“Never! I’ll challenge anyone who calls you that! You are not a git.”
“Not git—GIT!” he said with anger in his eyes. I shrank away. “That is a Galactic Inspector of Texas.”
“A tax man!” Not in my wildest dream.
“I am. It is a profession much needed in these tax-evading societies. Without law and taxes we would have interstellar anarchy. And this planet, Fetorr, is home to some heroically greedy tax evaders. And high on my list of suspects is your employer.”
I still found it hard to believe. “A tax man … no one would ever suspect.”
“No they wouldn’t. I have what might very well be called a perfect disguise. That of a simple-minded muscle-man. Bit of fun too, I must say. I was really tired of teaching at the university. Even though I had my own department of Fiduciary Intransigence. But when I began to get reports of the tax goings-on here on Fetorr I volunteered for the present assignment. My natural assets, of course.”
“Natural assets?” I was beginning to feel that I was missing some vital facts.
“That is correct. You must have heard of my home planet, Trantor?”
“Sorry-there are thousands of inhabited worlds out there.”
“Yes-but there is only one with the mass of Trantor. A little over three times the standard as expressed in planetary gravity. 3Gs in fact.”
“No wonder you can do what you do!”
“I feel light as a feather on your tiny worlds. I dream that I am floating at times. But to more important things. The man you informally refer to as Chaise is an interstellar banker of great renown. And suspicion…”
He broke off when there was a sharp rap on the door.
“Locked. Go away,” he growled in his Puissanto personality.
“I want to contact the Mighty Marvell,” a muffled voice said. “Do you know…”
“No know! Go!” he roared.
The sharp rapping came again. Puissanto picked me up by the throat so I could not speak, held me out at arm’s length behind the door when he opened it.
“Umph!” he said. “Who you?”
“Me Megalith Man,” a grating voice said. “Need to find Mighty Marvell.”
I struggled and writhed and managed to squeeze out a few words.
“Let-in-it’s OK…”
I dropped when he opened his hand. Megalith Man came in and looked down at me where I sprawled on the floor.
“Are you alright, Dad?” he asked.
Puissanto closed the door and looked from me to Megalith Man. “If this is your son, then you have some really crunched recessive genes in your lineage,” he said.
“A working costume,” Bolivar said, talking off Megalith Man’s head. “There is big trouble coming down the pike. Mom was worried when Puissanto here cut his act short. Told me to get to this dressing room-but didn’t have time to tell me why because that’s when the trouble started. The rest of the program has been canceled and the theater is filled with uniforms. I saw three of them going into your dressing room. The theater entrances are sealed except for one, and they are searching and checking the audience as they leave.”
“Do you have any idea why?” Puissanto asked.
“There’s no secret about it.” He looked at me with a most unhappy expression. “They have pictures of you. And are asking everyone if they have ever heard of the Stainless Steel Rat.”
Chapter 12
I knew that the powers of darkness were drawing ever closer: what I had not realized was just how close they really were. The hot breath on the back of my neck was scorching. Reality crushed in: I really had called this one wrong. We should have cut and run the night before. Now, in order to make one last stab at investigating the ongoing mystery, I had endangered the entire operation. Not to mention the health and well-being of my entire family. I took a deep-and shuddering-breath.
“Right,” I said with more authority than I felt. “I have to find a way to get out of here. Any suggestions?”
“Are you the Stainless Steel Rat individual that the police apparently want to apprehend?” Puissanto said.
No point in lying—particularly since the police had linked my photograph to my name. “I have that pleasure.”
“That name has a very familiar ring about it. Could I have come across it in the records?”
“Which records?”
“Tax records.”
“Impossible. My motto is the golden one of the confirmed capitalist. Buy cheap, sell dear-and avoid paying taxes. Legally, that is.”
“The Stainless Steel Rat-it still sounds familiar. Yes! Weren’t you linked at one time to the destruction of large amounts of income tax records?”
“A calumny! Never proven! I prefer to think of my career as that of one who rights wrongs. A modern version of the old myth of the benefactor named Robbing Good. My specialty involves ironing out the bumps in the income graph, redistributing resources one might say. I might also add that I have saved the galaxy on more than one occasion. Which should count for something.”
“You are sure about those tax files?”
Like all tax men he would not let go easily. “I am surenever!” I lied. There are times when the bare truth can be embarrassing. Puissanto rubbed his jaw in thought.
“We will forget the matter of the tax files for the moment. If it is not taxes-why are the police so eager to capture you?”
“They are blaming me for the recent robberies-when in fact I am here to investigate them as I told you.”
“Then you are, in fact-being framed?”
“Got that in one,” Bolivar said. “And it is a frame big enough to include me as well. I was manager of the first bank that was robbed. The police claimed that it was an inside job and arrested me. With some help I managed to escape.”
Puissanto pondered that for a while, then reached a reluctant decision. “If you both are innocent, then it is my duty as a good citizen—and a tax inspector-to aid you in escaping from the law. I have already investigated the police forces of this planet and they are most corrupt. Completely controlled by the tax-evading industrialists. Let me give you a name and a phone number.” He found a stylo, which vanished from sight in his massive fist, and wrote the information down, passed it over. “Paka is an associate of mine who will be able to help you. Call this number and identify yourself by—”
There was a sudden hammering on the door and loud voices.
“Open up in there! This is the police.”
“Go away. Me sleep.” Puissanto looked around the room, saw the window. “Quickly!” he whispered.
Bolivar put his Megalith Man head back on and we hurried after the strongman. He opened the window, then reached out and seized two of the iron bars. He didn’t even grunt as he bent them wide.
“Out,” he said, then shouted-right in my ear which almost took my head off. “Wake Puissanto up—he kill!”
If this didn’t stop the police-it at least slowed them down while we climbed out of the window. He bent the bars back into shape behind us, then went to open the door. We left.
And were soaked in seconds. At least I was. Bolivar was of course nice and comfy in his pseudoflesh disguise. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the rain poured down. Which was all for the best since we made an interesting and surely memorable pair. Me in my formal attire, he in his repulsive guise. The few people we passed had their heads down as they hurried to shelter. We hurried as well, eager to put some distance between ourselves and our pursuers. Turning one last corner I saw the lights of a restaurant beckoning ahead.
“There,” I said. “Safe haven in the storm.”
“Are you sure? Poison Pete’s Red Hot Take Away-Or Eat Here If You Dare. Doesn’t sound that attractive.”
“Then don’t eat. All we want to do is use the phone. Let’s go.”
Perhaps Bolivar was right, I thought as the door closed behind us. The place was grubby, the two tables nicked and scratched, the drunk clutching the bottle in the corner completely unconscious.
When I breathed in the sweet perfume of food I coughed. My lungs hurt.
“Welcome, hungry strangers in the night. Poison Pete say eat and drink-food so hot your feet will shrink.”
Wonderful. Poison Pete—was a robot with long mustachios and a frayed blanket slung over one shoulder. The creature was also wearing an immense hat with a wide brim. Representing, no doubt, some culture now lost in the depths of time.
“What you gringos want to eat? Cactus-spine soup? Chile con serape picante?”
“We want to use your phone.”
“You eat here, cabrones, you use the phone here.” Well programmed it was to screw the last credit out of the customers.
“All right-two orders of what you said.” I looked at the pictured foaming mugs on the wall. “And two beers.”
Now the robot restaurateur sprang into action. Slapped two overflowing mugs of beer down in front of us, filled two bowls with a lethal-looking lumpy green concoction and slid them across the counter. Then produced a portable phone which it dropped into the food.
“Thirty-five credits, real good price,” it said.
I doubted that greatly. While Bolivar paid I dug the phone out of the food and dialed Paka. My fingers burned where I had wiped off the cruddy comestibles. Someone picked up the phone.
“Puissanto said I should call this number.”
“If you’re Marvell, I got a call from Puissanto about you. ”
“That’s good news.”
“He said it’s bad news. But he also said to pick you up. Where you at? ”
I told him and he found Poison Pete’s in the directory. Meanwhile Bolivar-ahh, the impetuosity of youth! – had made the mistake of tasting the food. He now laid his head on the counter while I poured the mugs of beer into his mouth. The beer steamed. He had almost recovered when a rodentlooking man came in. His nose was pointed and his bristling mustache twitched as he looked around.
“You Marvell?” he asked, poking the drunk with his shoe; his yellow and ratlike teeth slipped in and out when he spoke.
“Over here,” I said.
He looked me up and down-then recoiled when he saw Bolivar’s repellent guise.
“We are from the same circus as Puissanto,” I explained. “All good friends. Do you have transportation?”
“I got a kangaroodle. Puissanto said to take you to his office.”
“I never knew that he had an office. Are you sure? Has this anything to do with GIT?”
“Quiet!” He looked around, but neither the drunk nor the robot restaurateur had taken notice of my remark. “Word must not get out about his tax investigations. Of course he’s got an office. It’s a secret of course, because no one is supposed to know he’s here. I’m the bookkeeper. You ready?”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
When we went out I looked suspiciously at his machine: I had seen its like on the opening night of the circus. The passenger cabin of the kangaroodle was suspended between two immense, piston-actuated legs. We climbed the ladder mounted on the vehicle’s nearest leg.
“Belt up,” Paka said. “This thing really moves. Surveyors use them in rough country.” He reached out and turned on the engine just as the police car braked to a stop beside us; a powerful searchlight bathed us with light. Bolivar and I scrunched down out of sight.
“Get out of there!” a growly official voice said. “And keep your hands out where I can see them.”
“I didn’t do nothing!” Paka squealed.
“Just get down from that thing—now.”
“Do that and you are a dead man,” I said with as much menace in my voice as I could summon up. I ground my knuckle into his side and he squeaked. “This is a gun with a hair trigger-and it is about to go off-if we don’t leave this very instant.” He stomped on the accelerator.
With a single bound the kangaroodle hurled itself into the air. Springs and pistons absorbed the shock of landing then it was off again on another immense leap. It was comfortable enough when we were in the air, but my chin hit my collarbone each time we struck the ground. Behind us the police cruiser roared into life and came after us, siren screaming. Our transport of delight was good in heavy traffic; leaping over any vehicles in its way. But its speed on the open road could not match that of a wheeled vehicle. As the traffic lightened the police began to catch up. We were bounding through an industrial area now. With factories on both sides of the road. At . the next junction buildings changed to fencing and I pointed with my free hand.
“Over that fence jump now!”
“I can’t! We’ll die-I can’t see what’s there.”
“You’ll die when this gun goes off-jump!”
Squeaking with fear he twisted the controller hard. When we landed our machine pivoted neatly on one foot, ninety degrees, then flew into the air.
And landed in a ploughed field. We bounded on gracefully, leaving the police far behind.
“You wouldn’t have shot me, would you?” Paka asked.
“Of course not—particularly since I don’t have a gun.”
He muttered rodentine curses under his breath as he drove. Or rather bounced. We eventually came to a farm road that led us back to the paved roads, and our bounding progress was smoother after this. Paka seemed to know the country well because we proceeded through side streets and back alleys, until we reached an industrial site of workshops and small businesses. We jolted to a stop next to Udongo’s Financial Services. The engine stopped and we sighed down as the pistons relaxed. Paka unlocked the door and led us inside.
“If you had had a gun-would you have shot me?” he asked. The close – brush with the possibility of death still shocked him.
“I’m sorry.” I really was. “It was just about the only thing I could think of at the time. Those police are bad news.” I looked out of the window at the kangaroodle parked close by. With a big number plate on its rump. “Can that thing be traced by its number?”
“It could-if that was the right number. Mr. Puissanto is very thorough. Purchased legally, but the plates are false. This building is rented under a dummy company.”
I looked around. An office like any other, but heavy on computers and files. Bolivar took off his head and looked around as well. “Do you have a water cooler around here?” he asked. Memories of Poison Pete still searing his throat.
“Other room, through that door.” Bolivar left.
“I want to use your telephone,” I said.
“I’ll have to bill you for the call.”
“Yes, of course, whatever you say.” I dug out my wallet. Regretting breaking my lifelong rule of never associating with accountants or tax authorities. I dialed the number which rang and rang. And with every unanswered ring my body temperature dropped a degree. Why wasn’t Angelina in the dressing room? In the end I dialed the box office.”
“This is the Waldorf-Castoria,” I said in what I hope was a disguised voice. “I have a message for one of our guests. A Mrs. DiGriz—”
“Not here.”
“But where?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I had a quick glimpse of her when she left with her friends. They drove away in a large black car.”
I was facing the window as I spoke. The rain had stopped so I could clearly see in the glow of the streetlight a long black car easing to a stop outside. I put down the phone and moved out of sight of the window, concerned.
“Are you expecting anybody?” I asked.
“Just Puissanto. He said that he would get here as soon as the police were gone.”
I heard the car door slam-then someone knocked on the door.
“That’s not Puissanto—he got keys!”
“Stall! You’re here alone.” I grabbed up Bolivar’s head and slipped into the next room.
“Just a minute,” Paka said; I heard him unlock the door. “We’re closed, it’s after hours.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll come in anyway.”
That voice, somehow familiar-but who?”
; “You can’t come in-squeak! Is that … a real gun?”
“I assure you that it is. May I?”
Another squeal. Paka was not having a good day with guns. Real or otherwise.
“Where is he?”
“I’m alone!”
“Paka, you are not a very efficient liar. Besides, I have had a tap on your phone for quite a while. I heard you arrange to pick up a certain individual.”
Individual? I tried to remember my conversation with Paka. Had I mentioned Bolivar? I handed Bolivar his head and put my finger to my lips, cozening him to silence. If the gunman didn’t know he was here he still had a chance. He nodded his head-I waved him back, then opened the door.
“What do you want?” I asked.
The man with the silver-plated and pearl-handled gun turned to me and smiled.
Chaise! Imperetrix Von Kaiser-Czarski. My employer.
“You seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of trouble, Jim. You and your family. That is not like you.”
“Why the gun?” The black opening of the barrel was trained on my midriff.
“You are a man who is wanted by the police. Perhaps it is for my own protection.”
“You are lying; Chaise. I have a feeling that you have never told me the truth at any time.”
He smiled. “Occasionally, Jim, just occasionally. And I have always paid you on time.”
“Might I ask why you bugged the phone here?”
“That should be obvious. As a man of finance I always like to know what the tax authorities are up to.” I heard someone come in through the outside door. Chaise raised the gun. “Nothing foolish now. Just turn around and put out your arms.”
I did. The handcuffs snapped shut on my wrists. The grinning thug was very familiar.
“Igor!” It was the truck driver who had taken us to the porcuswine farm.
The Stainless Steel Rat Joins the Circus ssr-11 Page 12
