—”

“Shut up,” I suggested. “I remember now, we had to inject them in the snout, where there were no quills. The sows were bad enough, but—”

“Them boars, they shore didn’t take kindly to that, let me tell you! Had to knock them out first.”

“How?”

“Well, you know. Use the tranker.”

“What’s that?”

“Little teeny machine. Shore don’t know how it works, but works fine each time. Just hold it near the back of the neck an’ press the itty-bitty button. Bam! Some sort of radiation or something and that old boar just lays down and starts snoring!”

“And you have this tranker with you?” Gritting my teeth and resisting the urge to strangle him.

“Dunno . . .” My fingers arched, reaching for his neck.

“Suppose so. Should be in the swine-med box. If’n we didn’t toss it away . . .”

I seized his arm and rushed him, complaining reedily, down to the animal deck, past the drowsing sows—to the storeroom beyond. Tore open the swine-med box . . . looked in . . .

“I’m not shore, but that little dingus does looks like it.”

I reverently took out the shining metal device and seized it by the handle.

“Yep, that’s it, all righty!”

Fought hard against the urge to try it out on his neck . . .

I escaped the porcine grunts and swinish squeals for the peace of the engine room. The laborers appeared to be finishing up their work on the graviton collector. Mounted now on sturdy wheels, it looked very much like a rolling file cabinet lashed to a sturdy block and tackle. With a metal lunchbox strapped on.

“Hit it.” Stramm said and Tomas pressed the button on the small radio he carried. A light flashed on the lunchbox and it bleeped.

“Transponder works fine,” Tomas said.

“Ready to go whenever the captain wants to,” Stramm said. “After we truck this down to the airlock and secure it outside.”

I climbed the stairs to the bridge and reported to the captain.

“Collector is ready to roll. The passengers will be on the acceleration couches when the order is given. Elmo and his farmers are bedded down on the sty deck. He said he’ll need about an hour to secure the animals.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be with the collector crew on the lower deck. We have mattresses there for the landing. The sooner the job is done, the sooner we can take off again.”

I did not add that Angelina, reluctantly acknowledging that she had no role in the operation, would take to her acceleration couch.

“Fine. Tell them to start securing the animals. We’ll make the landing when they’re done.”

Stunning the boars went far more smoothly than expected. Gnasher looked at me and grunted a swinish hello, then thudded to the deck when Elmo reached out and activated the tranker at the back of his giant neck. He simply collapsed—and snored. Ignored by the others—who quickly joined him with their grating wheezing.

I joined the volunteers on the lower deck, where they lay on mattresses just outside the inner lock door. The collector was locked against the bulkhead. The cable secured to it, the block and tackle attached to a cleat on the floor. A half-dozen oxygen tanks were mounted on the wall above. I told my radio to turn on.

“Everyone is ready, Captain.”

The wall speakers crackled to life.

“Starting final approach. Acceleration couches now. Landing deceleration begins.”

The landing seemed to go on for a very long time. When the jets finally cut out we knew that we were down on Heavyplanet. Only it did not feel like that—the three gravities felt like the acceleration was going on and on.

“Here we go,” Tomas said, struggling to his feet and staggering over to the lock activation switch, pushed it. He swayed, almost fell, then hit the ramp control as, with great groans of protest, the inner door opened wide. Tomas, pressed hard against the bulkhead, slid suddenly down onto his knees, gasping for breath. I staggered to the bulkhead, pulled free an oxygen tank and passed it to him. Grabbed one for myself since breathing took a distinct effort.

When the inner door was open we all struggled into the lock chamber. The easiest way was to roll off the mattresses and move forward on all fours. Once inside we put on the oxygen tanks and masks, rolled the now ponderous machine into the airlock with us. The inner door ground slowly shut.

“Opening outer lock door now,” Tomas said as he hit the switch. The seal popped—as did our ears—as the pressure equalized in the lock chamber. The slowly opening door revealed a gray wasteland of desolate and rocky ground set against an ominous black sky. A chill wind blew dust in around us.

“All right, let’s go to work,” Tomas said. “Wolfi and I first. If we can’t finish the job the next two men take over.” He released the shackles on the machine and it started to move—but was snubbed by the block and tackle. Then it rolled slowly down the ramp as the cable payed out. At the foot of the ramp they stopped when they reached the ground.

“Leave the cable attached . . .” Tomas gasped. “Use it when we . . . come back . . . to pull it . . . into the ship.”

“Don’t try to stand up,” he said, his voice muted by the oxygen mask. “Stay on all fours—divide your weight.”

Leaning forward, working together, they rolled the reluctant mass away from the ship. It was exhausting work, straining their strength to the limit. They had progressed about three meters when Tomas struggled to raise his hand.

“Next . . . team . . . now . . .”

I crawled forward on all fours and took over. Pushing the collector across the ground with the cable paying out behind us.

I don’t think I have worked that hard in my entire life—and
sincerely hope that I won’t have to ever again. We pushed the awful weight against the immense grip of gravity, then stopped. Others took over. We crawled, like infants on all fours, strained at the machine, moved it a few reluctant centimeters . . .

“Captain here . . .”
The voice echoed in my head and it took long blank moments for me to realize it was my radio.

“Yes,” I gasped out.

“Stramm says you have gone far enough—takeoff blast won’t reach that far.”

Speaking was hard but I finally made the others understand. “Done . . . back to ship . . .”

It was just survival that kept us going. If you didn’t keep moving—on bloodied knees and hands—you were going to die. No one else could possibly help you.

Kept going through a red haze of pain, felt something pushed against my hand. The cleat on the cable’s end. I blinked at it, not understanding.

“Pass it back . . .” Tomas gasped. “Last man . . . leave it out of blast range!”

I pushed it back to the man crawling behind me, then went on.

I felt the cold roughness of the ramp beneath my hands. Left smears of blood on the metal as I forced my way up it and into the ship. Could only collapse helplessly onto a mattress. Gasping hoarsely for breath.

Then, from a great distance I heard a voice. Tomas’s?

“Close lock . . . counted . . . all back inside . . .”

“Radio on—” I rasped hoarsely. “Close the lock . . .”

I must have lost consciousness about then. Was scarcely aware of a greater weight on my chest. It must have been takeoff.

When I opened my eyes again I became aware of feeling almost weightless, of breathing easily, tearing off my oxygen mask and moving without effort. I sat up slowly, dizzy at the effort, saw Tomas looking at me. Smiling.

“We did it, didn’t we?”

I could only nod in mute agreement.

There were too many people around us, too many congratulations. Well-intentioned slaps on the back that hurt—as did every muscle in my body. It was Angelina who rescued me, led me, supported my stumbling progress to—wisely—the bar, not my bed. Collapsed on the lounger, feet up, hand and knees balmed and bandaged, I raised the chilled glass shakily and drank.

“A decided improvement,” I said. Hoarsely. My throat still raw from the oxygen.

“You were wonderful—you and the others. The captain caught the whole thing with the hull cameras. At times we were sure it couldn’t be done . . . then we saw the blood on the ramp . . .”

I put my finger to her lips. “What’s done is done. The collector is now collecting at a greatly increased rate. The captain explained it all to me—lectured really. It seems that the
collection rate goes up by the square of the gravity. So instead of grabbing three times as many positrons, our busy machine is storing nine times as many as normal . . .”

“More Manhattanteeny?” she asked, topping up my glass as I held it—shakily—out to her. End of physics lecture.

“Do you know when we will land on the next planet?”

“Captain said tomorrow morning is target time. He wants a full day to run tests before he opens the airlock.”

“After our recent planetary experiences, who can blame him.”

Planet time was just a few hours after ship’s time. After a few more cocktails—and a painkiller—I slept the sleep of the just. Awoke at dawn feeling sore but almost human. After breakfast it was back to the acceleration couches for the landing. I must admit that I dozed off until the captain’s voice drilled into my consciousness.

“Boss to bridge. Captain Schleuck to bridge.”

I stretched and yawned. “Coming with me?”

“Not this time. Pinky isn’t too perky—and Elmo promised to have the porkermedbot take a quick examination.”

“A fine machine—that even he can’t foul up. If he remembers to press the
ON
button.” I joined the others on the bridge.

“I’ve been running an orbiting survey of the planet, and sent a surveybot to analyze the air and sample the biosphere,” the captain said when I had joined the party. Stramm was already there and Tomas arrived soon after me.

Data and figures were scrolling across the screen. “Gravity is ninety percent of normal—we’ll all enjoy that. Oxygen
percentage just about normal.” He pointed to a row of figures, all flashing green.

“No pathogens in the atmosphere. Plenty of pollen floating about, The same is true of the soil. No pathogens. Lots of vegetable matter.”

He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

“I would say that this planet is ready for further onsite inspection and I volunteer for the job. I haven’t been off the ship in living memory—”

“No way!” I said. As firmly as I could. “You are the indispensable man on this space safari. Besides, we did promise Angelina the pleasure of naming this new world.”

“You did remember,” she said as she came onto the bridge. “And of course Jim will insist on joining the primary recon. Which is fine—as long as I step down first. Agreed?”

There were no dissenting votes. There dare not be.

The image of a tiny blue planet was on the screen. The captain pointed to two white dots off to one side. “It has two moons, so there should be measurable tides.” He zoomed in and the planet rotated slowly as he tapped the controls.

“A water world for the most part—but there is one large landmass, with a chain of islands nearby. They are steep-sided, obviously the summits of a mountain. No flat areas for us to land on them. But I did find what could be a possible landing site on the continent.”

The image rotated, stopped—and zoomed in. Down through a thin cloud layer, to the landmass below. Stopped above tree-top level.

“There appears to be a planet-wide jungle, with the
occasional small clearing, wide beaches all around it—but here is what I found along the coast.”

Our viewpoint lifted, drifted to one side. A large bay opened up, bordered by a wide green arc.

“This is the place,” the captain said. “I checked the georadar. About a meter of soil above solid bedrock. This portion of the landmass—bordering the bay and the bay itself—seems to have been lower at one time, then was inundated by the sea. It must have risen again, in recent geological history. Grass, or something that acts like grass, recolonized the land. But the trees aren’t present. The surface appears to be quite smooth.”

“Looks ideal,” Tomas said, adjusting the controls for a closer look. “Grass on soil over solid bedrock. In all my years in command of a spacer I have never seen a better landing site.”

“Then the ayes have it,” I said. “Are we landing there?”

“Possibly,” the captain muttered. “Tomas and I want to do another detailed survey. We’ll be landing in about an hour if the location is still the best.”