The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (110 page)

‘Other than being contained in a mixed and disgusting metaphor I think the idea is
a suicidal one. Instead of this we could …’

‘You are going. There is no possible way to wriggle out of this one, Slippery Jim.’

I tried. But nothing worked. I was given a copy of all the known details, a cortex-recording of the language and the master key to a fast pursuit ship to take me there. I returned gloomily to our quarters where Angelina, tired of doing her hair and her nails, was throwing
a knife at a head-sized target on the far wall. She was very good. Even underhand, after a quick draw from her arm sheath, she could hit the black spot of either eye.

‘Let me get a pic of Inskipp,’ I said. ‘It will make a more interesting target and one that you can get a degree of pleasure out of.’

‘Is that evil old man sending my darling out on a job?’

‘That dirty old goat is trying to get
me killed. The assignment is so top secret I
can’t tell a soul about it, particularly you, so here are all the papers, read them for yourself.’

While she did this I slipped the Cliaand language recording into the stamping machine. This recorded the material directly on my cortex without the boring and time-consuming intermediary of any learning process. The first session would take about half
an hour with a dozen or more reinforcing sessions after that. I would end up speaking the language and having one hell of a headache from all the electronic fingering of my synapses. But there was a period of total unconsciousness while the machine operated and that was just what I felt like at the moment. I slipped the helmet down over my ears, settled on the couch and pressed the button.

There
was a flicker of no-time and Angelina was carefully lifting off the helmet and handing me a pill at the same instant. I swallowed it and kept my eyes closed while the pain ebbed away. Soft lips kissed mine.

‘They are trying to kill you, but you will not let them. You will laugh and win and someday you will have Inskipp’s job.’

I opened one eye a crack and looked at her jubilant expression.

‘Come home with my shield or on it? Go to glory or the grave? Are you worried about me?’

‘All of the time. But that is a wife’s job. I certainly cannot stand in the way of your career—’

‘I didn’t know I had one until you told me just now.’

‘—and will do everything I can to help.’

‘You can’t come with me, for a very obvious and protruding reason.’

‘I know that. But I will be with you in spirit
all the time. How are you going to land on this world?’

‘Board my nimble pursuit ship, come in
straight and fast behind a radar screen, zing down into the atmosphere—’

‘And get blasted into your component atoms. Here, read this report by the survivor of the last ship to try this approach.’

I read it. It was most depressing. I threw it back with the others.

‘I heed the warning. This planet
appears to be militarized to the hilt. I’ll bet even the house pets wear uniforms. Bulling in like that is approaching these people on their own terms, competing in the area where they are best organized. What they are not organized against is a little bit of guile, some larceny, a smooth approach covering a devious attack. Insinuate, penetrate, operate and extirpate.’

‘All at once I am beginning
not to like it,’ my love said, frowning. ‘You will take care of yourself, Jim? I don’t think worrying would be good for me right now.’

‘If you wish to worry, worry about the fate of this poor planet with Slippery Jim unleashed against them. Their conquests are at an end, they are as good as finished.’

I kissed her resoundingly and walked out, head high and shoulders back.

Wishing that I was
one tenth as sure of myself as I had acted. This was going to be a very rough one.

M
Y PLANNING HAD BEEN DETAILED
, the preparations
complex, the operation gigantic. I had received more than one shrill cry of pain from Inskipp about the cost, all of which I dutifully ignored. It was my neck in the noose, not his, and I was hedging all the bets that I could to assure my corporeal survival. But even the most complicated plan is eventually completed, the last details
sewed up, the final orders issued. And the sheep led to the slaughter.

Baaa. Here I was, naked to the world, sitting in the bar of the intersystem spacer
Kannettava,
a glass of strong drink before me and a dead cigar clutched in my fingers. Listening to the announcement that we would be landing on Cliaand within the hour. I was naked, figuratively speaking of course. It had taken an effort of
will and strong discipline to force myself to leave every article of an illegal nature behind. I had never done this before in my entire life. No mini-bombs, gas capsules, gigli saws, fingertip drills, card holdouts, phone tappers. Nothing. Not even the lock pick that was always fixed to my toenail. Or …

I grated my teeth at the thought and looked about me. The other revelers were knocking back
the tax-free booze in a determined manner and none was looking at me. Slipping my wallet from my pocket I touched the seam at the top. And felt a certain stiffness. Memory, how it cuts both ways, revealing and clouding. My own subconscious was fighting against me. Only my conscious mind was at all enthusiastic about landing on Cliaand without any illegal devices. I squeezed the wallet hard in the
right way and the tiny but incredibly strong lock pick
dropped into my fingers. A work of art. I admired it when I raised my glass. And said good-bye. On the way back to my cabin I dropped it into a waste disposal. It would go on with the ship while I landed on this singularly inhospitable world.

Every report and interview indicated that Cliaand had the most paranoiac customs men in the known
universe. Contraband simply could not be smuggled in. Therefore I was not trying. I was just what I appeared to be. A salesman, representative of Fazzoletto-Mouchoir Ltd., dealers in deadly weapons. The firm existed and I was their salesman and no amount of investigation could prove otherwise. Let them try.

They did. Landing on Cliaand was not unlike going into prison. I, and the handful of other
debarkees, trundled down the gangway and into a gray room of ominous aspect. We huddled together, under the eyes of watchful and heavily armed guards, while our luggage was brought and dumped nearby. Nothing happened until the gangway had been withdrawn and the
Kannettava
had departed. Then, one by one, we were called out.

I was not first and I welcomed the opportunity to examine the local types.
They were supremely indifferent to us, stamping about in knee-high boots, fingering their weapons and keeping their chins up high. Their uniforms were all the same color, a color which at first glance might be mistaken for a very unmilitary hue of carmine, a purplish red. Very quickly I realized that this was almost exactly the color of blood, half arterial blue, half venous pink. It was rather
disgusting and hard to avoid looking at. And, in addition, gave no small hint about the nature of the wearer.

All of the guards were on the large side and ran to protruding jaws and little piggy eyes. Their helmets looked like fiber-steel, with sinister black visors and transparent faceplates that could be dropped down. Each carried a gaussrifle, a multipurpose
and particularly deadly weapon.
High capacity batteries stored a really impressive electrical charge in the stock. When the trigger was depressed a strong magnetic field was generated in the barrel which accelerated the missile with a muzzle velocity that equaled any explosive cartridge weapon. And the gaussrifle was superior in that it had a more rapid rate of fire, made no sound, and shot out any one of an assortment of deadly
missiles, from poison needles to explosive charges. The Corps had reports about this weapon but we had never seen one. I made plans to rectify that situation as soon as possible.

‘Pas Ratunkowy,’ someone shouted and I stirred to life as I remembered this was my cover name. I waved hesitantly and one of the guards stomped and clacked over to me. I do believe that he had metal plates on his heels
to increase the militaristic effect. I looked forward to getting a pair of these boots as well: I was beginning to like Cliaand.

‘You Pas Ratunkowy?’

‘I am he, sir, at your service,’ I answered in his native tongue, being careful to keep a foreign accent.

‘Get your luggage. Come with me.’

He spun about and I had the temerity to call after him.

‘But, sir, bags are too heavy to carry all at
once.’

This time he impaled me with a cold, withering look and fingered his gaussrifle suggestively. ‘Cart,’ he finally snarled and stabbed a finger at the far side of the prison yard. I humbly went after cart. This was a drably efficient motorized platform that rolled along on small wheels. I quickly loaded my bags onto it and looked for my guide. He stood by a now open door with his finger
even closer to the trigger than before. The electric motor whined at top speed and I galloped after the thing towards the door.

The inspection began.

How easy that is to say. But
it is one of those simple statements like ‘I dropped the atom bomb and it went off.’ This was the most detailed and thorough inspection I had ever experienced and I was exceedingly happy that I had found that lock pick
first.

There were ten men waiting in the smooth-walled antiseptically white room. Six took my baggage while the other four took me. The first thing they did was strip me mother naked and drop me onto a fluoroscope. A magnifying one. Seconds later they were conferring over a blown-up print of the fillings in my teeth. There was a mutual decision that one of them was unduly large and had a rather
unusual shape. A sinister looking array of dental gadgetry emerged and they had the filling out in an instant. While the tooth was being refilled with enamel – I’ll say that much for them – the original filling was being zapped by a spectroscope. They seemed neither depressed nor elated when its metallic content proved to be that of an accepted dental alloy. The search went on.

While my tender
pink person was being probed one of the inquisitors produced a file of papers. Most of these were psigrams sent out after my landing application had been received. They had consulted Fazzoletto-Mouchoir Ltd., my employers, and had all the details of my job. It is a good thing that this was legitimate. I responded correctly to all the questions, inserting random sounds only twice when the physical
examination probed a tender spot. This appeared to go well; at least the file was closed and put aside.

While this was going on I had been catching glimpses of the fate of my bags. They suffered more than I did. Each of them had been opened and emptied, the contents spread out on the white tables, and the bag was then methodically taken to pieces. To little pieces. The seams were cut open, the
fastening removed,
the handles dissected. And the resulting rubbish put in plastic bags, labeled and saved. No doubt for a later and more detailed inspection. My clothing was given only a perfunctory examination then pushed aside. I soon found out why. I would not be seeing it again until I left the planet.

‘You will be issued with good Cliaand clothing,’ one of my inquisitors announced. ‘It
is a pleasure to wear.’ I doubted that very much but kept my silence.

‘Is this religious symbol?’ another asked, holding the photograph in his fingertips at arm’s length.

‘It is a picture of my wife.’

‘Only religious symbols permitted.’

‘She is like an angel to me.’

They puzzled over this one for a while, then reluctantly admitted the picture. Not that I would be able to have anything as
deadly as the original. It was whisked away and a photographic copy returned. Angelina seemed to be scowling in this print or perhaps that was only my imagination.

‘All of your personal items, identification and so on will be returned to you when you leave,’ I was coldly informed.

‘While on Cliaand you will wear local dress and observe local customs. Your personal items are there.’ Three very
utilitarian and ugly pieces of luggage were indicated. ‘Here is your identification card.’ I grabbed at it, happy to be assured of my existence, still naked and beginning to get a chill.

‘What is in this locked case?’ an inspector called out, a ring of expectancy in his voice like that of a hound catching the scent. They all stopped work and came over as the incriminating case was held out for
my inspection. Their expressions indicated that whatever answer I gave would be admission of crime to be followed by the death penalty. I permitted myself to cringe back and roll my eyes.

‘Sirs, I have done nothing
wrong …’ I cried.

‘What is it?’

‘Military weapons—’

There were stifled cries and one of them looked around as though for a gun to execute me on the spot. I stammered on.

‘But,
sirs, you must understand. These are the reason I came to your hospitable planet. My firm, Fazzoletto-Mouchoir Ltd., is an old and much respected manufacturer in the field of military electronics. These are samples. Some most delicate. Only to be opened in the presence of an armament specialist.’

‘I am armament specialist,’ one of them said, stepping forward. I had noted him earlier because of
his bald head and a sinister scar that drew up one eye in a perpetual wink.

‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I am Pas Ratunkowy.’ He was unimpressed by my name and did not offer his. ‘If I can have my key ring I will open said case and display to you its contents.’

A camera was swung into place to record the entire operation, before I was permitted to proceed. I unlocked the case and flipped back
the lid. The armament specialist glared down at the various components in their padded niches. I explained.

‘My firm is the originator and sole manufacturer of the memory line of proximity fuses. No other line is as compact as ours, none as versatile.’ I used tweezers to take a fuse from a holder. It was no larger than a pinhead. ‘This is the most miniscule, designed to be used in a weapon as
small as a handgun. Firing activates the fuse which will then detonate the charge in the slug when it comes near a target of predetermined size. This other fuse is the most intelligent, designed for use in heavy weapons or missiles.’ They all leaned forward eagerly when I held up the wafer of the Mem-IV and pointed out its singular merits.