Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns (30 page)

I took out my memory file card, “Contact Inskipp,” I said to it, and passed it over. The all-too-familiar number appeared on the call screen.

“That will be three thousand credits, plus galactic sales tax.”

Eager robotic fingers seized my credit card and pushed it into the
PAY
slot. The machine made a throaty eructation and spat the card out onto the floor.

“There is no money in this account,” the now surly robot said.

“Make that a collect call.”

“Treble charges plus satellite sales tax.”

“Do it—they can afford it.”

“Booth three. Have a nice day—or night—whichever your choice may be.”

Inskipp appeared on the screen. Already in full snarl.

“Do you know how long I have been trying to contact you, diGriz? There is a catastrophic emergency brewing up in . . .”

“My bad news is worse than yours. Let me tell you about some planets I have recently visited—and the deadly situations they harbor . . .”

Give him that—he managed to listen in silence to my tales of woe.

“. . . of the lot Salvation is the worst. That deadly green mutation has made life a dismal hell for their own people—as well as the descendants of the original settlers.”

“The Special Corps is already on top of it. Our OOGA branch.”

“Ooga?”

“Office of Green Affairs. We’ll add your planet to the list.” He turned away from the screen and mumbled to an unseen companion, turned back. “General Caruthers, commander of OOGA, is with me now. He’ll be on the ship that we are sending to bring you in. He’ll explain then.”

“Fine. But before my next assignment you’ll have to transfer one million credits to my account—for incidental expenses.”

He snarled—but nodded reluctant agreement. “Do you want it deposited to your credit card account or one of the secret ones we are not supposed to know about?”

“Your choice.” As the call disconnected I made a mental note to have my banker son James do some swift account juggling.

It had been a long day and I had much to think about.

“Where is the bar?” I asked. The comm robot pressed a button.

“A guidebot is waiting for you without, honored sir,” he smarmed, as he handed me back my rejected—and now topped up—credit card.

I could have done without the frontier theme, all logs and stuffed cows, in the saloon. At least I could bribe the Country and Rock–crushing band into silence.

I sipped from a cold one, puffed alight a thousand-year-old cigar, and counted off what had to be done—and now could be done.

The good ship
Porcuswine Express,
its tank topped up with bargain gravitons, could now complete its journey to Mechanistria. Without me.

Then, as soon as he arrived on this rustic satellite, I would brief General Caruthers, commander of OOGA, on the green tragedy of that unhappy world.

After completing whatever dismal duty Inskipp had in mind for me, Angelina and I would return at last to our holiday world for a well-deserved—and hard-earned!—holiday. I puffed and drank, very much at ease with the world.

Along the way Tomas and his escapee companions would return to their home worlds.

The good captain Singh would—if he wanted the job!—continue as master and owner of the spacer. With no regrets I would turn my back on the spacegoing sty and all who sailed on her.

“I thought I might find you here,” Angelina said.

“I had no doubt you would. Drink?”

“Of course.” She dropped into a chair, calling out
Sit,
as she did so. Behind her the overladen porterbot dropped with a clank to the floor.

“You’ll never guess who I have been taking to,” I said. As her drink, cool and frosted, rose up from the middle of the table.

“Inskipp. And he has a job for you that is already terribly long overdue.”

“Oh reader of minds—it is true.” I looked at the mighty
burden of packages she had bought. “But let us first celebrate! This is going to be the mother of all parties.”

“Indeed it will.”

I remember the opening of the evening’s festivities, the many toasts, the magnificent meal, the many toasts, singing strange songs along with an off-key chorus, the many toasts . . . But the ending of the party is, for some reason, quite blurred.

When I struggled awake—lip smacking with a bone dry mouth—I had just enough energy in one feeble finger to press the dispenser button on the headboard of the bed. Managed to catch the Back From the Brink pill before it rolled onto the floor. Washed it down with a liter of water. Lay there until the vibrations stopped. Opened one undoubtedly bloodshot eye as Angelina appeared in the doorway.

“Quite a party,” she said. “Enjoyed by all. Including the porcuswine—who managed to munch their way through a ton of mangle-wurzels. Coffee?”

“Yes nurse . . .” I rasped hoarsely as I struggled to sit up.

“The captain would like to see you on the bridge. As soon as you are fit.”

“More coffee first, if you please.”

As soon as it looked as though I would live, Angelina relayed another invitation. This one much more dubious than the last.

“I have been talking with the ladies—who would like to see us both.”

“No men?” Hopefully.

“Well, just a few of them.”

I didn’t have to guess who would be heading the male posse. “After I meet with the captain.” Putting off the inevitable as long as possible.

Tomas was already on the bridge when I got there.

“Glass of wine?” the captain asked; he and Tomas had filled glasses before them: a dust-covered bottle of red wine was open and breathing on the plotting table. “There are some excellent, well-aged wines in the satellite cellar here.”

I sipped, savored, drank more. Just being sociable, of course.

“I’ve updated my charts from the satellite’s memory bank,” the captain said. “We can get to Mechanistria in five, six Bloats at the most. When we arrive this charter ends. What do you plan to do with this vessel then?”

I could think of a few snappy answers that could not be spoken in public. I took another drink; excellent wine. Noting my hesitation, he went on.

“I—and Captain Schleuck here—have a proposal to make.”

“But before we do that,” Tomas said. “We have to see to the other escaped prisoners, who are planning to return to their home planets.”

“My organization will take care of their transportation.”

Inskipp had grumbled over the cost, but in the end had agreed.

“I won’t be with them,” Tomas said. “I don’t propose to return home. I’ve contacted my union there and they have already transferred my accrued back pay, sick leave and pension funds.”

“And I have a bit laid by from my ship broker days,” Captain
Singh added. “We would like to buy this ship from you. We rather like the old tub—as does Stramm who is ready to sign on as well.”

“We are going to do scenic old-time tours of pastoral planets in a rustic spacer,” Tomas added. “The retirees and veteran cruise passengers will love it.”

“You’re on!” I said, raising my glass. “To a happy future for the Bloat Family Tours!”

“And one thing more,” I said. After we had clinked glasses and drank deep. “The ship is now yours. Prepare the documents of ownership and I will sign.”

“But payment . . .”

“None. It’s all yours now. I will get the money back, from my employers, whom I know will be thrilled at the thought.” Or not, as the case may be. I felt no nostalgia, no regrets.

Just a sensation of immense, overwhelming . . . relief.

Decorative bunting festooned the walls; the tables were heavily laden with cookies and jugs of hard cider. I nibbled the one, eschewed the other. After the captain’s wine I was on the wagon for life. Or at least the rest of the day. I looked around at the bucolic audience and tried to smile; did not quite succeed. The dreaded Elmo rose to a spattering of applause.

“Ladies and folks, honored guests. Got a few words to say . . .”

They weren’t a few. Numberless would be a more accurate description. My fragile constitution forgotten, I looked longingly at the hard cider—and restrained myself. A spreading numbness set in and, after a century or two, I heard the welcome words . . .

“To get to the business of the day, as the feller said. Miz Julia has got something important to tell you.”

She rose, blushing, nervously smoothing down her apron.

“I just want to say how much we have to thank Angelina and Jim for. So—thank you ever so much!” We nodded and smiled at the fervent round of applause. It died away when Miz Julia gestured for silence.

“It ain’t much I know, but our knitting ladies have done this for you, Angelina.”

She waved one of the knitting ladies forward, who produced a fine, multicolored sweater that she gave to Angelina. More applause—then I realized I was fated to be next when she glanced my way.

Through a gray haze I tried to do and say all the right things as the hideous knitted thing was passed over. For the first time—and undoubtedly the last—I was happy when Elmo rose to speak again.

“And we have a little something extra as the feller said. One of the boys—Little Billy—does what he calls scrumpshap”—
scrimshaw
a dozen voices hissed—“or whatever. Go on Little Billy, show us what you done.”

Little Billy was one of the hulking weight lifters who had retrieved the collector from Heavyworld. Speechless, he shuffled forward, holding out a box. Managed to squeeze out a few words. “Carved from a boar’s tusk, that’s what.”

It was a work of art. A fluid image of a porcuswine boar. Delicately done with each quill carefully delineated. My thanks were legitimate, his handshake crushing and numbing at the same time.

After all this heady excitement I did have a small cider. And fled as soon as possible.

Angelina joined me later in the bar. Where I was packing up the bottles.

“I shall miss them,” she said sadly. “Pinky most of all. But you know what they say: get a piglet today, and have a sow tomorrow.” I clunked another bottle into the box and she looked up. “Packing?”

“Moving. Into the satellite hotel. Captain Singh wants to leave as soon as possible—as I am sure do our passengers as well. Mechanistria will look very welcome after some of the planets we have been on. Peace, security, TV—all the wonders of civilization.”

“And the porcuswine. How they must yearn for green pastures and open skies.”

“As do we all.”

And that was it. After we packed the last bag she left me to supervise the porterbots in our move to the hotel while she went and said her last last good-byes. To Pinky as well, I am sure. I made a final call from our hotel suite to captain and crew.

“And don’t forget to send me a brochure of your first cruise . . .”

When the call had ended and the screen went black I emitted a deep and heartfelt sigh. After Angelina returned we went to the satellite lounge, with its immense viewport, and watched our home for so many months as it drifted free. It moved slowly into the distance, turning as it did.

Long seconds later it was illuminated by a pink glow. There was a familiar, distant Bloat pop. When the glow faded the
Porcuswine Express
had gone.

“I shall miss them all,” Angelina said. “Pinky in particular.”

There was the distant chime of a bell, followed by quick trumpet call from the wall speaker. “
Welcome newly arrived
customers, welcome,”
a synthesized woman’s voice cooed.
“The Cactus Lounge is now open for lunch—or dinner—whatever the case may be. Snacks or a whole roast cow—the choice is yours. Plus the finest beverages in the known universe . . .”

“Silence,” I ordered.

“It has been a long time since breakfast,” Angelina said, turning away from the viewport. “Shall we?”

If Angelina missed her shipboard friends she never mentioned it. She frequented the Filly’s Beauty Lounge for facials, rubdowns, tail-braiding, hairdos and all the other arcane rituals that women and fillies enjoy. I worked out in the gym, swam many laps in the pool—and did not miss my late incarceration in the spacesty in the slightest. May it have many a successful voyage in its new role as a cruise ship.

Better them than me.

Dinner was by candlelight, charmed by soft music from the Bronco-Busters Rodeo Band. Transformed in the evening to Martha’s Musical Maidens. In addition to changing sex, the robots now played sentimental violin music.

“I think this is wonderful,” Angelina said as we glided across the dance floor.

“Quite a change from down on the farm,” I added as we executed a fancy bit of footwork.

But by the time the Special Corps spacer arrived I had had about enough of the robotic pleasures and looked forward to the great outdoors again. But without the green men around to spoil it all.

“Message from newly arrived vessel for Sire diGriz,”
the
speaker said. A moment later the smarmy robot voice was replaced by a crisp military one.