The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (55 page)

It was wonderful. Music played, officers roared, bottles broke, songs were sung. Uniformed figures slumped over the tables while others had slid to the floor. The survivors were well on their way to join the succumbed. I pushed through this alcoholic hell and greatly admired the unconscious drunks. I was still
aching from the captain’s spirited defense. I had rediscovered a dictum that must be as old as crime. Rolling drunks is easier than mugging.

A major in the space service caught my eye, prone on the floor and snoring. I knelt next to him and stretched my arm out next to his. Same length; his uniform should make a fine fit.

“Washa?” a voice muttered from above and I realized that my bit of tailoring
measurement had not gone unnoticed.

“The major is on duty later. I was sent to get him. Come on major, walkies, sackies.”

I struggled to lift the limp figure, aided very slightly by his friends. In the end I seized him under the arms and dragged him from the room. His departure was not noticed. Through a door and down a hall, to a storeroom filled to the ceiling with bottles of strong beverage.
He would feel right at home here. With the door secured I took my time about stripping him and donning his uniform. Even his cap fitted well. I was a new man, rather officer.

I left him dozing out of sight behind the drink. Straightened my tie. And sallied forth to save the world. Not for the first and, I had the feeling, not for the last time either.

I looked around at the bottles, reached for one—then slapped my wrist.

“No, Jimmy, not for you. The number of beers you had this evening will have to suffice. What you have to do will be better off done sober.”

What did I have to do? Simply get aboard one of the spacers, find the communications room, then locate the coordinates of this planet. Easy to say: a little difficult to do.

At least the first part was easy enough to accomplish; locate the spacers. I had seen the floodlit shapes of three of them rising high above the tents earlier in the evening. The party was still crashing inside so this would be a good time to move through the camp. While plenty of drunks were still staggering about. I brushed some dust from my lapel, straightened the medals on my chest. Quite
a collection. I turned the gaudiest one over and craned to read it.
THE GLORIOUS UNIT AWARD—6 WEEKS WITHOUT VD IN THE COMPANY.
Wonderful. I assumed the rest of the lot had been given for equally valiant military endeavors. Time to go.

It looked like events in the alcoholic bedlam were winding down for the night. A grill was being locked over the bar. Orderlies were loading unconscious forms onto
stretchers, while the walking wounded were stumbling toward the exit. A brace of
gray-haired colonels were leaning against each other and moving their feet up and down and not getting anyplace. I made the twosome a threesome and let them lean on me.

“I am going your way, sirs. Perhaps I could accompany you?”

“You shure a good buddy … buddy,” one of them breathed my way. The alcoholic content
of my blood instantly shot up and I hiccuped.

We exited in this manner, weaved our way between the ambulances being loaded with officerial alcoholics, and staggered off into the night. In the direction of the spacers. I had not the slightest idea where the BOQ was—nor did I care. Nor did my drink-sodden companions. It took all their concentration, and what little conscious mind they had remaining,
to simply put one foot in front of another.

A squad of MPs turned the corner in front of us, saw the gleam of light from the silver chickens on my companions’ shoulders. Then did the smartest about face to the rear march I had ever seen.

My drunks were getting heavier and heavier and moving slower and slower as we stumbled through the tent-lined street toward a brightly lit building at the end.
It was large and permanent, undoubtedly part of the park facilities purloined from the natives. Even at this hour of the night, morning really, two armed guards stood at the entrance. All the rocks along the path were painted white and the overly ornate sign above the door read
BASE HEADQUARTERS-GEN. ZENNOR COMMANDING.

This was definitely not the place for me. I maneuvered my charges onto the
grass, next to the sign
KEEP OFF OR GET SHOT
, and let go. They dropped instantly and began snoring.

“You, guards,” I called out. “One of you get the Officer of the Day. These colonels have been taken ill. Food poisoning I think.”

I glared my best glare and not a muscle moved in their faces.

“Yes, sir!” the sergeant shouted. “OD on the double!”

He turned and hurried away and so did I. Toward
the charred remains of a sportsfield upon which the three spacers rested. All of them bristled with guns, brought here to impress the locals I imagined. Or to beat off the armed attacks that had never
materialized. How depressed all the military must be that they couldn’t pull their shiny triggers and blow away the population. They had given a war—and nobody came. Terribly frustrating.

I staggered
as I walked so I would be recognized as an officer. Toward the extruded stairs that ran from the ground, up into the bowels of the nearest spacer. I was a space officer, I was just going to my ship. Or at least I thought I was until I saw that a guard stood on the lower step.

“Halt and be recognized.”

“Cagal off…” I muttered and pushed by him. A private lowest of the low.

“Please, major, sir,
your majesty. You can’t go in without I see your pass.”

“Cagal off twice!” Witty, witty. “Don’ need no pass my own ship.”

Past him and up the stairs. Brain beats brawn anytime. Step by step up toward the gaping spacelock. And the surly sergeant-major who stood and scowled there, firmly blocking the entrance.

“This ain’t your ship, major. I know this ship’s company. You are on another ship.”

I opened my mouth to argue, order, shout. Then saw the gunmetal blue jaw, the glowing red eyes, the hairline that blended into the eyebrows. Even the hairs curling from his broken nose looked like they were made of steel wool.

“Not my ship?”

“Not your ship.”

“Gesh it’s not my ship …” I susurrated, turning and stumbling back down and away into the night. There was no way I was going to get past
the sergeant-major. Back toward the headquarters building and the rows of tents to come up with another plan.

Hidden in the darkness under a large tree, I looked out at the spacers and could think of absolutely nothing I could do to get aboard one of them. The hour was late, the drunks now dispersed, the camp silent. Except for the roving bands of MPs. Whatever was to be done would have to wait
until morning. It would be more dangerous in daylight but it had to be chanced.
Perhaps if there was enough to-ing and fro-ing to the ships I might be able to join in. Right now I really should be thinking of my own safety. And some sleep, I yawned. The kicked-in ribs were hurting again. I sniveled a bit and really felt sorry for myself.

In the stillness of the night the shouted commands and
stamping of boots from HQ could clearly be heard. Guns were brought snappily to attention as a huddle of officers emerged and hurried down the path. Even at this distance I could recognize the repellent form of the leader. Zennor, with his underlings hurrying after. I drew deeper into the shadows: this was no place for me to be.

Or was it? Despite my desire for rapid departure and continued survival
I stood there and concentrated. And hated the idea that began to develop. The officers moved out across the charred sportsfield and passed the spacer I had tried to get into. At this moment the idea jelled and I loathed it even more because it just might work. With a great effort I forced down the screaming meemies that threatened to overwhelm me, unlocked my knees and lurched forward. Following
the officers across the field.

If any of them looked back I was sunk. But that was next to an impossibility. Their job in life was to bull straight ahead and walk over anything and everything that got in their way. They charged on and I charged after them, getting ever closer. Anyone watching would see a group of officers with one more of their kind hurrying to catch up.

When they reached the
steps of the freighter I was right behind them, watching them mount with dignity. Though still hurrying I did not hurry that fast anymore. With precise timing I reached the guard at the foot of the stairs just as they vanished from sight above.

“General,” I cried. “The message has come through. It is urgent!”

I waved and called out again and brushed by the guard who did the only thing he was
supposed to do. He saluted. Up the stairs, much slower now, dragging one leg, old war wound you know. They were well out of sight as, breathlessly, I reached the open port.

“The general, where is he?”

“Captain’s quarter’s, sir,” the guard said.

“That’s near the communications room on this type of ship?”

“That’s right, major, same deck, number nine.”

I hurried on to the nearest companionway
and up it. Slower and slower. The ship was silent, empty, but I heard voices echoing down from above. When I reached the next deck I walked around to the companionway on the far side. Where I stopped and counted slowly to two hundred.

“You are a brave but foolhearty devil, Jim,” I muttered and agreed strongly with myself. Press on.

The large number nine on the bulkhead above slowed me to a crawl.
I carefully poked my head above the deck and looked around. No one in sight, but voices were sounding from the passageway. The doors had numbers stenciled next to them. One of them had a name on it.
COMMUNICATIONS ROOM.

It’s now or never, Jim. Look around carefully. Nobody in sight. Take a deep breath. What is that loud hammering noise? Just your heart thudding with the usual panic at a time
like this. Ignore it. Step up, step forward, to the door, seize the knob.

Except the knob had been sawn off. Steel bars had been bolted to the door and welded to the frame. The communications room was sealed, shut, inaccessible, tight.

As I was registering these facts and trying to make sense of them a voice spoke in my ear.

“You, what are you doing there?”

If my heart had thought it was thudding
along merrily earlier it now tore loose from all its moorings and hurled itself up into my throat. I spun about, swallowed it, tried not to say Glugh! Grimaced and looked at the uniformed figure before. At the shoulders. I sneered.

“I might ask the same thing of you, lieutenant. What are you doing here?”

“This is my ship, major.”

“Does that give you permission to speak to a superior officer
in that manner?”

“Sorry, sir, didn’t see the leaves, sir. But I saw you by the com room and we had orders about it …”

“You are absolutely correct. Sealed and no one near it at any time, correct?” “Correct.”

I leaned my face close to his and scowled and watched with relief as his skin paled. It is hard to scowl and sneer your words at the same time, but I managed.

“Then you will be pleased
to know that
my
orders are to see that
your
orders are carried out to the letter. Now, where is General Zennor?”

“Down there, major.”

I spun on my heel and walked in the direction that I wished least to take. He would be watching me, I was sure of that. But I had no choice. If I simply tried to leave the ship he might start to think about my presence, get suspicious, sound the alarm. If I went
to the general all doubt would vanish.

Of course I might vanish too. Nevertheless I walked swiftly toward the open door and the murmured voices, turned into it without hesitation.

The officers at the end of the room were conferring over a map. Zennor had his back turned to me.

I turned sharply right and saw the shelves of books against the bulkhead. Without hesitation I went to it, ran my finger
down the volumes. I could not see their titles because of the sweat that was dripping into my eyes. Seized one at random. Turned and started back toward the door. Let my eyes cross over the group of officers.

Who were completely ignoring me. I walked slower, ears straining, but could hear nothing other than a murmured
cagal
or two, which was required of any military conversation.

When I entered
the corridor the lieutenant was just scuttling out of sight. I walked, neither fast nor slow, to the companionway and down it, deck by deck. Waiting for the alarm bells to go off. Though I probably wouldn’t have heard them through the pounding of blood in my ears. To the last deck and to the open port with the welcoming blackness of the night beyond.

The guard leapt into the air and my heart
followed him. And landed with his weapon at present arms. I threw him a
sloppy salute in return and trotted down the steps to the ground. Another salute and I was walking across the burned grass and waiting for the shot in the back.

It never came. I reached the shadows at the edge of the grounds, slipped into them and leaned against the bole of a tree. And sighed a sigh such as I had never sighed
before. When I raised my hand to wipe the perspiration from my brow I realized that I was still holding the book.

Book? What book? Oh, the book I had lifted from the cabin about four hundred and twelve years earlier. When I held it up and squinted I could just make out the title in the illumination of the distant lamps.

Veterinary Practice in Robot Cavalry Units.

It dropped from my limp fingers
as my back slid slowly down the tree until I was sitting on the ground.

I rested there in the darkness, let the sweat evaporate, tried not think about veterinaries for robot horses—and pondered the significance of the sealed door on the communications room.

For openers, it had not been sealed shut to keep me from getting inside. As much as I valued my own importance I was well aware that others, Zennor in particular, were not struck with fear by my presence.
For example, the combat-ready captain earlier this night. No, Zennor had the door sealed for his own reasons. What were they? Work backward from the obvious.