The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (88 page)

“Mine will be the first. Along with a court-martial, possible flaying and certainly life imprisonment.”

“It shouldn’t be that bad. If we get the forces of light on our side, why then the forces of darkness won’t be able to lay a finger on you.”

“It will take time …”

“Captain—that’s the one thing
we got plenty of! A good six months of it. That’s how long this stasis will last. They won’t know it, will not even realize a single second has passed. But, oh, will there be consternation among them when they discover how things have changed while they have been dozing! When I leave here the stasis will seal itself, impenetrable and impermeable. By the time it lifts the reform campaign will
have succeeded and this prison planet will be nothing but a bad memory.”

“And I will be cashiered, out of a job, will have lost my pension—the works.”

“And many a human being will be alive and happy who would have been miserable or dead. Besides, the military is no place for a grown man. And with a million credits in the bank you can buy lawyers, live the good life, forget your past.”

“What
million?”

“The bribe that I am going to pay into a numbered account for you to make all of this worth your while.”

He shook his fist. “You are a crook, diGriz! Do you think that I would stoop to your criminal, crooked level?”

“No. But you might be the administrator of the Save Liokukae Fund which has been set up by an anonymous benefactor.”

He scowled, opened his mouth to protest. Stopped.
Burst out laughing.

“Jim—you are something else again! What the hell—I’ll do it. But on
my
terms, understand?”

“Understood. Just tell me where to mail the check.”

“All right. Now let’s get you a uniform while I forge some shipping orders. I have the feeling that I am going to enjoy being a civilian.”

“You will, you will. Shall we go?”

We went. Marching in step in a most military manner. Marching
into the future, into a better, brighter future.

The blues had been sung. A page turned, a chapter ended. Tremearne would do a good job of sorting out this repellent world. I would do equally well as I slipped away between the interstices of society.

In six months I would be far from here, my trail cold, my bank account filled, my life more interesting. Once rested and restored—it would indeed
be time for The Stainless Steel Rat to ride again!

The Stainless Steel Rat

Harry Harrison

www.sfgateway.com

When the office door opened suddenly I knew the game was up. It had been a money-maker—but it was all over. As the cop walked in I sat back in the chair and put on a happy grin. He had the same somber expression and heavy foot that they all have—and the same lack of humor. I almost knew to the word what he was going to say before he uttered a syllable.

“James Bolivar diGriz I arrest
you on the charge—”

I was waiting for the word
charge,
I thought it made a nice touch that way. As he said it I pressed the button that set off the charge of black powder in the ceiling, the crossbeam buckled and the three-ton safe dropped through right on the top of the cop’s head. He squashed very nicely, thank you. The cloud of plaster dust settled and all I could see of him was one hand,
slightly crumpled. It twitched a bit and the index finger pointed at me accusingly. His voice was a little muffled by the safe and sounded a bit annoyed. In fact he repeated himself a bit.

“… On the charge of illegal entry, theft, forgery—” He ran on like that for quite a while, it was an impressive list but I had heard it all before. I didn’t let it interfere with my stuffing all the money from
the desk drawers into my suitcase. The list ended with a new charge and I would swear on a stack of thousand credit notes
that
high that there was a hurt tone in his voice.

“In addition the charge of assaulting a police robot will be added to your record. This was foolish since my brain and larynx are armored and in my midsection—”

“That I know well, George, but your little two-way radio is
in the top of your pointed head and I don’t want you reporting to your friends just yet.”

One good kick knocked the escape panel out of the wall and gave access to the steps to the basement. As I skirted the rubble on the floor the robot’s fingers snapped out at my leg, but I had been waiting for that and they closed about two inches short. I have been followed by enough police robots to know
by now how indestructible they are. You can blow them up or knock them down and they keep coming after you; dragging themselves by one good finger and spouting saccharine morality all the while. That’s what this one was doing. Give up my life of crime and pay my debt to society and such. I could still hear his voice echoing down the stairwell as I reached the basement.

Every second was timed
now. I had about three minutes before they would be on my tail, and it would take me exactly one minute and eight seconds to get clear of the building. That wasn’t much of a lead and I would need all of it. Another kick panel opened out into the label-removing room. None of the robots looked up as I moved down the aisle—I would have been surprised if they had. They were all low-grade M Types, short
on brains and good only for simple, repetitive work. That was why I hired them. They had no curiosity as to why they were taking the labels off the filled cans of azote fruits, or what was at the other end of the moving belt that brought the cans through the wall. They didn’t even look up when I unlocked the Door That Was Never Unlocked that led through the wall. I left it open behind me as I had
no more secrets now.

Keeping next to the rumbling belt, I stepped through the jagged hole I had chopped in the wall of the government warehouse. I had installed the belt too, this and the hole were the illegal acts that I had to do myself. Another locked door opened into the warehouse. The automatic fork-lift truck was busily piling cans onto the belt and digging fresh ones out of the ceiling-high
piles. This fork-lift had hardly enough brains to be called a robot, it just followed taped directions to load the cans. I
stepped around it and dog-trotted down the aisle. Behind me the sounds of my illegal activity died away. It gave me a warm feeling to still hear it going full blast like that.

It
had
been one of the nicest little rackets I had ever managed. For a small capital outlay I had
rented the warehouse that backed on the government warehouse. A simple hole in the wall and I had access to the entire stock of stored goods, long-term supplies that I knew would be untouched for months or years in a warehouse this size. Untouched, that is, until I came along.

After the hole had been made and the belt installed it was just a matter of business. I hired the robots to remove the
old labels and substitute the colorful ones I had printed. Then I marketed my goods in a strictly legal fashion. My stock was the best and due to my imaginative operation my costs were very low. I could afford to undersell my competitors and still make a handsome profit. The local wholesalers had been quick to sense a bargain and I had orders for months ahead. It
had
been a good operation—and
could have gone on for quite a while.

I stifled that train of thought before it started. One lesson that has to be remembered in my line of business is that when an operation is over it is OVER! The temptation to stay just one more day or to cash just one more check can be almost overwhelming, ah, how well I know. I also know that it is also the best way to get better acquainted with the police.

That’s my motto and it’s a good one. I got where I am because I stuck to it.

And daydreams aren’t part of getting away from the police.

I pushed all thoughts from my mind as I reached the end of the aisle. The entire area outside must have been swarming with cops by this time and I had to move fast
and make no mistakes. A fast
look right and left. Nobody in sight. Two steps ahead and press the elevator button. I had put a meter on this back elevator and it showed that the thing was used once a month on the average.

It arrived in about three seconds, empty, and I jumped in, thumbing the roof button at the same time. The ride seemed to go on forever, but that was just subjective. By the record it was exactly fourteen
seconds. This was the most dangerous part of the trip. I tightened up as the elevator slowed. My .75 caliber recoilless was in my hand, that would take care of one cop, but no more.

The door shuffled open and I relaxed. Nothing. They must have the entire area covered on the ground so they hadn’t bothered to put cops on the roof.

In the open air now I could hear the sirens for the first time—a
wonderful sound. They must have had half of the entire police force out from the amount of noise they were making. I accepted it as any artist accepts tribute.

The board was behind the elevator shaft where I had left it. A little weather-stained but still strong. A few seconds to carry it to the edge of the parapet and reach it across to the next building.

Gently, this was the one dangerous
spot where speed didn’t count. Carefully onto the end of the board, the suitcase held against my chest to keep my center of gravity over the board. One step at a time. A thousand-foot drop to the ground. If you don’t look down you can’t fall …

Over. Time for speed. The board behind the parapet, if they didn’t see it at first my trail would be covered for a while at least. Ten fast steps and there
was the door to the stairwell. It opened easily—and it better have—I had put enough oil on the hinges. Once inside I threw the bolt and took a long, deep breath. I wasn’t out of it yet, but the worst part where I ran the most risk was past. Two uninterrupted minutes here and they would never find James Bolivar, alias “Slippery Jim”, diGriz.

The stairwell at the roof was a musty, badly lit cubicle
that was never visited. I had checked it carefully a week
before for phono and optic bugs and it had been clear. The dust looked undisturbed, except for my own footprints. I had to take a chance that it hadn’t been bugged since then. The calculated risk must be accepted in this business.

Good-bye James diGriz, weight ninety-eight kilos, age about forty-five, thick in the middle and heavy in the
jowls, a typical business man whose picture graces the police files of a thousand planets—also his fingerprints. They went first. When you wear them they feel like a second skin, a touch of solvent though and they peel off like a pair of transparent gloves.

All my clothes next—and then the girdle in reverse—that lovely paunch that straps around my belly and holds twenty kilos of lead mixed with
thermite. A quick wipe from the bottle of bleach and my hair was its natural shade of brown, the eyebrows, too. The nose plugs and cheek pads hurt coming out, but that only lasts a second. Then the blue-eyed contact lenses. This process leaves me mother-naked and I always feel as if I have been born again. In a sense it is true, I had become a new man, twenty kilos lighter. Ten years younger and
with a completely different description. The large suitcase held a complete change of clothes and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that replaced the contact lenses. All the loose money fitted neatly into a briefcase.

When I straightened up I really felt as if ten years had been stripped from me. I was so used to wearing that weight that I never noticed it—until it was gone. Put a real spring in
my step.