Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns (5 page)

Stout bankers wept—there were rumors of suicides. But
the law was the law. Peace and fiduciary responsibility was the rule now.

Laughing employees ushered me through the manager’s door. This functionary stood inside bowing and dry-wiping his hands.

“Welcome a thousand times over, Sire diGriz. Please take this chair.” He pushed it in and I sat. He picked up his round black ball, that was secured by a chain to his ankle, so it wouldn’t trip him, and seated himself behind his massive desk.

I always enjoyed the sight of the ball and chain. A constant reminder of the fate awaiting the bankers if their accounts were even a groat overdrawn. The balls were made of improvium and light as a feather. But if any larceny was detected in the bank’s accounts more molecules of improvium were pumped in and the balls grew heavy. Their weight varied according to the seriousness of the crime. In the bank’s cafeteria one could see manager’s smiling and sweating as they dragged their balls after them. In matters of grievous financial funny business they could weigh as much as a tonne; unless fed by sympathizers it was said that many a manager starved to death. A suitable fate for the overweight, some have been heard to say.

“And how may I help, Sire Jim?” I ignored the smarmy use of my first name.

“My account—I have a query.”

“Of course. Let me bring it up on my screen.” He touched a button, looked—gasped and slumped back in his chair. “Empty, overdrawn. Past your limit—still being overdrawn as I watch . . .”

“Yes, well, that’s my query. What do we do?”

“First—ho-ho—we try to turn off the overdraft function.” He stabbed down on a key. Sat back and patted his damp forehead with his handkerchief.

“Assets?” he asked.

“My home!” I said hollowly, trying not to think of Angelina.

“Yes, indeed!”

He punched keys, smiled at the screen, sat back with a sigh.

“Nine bedrooms, two kitchens, four bars, two swimming pools with poolside bars . . . a prime property indeed. It will fetch a good price . . .”

“Sell? Never! A mortgage!”

The smile became a frown. “Unhappily our mortgage funds are limited today, the law you know. Wait, a new deposit just came in. So we can offer you a loan—let me see after I deduct your overdraft—we can happily give you, after this deduction—four thousand and twenty three credits.”

“For my luxurious home!” there was despair in my voice.

“Wait, another overdraft just came in. The balance will be three hundred and forty-two credits.”

“I’ll take it . . .”

“Too late—another payment-due just arrived. I’m afraid that if you mortgage your home now you will still be in debit to the bank.” He turned off the screen, sat back and forced a smile. “Is there anything else I can help you with today, Sire James?”

I grated my teeth and forced a grin. Not speaking the unspeakable things that I would like him to help me with.

“Been nice talking to you,” I said, standing, turning, exiting his office. By coincidence none of the bank staff was looking
my way as, whistling, I exited the bank. I looked down the street; it was a long walk to the spaceport. As I shuffled slowly into the gloom of the afternoon I looked up. Three pendant gold balls. Was it by sheer chance that the hock shop was so close to the bank? I turned and looked behind me and lo—there was another one, balls glinting in the afternoon sun. Funny, I had never noticed them before. Bells chimed in the distance as I pushed the door open and strode firmly inside among the pianos, gold jewelry, stuffed cats . . .

When I left I pulled my jacket sleeve down to cover the pale stripe on my wrist where my watch used to be. I jingled the credits in my pocket and breathed a brief prayer.

Be swift, good son, James. Your rusty rat of a father is greatly in need of succor.

I jingled the coins again, turned to the curb, hailed a passing cab.

“What a pleasure it will be to see our son again,” I said cheerfully.

Angelina did not move; her face set in ice. My words fell leadenly to the floor. I could but persevere. “His spacer will arrive on time! See the announcement board. See the nice bar? Join me in a drink while we wait?”

“Are you sure that we can afford it?”

Yes, well, that was a consideration. The answer was a firm yes. It would be medicinal. I slipped away and stumbled over to the alcoholic retreat, rapped a coin to get the barbot’s attention, drank deep of the libation he poured.

To say that my wife was not charmed by my financial report is like saying that an earthquake is a slight tremble in the ground. Oh, good son James, bearer of glad news—and hopefully mounds of mazuma!—please arrive soon. I emptied my glass and saw over its lowered rim that the first passengers
were emerging from customs, their roboluggage trundling behind them.

And leading them—countenance beaming—was our son! Mother and son embraced while I looked on with paternal pleasure. I got a hug too; then James stepped back and brought forward a man who had been waiting patiently behind him.

“This is Kirpal Singh—I told you about him in my interstellargram.”

We shook hands. He had dark skin, white teeth and his head wrapped in green cloth. A bandage? All would be revealed.

“Kirpal came with me because, you will be happy to hear, he is a spaceship broker.”

“Welcome . . . doubly welcome!” I enthused.

“And does Mr. Singh have a firm credit line to cover any financial transactions?” Say what you will, my Angelina is not an easy sell.

“I am but a humble broker, dear Mrs. diGriz. Your son is the money bags in any transaction.”

James held up the dark briefcase that was chained to his wrist. “Crammed with credits and ready to go!”

“Then all be well!” She exclaimed in an abrupt change of mood. “We look to you Kirpal for salvation.”

“I am deadly in financial dealings, Angelina! We Sikhs are a warrior race.”

“That explains the turban. I assume that you have your dagger and iron bangle?”

“I do, wise lady.” He lifted his cuff a bit; metal gleamed. Then tapped his ankle. “You are indeed a student of ancient religions and customs.”

My Angelina never ceases to amaze me.

“We’ll have celebratory bottle of champers while you bring me up to speed,” James said leading the way to the bar. He whistled and their wheeled cases trundled after us.

We clinked glasses and drank. Angelina, ever the pragmatist, outlined our problem while I downed a second glass of morale-raiser. When she was through she sipped daintily from her glass while we all applauded.

“What a worthy cause for a most charitable lady!” Kirpal cried aloud. “Count upon my expert help to save these rural refugees!”

“Which leaves us with only one problem—” she said, glancing at me. I nodded for her to continue, pouring another glass; she was doing fine. “Do we have the financial well-to-do to carry this off?”

“Alas, no,” James said, then held her hand as her brow darkened. “But I am calling in a number of long-term investments that I made for you some years ago. However, even by warpdrive interstellargram this will take a day or two. In the meantime a million credits have been deposited in your account for day-to-day expenses.”

“All’s well that ends well,” I said, and put my glass down. Enough sauce, Jim, this is a time for level heads. “To the spaceport and a showdown with Captain Rifuti.”

We grabbed a cab—I wasn’t using Moolaplenty Motors again if I could help it. We made a brief hotel stop on the way—where a checkinbot was waiting for us at the entrance to the Spaceman’s Paradise. James signed in and passed over their luggage. We drove on and when we reached the
Rose of Rifuti
’s spacelock we were pleased to discover that a small welcoming committee was there to greet us.

“She was pinein’ for you, Miz Angelina,” Elmo said in his best cap-twisting toe-dragging servile mode. His voice was all but drowned out by Pinky’s joyous squealing. She changed to a happy snurgle when Angelina knelt and gave her a good under-quill scratch. Elmo beamed as he led the way to the messhall.

Which was no longer the messhall. That scruffy nameplate had been replaced by a hand-sewn tapestry that read
PARLOR & DINING ROOM
in pink letters, surrounded by a floral wreath.

“I made a few improvements while we were waiting for you,” Angelina said. “This—and the rest of the living quarters—were an ecodisaster.” I was barely aware that Kirpal was slipping back down the corridor.

The messhall was no more. Stout farm-hardened arms, soap and water had scrubbed and cleaned so that the floors—and walls—were cleansed and shining. Colorful tablecloths abounded, pillows were on the chairs, while large holopix of prize porcuswine adorned the walls. We were quickly seated with pride at the top table and the air filled with merry cries as we knocked back the jugs of hard cider.

Then, suddenly, a hush fell over the room and joy was replaced by angry mutters. Captain Rifuti was dragged into the room, head lolling and semiconscious, firm in the muscular grip of two stout porcuswineherds. Engineer Stramm followed them, livid with anger. He had a small, fist-sized machine in one hand, a large wrench in the other.

“I caught this criminal messing with my engines. Got him with my spanner and called for help. He was stealing this atomic copraxilater. Cost a fortune—and the ship won’t move without it. Thought you might want to have a word with him.”

“Oh, I do indeed!” I said, dry-washing my hands with a sadistic rustle. “I’ll take over now, thank you. If you kind people will leave us to it, you will have my full report soonest.”

They exited. Each sneering or muttering a curse as they passed the wretched captain, now immobile in James’s firm grip.

As the last farmer left Kirpal entered and locked the door behind him.

“I have inspected this spacegoing slum from stem to stern,” he said warmly, nostrils flaring in anger. “A dump. The owner will have to sell it at a laughable rock-bottom price!”

“Sit, Rifuti!” I ordered as the door clicked shut. “Meet the honorable spaceship broker Kirpal Singh who will now arrange the sale and purchase of this miserable tub at the best price—for us—that is possible.”

“Broke my arm . . .” he complained, holding up his wounded arm and waggling his cast at us. “Hit me on the head too. Got a lawyer, gonna sue!”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” I said, leaning over, my voice dripping venom, my breath washing him with hard-cider vapor. He cringed. As well he might. “Mention your arm again and you will be in jail for attempted swinicide, condemned, jailed, labeled a pauper by court order and have everything you own—particularly this ship—taken from you. Do I make myself clear?”

I did. Kirpal had no trouble proceeding with the negotiations at a distant table. The diGriz family clicked glasses, sipped a bit more of the cider, while James brought Angelina up to date on family matters. We were just refilling our glasses when Kirpal joined us, happily brandishing a sheaf of papers.

“Preliminary agreement for you to look at James.”

They muttered, scratched out, rewrote, chuckled.

“You’ll have to find a welcoming planet for our porcuswine friends,” Angelina said.

“The search progresses.” Which was true. I had a search program running on my computer. Searching for a compatible planet that would take this mob. “As soon as I can, I’ll see what the program has turned up.”

“Good. The next question is what do we do with the house while we are away? Put it in stasis store or rent it out?”

I fought down the reflex gurgle and gape, choked out an answer.

“But . . . we’re not going away . . . are we?” A desperate, doomed attempt at an escape.

“Of course we are. We can’t let those sweet creatures travel alone—tended only by simple farmers—to face the troubles and tribulations of a new world. We’ll go along to make sure they are settled in. Make it a holiday—it has been quite a time since we’ve had one.”

Holiday! Squealing, rattling, rutting, groaning, grunting porcuswine forever . . . I had fought so long to leave the farm and the chuntering swine behind me. I was not going back.

“Never!” I cried aloud. “I escaped that life once—I can’t go back!”

“Understandable,” she said coolly, taking a small sip of her drink. “I do share your feelings. Perhaps it is too much of a good thing—like sweet little Pinky.”

I shuddered—did I hear a rustle of quills?!

“But we must see that these people and their charges are settled in. Then, and you have my promise, we will say bye-bye
and go on a relaxing holiday.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek.

Disarmed, outfought on all fronts, helpless. I raised the white flag.

“Put the house in stasis. It will be so nice to come home to . . .”

“I agree. Now, how should we pack?”

“Congratulations,” James said. Placing a thick folder of papers on the table before me. “You are now the proud owner of the spacer
Rose of Rifuti
.”

“Change the name.” I heard myself say as from a great distance.

“To the
Porcuswine Express
!” Angelina said, and there were cheers of happy agreement. Behind them I saw Rifuti stumbling away; he turned and shook his fist in our direction, then left.