Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns (29 page)

And I did—for this was indeed a most wonderful day.

I was still smiling happily when the captain called a meeting on the bridge. When I entered I saw that Heavyworld’s menacing presence filled the viewscreen. The captain, Stramm and Tomas stared at it in gloomy unhappiness.

“I bring good news to eliminate the aura of doom that presses on all here.” They looked dubiously at me, obviously thinking I had lost most of my marbles. “We have some sturdy volunteers on this ship who will crawl out in our place to retrieve the collector.”

Despair turned to joy when I had explained.

“I must supervise them,” Tomas said.

“By all means,” I agreed. “From a prone position on a soft mattress.”

Our second visit to Heavyworld was a major improvement over the first one. As we dropped into orbit the boars snored happily, the sows lay down gruntingly. The largest yearlings joined their elders in electronic-induced sleep—no broken legs this time. I lay on the acceleration couch and blessed the overweight musclemen who would make this visit a success. With the large viewscreen on the wall before us we had a ringside view of the action.

As soon as the landing jets cut out, and the 3Gs jumped on us, I saw Tomas struggle to a sitting position.

“No grandstanding,” he ordered as the airlock door
ground open. “I know you guys can probably do it—but don’t try to stand up.”

They nodded in agreement.

“If you are on all fours you have half the weight on any one limb. Shuffle. That’s why you have pads on your knees and hands. OK—let’s move into the airlock.”

They grunted as they pushed up onto their elbows—then onto their knees. But they did it. Moving a lot more smoothly than we had. Tomas followed slowly afterward, collapsing, gasping for breath, onto the padding inside the airlock.

The heavy mob waited patiently until the inner door closed and the outer one—creaking loudly—slowly ground open.

“First team forward—” Tomas had to pause until the coughing fit ended. “You see the cable end out there—with the loop on the end?”

Slow nods.

“Get over to it. Drag it back inside here.”

They moved out. Slowly and patiently. And steadily. I remembered our shaking and painful progress. Not these musclemen. This was a situation where brains did not matter at all. When they were halfway to the cable Tomas called out.

“Second man wait there. First man retrieve the cable and drag it back to your second man.”

Without hesitation the leader crawled slowly and steadily on.

Stopped when he reached it—breathing hard. Stayed immobile until he got his breath back. Reached out shakily to grab the loop. Then, with muscle-bulging effort, clipped it to the hook affixed to his belt. Crawled in a half-circle and started back.

I found myself sitting up, sweating with the effort, knowing what he was feeling. Lay back down with a gasp. With a
great effort Angelina brought her hand over and held mine. I smiled back at her.

“Better him . . . than you . . .” she gasped.

I gave her a feeble nod in return.

These musclemen were the greatest. Slowly and steadily, with no fuss, they passed on the cable, dragged it back after them. The second team met them at the foot of the ramp, kept the cable moving steadily—until they dropped it over the hook on the block and tackle.

The first team leader struggled to raise his fist erect and shake it.

“Done . . . !” he said, smiling through the sweat that was pouring down his face.

The rest was routine. Winch in the collector and lock it into place. Heavy work, but swiftly done. With all the equipment secured for takeoff we were soon back in orbit and away from the crushing gravity.

When I felt up to it I made my way to the engine room. Where Stramm was pouring the last of the gravitons into the hopper on the Bloater Drive. At least I presumed that was what he was doing. Since gravitons are massless, weightless and invisible it was hard to be sure.

But they were the key element that was going to power the Bloat that would get us out of here.

We sincerely hoped . . .

There was no wood to knock on in the spacer so I crossed my fingers instead. Crossed my eyes as well, in an appeal to the invisible gods of superstition.

Stramm closed and sealed the cover on the graviton tank, looked at the gauge.

“Full of positrons and rarin’ to go for a super-size Bloat!” I said.

“Maybe,” he said, tapping the gauge and looking at the readout again. “Maybe we should have left it on Heavyworld longer . . .”

“It’s full! Brimming with gravitons. More than enough to Bloat us back to the civilized side of the galaxy. To write a happy ending to the endless voyage of this spatial
Flying Dutchman
!”

His only answer was a weary shrug. Which I ignored. We went up to the bridge in silence.

The two captains were at the Bloat controls, running equations across the screen. Angelina was sitting by the plotting table, with the recumbent Pinky at her feet, snoring swinishly.

“She checked out fine on the porkermedbot. Just a touch of dyspepsia. From overeating.” This required no response.

“We’ve settled on a course,” the captain said, swinging about in his chair. “A bright star that appears to be halfway back to the nearest cluster of central stars. We should reach there in two long Bloats. With a course correction after the first. Any questions?”

Silence was his only answer. This was it. Our only chance. Make or break.

“Do it,” Angelina said. Speaking for us all.

He activated the Bloat.

“The bar is now open and you are all invited,” Angelina said. “Including the captain who is now officially off duty. Drinks—and snacks for all.”

At these words Pinky’s eyes flew open and she gave an
anticipatory grunt. Climbed to her feet and shook herself with a great rustling of spines.

The ship was in a relaxed and festive mood. The planet of gruesome Greenies was lost behind us in the depths of space. The strains and sprains of Heavyworld long healed and the perspiration of Sauna long dried. Great gravitons sped us Bloatingly towards our destination. We rested in the hands of fate. What would be, would be. We would find out soon enough.

A series of festive evenings were enjoyed by all. The Barbell Boys gave a demonstration of weight lifting and martial arts that was most impressive. Elmo led a combo of rustic musicians, who tortured our ears with musical combs and one-string and box banjos. Remembering my brief career as a stage magician, I gave a display of prestidigitory arts that drew great applause. Joy prevailed.

Until our first Bloat ended. We assembled on the bridge for this seminal event.

Waited and fidgeted until the Bloat popped and we emerged into normal space. Our target star was bright and central on the screen.

“A good Bloat,” the captain said. “Now let’s look at its spectrum.” The figures rolled across the screen.

“Hot. Large. Can’t be sure at this distance, but the perturbations indicate some occulting.”

“Meaning?” Angelina asked.

“Satellite planets. Big ones. We’ll know better after the next Bloat when we are much closer.”

“How long?” I said.

“Two days. No more.”

The parties were over. It was a time for introspection—and hope. It had been a long, long voyage. The end was well overdue.

Knowing the overwhelming anticipation of all aboard, including the porcuswine who had been penned too long, the engineer had rigged a large screen at one end of the dining room. For us. The swine would have to do without. A pickup and projector relayed the scene from the bridge, with the viewscreen enlarged and central.

As the final countdown approached, Angelina and I went to the bridge and joined a privileged view at the scene of the action.

The countdown this time seemed endless—but it finally did crawl to an end. The Bloat collapsed with a final
ping
and the viewscreen filled with blazing light for an instant before the filters clicked on.

Glaringly bright. There was a warning buzzer as the spectral analysis raced across the lower part of the screen. The captain recoiled, seizing the armrests on his chair.

“The spectrum—that can mean only one thing . . . this star is ready to go nova!”

There was crackle from the speakers as the radio turned on to receive an incoming broadcast.

“Welcome to Castor Epsilon. Even though this star is ready to go nova!”

I’ll give my shipmates this—they didn’t panic. Even though there are few times in your lifetime when you have been told—twice—that the closest star to you is about to turn into an exploding nova.

The captain spoke—calmly!—into the mike.

“Radio contact. Identify yourself.”

“Welcome newly arrived spacer—welcome to star system Castor Epsilon. Spectral analysis reveals that this star will go nova—any millennium now. So forget your troubles and let your stay here be a wonderful one! Welcome to Bronco Pete’s Trading Post, a friendly satellite paradise!”

At this point the TV screen burst into life with the beaming face of a robotic Bronco Pete. Tanned, toothy, wearing a wide-brimmed hat with a high pointed top: I assumed that his head fitted up into the hat. The captain was not amused.

“Stop this recording. I want a human operator.”

“So do I! Alas, the last human left over three hundred years ago. But our robot service is one of the best! Try our yummy steaks, aged over a thousand years at a temperature one degree above absolute zero. Stay in our hotel with the best room service in the known galaxy, featuring girls that . . .”

“Shut up!” the captain snarled. “Provide listing of services available.”

“. . . grrrrk. Available are Aardvark Steaks, Asteroid Tables, Apprehensive Counseling . . .”

“Stop. List communication facilities.”

“Communications. Astral Database. FTL Comms . . .”

“Stop. Make available FTL Comms.”

We looked on in silence. Dumbstruck. Was this true? Had the
Flying Dutchman
finally reached safe harbor? Was our voyage to nowhere finally reaching its end?

“Bronco Pete bids you welcome to the finest communication facility in this sector of space. Our Buckboard Roboboat is now on its way to greet you. To bring you and your dear companions here to enjoy our galaxy-wide acclaimed services. Payments of all kinds accepted, after bank clearance. Transport now latching to your upper spacelock as soon as portal dimensions are adjusted. There—attached! Please open outer door to enjoy the most exciting consumer experience of your life!”

We could hear the cheering from the farmers—and squealing porcuswine—from the decks below.

Stramm spoke in a calm voice, “Ask him if they have a graviton supply here . . .”

“I heard that, honored guests—and yes indeed—we do have the best gravitons in the known universe and at rock-bottom prices!”

Our cheers echoed the bucolic cries and grunts from our passengers below.

“Gravitons!” the captain said, relaxing back in his chair.

“Communications!” I chortled and punched the air.

“Steaks—fresh food!” Angelina reminded us. “Oh what a party we are going to have.”

The three of us rose as one and headed towards the door.

“Stramm,” the captain called back over his shoulder, “prepare to receive gravitons. Tomas, please explain to our passengers what we are doing.”

“And tell them about the party,” Angelina added as we reached the stairs.

We waited impatiently at the airlock as the outer hatch slowly opened. The airlock pressure indicator flashed red—then turned green as the pressure equalized with that of the docked craft. Its locks were open as well and enthusiastic music greeted us as we entered. Greetings as well from a host-essbot who waved us to cushioned seats.

“Welcome to Bronco Pete’s—who now asks you to enjoy a free drink of your choice. First one is on the house! After that all future imbibements will be paid for with a credit card, cash or interstellar gift vouchers. So, name your potion!”

It was a brief trip and a happy one. I think we were all a little dazed by the quick transition from the depth of despair to the pinnacle of elation. It still had not sunk in that our endless voyage had ended at last.

We entered Bronco Pete’s to a blare of bugles from a one-robot
marching band. Who stayed right behind as we started down the gaily-decorated entrance hall. The music was overwhelming. It only stopped when the captain—wise in the ways of the commercial spaceways—slipped a coin into the cancel slot that was the robot’s belly button.

The captain peeled off at the door marked
GRAVITONS-R-US
, while Angelina headed for
BRONCO PETE’S SUPER SUPERMARKET
. I made a beeline to
COMMUNICATIONS
.

“I am here to help!” the comm robot said, standing, vibrating with eagerness before a towering control panel.