Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns

by Harry Harrison

  The sky darkened and by late afternoon there were ominous rumblings from the clouds. A thin mist began to fall: I could only hope that my war paint was waterproof.

  It was not an easy trek, so I was more than happy to flop down when Bram signaled a halt. The rain had stopped—and my skin coloring was still intact.

  “The cotton fields are just ahead,” Bram said. “We’ll meet the others, the ones who left before us, here in this grove.”

  We didn’t have to wait very long before dark and silent forms began to filter through the trees. More and more of them—the local trackers had joined them, most of them carrying bows. A tall man, obviously their leader, stepped forward.

  “You are Bram. I knew your father well when we were growing up.”

  “Then you must be Alun.”

  “I am.” They clasped hands. “And your father is in good health?”

  “He’s dead. Killed by them.”

  “A curse on all Grønner.”

  Bram nodded; a fate all too familiar to even talk about.

  “Have there been any more sightings of the person we seek?” Bram asked.

  “Just one,” Alun said, pointing at the low building just beyond the field. “A positive identification. They had ropes tied to him and he was not green.”

  “Can you get me close to him?” I asked. He nodded.

  “Let me show you what this place is like.” He bent over a dry patch of ground, used the tip of his bow to trace a square shape in the dirt.

  “This is the cotton field—and we are here, on the forest side of it. On the other side,” he traced another box, “is a building with machines of some kind. I am told they make the cotton into cloth in some way.”

  Beyond the mill he traced out more squares. “Here there are many buildings where the cotton workers live, more and more of them. We want to stay away from them. Many guards there, many more of their people.” He tapped the largest square.

  “The field workers will be leaving here very soon. When they do, we’ll let you through the fence so you walk after them.” He looked at my green face in disgust. “You will do fine, just fine.”

  “They are leaving the field now!” Bram called out. “You must go and follow them.”

  Two of the trackers bent over the wooden fence, holding open a gap they had forced between interlocked boughs. As I wriggled through Bram pointed to the grove of tall trees we had just left. “We’ll be waiting here when you come back.”

  Then I was through, standing and walking behind the others. On my own.

  Which was just the way I liked it.

  Some of them carried wooden hoes, shambling, tired from a long day’s work. As I walked closer no one even looked my way.

  First step done, Jim. You are just one more green among Greenies. Now all you have to do is find your target.

  My fellow travelers shuffled past the building, going around it to their quarters beyond. I slowed and lagged behind. I paused at a door and pulled on the handle. It was open.

  I closed it and waited until the last worker had trudged out of sight. Pulled the door open just enough to slip through. Closed it behind me.

  A large open space with many wooden supports to hold up the roof. There were rows of hulking machines—crude looms—just visible in the darkening gloom. People—women perhaps—were grouped together at the far end of the building, leaving through the doors there. A few smoking lanterns lit their way. I worked my way towards them, moving furtively from loom to loom.

  There was a sudden scuffle and some angry cries. I crouched low, looking through a gap between the machines. I heard loud male laughter and shouted commands. The women moved aside and three men came into view forcing themselves through the crowd.

  The shrill voices were angry now as the men emerged. The one in the center appeared to have his arms tied behind his back, was bent over trying to avoid the grasping hands. When he finally straightened up I could see bloody scratches on his face.

  Red tracks on his pallid pink skin!

  Got you!

  I skulked after them, among the dark looms, and moved closer.

  “You morons are supposed to protect me,” an angry voice said. I could see the prisoner rubbing his face along his shoulder, smearing away the blood.

  “You just shut them face,” one guard said—and followed with a hard blow to the man’s ear. His companion laughed at the good fun.

  Then they stopped under a lantern; I hunkered down behind a loom. They fumbled with the lashings on his wrists, taking an unconsciously long time to free him. Then he was pushed, stumbling, through the doorway into what must be a room beyond. The warders struggled a heavy beam into place, sealing the door shut.

  “Don’ go long time!” The remaining man called out as the other guard shuffled away.

  “Come back when sr’gent say come back.”

  “No long, no long . . .” The man wailed.

  Better and better. One against one now; good odds. I slipped between the rows of machines. Then stood and walked silently towards him. He caught the motion, spun about, his jaw dropping.

  “Who you? What here for . . .”

  “See this finger,” I said quietly, holding out my fist, thumb rigid.

  He stared and gaped. Drooling a bit too.

  I stabbed forward, my thumb catching him hard, just on the ganglion in his neck. He grunted and folded, thudding silently to the filthy floor. I stepped over his inert body and took the lantern off its hook. Looked around carefully.

  Silence. The lamp guttered and smoked as I put it down. Then I worked the beam free from the retainers on the door and set it quietly aside. Picked up the lantern and opened the door.

  “Go away,” the voice said hoarsely from the darkness. “Don’t beat me again. The loom was broken when I got there. It was that cow’s fault—I told you what she did . . .”

  “Quiet,” I said and walked towards him. “I’m a friend.”

  He stared, eyes wide as I approached.

  “I have no friends,” he said through bruised lips. I could now see the scabs and unhealed bruises on his face, matted filthy hair. I felt a surge of hatred at the malicious, stupid creatures who had done this to him.

  “Look at my skin,” I said pulling up my jacket to bare the undyed skin at my waist. “You have a friend now.”

  He collapsed against the wall, sobbing and gasping—pulling back in fear when I reached down to help him to his feet.

  “Questions—and explanations—later. Now just come with me. We’re leaving this place.”

  There were voices in the distance. I blew out the lamp, threw it aside, pulled him to his feet, dragged him after me.

  There was a fierce whooshing sound behind us and flames lit up the darkness. The fuel from the lamp had caught fire. I wasn’t going to worry about it. The approaching voices turned to shouts and there was the sound of running feet.

  We met at the doorway. Two of them. Wide-eyed, gaping green faces.

  I struck out with my free hand, knocking the first one to the ground. The second guard raised a club. I jumped for his wrist, seized it and kept his arm coming up and over until the man screamed with pain: I silenced him with a quick blow.

  Two down. No more in sight. Behind me the flames roared as the dry wood of the building caught fire.

  “That should keep them busy,” I said to my new companion. “Just keep going.”

  We ran between the looms, easily avoiding them in the flickering light as the flames flared in the dry wood. We were still unseen by the locals who had all of their attention focused now on carrying the unconscious men from the burning building.

  I stopped for a breather at the same door I had used to enter the building. Though it felt like hours had passed since I had come through it, there was still light in the eastern sky. And the field was empty.

  There was more shouting now—but all of it well behind us.

  “You ready to go on?” I asked.

  “Yes . . . of course. Lea
d the way.”

  We stumbled between the cotton plants, towards the forest beyond.

  The figures by the gap in the fence were friends. Willing hands helped us through.

  We were safe.

  CHAPTER 22

  The newly released prisoner fell to the ground as soon as I let go of his arm.

  “We were watching,” Bram said. “You weren’t followed. So I don’t think you were seen leaving the building. But still, we must get away from here before the search starts.” He bent over the man who was crumpled on the ground, still gasping for breath.

  “Soon . . . give me a minute . . .”

  “He’ll slow you down,” Alun said. “We’ll come with you until you are well clear of this place. We will have to take turns carrying him.”

  With an easy motion he lifted the man and slung him over his broad shoulders.

  “Follow me.”

  The trackers trailed quickly away into the forest.

  By taking turns to carry the exhausted prisoner we made good time as we returned the way we had come. Another one of the three moons had risen, which made it easier to find the trail. It was Alun who finally raised his hand and brought us to a halt in an open glade.

  “You will be safe now. Their trackers aren’t good enough to follow us this far. But my people will go back the way we came. In case a few of their trackers might still be after you. They won’t get past us.”

  “I thank you for your aid,” Bram said.

  “We are as one. My son here, Tome, will go on with you. He will return and tell us what you have found out after you talk to this man.”

  “He is welcome to our food.”

  The escaped prisoner was sitting up, listening to us.

  “Who are you people? What will happen to me?”

  His confusion—and fear—were obvious to see. I sat down beside him.

  “We are your friends,” I said. “From off-planet. We have a spacer and you will be leaving here with us very soon.”

  “Gott im Himmel!” He cried out in some tortuous tongue. “To believe it . . . after all these years . . .”

  He was sobbing with relief, clutching my arm. “You cannot understand . . .”

  “I certainly can. These Greenies embody evil and stupidity in equal portions. But most important is the fact that you were their prisoner. There is every chance that you may be able to help us . . .”

  “Whatever you ask!” He struggled to stand and I helped him to his feet. He braced himself erect and clapped his right fist across his chest; a salute of some kind. “Hans Steigger, Second Mate of the research ship Rumfahrtroman.”

  “A pleasure to meet you. Jim diGriz. Civilian. Unemployed.” I hit my fist against my chest too. “Can I ask you a few vital questions?”

  “Anything!”

  “When you were captured . . . were you taken into any of the buildings at the spaceport?”

  “They lied to us! Said they would make us welcome . . . They told us their inspectors would come aboard only to look at the ship’s quarantine and medical records. A common thing. But when we opened the spacelock we were overwhelmed! There was a rush of green thugs—they clubbed us down. Killed poor Klaus—dragged us into the buildings at the spaceport.”

  “You’ve been inside then?”

  “Of course. We were all taken there. The one we had talked to on the radio was their leader. He actually had skin makeup on. Laughed at us when he wiped it off. Then he spoke to us one at a time. Wanted to know what position we held in the ship. He really only wanted the comm officers. The ones who knew about radio equipment. They were taken away and we never saw them again.”

  “What happened to you—and the other men?”

  “Slave drivers—that’s what we were. These green bastards are morons—cretins!—stupid beyond belief. They put them into work gangs with one of us in charge. We were guarded, watched all the time, by thugs with clubs. The workers—you can’t believe how incredibly dim they are—like retarded chickens. No, chickens are smarter. You put a hoe in their hands and guide it for them. Hoe between the plants, you tell them, keep on doing it.”

  He spat with disgust. “A few minutes later they have forgotten what you told them to do. If you don’t stop them they actually dig up the plants you are trying to grow . . .”

  He fell back, breathing heavily, exhausted. I patted his hand.

  “That’s great, thanks. You better rest a bit before we go on.”

  Communication gear inside the spaceport buildings! This was the news we needed. The rescue effort to free Hans had been more than worth it.

  “We must keep moving,” Bram said. He turned to Hans who was sitting up. “Can you walk by yourself now?”

  “Of course—but not too fast I’m afraid.”

  “This will help—” Bram said, passing Hans some of the dried meat. “When you finish that we will leave.”

  His only answer was muffled mastication.

  The trek continued, but within a short time it became obvious that the stumbling Hans was in no shape to go on. I, not to mention the exhausted Hans, could not match the iron endurance of the trackers. He had to stop. I agreed—it was a most attractive option. Apparently not to my sturdy companions. As I was falling asleep I was aware of a murmured conversation, that ended when two of them slipped away into the darkness. So did I.

  I awoke, reluctantly, soon after dawn when, what the military would call a relief column, appeared out of the morning haze. They had a warm greeting, particularly when they put down the bundle they had been carrying. When it was opened out it became a simple litter, soft leather skins stretched between two stout poles.

  We made much better time now, and by late morning reached the encampment. Angelina took one look at the tattered and bruised Hans, injured flesh showing through the rents of what was once a uniform, and had him whisked away at once. I huddled with Bram and made plans.

  “A flat field not too far from here,” I said, “some place where we can safely land the ship.”

  “How big should it be?”

  How big indeed? There could be no talk here of square meters or other accepted measurements. I looked around at the glade where the encampment had been set up, then pointed past the tents and the grazing horses.

  “Do you see those trees over there? The ones with the yellow blossoms.”

  He shielded his eyes against the glare of the newly risen sun and nodded.

  “That is not very far.”

  “It isn’t. What we need is an open area at least twice this size.”

  He found a stick, bent over and scratched a circle in the ground. “We are here. If you go in that direction—not a long march,” he pointed a bit to the right of the sun, “you will come to a shallow river.” The stick scratched a slow loop in the dirt. “Within the loop in the river is a large and flat field. Just grass and small bushes. Your flying machine can land there.”

  He pushed the stick into the ground.

  “You are sure of the direction?” He did not speak but pulled back a bit, eyes widening. “Sorry. Never tell a chef how to cook. That’s where the ship will land. Now, in which direction is the spaceport?”

  He stood up and pointed to the forest.

  “That will do fine.”

  I scratched an arrow into the ground and another pointing to our chosen landing site—then tried to align them with the sun. With his guidance other lines were made, erased and moved. Until we had settled on what—I sincerely hoped—would be the exact course that should be flown. Next step—

  “We better start moving the porcuswine to the landing site as soon as we can. This morning if possible. They are not going to like leaving their chestnut grove.”

  Nor were they. All of the boys in the encampment volunteered to help; I needed every one of them. Bil, one of Bram’s trackers, came along to be sure we went in the right direction. When we reached the grazing pack I gathered the boys together and gave a quick lecture on swineherding.

  “Use your s
ticks to guide them—don’t push or hit them or you risk death-by-pincushion. Ignore the piglets—they will follow their dams. They are all very lazy and would much rather eat than walk. It’s all right if they snatch a mouthful on the way—but don’t let them stop or it will be very hard to get them moving again. Ready?”

  A chorus of yeses and a few ragged cheers. I hoped they could keep the enthusiasm during our slow trek. I cut a stout stick, took a deep breath—and walked over to Gnasher, who was chomping happily in the shade.

  “Sooo-ey, swine, swine, swine—”

  He raised his head, fixed one nasty red eye on me—and went back to eating. It took an awful lot of scratching under his spines, sweet words and gentle prodding to start him moving. My childhood skills from down on the farm had not been forgotten.

  Slowly and lethargically the herd got under way. We kept them moving. First the boars, then the sows—with the squealing piglets rushing to keep up. The boys ran and whooped and had a fine time. With seemingly endless energy.

  I must admit that my power soon began to wane. I swore an oath that when I finally saw the last spine rattle by, never—and I mean never—after the last twist of a corkscrew tail, that I would never, repeat never, see another porcuswine again.

  Bil had gone ahead to scout direction—and was soon back with smiles and immensely cheering news.

  “Just beyond these trees—the field and the river are there.”

  And indeed they were. The boars rumbled happily when they smelled the water and they moved a little faster in that direction. I set down heavily on the ground.

  Done. I selected the first happy volunteers from among my helpers. Promised that they would be relieved well before dark. They were proud of the responsibility, not that there was much to do. The porcuswine could take very good care of themselves. The return trip went a lot faster. Food and drink were waiting for us. My porcine pack could be forgotten, for the moment at least. I washed the dust of the trail from my skin, drink deeply of the cool water. Waved happily to Angelina.

  “You seem quite cheerful,” she said.