Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns (32 page)

“You will stay with us this night,” Bram said.

“Of course,” Angelina said. “And Jim has something he wants to give you.”

I rooted in our bags until I found it and passed it over. A large, gold envelope.

“Open it,” Angelina said. He held it up to the dying light and frowned and moved his lips, then said, “In the writing it says Bram. That is my name. I am learning to read, you see.”

I opened the envelope for him, and in the last of the light, read

LIFETIME GALACTIC PASS. GOOD IN ANY SPACER
GOING TO ANY PLANET
Billing Instructions Inside.

He took it carefully, brushed his fingers across the raised lettering.

“What it says—that is true?”

“True as I was when I told you that someday you would visit the stars. Now you can do just that—”

“And visit you and Angelina?”

“We hope that will be your first stop,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “Just let us know.”

We left early next morning. I don’t believe in wearing out a welcome.

“They are nice people,” Captain Stroud said, splashing the halftrack across a watercourse and grinding up the bank on the far side. “That pass that you gave Bram—I never heard of anything like that before.”

“Nor did we—until we came up with the idea.”

“Wonderful!”

Not to a certain Inskipp, I thought. Because he was going to be billed for all the costs.

As we ground into the parking compound, Stroud said, “Are you going back again in the spacer?”

“That’s what the captain said. A quick turnaround.”

“I have talked to the staff here and they would be greatly pleased if they could meet you, to show you some of the operation here. Since you are the ones who are responsible for bringing this planet out of the dark ages of death and despair. They would like to thank you for this. For the countless Greens to come who will no longer have to live lives of total degradation . . .”

“Of course we will come,” Angelina said. “It will be a great privilege.”

This was the largest building in the compound—obviously the headquarters. No Pinkies here. Green skins and green uniforms were the norm. We passed a communications section where the troops—male and female—worked away at their screens. Scarcely glancing up as we went by. A number
of them had red shoulder boards on their uniforms. One of these glanced up at us—kept looking for long seconds—before his attention went back to his keyboard.

And I recognized him—I think. One green face looked like any other. It still disturbed me.

“We have organized a small meeting,” the captain said. “The senior staff would like to meet you.”

“No problem.”

They were gathered in a function hall—tables with glasses and bottles held out some promise. But before we could reach it a gray-haired officer, red boards on his shoulders, stopped before me.

This time I did recognize him.

“You are Overlord,” I said. He nodded solemn agreement.

“I was. We met last under far different circumstances.”

“We did indeed.”

“I now work with the kind people who came here to help us. That is your doing, I suppose?”

“I’m happy to say that it was.”

“I thought so. Now you must excuse me for there is much work to be done.”

He turned and was gone. Angelina wasn’t pleased.

“Isn’t that the thug who wanted us killed?”

“The same. Reformed now.”

“We hope . . .”

After many greetings, and some resolutely nonalcoholic drink, we left. Down another long hall.

“One more meeting,” our guide said. “Our commanding officer would like to see you.”

“A pleasure,” I muttered.

The hall was empty except for a single uniformed man standing by a set of doors. He had red shoulder boards. When we drew close he turned quickly and threw open the doors.

A wave of men rushed out in silence—waving familiar clubs.

Overlord led them. Grimacing in hatred as he swung his club down.

I raised my arm—by reflex—and roared with pain as it struck.

Without turning I knew just what was happening behind me.

“Not in the heart,” I shouted, staggered by the blow.

Overlord struck down again—then screamed as the bullet tore into his arm. Screamed again and fell as Angelina’s carefully placed bullets hit him in both legs.

Her next three shots hit the legs of the next attackers, more bullets exploded in the ceiling above the crowd of attacking men. Chunks of plaster and a cloud of dust rained down on them. They stumbled over each other, fell. Dropped their clubs as they ran to escape the deadly fire. Moments later they were gone and just the wounded men lay huddled on the floor.

“You shouldn’t have saved his worthless life,” she said, her smoking gun muzzle questing and ready.

“Thank you,” I said, rubbing my numb and painful arm.

We accepted the many and fervent apologies. A doctor bandaged my arm, but only after administering a welcome painkiller. We were happy to see the armed guards who saw us safely back to our transport.

“I can understand Overlord’s motives,” I said. “Until I came along he ran this world as his own property.”

“King of the dung heap,” Angelina said, death still in her eyes.

“Yes. But it was his dung heap.”

She took my good arm, and finally smiled.

“It’s time to go home—don’t you think?”

“Past time! Sunshine and peace, relaxation and all the civilized pleasures.”

We laughed together and the future was bright and happy.

Until next time my subconscious whispered.

I ignored it . . .