The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (56 page)

The door on this ship was sealed, so probably all of the com rooms on all the spacers had been sealed. It made no sense to shut just a single one. Why? To stop communication, obviously. Between who and whom? Or whom and who for that matter.
It couldn’t be intended to stop planetary communication. That was still needed for the not-too-successful invasion. Ground-based radios would suffice for that. Spacer com rooms sealed obviously meant that ship-to-ship communication would cease. That was of no importance since the entire fleet had already landed.

Which left only interstellar communication. Of course! The rush to leave, the secrecy
about our destination. Zennor knew that the League Navy was after him, knew that they could only stop him if they knew where he was going. Or where this planet
was. So the invasion was a one-way affair. A gamble hurled into interstellar space. Not much of a gamble against an unarmed enemy. Zennor knew that the Navy had spies, all those detector vans had been evidence of that. He was convinced
that I worked for the League and there might be other League agents in his army. So communication had been cut off until the invasion succeeded. After that there would be nothing that the Navy could do.

This was good for the invasion—but very bad news for me. I had sent the radio message for help, which even now was limping steadily across interstellar space at the miserable speed of light. I
had better forget about it. And forget as well about sending an FTL message for the time being. What I had to do now was think local. I might have to spend the rest of my life on this planet. If I did remain here I didn’t want to do it with Zennor and his military goons breathing down my neck. Desertion, that was the name of the game. I had to get his army away from him. When all the draftees had
been dispersed about the land I would consider the next step. Which didn’t bear considering. Maybe I should open a distillery and supply free booze to his officers and noncoms? From what I had seen, with the correct encouragement, they all would be dead of cirrhosis within the year.

I yawned and realized that my eyes were closed and I was half asleep.

“Never!” I groaned, climbing to my feet.
“Fall asleep here, Jim my boy, and the chances are that you will wake up dead. To work! Next step is to get your chunk off this base, for your work here is done for the moment. Back to warmth and light and female companionship, away from solitary males, cursing, drinking, gambling and all the other military pleasures. Away!”

But was I ever tired. Instead of walking it would sure be nice to have
a bit of transportation. Somewhere near HQ there had to be vehicles, since officers rarely walked. Nor were these vehicles too hard to find. Just behind the HQ building there was a motorpool, unguarded apparently. And there, looming darkly behind the staff cars, the shape of a command car. One I was very familiar with. I drifted over and climbed into it.
No guards needed at this motorpool because
all the ignition keys had been taken away. I smiled into the darkness. This crate could be hotwired faster than a key could be fumbled into the lock. I bent, pulled, twisted. Sparks sizzled and the fuel cell hissed into life. Boldly on with the headlights, into gear and away.

Away to where? Not the gates surely. During the daytime it might be possible to drive out behind a convoy. But right now
the gates would be closed and I would have to produce a pass or some sound reason for nighttime maneuvers. I could think of no sound reason. I drove on slowly, past one of the gates and along a perimeter road that circled the camp, just inside the barbed wire fence. For security patrols undoubtedly. I drove along it until a grove of trees came between me and the lights of the camp. I angled the
headlights toward the fence, locked the gears in neutral and climbed down to look at the barrier.

It was a ten-strand barbed wire fence. There were surely alarms attached if it were breached, but I could see no sign of disturbed earth, tripwires or circuitry that might lead to mines. Just bashing through it might be a chance worth taking. It didn’t matter if the alarm were raised. By the time
the sluggish troops reached the site I would be long gone. I raced the engine, put it in the lowest gear, floored the accelerator and ground forward.

The wire fence screeched and tore. There was a fine show of crackling sparks—I thought it might be electrified, but the combat car was shielded—and then it all tore away and I was through. Kicking up through the gears and tearing away through the
empty streets. Pulling the wheel and screeching around a plaza with a large statue of Mark Forer gazing down serenely from a plinth, and out the broad avenue on the far side. I recognized this street, I had walked this way before when we had first escaped. The river and bridges were up ahead. With the residential suburbs on the far side.

When I trundled my battle wagon across the bridge there
was still no sign of pursuit. Fine. Time to go to ground. I turned off along the river bank, put the gears in low-low, angled toward the water and jumped down. The car ground steadily on, demolished a bench—sorry about that—and plowed majestically
over the edge. There was plenty of burbling and splashing, then nothing. The river was deep here. Behind me I could hear the wail of distant sirens.
I walked briskly through the park and into the nearest street. Though I was tired I needed to put some distance between myself and the river, in case there were tracks left which might be seen by day.

“Enough is enough, Jim!” I said, leaning against a wall and all too aware that I was drooping with fatigue. I had turned corners at random, lost myself completely, and the river was far behind me.
There was a gate in the wall beside me, with
Dun Roamin
carved into the wood. Message received. Without hesitation I opened the gate, climbed the steps beyond and knocked on the front door. I had to do it a second time before there were stirrings inside and a light came on. Even after all the time here on Chojecki I still found it hard to believe that this was the correct way to meet strangers.

“Who is it?” a male voice called out as the door opened.

“Jim diGriz, offworlder, tired.”

The light came on and an ancient citizen with whispy gray beard blinked out myopically at me.

“Can it be? It certainly is! Oh what luck for old Czolgoscz!! Come in brave offworlder and share my hospitality. What may I do for you?”

“Thank you, thank you. For openers, let’s get these lights off just in
case there is a patrol around. And then a bed for the night …”

“My pleasure! Illumination off, follow closely, this way, my daughter’s room, now married and living on a farm, forty geese and seventeen cows, here we are. Curtains closed, a moment, then the lights!”

Old Czolgoscz, although he tended to talk too much, was the perfect host. The room was pink with lace curtains and about twenty dolls
on the bed.

“Now you wash up, right in there, and I’ll bring you a nice hot drink, friend Jim.”

“I would prefer a nice cold drink rich with alcohol, friend Czolgoscz.”

“I have the very thing!”

By the time I had rinsed the last of the military muck away he was back with a tall, purple bottle, two glasses—he wasn’t that old—and a pair of pajamas ablaze with red lightning bolts. I hoped that
they didn’t glow in the dark.

“Homemade gingleberry wine.” He poured two large glasses. We raised them, clinked, drank and smacked our lips. I sighed with happiness and a bit of nostalgia.

“I haven’t had this since I was back on the farm. Used to have a bottle hidden out in the porcuswine sty. On dull days I used to get blotto on it and sing to the swine.”

“How charming! Now I will leave you
to your rest.”

A perfect host, vanished even before I could thank him. I raised my glass in a toast to the electronic benevolence of the portrait of Mark Forer upon the wall. Drained it. And went to sleep.

When consciousness reluctantly returned I could only lie and blink, drugged with sleep, at the sunlight behind the curtains. Yawning, I rose and opened them and looked out at a flower-filled
garden. Old Czolgoscz looked up from his labors and waved his secateurs at me. Then scurried into the house. In a remarkably short period of time he knocked on the door, threw it open, and brought in a groaning breakfast tray. I don’t normally have a liter of juice, large portion of wiffles with syrup and three eggs. I did today.

“How did you know?” I lip-smacked satedly.

“Guessed. Young lad
your age, been working hard, seemed natural. I talked to a few people and I am sure that you will be pleased to hear that the teams are in training all over the city for D-Day.”

“D-Day?”

“Desertion Day. Today, tonight. Extra trains have been scheduled and people all over the country are looking forward to welcoming the new citizens.”

“Fantastic. I hope you will welcome me as well. My stay on
Chojecki may be longer than originally planned.”

“You are more than welcome, as is your knowledge. Would you like a teaching position at the university?”

I smiled at the thought. “Sorry, I ran away from school, never graduated.”

“I regret in my provincial ignorance that I do not know the meaning of either run away or graduate. Students here go to school when they want, stay as long as they
want, study what they want, leave when they want. The only scholastic requirement a child has is to learn about Individual Mutualism, so he or she can lead a full and happy life.”

“I suppose the parents pay for the child’s schooling?”

Czolgoscz drew back, horrified. “Of course not! A child will get love and affection from its parents, but they would not embarrass their offspring by violating
IM’s tenets. The child’s wirr account, opened when it was born, will be in debit until he or she begins to earn. At a very early age, for the child will not be a free and independent citizen until the wirr account is in credit.”

Now I was shocked. “The workhouse for infants! Laboring day and night for a few crusts!”

“Friend Jim—what a wonderful imagination you do have! Not quite. Most of the
work will be done around the house, the labors that were usually done by mother, collecting the wirrs father would pay her …”

“Enough, I beg. My blood sugar is low, my head thick and the details of IM so novel that they must be absorbed just a bit at a time.”

He nodded agreement. “Understandable. As you will teach us about the novelties of the great civilizations out there among the stars, we
have been cut off from them for centuries, so will we reveal to you the fruits of Mark Forer’s genius—may electrons flow forever through its wires!”

A pleasant prayer for that long-vanished machine. I still found it hard to understand such affection for a bunch of circuitry, no matter how complex. Enough, it was time to get back to work.

“Can you find out where my friend Morton is staying?”

“Would you like to go there? I will be honored to take you.”

“You know …” I gaped, then answered my own questions. “Of course, everyone in the city knows where we have been staying.”

“That is correct. Do you ride the bike?”

“Not for many years—but once learned, never forgotten.” A sensible form of transportation, the bicycle, and the streets of this city were busy with them. I bundled up the
uniform for possible future use, pulled on a pair of baggy shorts that Czolgoscz produced. This, and my undershirt, produced an inconspicuous cycling outfit. Thus garbed I went into the garden and limbered up with a hundred pushups. When I finished and climbed to my feet I shied back from the man who stood behind me leaning on a bright red bicycle.

“I did not mean to startle you,” he said. “But
I did not wish to interrupt your ritual. Czolgoscz phoned me and I brought your bicycle around. The best one I had in stock.”

“Thank, thank you—indeed a beauty. But I am afraid I cannot pay you for it …”

He smiled. “You already have. I stopped at the wirrbank and debited your account. They asked me to give this to you.”

I did some rapid blinking at the wirrdisc he handed me.
James diGriz
it
was labeled. And in the little LCD window it read
Balance 64.678.

“The bank asked me to ask you to contact them. They were not sure how many hours you worked for the public service last night. If you would kindly report to them they will make the correction.”

“I am in the system!” I shouted happily. The bicycle man beamed happy agreement.

“Of course! You are an individual and Individual Mutualism
is your right. Welcome, welcome! May your wirrbalance grow and may your life be a long and happy one!”

It was next morning when the cagal hit the fan. Reports had come in during the night of the fantastic success of D-Day. The troops had trooped into town with their passes, had expressed a great appreciation of fresh air, had been welcomed at the back entrance of any clothing store to change out of their uniforms, had boarded train after train. The last one left just before midnight
when the curfew had descended.

And there had been no alarm, not at first. Luckily there were four gates into the camp and I presumed that the MPs, in their native ignorance, had all thought the returning soldiers had used the other gates. Therefore they had all been happy to cagal off for the evening. So successful had been our operation that even the extra trains had not sufficed for the mobs
of deserters. Over a hundred were still in the city. They would stay hidden until nightfall when, hopefully, they would be smuggled to the station.

With my new-found wealth I had bought a giant TV as a gift for our hosts. Morton and I were watching a local broadcast when the military cut in. Neither of us appreciated it for this was a day of celebration of some kind, the anniversary of the wiring
of Mark Forer’s first circuit board or some such, and all the city had turned out. We were enjoying a parade, headed by the local girls’ cycle club, all flashing bronzed limbs and fluttering skirts, when the picture sizzled and died to be replaced by General Zennor’s scowling features.

“Turn it off!” Morton moaned. “If I look at him I won’t be able to eat lunch.”