The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (99 page)

Don’t think for a second that all this was easy. I was staggering and mumbling to myself while I did it. When it was finished I slapped off the
light and cracked the door of the freezer. The air from the hall felt like a furnace. There wasn’t a soul in sight so I closed the vault and staggered over to the nearest door. It was to a storeroom and the only thing there that I could use was a chair. I sat in this as long as I dared, then went looking again. The next door was locked but the third one opened to a dark room where I could hear
someone breathing evenly in his sleep. This was more like it.

Whoever this sacktime artist was, he surely knew his sleeping trade. I rifled the room and fumbled with the clothes I found and put them on clumsily—yet he never heard a sound. Which was probably the best thing for him because I was in a skull-fracturing humor. The novelty of this little affair had worn off and all I could think about
was the pain. There was a hat too, so I put this on and checked out. I saw people at a distance, but no one was watching when I pushed open an emergency exit and found myself back on the rain-drenched streets of Freiburbad.

That night and the next few days are hazy in the memory for obvious reasons. It was a risk to go back to my room, but a calculated one. The chances were good that Angelina didn’t know of its existence or, even if she had found out, that she wouldn’t have done anything about it. I was dead and she had no further interest in me. This appeared to be true, because I wasn’t bothered
after I was in the room. I had the management send up some food and at least two bottles of liquor a day so it would look like I was on an extended and solitary bender. The rotgut went down the drain and I picked a bit at the food while my body slowly recovered. I kept my aching flesh drenched in antibiotics and loaded with pain-killers, and counted myself lucky.

On the third morning I felt weak
but almost human. My arm in the cast throbbed when I moved it, the black and blue marks on my chest were turning gorgeous shades of violet and gold, but my headache was almost gone. It was time to plan for the future. I sipped some of the liquor I had been using to flush out the plumbing and called down for the newspapers of the past three days. The ancient delivery tube wheezed and disgorged
them onto the table. Going through them carefully, I was pleased to discover that my plan had worked much better than should have been expected.

The day after my murder there had been items in every paper about it, grubbed from the hospital records by the slothful newshounds who hadn’t even bothered to glance at the corpse. That was all. Nothing later about Big Hospital Scandal in Missing Corpse
or Suit Brought Because That’s Not Uncle Frim In The Coffin. If my jiggery-pokery in the frozen meat locker had been
uncovered, it was being kept a hospital family secret and heads were rolling in private.

Angelina, my sharpshooting sweetheart, must then think of me as securely dead, a victim of her own murderous trigger finger. Nothing could be better. As soon as I was able to I would be getting
back on her trail again, the job of tracking her made immensely simpler by her believing me to be a wisp of greasy smoke in the local crematorium. There was plenty of time now to plan this thing and plan it right. No more funny business about who was hunting whom. I was going to get as much pleasure out of arresting Angelina as she had derived from blasting away at me with her portable artillery.

It was a humiliating but true fact that she had outmaneuvered me all the way down the line. She had stolen the battleship from under my nose, torn a wide swath through galactic shipping, then escaped neatly right under my gun. What made the situation most embarrassing was that she had set a trap for me—when I thought I was hunting her. Hindsight is a great revealer of obviousities and this one
was painfully clear now. While escaping from the captured battleship she had not been hysterical in the slightest. That role had been feigned. She had been studying me, every bit of my face that could be seen, every intonation of my voice. Hatred had seared my picture in her memory, and while escaping she must have considered constantly how I would be thinking when I followed her. At the safest and
least obvious spot in her flight she had stopped—and waited. Knowing I would come and knowing that she would be more prepared for the encounter than I was. This was all past history. Now it was my turn to deal the cards.

All kinds of schemes and plans trotted through my head to be weighted and sampled. Top priority—before anything else was attempted—would be a complete physical change for me.
This would be necessary if I wanted to catch up with Angelina. It was also required if I were to stay out of the long reach of the Corps. The fact
had not been mentioned during my training, but I was fairly sure the only way one left the Special Corps was feet first. Though I was physically down and out there was nothing wrong with the old think box and I put it to use. Facts were needed, and
I gave a small endowment to the city library in the form of rental fees. Fortunately there were film copies of all the local newspapers available, going back for years. I made the acquaintance of an extremely yellowish journal endearingly called “HOT NEWS!!”
Hot News!!
aimed at a popular readership—with a vocabulary I estimated at approximately three hundred words—who relished violence in its
multiform aspects. Most of the time these were just copter accidents and such, with full color photos of course. But very often there were juicy muggings, sluggings and such which proved the quieting hand of galactic civilization still hadn’t throttled Freibur completely. In among these exaggerated tales of violence lay the murky crime I was searching for.

Mankind has always been capricious in
its lawmaking, inventing such intriguingly different terms as manslaughter, justified homicide and such, as if dead wasn’t dead. Though fashions in both crime and sentencing come and go, there is one crime that will always bring universal detestation. That is the crime of being a bungling doctor. I have heard tell that certain savage tribes used to slaughter the physician if his patient died, a
system that is not without merit. This single-minded loathing of the butchering quack is understandable. When ill, we deliver ourselves completely into the doctor’s hands. We give a complete stranger the opportunity to toy with that which we value most. If this trust is violated there is naturally a hotness of temper among the witnesses or survivors.

Ordinary citizen Vulff Sifternitz had formerly
been the Highly Esteemed Doctor Sifternitz.
Hot News!!
explained in overly lavish detail how he had mixed the life of Playboy and Surgeon until finally the knife in his twitching
fingers had cut
that
instead of
this
and the life of a prominent politician had been shortened by a number of no doubt profitable years. We must give Vulff credit for the fact that he had made an attempt to sober up before
going to work, so that it was D.T.’s, not drunkenness, that caused the fatal twitch. His license was removed and he must have been fined most of his savings since there were later references to his having been involved in more sordid medical affairs. Life had treated Vulff hard and dirty; he was just the man I was looking for. On my first rubber legged trip out of my room I took the liberty
of paying him a professional call.

To a person of my abilities tracking down a pseudo-legal stranger in a foreign city on a far planet presents no problems. Just a matter of technique and I am rich in technique. When I hammered on the stained wooden door in the least-wholesome section of town I was ready to take the first step in my new plan.

“I have some business for you, Vulff,” I told the
bleary-eyed stewie who opened the door.

“Get the hell lost,” he said and tried to close the door in my face. My carefully placed shoe prevented this and it took almost no effort at all to push in past him.

“I don’t do any medical work,” he mumbled, looking at my bandaged arm. “Not for police stoolies I don’t, so get the hell lost.”

“Your conversation is both dull and repetitious,” I told him,
because it was. “I am here to offer you a strictly legitimate business deal with value given for money received. The mere fact that it happens to be illegal should bother neither of us. Least of all you.” I ignored his mumbled protests and looked into the next room. “According to information of great reliability you live here in unmarried bliss with a girl named Zina. What I have to say is not
for her undoubtedly shell-like ears. Where is she?”

“Out!” he shouted, “And you too, out!” He clutched a tall bottle by the neck and raised it threateningly.

“Would you like that?” I asked and dropped a thick wad of fresh banknotes on the table. “And that—and that—” I followed with two more bundles. The bottle slipped from his loose fingers and fell to the floor while his eyes bulged out further
and further as if they were on pistons. I added a few more bundles to the pile until I had his undivided attention.

It really didn’t take much discussion. Once he had assured himself that I really meant to go through with the proposition it was just a matter of settling the details. The money had an instantly sobering effect on him, and though he had a tendency to twitch and vibrate there was
nothing wrong with his reasoning powers.

“Just one last problem,” I said as I started to leave. “What about the worthy Zina—are you going to tell her about this?”

“You crazy?” Vulff asked with undisguised surprise.

“I suppose that means you won’t tell her. Since only you and I are going to know about this operation, how are you going to explain your absence or where the money has come from?”

This was even more shocking to him. “Explain? To
her?
She isn’t going to see either me or the money once I leave here. Which will be no more than ten minutes from now.”

“I see,” I said, and I did. I also thought it was rather uncharitable of him since the unlucky Zina had been supporting him by practicing a trade that most women shun. I made a mental note to see what could be done to even the
score a little. In the future though. Right now I had to see to the dissolution of James Bolivar diGriz.

Sparing no expense I ordered all the surgical and operating room equipment that Vulff could suggest. Whenever possible I bought robot-controlled devices since he would be working alone. Everything was loaded in a heavy carrier rented for the occasion and we drove out to the house in the country
together. Neither of us would trust the other out of sight which was of course
understandable. Financial payments were the hardest to arrange since the pure-hearted Dr. Vulff was sure I would bash in his skull and take back all of my money once the job was finished—never realizing of course that as long as there were banks I would never be broke. The safeguards were finally arranged to his satisfaction
and we began our solitary and important business.

The house was lonely and self-contained, perched on the cliff above a far reach of the lake. What fresh food we needed was delivered once a week, along with the mail which consisted of drugs and other medical supplies. The operations began.

Modern surgical techniques being what they are there was of course no pain or shock. I was confined to
bed and at times was loaded with so much sedation that days passed in a dreamy fog. Between two periods of radical surgery I took the precaution of seeing that a sleeping pill was included in Vulff’s evening drink. This drink was of course non-alcoholic since his traveling this entire course mounted on the water wagon was one of the conditions of our agreement. Whenever he found it difficult I restored
his resolution with a little more money. All this continence had his nerves on edge and I thought he would appreciate a good night’s sleep. I also wanted to do a little investigating. When I was sure he was deeply under I picked the lock of his door and searched his room.

I suppose the gun was there as a matter of insurance, but you can never tell with these nervous types. My days of being a
target were over if I had anything to say about it. The gun was a pocket model of a recoilless .50, neat and deadly. The mechanism worked fine and the cartridges still held all their deadly power, but there would be some difficulty in shooting the thing after I filed off the end of the firing pin.

Finding the camera was no shock since I have very little faith in the basic wholesomeness of mankind.
That I was his benefactor and financier wasn’t enough for Vulff. He was lining up some blackmail just in case. There was
plenty of exposed film, no doubt filled with studies of my unconscious face Before and After. I put all the film, including the unexposed rolls, under the x-ray machine for a nice long treatment and that settled that.

Vulff did a good job in the times when he wasn’t moaning
about the absence of spirituous beverages or nubile females. Bending and shortening my femurs altered my height and walk. Hands, face, skull, ears—all of these were changed permanently to build a new individual. Skillful use of the correct hormones caused a change in the pigment cells, darkening the natural color of my skin and hair, even altering the hair pattern itself. The last thing done, when
Vulff’s skill was at its peak, was a delicate touch on my vocal cords that deepened and roughened my speech.

When it was all finished Slippery Jim diGriz was dead and Hans Schmidt was born. Not a very inspired name I admit, but it was just designed to cover the period before I shed Vulff and began my important enterprise.

“Very good, very good indeed,” I said, looking into the mirror and watching
my fingers press a stranger’s face.

“God, I could use a drink,” Vulff gasped behind me, sitting on his already-packed bags. He had been hitting the medical alcohol the last few days, until I had spiked it with my favorite regurgitant, and he was nervously anxious to get back to some heavy drinking “Give me the balance of the money that’s due and let’s get out of here!”

“Patience, doctor,” I
murmured and slipped him the packet of bills. He broke the bank wrapper and began to count them with quick, caressing touches of his fingers. “Waste of time doing that,” I told him, but he kept right on. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing ‘STOLEN’ on each bill, with ink that will fluoresce when the bank puts it under the ultraviolet.”