The Stainless Steel Rat Returns Read online

“I’m glad you noticed.”

  Then his eyes widened and he pointed a greasy finger at me.

  “And I know you—you were the pilot of my ship during the Final War. In fact I even remember your name: Lieutenant Vaska Hulja.”

  “What a memory! Whereas I have completely forgotten yours.”

  “Stramm, Lieutenant Hulja.”

  “Lieutenant Hulja is gone with the war! My name is Jim. It is a pleasure, good Stramm. I was indeed your pilot. And, sadly, your saboteur. Let me apologize at last for blowing up your fine engines.”

  He waved away the words and smiled broadly. “I should thank you, Jim. Ended the war and got me out of the navy and back to work as a civilian.” His smile turned swiftly to a depressed frown. “Not your fault that I signed on to this bucket of rusty bolts.”

  “Soon to change,” I said and shook his oily hand, then wiped my hand on the rag he passed over. “You’ll never guess who the new owner is.”

  “Make my day! It isn’t . . . you . . . ?”

  I lowered my head and nodded slowly. He chortled with joy and we pumped a greasy handshake again.

  “Can I ask you a few questions about this ship?”

  His smile vanished and he growled deep in his throat. “Ask, but you won’t like the answers.”

  “I agree in advance.”

  “The captain’s a crook and a smuggler. The crew are alcoholic villains. They were only hired because by interplanetary law a crew this size is required. They do nothing. Their work is done by robotic controls which are slowly deteriorating. I’m surprised we made planetfall at all. I’ve already quit this job. But I want to adjust the atomic generator before it goes into meltdown. My engines are sound—but nothing else on the ship is. All patched up and jury-rigged and decaying while you watch. I’ve already quit and I have sabotaged the engines. I’ll put them right—when I get my overdue salary. Welcome, Jim, welcome to the Rose of Rifuti.”

  I sighed a tremulous sigh. “I had a feeling that’s what you would say, oh honest engineer Stramm. At least things can’t get worse.”

  Even as I spoke these words aloud my mother’s oft-repeated dictum whispered in my ear.

  Bite your tongue.

  Firmly superstitious, she believed you were tempting fate to say this. Ha-ha—so much for superstition . . .

  There was a crash as the door burst open and Elmo staggered in, red-faced and clutching his chest.

  “Jim . . .” he gasped. “Come quick! The worst has happened!”

  He drew in a tortured breath and spoke in a doom-laden voice.

  “They are here now—hundreds maybe!” he shouted aloud, dark with despair.

  “Men with guns! They want to kill all the porcuswine!!”

  I FORGOT THE ELEVATOR AND bounded up the stairs like a maddened gazelle. Staggered, panting, onto the sty deck, then through the open door and skidded to a stop before a mass of outraged farmers. It was the last reel of the vampire film all over again. Facing the brandished shovels and pitchforks defending their beasts was a small band of armed and terrified soldiers. They had formed a square, facing outwards, guns raised. A frightened bureaucrat—clutching a paper-shedding briefcase—shivered inside the square. It was a disaster in the making.

  “Men of Bit O’ Heaven, cease and desist!” I shouted. “Lower your weapons—for James diGriz is here! You are saved!”

  My words began to have an effect. Shouted cries changed to angry mutters; one by one the agricultural implements were lowered. With half of the problem solved—for the moment—I turned and spoke to the soldiers. I knew they were only used to nonviolence on this peaceful planet. It took only a touch on one trigger . . .

  “The revolt is at an end. Don’t point those guns at these simple folk who were but defending their livestock! Lower your weapons—and put on your safeties!”

  Slowly and reluctantly they obeyed the voice of authority. Conflict was averted. At least for the moment.

  Angelina pushed through the farmers and smiled as she took my arm. She spoke slowly and firmly. “All be well now that Jim is here.”

  There was a murmur of agreement; farm weapons rattled to the deck.

  We turned away from them, a united front, and I spoke in a mediatory tone.

  “You there, with the briefcase—can you tell me what this is all about?”

  He stopped shivering and straightened up.

  “I certainly can. I am chief of staff of the Planetary Quarantine Corps. We decontaminate and protect. I received a call from Central Hospital that a crewman of this vessel had come to them in great distress. He said that there was an outbreak of the dreaded tusk and trotter disease among the beasts on this ship. He feared for his own life and those of his shipmates—”

  “Just a minute,” I interrupted. “I am puzzled. In all my years as an inadvertent timeserving swineherd I never heard of this strange disease. Have you?” I asked, turning to my bucolic audience.

  There was a mass movement of head-shaking and a chorus of noes.

  “Well, there you are,” I said, turning and smiling benignly on the befuddled functionary. “Might I suggest that we all wait patiently while you contact your medical department for details of this dreaded disease?”

  “Order arms,” the sergeant shouted and the butts of the weapons hit the steel deck. The functionary dug a phone out of his briefcase and muttered into it.

  The silence stretched, tension grew. His mutter became a mumble—then a growl as his free hand shook wildly in the air. In the end he slammed the phone back into his briefcase, turned red-faced and angry.

  “Fall your men in, Sergeant. Take them back to base. The medics thought I was bonkers—they laughed! No such disease. A prank! Heads will roll . . .”

  “Were you told the name of the crewman who reported the disease?” Thoughts of murder, decapitation and worse danced in my head. He shuffled papers again.

  “Yes . . . here it is. The disease was reported by one Captain Rifuti.”

  I could hear my teeth grinding together as he exited, muttering, behind the troops. The audience shouted with joy, porcuswine squealed in the distance, Angelina gave me a warm and loving kiss. We were saved . . .

  For the moment. Gloom descended. The powers of evil were united against me. I must act—and at once. I sighed tremulously with the realization that all of this was going to be very, very expensive; visions of zeroes danced in my head.

  “What do we do next?” Angelina asked. She listened to the loud squealing. “The porcuswine sound so upset!”

  “I’m so upset!” I grated with clenched jaw. Were my teeth really grinding together? “Finances . . . bank balance . . . I must find out the worse . . . I must use your phone.”

  I took her phone, entered the bank number, punched in my access code, bulged my eyes . . . let the phone drop to the deck from my vibrating fingers.

  “Gone, all gone . . . all our funds . . . and more bills still coming in . . .”

  From a distance I heard Angelina’s voice warm with reassurance. While I was wondering if suicide was an option.

  “Poor Jim. What will you do?”

  Do? “Sit down,” I gurgled.

  Helping hands led me to the messhall and sat me in a chair. I was getting too old for this kind of cagle. “Drink.” I breathed and a glass was pressed to my lips. I drank and choked.

  “Water!”

  “A mistake,” Angelina said, turning towards the sea of worried faces. “Would any of you have a drink for Jim that is slightly stronger than water?”

  There was a muttering among the men and after a few moments a smoked glass bottle with an ominous black cork was thrust forward. It was decorked, tilted, poured—was it steaming in the glass? I glimpsed the label.

  PORCUSWINE PAIN-KILLER—NOT FOR CHILDREN OR PREGNANT SOWS

  Sounded good. I sipped, drank, glugged, squealed.

  “Thank you,” I said as I wiped the tears from my eyes and rustled my bristles. “The future is clear. I know what must be done.” />
  The silence was immense, my audience held their breath. “What?” Angelina whispered, speaking for all of them.

  “I must . . . see my bank manager.”

  A moan of sympathy hummed through the air. My mood changed instantly. The Stainless Steel Rat—he who walks alone—had no need for sympathy. Action! First my financial affairs must be straightened out. Then I must find the toerag Rifuti, who, in a moment of revenge, had invented a disease and done his best to bring me low. Mighty indeed is the Rat’s revenge!

  I leapt to my feet, rocking on my heels, nostrils flaring, resisting the urge to squeal swinishly: the porcuswine drench was still in my system.

  “To the bank!” I shouted. “All will be saved.”

  They shouted mightily and their cheers only died away when the intercom speaker on the bulkhead rustled to life.

  “Now hear this. I have an interstellar message for Sire James diGriz. This is the communication’s officer. A message . . .”

  “To the bank—by way of the communications office!”

  The officer was waiting when I threw open the door, holding a yellow slip of paper in the air. I grabbed and read . . .

  ARRIVING TOMORROW AM YOUR TIME SPACER KRANKENHAUS—JAMES

  Clear enough; help was on the way.

  “I got some other news for you,” the operator said. I raised querying eyebrows. “I’m the only crewman left on this rust-bucket. I don’t know what you said to them, but they have all deserted.”

  “And you?”

  “Unless you got more messages to send, my bag is packed and I’m outta here as well.”

  “Good-bye. Don’t slam the airlock behind you when you go.”

  I put the whole sordid mess behind me for the moment. In the fullness of time I would track the weaseling Rifuti who . . .

  “Later, Jim, much later,” I cozened myself. “Mazuma first.” I headed for the waiting car.

  While my gilded chariot whisked me to the bank I called Angelina with the news; her happy laughter at our son’s imminent arrival was indeed cheering. I disconnected the call as my golden transport pulled over to the curb. Next to a large refuse bin.

  “This is not the bank,” I said.

  “A million apologies, Sire James,” the chauffeurbot said. “But your payment has just ran out.”

  “Then tap my account for more.”

  Assuredly . . . krrkkk . . . There has been a banking error. We cannot access further payment.” The robot’s voice now had a distinct chill to it. “However, you may deposit cash.”

  An empty drawer popped out of the armrest.

  “Well, it just so happens—ha-ha—that I left my wallet home . . .”

  The drawer closed and the car door opened. The voice grated, coldly.

  “Moolaplenty Motors is ready to serve you anytime . . . you have the cash.”

  The air conditioner sent out an icy blast that was as chill as my soul. I exited, the door slammed shut, I walked slowly to the bank.

  By the time I arrived at the First Bank of Moolaplenty I had a spring in my step and determination in the set of my jaw. You can’t keep a good Rat down!

  “Welcome, dear customer, welcome!” the doorbot crooned as he threw the entrance wide: my spirits rose.

  “Welcome!” all the tellers sang.

  “Welcome to our dearest client—

  “You but speak and we obey.

  “With your money on deposit

  “You bring such happiness to our day!”

  I shook my hands over my head at this friendly display. Rotten poetry—but I’m sure the sentiment was real.

  It had better be. After the last galactic bank crash—which left many star systems in dire poverty—a wave of anger swept through the galaxy. “Never again!” they swore. “This is the end of financial failure!”

  And it was.

  Terrifying words such as “subprime loans,” “debenture bonds,” “collateralized debt obligations,” “credit default swaps,” “derivatives” were now gone from the language and could only be found in ancient dictionaries. Banks were firmly watched and regulated by steely-eyed accountants. Money was deposited and earned interest. Loans and mortgages were cheerfully made—the banks profiting with the 1 percent spread. And—this was so revolutionary that the International Union of Financial Executives could not believe it—these instructions meant that they could only loan money that they had in the bank!

  Stout bankers wept—there were rumors of suicides. But the law was the law. Peace and fiduciary responsibility was the rule now.

  Laughing employees ushered me through the manager’s door. This functionary stood inside bowing and dry-wiping his hands.

  “Welcome a thousand times over, Sire diGriz. Please take this chair.” He pushed it in and I sat. He picked up his round black ball, that was secured by a chain to his ankle, so it wouldn’t trip him, and seated himself behind his massive desk.

  I always enjoyed the sight of the ball and chain. A constant reminder of the fate awaiting the bankers if their accounts were even a groat overdrawn. The balls were made of improvium and light as a feather. But if any larceny was detected in the bank’s accounts more molecules of improvium were pumped in and the balls grew heavy. Their weight varied according to the seriousness of the crime. In the bank’s cafeteria one could see manager’s smiling and sweating as they dragged their balls after them. In matters of grievous financial funny business they could weigh as much as a tonne; unless fed by sympathizers it was said that many a manager starved to death. A suitable fate for the overweight, some have been heard to say.

  “And how may I help, Sire Jim?” I ignored the smarmy use of my first name.

  “My account—I have a query.”

  “Of course. Let me bring it up on my screen.” He touched a button, looked—gasped and slumped back in his chair. “Empty, overdrawn. Past your limit—still being overdrawn as I watch . . .”

  “Yes, well, that’s my query. What do we do?”

  “First—ho-ho—we try to turn off the overdraft function.” He stabbed down on a key. Sat back and patted his damp forehead with his handkerchief.

  “Assets?” he asked.

  “My home!” I said hollowly, trying not to think of Angelina.

  “Yes, indeed!”

  He punched keys, smiled at the screen, sat back with a sigh.

  “Nine bedrooms, two kitchens, four bars, two swimming pools with poolside bars . . . a prime property indeed. It will fetch a good price . . .”

  “Sell? Never! A mortgage!”

  The smile became a frown. “Unhappily our mortgage funds are limited today, the law you know. Wait, a new deposit just came in. So we can offer you a loan—let me see after I deduct your overdraft—we can happily give you, after this deduction—four thousand and twenty three credits.”

  “For my luxurious home!” there was despair in my voice.

  “Wait, another overdraft just came in. The balance will be three hundred and forty-two credits.”

  “I’ll take it . . .”

  “Too late—another payment-due just arrived. I’m afraid that if you mortgage your home now you will still be in debit to the bank.” He turned off the screen, sat back and forced a smile. “Is there anything else I can help you with today, Sire James?”

  I grated my teeth and forced a grin. Not speaking the unspeakable things that I would like him to help me with.

  “Been nice talking to you,” I said, standing, turning, exiting his office. By coincidence none of the bank staff was looking my way as, whistling, I exited the bank. I looked down the street; it was a long walk to the spaceport. As I shuffled slowly into the gloom of the afternoon I looked up. Three pendant gold balls. Was it by sheer chance that the hock shop was so close to the bank? I turned and looked behind me and lo—there was another one, balls glinting in the afternoon sun. Funny, I had never noticed them before. Bells chimed in the distance as I pushed the door open and strode firmly inside among the pianos, gold jewelry, stuffed cats
. . .

  When I left I pulled my jacket sleeve down to cover the pale stripe on my wrist where my watch used to be. I jingled the credits in my pocket and breathed a brief prayer.

  Be swift, good son, James. Your rusty rat of a father is greatly in need of succor.

  I jingled the coins again, turned to the curb, hailed a passing cab.

  “WHAT A PLEASURE IT WILL be to see our son again,” I said cheerfully.

  Angelina did not move; her face set in ice. My words fell leadenly to the floor. I could but persevere. “His spacer will arrive on time! See the announcement board. See the nice bar? Join me in a drink while we wait?”

  “Are you sure that we can afford it?”

  Yes, well, that was a consideration. The answer was a firm yes. It would be medicinal. I slipped away and stumbled over to the alcoholic retreat, rapped a coin to get the barbot’s attention, drank deep of the libation he poured.

  To say that my wife was not charmed by my financial report is like saying that an earthquake is a slight tremble in the ground. Oh, good son James, bearer of glad news—and hopefully mounds of mazuma!—please arrive soon. I emptied my glass and saw over its lowered rim that the first passengers were emerging from customs, their roboluggage trundling behind them.

  And leading them—countenance beaming—was our son! Mother and son embraced while I looked on with paternal pleasure. I got a hug too; then James stepped back and brought forward a man who had been waiting patiently behind him.

  “This is Kirpal Singh—I told you about him in my interstellargram.”

  We shook hands. He had dark skin, white teeth and his head wrapped in green cloth. A bandage? All would be revealed.

  “Kirpal came with me because, you will be happy to hear, he is a spaceship broker.”

  “Welcome . . . doubly welcome!” I enthused.

  “And does Mr. Singh have a firm credit line to cover any financial transactions?” Say what you will, my Angelina is not an easy sell.

  “I am but a humble broker, dear Mrs. diGriz. Your son is the money bags in any transaction.”

  James held up the dark briefcase that was chained to his wrist. “Crammed with credits and ready to go!”