The Stainless Steel Rat Returns Page 7

  It is reported that this cult died out when they fled to other planets to escape what they saw was an eternal holy war.

  Many centuries have passed since the last report that they had been seen.

  However, there is still an intergalactic warning out not to approach them or attempt any contact.

  “Nice people,” Kirpal said, curling his lip with distaste.

  “I can handle them,” I said briskly.

  With more surety than I really felt. Yet I must do it—or resign myself to a vegetarian life with plenty of flowers. But I needed more information about the city. And I knew where to find it.

  “Captain Singh. A question, please. When we were above the city, and they attacked us with their missile, we had a fine picture on the screen of everything that happened. Was that image recorded?”

  “Of course. Automatically.”

  “Wonderful! Can you print out some good pictures of the city?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, after you eat, will you make some blow-up prints? Know your enemy and all that.”

  “Good as done.”

  It had been a long and busy day and it appeared that everyone had retired early. But I had too much to think about. I dug into the bar supplies, which I had carefully restocked for any emergency before we left. I found a bottle of Old Cerebellum Tickler and poured a tall one with plenty of ice. With Mozart playing softly in the background I pulled over the transcribing screen and a stylo.

  After many minutes and a number of glugs it remained infuriatingly blank.

  “Come on, Jim, put the thinking cap on. You are the only one—you ingenious old Rat—who can find a way out of this mess. Outwit the Devil-Gooders, contact the galaxy, convince the porcuswiners that they would all be very happy remaining here. That done you can forget all about Mechanistria and go home for some peace and quiet.”

  It sounded wonderful.

  Now how would I go about doing just that?

  Why, by remembering the old diGrizian axiom: turn everything on its head. All too often strong beliefs revealed a flaw. A perceived strength would often contain an inherent weakness.

  So what were these pseudoreligious nutcases really good at? Ask a question, get an answer.

  Paranoia.

  They thought everyone hated them.

  Therefore I must make that come true! And extract great pleasure in doing so.

  I finished my drink, patted my lips dry, turned off the lights and, fatigued yet happy, went to bed.

  IT IS UNDERSTANDABLE BUT INCONVENIENT that there are no portholes in deep spacers. Yawning myself awake I switched an outside image to the screen. Another bright and sunny day in what I hoped would soon be a porcine paradise. How I would treasure the sight of the last retreating hams on the hoof. I could not help but whistle cheerfully.

  “Someone is all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning,” Angelina said, covering a yawn.

  “I’m a genius—and I am the first one to admit it!”

  “Not before I’ve had my coffee. Desist.”

  I was spreading a last piece of toast with marmalade when Angelina emerged. Coiffed and glowing with health—in a fetching outfit I had never seen before. Not that I would have remembered if I had.

  “I’ve been invited by the Floradoran’s Women’s League to a sewing bee.”

  “Sounds delightful.” Sounded like death warmed over. “Do you know what this bucolic ritual is?”

  “No, but I’m sure they will tell me.”

  As she said this I felt a surge of inspiration. Lights flashed and bells rang.

  “I imagine it has to do with sewing clothes, since without machines I don’t think there are any factories here. And, if that is what it is, why, you and the ladies will be of immense help in our leaving this planet.”

  She clapped her hands and laughed aloud.

  “Has my genius elaborated an ingenuous plan to leave this planet?”

  “Your genius has done just that!” I said as I buffed my fingernails on my shirt front, then blew upon them. “Complete with a new and powerful bureaucratic establishment with galaxy-wide authority.”

  “And the name of this newly created omnipotent organization?”

  I drew myself up, took a brace and proudly said—

  “The Intergalactic Department of Religious Control.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Never more so. In my position of authority as First Galactic Inspector I will investigate a reported violation of the Galactic Religious Code.”

  “And what may I ask is that?”

  “I don’t know yet, but it’s going to be a humdinger. But—first things first. We must have a design for my uniform for you to take to your ladies’ sewing circle.”

  She frowned at the tiny watch set under her pinky fingernail. “Will you be long?”

  “Hard to tell. Why don’t you join your sisterhood and find out more about their sewing skills. I’ll join you as soon as I have completed the design.”

  I was humming with creative ardor as I signed onto the terminal and brought up a surfeit of splendor. My, how mankind does love its military glory!

  Uniforms of every color and gaudy display raced across the screen. When I had picked out the most splendid and eye-dazzling, I saved them in a file of martial magnificence. A quick search through the computer index found a design program that let me combine elements of the most stunning. When it was complete I hit print and a large and glaringly colorful picture emerged. I held it up at arm’s length and marveled.

  “Truly impressive, Jim. The Vengefulers can but shiver before its majesty!”

  First off it was black, a deep jet as dark as interstellar space. Set against this were many glistening and glowing features. Large epaulettes on the shoulders, heavy with gilt bullion. Rows of gold buttons, looped braid, glistening cuffs, exotic awards and medals heavy on the chest. To design these medals I rooted through the history of religion and made copies of all the symbols of many creeds. There were crossed swords next to a crescent moon. Then five joined stars next to a five-pointed star, a burning sun inside a black coffin—next to a plain cross. Oh, the wonders that man doth create!

  The only quiet note in this glorious uniform was a white clerical collar. I held the printout at arm’s length and nodded with appreciation.

  “And you are just the man to wear it, Jim.” I was never one for false modesty.

  Now, construction. The sewing circle would do their part. What about the medals? After a little thought I called Stramm.

  “What’s up, Boss?” his screened image said.

  “Do you have a laser lathe in your engine room?”

  “Of course. Need it to machine spare parts.”

  “Then fire it up. I’ll be right down with a little job for you.”

  When I handed him the printout I swear his eyes bulged. Whether with horror or appreciation it was hard to tell.

  “What in . . . ?”

  “Don’t ask! All will be revealed eventually. What I need are 3-D replicas of all the fruit salad on the chest. Can do?”

  “Of course. I’ll scan them, then laser-form them in brass. There will be no problem filling in the details in colored ceramic.”

  “Then go to it—while I see about the uniform.”

  The lower ramp was down and the porcuswine were already grunting and rooting in the woods under the watchful eyes of the swineherds. I waved back to their shouted greetings and hurried on, not wanting any swineyard chat. Well away from them I used my phone to ring through to Angelina; who sent one of her coworkers to find me. A shy young girl soon joined me, blushing when she curtsied, then hurried away towards one of the bigger buildings. Following her lead I entered a good-sized room where a score of ladies were industrially plying their needles. Angelina, who thought little of home economics, was serving cups of tea.

  “Is this the masterpiece?” she asked. Then stepped back stricken with awe—or horror—when I proudly displayed it.

&nbs
p; “Well,” she said, “it certainly is something different . . .”

  “It is indeed. But remember it is not designed to astonish this gathering, but to make an impression on a far sterner audience.”

  “It surely will!”

  “Can they do it?”

  “I don’t think it will be any problem. They’ve created some wonderful designs. Not only clothes but drapes, bedding—just about everything.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

  I exited—with the sewing circle gasping with awe over my design.

  Or were they vibrating with shock?

  IT HAD JUST GONE NOON when I reentered the ship. I had intended to hold my meeting on the bridge, but the sight of the sun just above the yardarm was too tempting. But just one drink, Jim, I promised myself. I flipped on the ship’s speakers as I entered the bar.

  “Now hear this. All crew members—namely captain and chief engineer—to important conference. In the bar. And will the captain kindly bring those printouts of the city.”

  I had just filled three glasses with ice when my loyal crew came in.

  “Gentlemen, what are you drinking?”

  The captain shook his head. “Sorry. Never drink on duty.”

  “I do,” Stramm said. Thus upholding the noble artificers’ tradition. “Whatever you’re having.”

  “Pink gin. A traditional midday tipple.”

  I poured the captain a fruit juice. We clinked glasses and sat.

  “I can now reveal my plan for our leaving this divided planet. We all know about the loathsome pseudoreligion of the Vengefulers. I intend to now use their rampant paranoia to assist us. Since they live in fear we will use that fear against them. Or rather the Intergalactic Department of Religious Control will. Since this organization is charged with monitoring all religions it must be all powerful.”

  “What will you tell them?” Kirpal asked.

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll play that by ear. I’ll find out where their worries and uncertainties lie—then take advantage of them.” I saw that Kirpal was frowning and I nodded.

  “I agree. It is a dirty business taking advantage of a person’s greatest fears and reinforcing them. But we need help—and I’ll see what I can do to aid the Nature and Love people at the same time. Nor will it, I hope, cause any lasting harm, since we know their paranoia is already well-institutionalized.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “Nor do I. And I won’t say it is for a greater good, which it is not. That excuse won’t wash. I’m digging in dirt and I’ll be soiled by it. We’ll all benefit but that doesn’t excuse what I’m doing. And I’m sorry.”

  And I was. But there was no going back. Despite my promised one-and-no-more I poured myself a stiff guilt-expiator. Plus one for Stramm. Though free of guilt he was happy to join me.

  “Now we must devise a plan for opening contact with the sinful city dwellers. Any thoughts?”

  My only answer was a numb silence. It was obvious that fine captain and stout engineer were empty of any ideas reeking of cunning chicanery. I sighed silently; we needed crooked thoughts now from a crooked brain.

  “We must make a memorable impression with our first contact. Catch them off balance and keep then tottering.”

  The juices of inspiration were beginning to flow; I sipped my drink to keep them lubricated. I pulled over an aerial picture of the city.

  “We will strike at the first light of day, while they are all asleep. We will bring up our forces during the night and they will be concealed, here, under cover at the forest’s edge. At dawn we will move into action.”

  “What forces?” Stramm asked, puzzled.

  “I don’t know yet. But I do know that we must make a strong and instant impression. I imagine that you can whip together a portable amplifier with loud and impressive speakers?”

  “No problem.”

  “Then I must make a truly imposing appearance. Strike them with shock and awe. Too bad I can’t ride up in a tank—or at least an armored car . . .”

  “I have a motorcycle in the hold,” Stramm said, getting into the spirit of our endeavor. “But it’s bright yellow—”

  “Spray it black to match my uniform!”

  “Good as done.”

  “Then I blast up to the gate, screech to a halt and issue my orders . . .”

  “With a remote mike patched through to my amplifier.”

  He was really getting into the spirit of the occasion—as was the captain as well.

  “What you need are troops to back you up. What about all of the farmers behind you just at the edge of the clearing?”

  “With the dungarees they all wear dyed black,” Stramm added.

  “And wooden rifles also black,” I broke in.

  “It’s a good plan,” the captain said, draining his glass.

  “But next—what will you do after you get to the gate?” Stramm asked, suddenly worried.

  “Fear not! With this buildup they should be rattled enough to follow my orders—at least in the beginning. I’ll just have to stay on top of the situation.”

  I hoped. It was a pretty mad plan—but I had to make it work. I reached for the gin bottle. Then stopped and put the empty glass down. Time, Jim, for a clear head and some detailed cogitation.

  Stramm hurried back to his shop to start work. The captain went to the bridge—while I found a memory tablet to make notes. A good deal of time passed while I planned my attack. My concentration was broken only when Angelina appeared at the bar door. Of stern expression.

  “I thought I’d find you here. Isn’t it early to—” Her eyes widened when she looked at the table before me. “Jim DiGriz . . . is that a cup of coffee in front of you . . .”

  “No—” Her expression grew grim. Until I added “it’s a cup of tea.”

  She blew me a kiss. “Congratulations on a booze-free day.”

  I nodded acceptance and kept silent. Not wanting to change her happy mood.

  “How long will you be?” she asked.

  I held up my notes. “Just about done.”

  “Good. I want to clean up and change and then we’ll declare the cocktail hour open.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  When she returned I was flipping through the pages of the barputer.

  “I have been searching through the history of drink—and reams of recipes for cocktails. Amazing! Would you like to try a Horse’s Neck, or a Manhattan? A Sheep Dip Special? Consider a Rusty Nail, The Widow’s Kiss or a Hound Dog’s Hair?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Done!” I entered data and hit the mix button.

  The machine gave a mechanical rattle and a deep chunter. Ice crackled and a chilled pitcher and frosted glasses appeared on the delivery tray. I poured and passed her a glass. “A Very Dry Martini with a Twist.”

  “Sounds terrible—tastes wonderful!” She sipped—then sipped again, then put her glass on the table.

  “Your uniform is going well—although we had to make some minor changes—and one major one.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “We have a problem with gold braid and the gold buttons. There is simply nothing that even resembles gold to hand. We tried various kinds of yellow fabric with mixed results. The braid looks cheap and nasty. And the buttons are all carved wood or bone. They can be died yellow but with very poor results . . .”

  “In adversity lies the answer. Let us forget the military glitter and stay with all black. Gloom and doom! Very impressive. But do they have enough black dye?”

  “They do indeed—a deep, dark and impressive one. Made from a species of lake shellfish.”

  “Let’s do it.” I glanced up at the bar clock. “There are still a few hours of daylight left. I want to have a conference with Bilboa. Unless we want to move this ship we are going to need some help getting to the city.”

  “See you at dinner. I want to take Pinky for a long walk. All that rooting and eating under the nut trees has made her more tha
n rotund.”

  “A porcuswine’s job.”

  “The others maybe, but I want her to keep her figure.”

  We parted at the foot of the gangway and I was not surprised to find Bilboa waiting patiently at a nearby table. He was tucking into a mug of drink and I was more than happy to join him in a jar.

  “I have been talking with your kinsman named Elmo and he has revealed many important things to me.”

  I could only smile and nod since I could think of nothing Elmo might possibly say that would be even remotely interesting.

  “It seems they raise a number of crops to supply feed for their porcuswine. He had a wondrous book with pictures that moved as if blown by the wind. Many of the plants shown are grown here, but others were unknown, like the yellow corn. They have golden seeds that he said are quite nutritious and with great kindness gave me some.

  I did not share his agricultural enthusiasm.

  “That’s nice.” I groped for a way to change the topic but he was well into full flow. “In turn for some of these we will give him seeds of the manna plant. Which supplies the ground flour that makes the fried cakes which, as I remember, you greatly enjoyed.”

  “Enjoyed is not the word—paradisiacal might be closer! And from a plant too—I thought they were meat patties—”

  I stopped as he reeled back, eyes wide; his tanned skin paled. He gasped aloud.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. Wondering where the nearest medikit was. He gurgled something incomprehensible, started to stand—then slumped back. And spoke in a halting, pained breath.

  “Don’t speak again—ever—what you just said. We eat the fruits of the earth. We could not, impossible to . . .”

  He grew silent, his pallid skin turning bright red.

  I realized that these people were vegetarians—with a vengeance.

  “Corn—cornmeal . . .” I said. Changing the subject quickly. “Makes lovely porridge and corn bread. Even better boiled on the cob and served with butter.”

  He shuddered once and relaxed. Pulling a large bandanna out of his sleeve and mopping his brow.

  “But enough talk of food, ha-ha,” I ha-ha’d. “I want to ask you how you bring your flowers to the city?”