The Stainless Steel Rat is Born

by Harry Harrison

  "What are you doing? It'll kill us!" Stinger wailed.

  "Of course not," I said, scratching harder. "Listen to it?" The porcuswine's eyes were half-closed with pleasure and it was burbling happily. "I know these big porkers well. They get vermin under their quills and can't get at them. They love a good scratch. Let me do the other ear-there are nice itchy patches behind the ears-then we can go on."

  I scratched, the boar moaned happily, and dawn crept up on us. A light came on in the farmhouse and we knelt down behind the porcuswine. The door opened, someone threw out a basin of water, then it closed again. "Let's get to the barn," I said. "This way." The boar grumbled when I stopped scratching, then trotted along behind us, hoping for more, as we skulked across the farm. Which was a good thing since there were plenty more of the spiky porkers on all sides. But they moved aside when the king-pig approached and we proceeded in stately parade to the barn.

  "So long, big feller," I said, giving a last good scratch. "Been nice knowing you." Stinger had the barn door open and we slipped inside. We had just slid the bolt again when the heavy wood trembled as our overweight companion leaned against it and snorted.

  "You saved my life," Stinger gasped. "I'll never forget that."

  "Just skill," I said humbly. "After all, you are good with Bats-"

  "And you're great with pigs!"

  "I wouldn't have phrased it exactly that way," I muttered. "Now let's get up into the hayloft where it is warm-and where we won't be seen. There is a long day ahead of us and I want to spend as much of it as I can sleeping. "

  It had been quite a night. I bun-owed into the hay, sneezed twice as the dust got into my nose-then must have fallen instantly asleep.

  The next thing I knew Stinger was shaking me by the shoulder and sunlight was streaming between the boards in the wall. "Cops is here," he whispered.

  I blinked the sleep from my eyes and looked through the crack. A green and white police floater was hovering outside the farmhouse door and two uniformed pug-uglies were showing a sheet to the farmer. He shook his head and his voice was clear above the farmyard sounds.

  "Nope. Never seen neither of them. Never seen a soul in a week if you want to know. Fact is, kind of nice to talk to you fellers. These guys really look nasty, criminals you say..."

  "Pops, we ain't got all day. If you didn't see them they could still be hiding on your farm. Maybe in your barn?" "No way they could do that. Them's porcuswineout there. Most ornery critters in creation."

  "We still got to look. Orders are to search every building in the vicinity."

  The policemen started our way and there was a screech like an insane siren and the thud of sharp hooves. Around the corner of the barn-quills rattling with anger-came our friend of the night before. He charged and the police dived for their floater. The angry boar crashed into it, sending it rocking across the yard with a great dent in its side. The farmer nodded happily.

  "Told you weren't no one in the barn. Little Larry here, he don't cotton onto strangers. But drop by anytime you're in the neighborhood, fellers. . . ."

  He had to shout the last words because the floater was heading west with Little Larry in snorting pursuit.

  "Now that is what I call beautiful," Stinger said, awe in his voice. I nodded silent agreement. Even the dullest of lives contain moments of pure glory.

  Enough fun; time to work. I chewed on a straw and stretched out on the warm hay. "Porcuswine are nice when you know them."

  "The police don't seem to think so," he said.

  "Guess not. That was the best thing I ever saw. I don't exactly get along with the police."

  "Who does? What you got sent up for, Jimmy?"

  "Bank robbery. Did you ever hold up a bank?" He whistled appreciation and shook his head no. "Not my style. I wouldn't know what to do first. Mudsluggings my style. Ain't been beat in nine years."

  "Knocking around the way you do you must meet a lot of people. Did you ever meet Smelly Schmuck?" I extemporized rapidly. "He and I did some banks in Graham State."

  "Never met him. Never even heard of him. You're the first bank robber I ever met."

  "Really? Well, I guess there aren't that many of us these days. But you must know some safecrackers. Or groundcar thieves?"

  All I got for my efforts was another shake of the head. "The only time I ever meet guys like you is in jail. I know some gamblers; they go around the mudslugging fights. But they're all two-buckers, losers. I did know one once who swore he knew The Bishop, long time ago."

  "The Bishop?" I said, blinking rapidly, trying to sum up what little I knew of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. "I don't go to church much these days. . . ."

  "Not that kind of bishop. I mean The Bishop, the geezer used to clean out banks and things. Thought you would have heard of him."

  "Before my time, I guess."

  "Before everyone's time. This was years ago. Cops never got him, I hear. This two-bucker bragged he knew The Bishop, said that he had retired and was lying low. He must of been lying, two-bucker like him."

  Stinger knew no more than this and I hesitated to pump him too hard. Our conversation died away and we both dozed on and off until dark. We were thirsty and hungry, but knew that we had to remain undercover during daylight. I chewed on my straw and tried not to think of large beers and bottles of cold water, but thought about The Bishop instead. It was a thin lead, but was all that I had. By the time the sun went down I was hungry and thirsty and thoroughly depressed. My prison escapade had turned out to be a dangerous fiasco. Jails were for losers-that's about all I had found out. And in order to discover this fact I had risked life and limb. Never again. I took a silent oath to stay away from prison and the minions of the law in the future. Good criminals don't get caught. Like The Bishop, whoever he might be.

  When. the last trace of light was gone from the sky we eased the barn door open. A bubbling grunt reached our ears and a great form blocked our exit. Stinger gasped and I grabbed him before he could flee.

  "Grab a stick and make yourself useful," I said. "I'll teach you a new skill."

  So we scratched like crazy under the creature's quills while it grunted with pleasure. Trotting behind us like a pet dog when we finally left. "We got a friend for life," I said as we slipped out the gate and I waved goodbye to our porcine pal.

  'Those kind of friends I can live without forever. You figure out what we do next?"

  "Absolutely. Advance planning, that's my middle name. There is a siding down this way where they transship from the linears to trucks. We stay away from it because the police are sure to be there. But all the trucks take the same road to the highway where there is a traffic control light. They have to stop until the highway computers see them and let them on. We go there-" "And break into the back of one of the trucks!" "You're learning. Only we get one in the right lane going west. Otherwise we end up back in the fine city of Pearly Gates and right after that in the prison we worked so hard to get out of."

  "Lead the way, Jim. You are the brainiest kid I ever met. You're going to go far."

  That was my expressed wish and I nodded quick agreement. I was just sorry that he wasn't going too. But I didn't want to live with some far-off yokel's life on my conscience-as much as he might deserve a little agro. But Stinger planned far more than that. I could not be party to a killing.

  We found the road and waited in the bushes beside it. Two trucks rumbled up together-with the lights of another one following. We stayed out of sight. First one, then the second pulled out and headed east. When the third slowed down to stop for his turn, lights came on. West!

  We ran, I was fumbling with the locking bar when Stinger shouldered me aside. He hauled down and the door swung open. The truck started forward and he pushed me up into it. He had to run as it started its turn-but grabbed the sill and pulled himself up with a single heave of those mighty arms. Between us we got the door closed but not sealed.

  "We done it!" he said triumphantly.

  "We certainly di
d. This truck is going in the right direction for you-but I have to get back to Pearly Gates as soon as the heat dies down. In about an hour well be passing through Biliville. I'll leave you there." It was a quick trip. I swung down at the first stop for a light and he gripped my hand. "Good luck, kid," he called out as the truck pulled away. I couldn't wish him the same.

  I dug out a buck coin as the truck rumbled way. And made a mental note of its registration number. As soon as it was out of sight I headed towards the lights of a phonebox. I felt like a rat as I punched the buttons for the police.

  But, really, I had no choice.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Unlike the hapless Stinger, I had a careful escape plan worked out. Part of it was a literal misdirection for my late partner. He was not really stupid, so it shouldn't take him very long to figure out who had blown the whistle on him. If he talked and told the police that I had returned to the fine city of Pearly Gates-why that would be all for the better. I had no intention of leaving Biliville, not for quite a while.

  The office had been rented through an agency and all transactions had been done by computer. I had visited it before my hopeless bank job, and at that time had left some supplies there. They would come in very handy right now. I would enter through the service door of the fully automated building-after turning off the alarms by using a concealed switch I had been prudent enough to install there. It had a timer built into it, so I had ten lazy minutes to get to the office. I yawned as I picked the lock, sealed the door behind me, then trudged up three flights of stairs. Past the dull eyes of the deactivated cameras and through the invisible-and inoperative-infrared beams. I picked the lock of the office door with two minutes to spare. I blanked the windows, turned on the lights-then headed for the bar.

  Cold beer has never tasted better. The first one never even touched the sides of my throat and sizzled when it hit my stomach. I sipped the second as I tore the tab on a tinpac of barbecued ribs of porcuswine. As soon as the steam whistled through the venthole I ripped open the lid of the stretched pack and pulled out a rib the length of my arm. Yum!

  Showered, dipilated and wrapped around a third beer, I began to feel much better. "On," I told the terminal, then punched into the comnet. My instructions were simple; all newspaper records on the planet for the last fifty years, all references to a criminal named The Bishop, check for redundancies around the same date and don't give me any duplicates. Print.

  Before I had picked up my beer again the first sheets were sliding out of the fax. The top sheet was the most recent-and it was ten years old. A not too interesting item from a city on the other side of the planet, Decalogg. The police had picked up an elderly citizen in a low bar who claimed that he was The Bishop. However it had turned out to be a case of senile dementia and the suspect had been ushered back to the retirement home from which he had taken a walk. I picked up the next item.

  I tired towards morning and took a nap in die filing cabinet which turned into a bed when ordered to do so. In the gray light of dawn, helped by a large black coffee, I finished placing the last sheet into the pattern that spread across the floor. Rosy sunlight washed across it. I turned off the lights and tapped the stylo against my teeth while I studied the pattern.

  Interesting. A criminal who brags about his crimes. Who leaves a little drawing of a bishop behind after scarpering with his loot. A simple design-easy enough to copy. Which I did. I held it out at arm's length and admired it.

  The first bishop had been found in the empty till of an automated liquor store sixty-eight years ago. If The Bishop had started his career of crime as a teenager, as I have done, that would put him in his eighties now. A comfortable age to be, since life expectancy has now been pushed up to a century and a half. But what had happened to him to explain the long silence? Over fifteen years had passed since he had left his last calling card, I numbered off the possibilities on my fingers.

  "Number one, and a chance always to be considered, is that he has snuffed it. In which case I can do nothing so let us forget about that.

  'Two-he could have gone offplanet and be pursuing his life of crime among the stars. If so, forget it like number one. I need a lot more golden bucks, and experience, before I try my hand on other worlds.

  "Three, he has gone into retirement to spend his ill-gotten gains-in which case more power to him. Or four, he has changed rackets and stopped leaving his spoor at every job."

  I sat back smugly and sipped the coffee. If it were three or four I had a chance of finding him. He had certainly had a busy career before the years of silence; I looked at the list with appreciation. Plane theft, car theft, cash theft, bank emptying. And more and more. All of the crimes involving moving bucks from someone else's pockets to his pockets. Or real property that could be sold quickly, with forged identification, for more bucks. And he h»d never been caught, that was the best part of it. Here was the man who could be my mentor, my tutor, my university of crime-who would one day issue a diploma of deviltry that would eventually admit me to the golden acres I so coveted.

  But how could I find him if the united police forces of an entire world, over a period of decades, had never been able to lay a finger on him? An interesting question.

  So interesting that I could see no easy answer. I decided to let my subconscious work on this problem for a bit, so I pushed some synapses aside and let the whole thing slip down into my cerebellum. The street outside was beginning to fill up with shoppers and I thought that might be a good idea for me as well. All the rations I had here were either frozen or packaged, and after the sludgy prison food I felt the urge for things that crackled and crunched. I opened the makeup cabinet and began to prepare my public persona.

  Adults don't realize-or remember-how hard it is to be a teenager. They forget that this is the hallway house of maturity. The untroubled joys of childhood are behind one, the mature satisfactions of adulthood still ahead. Aside from the rush of blood to the head, as well as other places, when thoughts of the opposite sex intrude, there are real difficulties. The hapless teenager is expected to act like an adult-yet has none of the privileges of that exalted state. For my part I had escaped the tedious tyranny of teendom by skipping over it completely. When not lolling about in school or trading lies with my age group, I became an adult. Since I was far more intelligent than most of them-or at least I thought that I was-adults that is, I had only to assume the physical role.

  First an application of crows footer around my eyes and on my forehead. As soon as this colorless liquid was applied wrinkles appeared and the calendar of my age rushed forward a number years. A few wattles under my chin blended in well with the wrinkles, while the final touch was a nasty little moustache. When I pulled on my shapeless under-office clerk jacket, my own mother would not have recognized me if she had passed me in the street. In fact this had happened about a year ago and I had asked her the time and even then no spark of recognition had brought a glint to her bovine eyes. Taking an umbrella from the closet, since there was absolutely no possibility of rain, I stepped from the office and proceeded to the nearest shopping mall.

  I must say, my subconscious was really working fast this day, as I shortly found out. Even after all the beers I still had a thirst. That dry stay in the barn had left its mark. Therefore I turned smartly under the platinum arches of Macswineys and marched up to the serving robot that was built into the counter. The plastic head had a permanent grin painted on it and the voice was syrupy and sexy.

  "How can I be of service, sir or madam?" They could have spent a few bucks on a sex-recognition program I thought as I scanned the list of YUM-CHILLER YUMMY DRINKS on the wall. .

  "Let me have a double-cherry oozer with lots of ice."

  "On the way, sir or madam. That will be three bucks, if you please."

  I dropped the coins in the hopper and the serving hatch flipped open and my drink appeared. While I reached for it I had to listen to a robotic sales pitch.

  "MacSwineys is happy to serve you tod
ay. With the drink of your choice I am sure you would like a barbecued porcuswineburger with yummy top secret sauce garnished with sugarfried spamyams. . . ."

  The voice faded away from my attention as my subconscious heaved up the answer to my little problem. A really simple and obvious answer that was transparent in its clarity, pristine pure and simple. . ..

  "Come on, buster. Order or split, you can't stand there all day."

  The voice graveled in my ear and I muttered some excuse and shuffled off to the nearest booth and dropped into it. I knew now what had to be done.

  Simply stand the problem on its head. Instead of me looking for The Bishop I would have to make him look for me.

  I drank my drink until my sinuses hurt, staring unseeingly into space as the pieces of the plan clicked into place. There was absolutely no chance of my finding The Bishop on my own-it would be foolish to even waste my time trying. So what I had to do was commit a crime so outrageous and munificent that it would be on all the news channels right around the planet. It had to be so exotic that not a person alive with the ability to read-or with a single finger left to punch in a news channel-would be unaware of it. The entire world would know what had happened. And they would know as well that The Bishop had done it because I would leave his calling card on the spot.

  The last traces of drink slurped up my straw and my eyes unfocused and I slowly returned to the garish reality of MacSwineys. And before my eyes was a poster. I had been staring at it, without seeing it, for some time. Now it registered. Laughing clowns and screaming children. All rapt with joy in slightly faulty 3D. While above their heads the simple message was spelled out in glowing fetters.

  SAVE YOUR COUPONS!! GET THEM WITH EVERY PURCHASE!! FREE ADMISSION TO LOONA PARK!!!

  I had visited this site of plastic joys some years before- and had disliked it even as a child. Horrifying rides that frightened only the simple. Rotating up-and-down rides only for the strong of stomach; round-and-round and throw up. Junk food, sweet candy, drunk clowns, all the heady joy to please the very easily pleasable. Thousands attended Loona Park every day and more thousands flooded in on weekends-bringing even more thousands of bucks with them.