The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (73 page)

His jaw dropped and he stepped back a pace. “Don’t need no rats in Paradise. A rusty, chipped old fedha will do …”

“We got a real fan in old Afatt here,” Floyd muttered. “I thought the planet was hip-deep in TV sets?”

A more military Paradisian appeared in the archway. Younger, bigger, and he came complete with studded metal helmet and heavy leather trappings.
“What did you say?” he said as he swung a shining and singularly nasty looking ax.

“You heard me, Sunny. I don’t repeat myself for the troops.”

This provoked a twisted snarl and a barked command.

“Guard—fall out. We got some sheot shaggers here that need a lesson in civility.”

This was followed instantly by the clanking of metal and the thud of running feet.

Many of them.

T
here were a lot of them, armed with a collection of nasty and lethal-looking weapons. I must learn to control impetuosity in speech on this slum world. Think quickly, Jim, before things get any worse.

“I tempted a jest, good sir. I will be happy to repeat myself for your benefit. You, and your good men, have the pleasure of being in the presence of the finest musicians in the known
galaxy!”

As I spoke I touched the remote control on the side of my backpack and a mighty organ sounded out the opening bars of “Mutants of Mercury.” Floyd and Steengo quickly joined in with the opening lines.

The effect of this little jingle of genetic jest was very impressive. As a man the soldiers roared aloud
and surged towards us.

“Do we fight or run?” Floyd said grimly, grabbing at his sword.

I started to shout
fight
—but at the last instant called out—“Listen!”

For they had forgotten about their weapons and were shouting with joy!

“It’s them, like on the Galactic Greasecutter show …”

“The hairy, ugly one—that’s Floyd!”

“I want to hear ‘How Much Is the Snakey in the Snakepit?’!”

Then they were
around us, trying to shake our hands and emitting hoarse cries of fannish enthusiasm.

“But—but—” I but-butted. “Your official greeter never heard of us?”

The first soldier, snarls now turned to smiles, not too gently pushed the old man aside. “Afatt never looks at the boggle gox. But we do! Let me tell you it was like suicidesville around here when we heard that you were sent down. Should have
known that you would have to end up here. Wait until the boys in the barracks hear about this. There’ll be a crackup in the old kaserne tonight!”

They escorted us cheerily under the arch and onto the drillfield beyond, our new host proudly leading the way.

“I’m Ljotur, Sergeant of the Guard. You all take it easy while I call this in. Drinks!” he ordered his men. “And food—whatever they want.”

This was more like it. The beer tasted like beer, although it was of an interesting green color. The soldiers crowded close, hanging on every word we said, so I chomped my jaw to get Tremearne’s attention and made my report to him in the form of a speech.

“Gallant warriors of Paradise—we are overwhelmed by your greeting. You have welcomed we drug-ridden convicts as heroes to your fair land. You
ply us with food and drink and, by your loud cheers, I feel we have a beautiful future here.”

“I certainly hope so,”
Tremearne’s voice said inside my head.
“But until you find out the score on this male-female thing I am ordering Madonette to stay where she is.”

“I agree completely,” I called out. “Don’t you agree completely, guys, that this is the warmest welcome we have ever received?”

My
companions nodded without interrupting the flow of food and drink and there were gurgled shouts of agreement from all sides as more beer vanished. I was wiping my lips with the back of my hand when Ljotur reappeared.

“I have talked to Iron John himself who summons you to his presence soonest. But until the Chariots of Fire appear could you—oh, would you?—play us a number!”

His words were drowned
out by hearty masculine cries of joy.

“Let’s set up for a quick gig, boys—these guys deserve it.” I looked around. “Any requests?”

Many were shouted, but ‘Nothing’s Too Bad For the Enemy’ seemed to be most popular. Best choice too since it had an all-male lyric. Loud thunder rolled while lightning flared and sizzled. Our fans fell back into an appreciative half circle while we let fly.

As can easily be imagined this delicate flower of a lyric really went down well with the troops. They were still cheering when there was a hissing rumble behind us and we turned to see that our transportation had arrived. Perhaps the locals
were used to these things but it was really eye-bugging time for the
tourists.

“Only for special occasions, special people,” Ljotur said proudly.

We gaped in silence, lost for words. There were two of the vehicles, made of wood and decorated with gilt scrolls and strands of jewels. Each had a single wheel in front which was steered by a tiller. This was manned by the driver who rode high above. I looked at the closer one. A wide seat was in the middle and there
were two wheels to the rear. All of which was pretty commonplace—not counting the pricey decoration—if you did not allow for the propulsion at the back. This was a shining metal tube, now crackling and emitting an occasional puff of smoke. I drew my attention away from it as the ornate door was thrown wide. I stepped in and seated myself on the soft cushions. Floyd and Steengo were ushered reverently
into the other vehicle. Doors were slammed and Ljotur shouted a command to the drivers.

“You’re off! Fuel on!
Frapu viajn startigilojn!
Drivers hit your starters!”

I saw now that there was a metal tank under my driver’s seat. He reached down and opened a valve and I could hear the gurgle of liquid in the pipe. Then he stamped down on a pedal; the starter I guess.

No—it just started the starter.
The pedal pulled on a cord that ran on pulleys to the rear of the chariot. This lifted and dropped a small hammer that banged the starter on the shoulder. This was an individual, dressed completely in black, who sat on a little platform slung behind the wheels. Not only dressed in black, but with blackened arms and face, his hair a burnt stubble. I soon found out why. Liquid was now dripping
from the metal tube and the starter reached out and touched a match to it, jumped back as it ignited. A tongue of black smoke and flame leaped out to the rear, singeing the soldiers who weren’t quick enough out of the way.

Now the starter was grinding away at a handle, presumably pumping air into the primitive jet. Within seconds the roar grew louder, the flame longer—and my Chariot of Fire shuddered
and began to slowly roll forward. Very showy. Though it probably only got about a mile to a hundred gallons. I waved cheerfully to my fellow victims, who waved feebly and fearfully back. Relax Jim, sit back and enjoy the ride.

It was hard to do. I admit I did not see much of the passing scenery, being too involved with thoughts of survival. Nor did I relax until our little convoy had stopped
and the blowtorch behind me was extinguished. The chariot’s door swung open to the blast of discordant horns. I grabbed up my pack and stepped down onto a gray stepping block.

Which was resistant but soft. I turned and looked and saw that it was not a step at all but a man dressed in gray, kneeling on all fours. He rose and scurried off, along with another human footstep. Midgets, about as tall
as my waist and almost as wide. My companions had reacted as I had, our eyes met but we said nothing.

“Greetings,” a stentorian voice bellowed. “Welcome, welcome visitors to Paradise.”

“Thanks much,” I said to the tall and barrel-chested man who was draped in gold cloth. “Iron John, I presume?”

“Most flattering—but you presume wrongly. Musical guests, kindly follow me.”

The trumpets blared
again, then the trumpeters opened ranks. Three gray-clad men hurried up and took our packs. I started to resist, then made the reluctant decision that it would be all right. The reception we had received at the archway had been too spontaneous to be planned. Our gold-clad greeter bowed to us, then led the way. Towards the brick steps of a brick building.

If the Paradisians were short on building
materials they certainly weren’t bereft of architectural imagination. Tall pillars, capped with ornate capitals, rose up to support the architrave
of a complex entablature. Just like I had been taught in Architecture 1. To either side tall windows opened onto wide balconies. And all of this done in red brick.

“Looks great so far,” Floyd said.

“Yes, great,” I agreed. But I looked back to make
sure the porters with our packs were right behind us. And I still had the concussion grenades in my pocket. No one ever got into trouble by being prepared—as we used to say in the Boy Sprouts.

Down a brick corridor over brick paving we went. Through a brick doorway into a great and impressive room. It was colorfully lit by the sunlight that streamed through the ceiling-high, stained-glass windows.
Colorful scenes were depicted there of armies marching, attacking, fighting, dying; the usual thing. This motif was carried through to the walls which were hung with tattered battle banners, shields and swords. Robed men who stood about the room turned and nodded to us as we entered. But our guide led us past them to the far wall where there was an elevated throne, made of you-know-what, on
which was seated the tallest man I have ever seen.

Not only tall—but naked.

At least he would have been naked if he had not been completely covered with rusty, reddish hair. His beard cascaded down his chest—which was covered as well with hair. Arms and legs and, I couldn’t help peeking when he stood, hair all down his belly and crotch as well. This was all that was visible since he was wearing
a sort of jockstrap or sporran woven out of, well possibly, his own hair. All of it the color of rusty iron. I stepped forward and bowed a little bow.

“Iron John … ?”

“None other,” he rumbled in a voice like distant thunder. “Welcome Jim—and Floyd and Steengo. Welcome Stainless Steel Rats. Your fame has gone before you.”

Always good to meet a true fan. We all bowed now since
this was not the
kind of reception you normally get. Bowed yet again as all in the room cheered lustily.

Iron John sat down again and crossed his legs. He either painted his toenails or they were naturally rusty. I let it pass since there were a lot more things I would like to know first.

“All here in Paradise were possessed of a great depression when you were arrested,” he said. “Falsely of course?”

“Of course!”

“I thought so. But the galaxy’s loss is our gain. We are pleased since we now have, you might say, a monopoly on your talents.”

This had an ominous sound which I ignored for the moment, cocking an ear as he rumbled on.

“The galaxy is so filled with guilt, sorrow and wrong-headedness that we chose, out of disgust, not to watch most of what is disseminated by television. I am sure that it will
cheer you to know that, since your arrest and incarceration, we have canceled normal programming and have been running recordings of your numbers, day and night. Now, soon, we will be happily blessed with the originals themselves!”

This was greeted by cries of enthusiasm and we replied with nods, grins and handshakes over our heads. When the shouts had died away old Rusty boomed out what they
all wanted to hear.

“It is our hope that you will now—play for us!” More shouts. “What a pleasure to hear live our favorite favorite—‘Nothing’s Too Bad For the Enemy.’ But while you are setting up we will broadcast a recording to warm up our nation-wide audience, to prepare them for your first live performance.”

Which was not a bad idea since, although we could get going fast, their TV technicians
were another thing altogether. Very much on the antique side. They dragged in arm-thick cables, antique-looking, homemade cameras and lights and other gear that belonged in a museum. While this was happening
a screen dropped down from the ceiling and lit up with lively color when the back projector came on.

The recorded program did not have what might be called the galaxy’s most inspiring opening.
About a thousand suntanned bodybuilders drove heavy stakes into the ground with sledgehammers, backed by the thud of a beating drum. The drum died away but the hammers kept hammering silently as the voice-over spoke.

“Gentlemen of Paradise—we now bring you the special occasion that was announced a few minutes ago. I know that all of you, right across the land, are riveted to your sets. I think
that we are going to get a hundred-percent rating on this one! So while The Stainless Steel Rats are warming up for their first-ever live performance here, we are privileged to play for you their special version of—‘The Spaceship Way’!”

And it really was special. We watched ourselves attacking the song with our usual gusto, listened once again to those lovely lyrics …