The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection

by Harry Harrison

  At the thought of food my neglected stomach began to churn, rumble and complain. I felt the same way. Food and drink were next in order. And what better place to find them than at this isolated farm? The question was the answer. I stumbled across the furrows to the back of the house, worked my way around the side to the front. No one. But there were voices coming from the open doorway, laughter – and the smell of cooking. Yum! I sauntered into the open, along the front and through the front door.

  ‘Hi, folks. Look who has come to dinner.’

  There were a half-dozen of them grouped around the scrubbed wood table. Young and old, thick and thin. All with the same expression on their faces. Jaw-dropped astonishment. Even the baby stopped crying and aped its elders. A grizzled oldster broke the spell, scrambling to his feet in such a hurry his three-legged stool tumbled over.

  ‘Welcome, your honour, welcome.’ He tugged his forelock as he bowed to show how grateful he was for my presence. ‘How may we aid you, honoured sir?’

  ‘If you could spare a bit of food …’

  ‘Come! Sit! Dine! We have but humble fare but willingly share it. Here!’

  He straightened his stool and waved me to it. The others scampered away from the table so I wouldn’t be disturbed. Either way they were discerning judges of human nature and knew what a sterling fellow I was – or they had seen the sword and gun. A wooden plate was filled from the pot hung over the fire and put before me. Life here was a cut above the slavepens for I was also supplied with a wooden spoon. I tucked in with a great deal of pleasure. It was a vegetable stew, with the occasional shard of meat, garden fresh of course, and tasted wonderful. There was cool water to drink out of a clay cup and I could have asked for nothing more. While I shovelled it all into my face I was aware of low whispering from the farmers gathered at the far end of the room. I doubted if they were planning anything violent. Nevertheless I kept one eye on them and my hand not far from the hilt of the sword laid out on the table.

  When I had finished and belched loudly – they buzzed warmly at this gustatory approval – the old man detached himself from the group and shuffled forward. He pushed before him a shock-headed youth who looked to be about my age.

  ‘Honoured sir, may I speak with you?’ I waved agreement and belched again. He smiled at this and nodded. ‘Ahh, you are kind enough to flatter the cook. Since you are obviously a man of good wit and humour, intelligent and handsome, as well as being a noted warrior, permit me to put a small matter to you.’

  I nodded again; flattery will get you everywhere.

  ‘This is my third son, Dreng. He is strong and willing, a good worker. But our holding is small and there are many mouths to feed, as well as giving half of what we produce to the so-wonderful Capo Doccia for our protection.’

  He had his head lowered when he said this, but there was both submission and hatred in his voice. I imagine the only one that Capo Doccia protected them from was Capo Doccia. He pushed Dreng forward and squeezed his bicep.

  ‘Like rock, sir, he is very strong. His ambition has always been to be a mercenary, like your kind self. A man of war, armed and secure, selling his services to the gentry. A noble calling. And one which would enable him to bring a few groats home to his family.’

  ‘I’m not in the recruiting business.’

  ‘Obviously, honoured sir! If he went as a pikeman with Capo Doccia there would be no pay or honour, only an early death.’

  ‘True, true,’ I agreed although I had heard this fact for the first time. The old boy’s train of thought wandered a bit, which was fine-by me since I was getting an education into life on Spiovente. Didn’t sound nice at all. I sipped some more water and tried to summon up another burp to please the cook, but could not. Old dad was still talking.

  ‘Every warrior, such as yourself, should have a knave to serve him. Dare I ask – we have looked outside and you are alone – what happened to your knave?’

  ‘Killed in battle,’ I improvised. He looked dumbfounded at this and I realised that knaves weren’t supposed to fight. ‘When the enemy overran our camp.’ That was better, he nodded agreement to this. ‘Of course I killed the blackguard who butchered poor Smelly. But that’s what war is about. A rough trade.’

  All of my audience murmured understandingly so I hadn’t put a foot wrong so far. I signalled to the youth.

  ‘Step forward, Dreng, and speak for yourself. What is your age?’

  He peered out from under his long hair and stammered an answer. ‘I’ll be four, come next Wormfeast Day.’

  I wanted no details of this repulsive holiday. He was sure big for his age. Or this planet had a very long year. I nodded and spoke.

  ‘A good age for a knave. Now tell me, do you know what the knavely duties are?’ He’d better, because I certainly didn’t. He nodded enthusiastically at my question.

  ‘That I do, sir, that I do. Old Kvetchy used to be a soldier, told me all about it many a time, Polish the sword and gun, fetch the food from the fire, fill the water bottle, crack the lice with stones …’

  ‘Fine, great, I can see you know it all. Down to the last repulsive detail. In exchange for your services you expect me to teach you the trade of war.’ He nodded quick agreement. The room was hushed as I pondered my decision.

  ‘Right then, let us do it.’

  A bucolic cry of joy echoed from the thatch and old dad produced a crock of what could only be home brew. Things were looking up for me, ever so slightly, but certainly looking up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Work appeared to have ceased for the day with the announcement of Dreng’s new job. The home brew was pretty awful stuff, but obviously contained a fair measure of alcohol. Which seemed like a good idea at the time. I drank enough to kill the pain, then slacked off before I ended up drunk on the floor like the rest of them. I waited until old dad was well on the way to alcoholic extinction before I pumped him for information.

  ‘I have travelled from afar and am ignorant of the local scene.’ I told him. ‘But I do hear that this local bully, Capo Doccia, is a little on the rough side.’

  ‘Rough!’ he growled, then slurped down some more of the paint thinner. ‘Poisonous serpents flee in fear when he approaches, while it is well known that the gaze of his eyes kills infants.’

  There was more like this, but I turned off my attention. I had waited too long in the drinking session to extract any reasonable information from him. I looked around for Dreng and found him just tucking into a great crock of the brew. I prised it away from him, then shook him until I attracted his attention.

  ‘Let’s go. We’re leaving now.’

  ‘Leaving …?’ He blinked rapidly and tried to focus his eyes on me. With little success.

  ‘We. Go. Out. Walkies.’

  ‘Ahh, walkies. I get my blanket.’ He stood swaying, then gave me some more rapid blinks. ‘Where’s your blanket for me to carry?’

  ‘Seized by the enemy, along with everything else I possessed other than my sword and gun which never leave my side while I have a breath in my body.’

  ‘Breath in body … Right. I’ll get blanket. Get you blanket.’

  He rooted about in the rear of the room and appeared with two fuzzy blankets, despite a lot of domestic and female crying about the cold of winter. Capital goods were not easy to come by for the peasantry. I would have to get some groats for Dreng eventually.

  He reappeared with the blankets draped over his shoulders along with a leather bag, a stout staff in his hand – and a wicked-looking knife in a wooden scabbard at his waist. I waited outside to avoid the tearful traditional departure scene. He eventually emerged, looking slightly more sober, and stood swaying at my side.

  ‘Lead on, master.’

  ‘You show me the way. I want to visit Capo Doccia’s keep.’

  ‘No! Can it be true that you fight for him?’

  ‘That is the last thing I would ever do. In fact I would fight against him for a wooden groat. The truth is that the Capo
has a friend of mine locked away in there. I want to get a message to him.’

  ‘There is great danger in even going close to his keep.’

  ‘I’m sure of it, but I am fearless. And I must contact my friend. You lead the way – and through the woods if you don’t mind. I don’t want to be seen by either Capo Doccia or his men.’

  Obviously neither did Dreng. He sobered up as he led me by obscure paths and hidden ways to the other side of the forest. I peered out carefully at the roadway leading to the drawbridge, to the entrance to the keep.

  ‘Any closer and they will see us,’ he whispered. I looked up at the late afternoon sun and nodded agreement.

  ‘It’s been a busy day. We’ll lay up in the woods here and make our move in the morning.’

  ‘No move. It’s death!’ His teeth chattered though the afternoon was hot. He hurried as he led the way deeper into the forest, to a grassy hollow with a stream running through it. He produced a clay cup from his bag, filled it with water and brought it to me. I slurped and realised that having a knave wasn’t a bad idea after all. Once his chores were done he spread the blankets on the grass and promptly fell asleep on his. I sat down with my back to a tree and, for the first time, had a chance to examine the gun I had lifted.

  It was sleek and new and did not fit this broken-down planet at all. Of course – it had to be from the Venian ship. The Bishop said that they had probably been smuggling weapons. And I was holding one of them in my hands. I looked at it more closely.

  No identification, or serial number – or any other indication where it had been manufactured. And it was pretty obvious why. If the League agents succeeded in getting their hands on one of these it would be impossible to trace it back to the planet of origin. The gun was small in size, about halfway between a rifle and a pistol. I can claim some acquaintance with small arms – I am an honoured member of the Pearly Gates Gun Club and Barbecue Society because I am a pretty good shot and helped them win tournaments – but I had never seen anything like this before. I looked into the muzzle. It was about .30 calibre, and unusually enough it was a smoothbore. It had open, iron sights, a trigger with safety button, one other lever on the stock. I turned this and the gun broke in half and a handful of small cartridges fell to the ground. I looked at one closely and began to understand how the gun worked.

  ‘Neat. No lands or grooves so there is no worry about keeping the barrel clean. Instead of rotating the bullet has fins to keep it in straight flight. And, uggh, make a nastier hole in anyone it hits. And no cartridge case either – this is solid propellant. Does away with all the worries about ejecting the brass.’ I peeked into the chamber. ‘Efficient and foolproof. Push your cartridges into the recessed stock. When it’s full put one more into the chamber. Close and lock. A little solar screen here to keep a battery charged. Pull the trigger, a spot in the chamber glows hot and ignites the charge. The expanding gas shoots out the bullet – while part of the gas is diverted to ram the next bullet into the chamber. Rugged, almost foolproof, cheap to make. And deadly.’

  Depressed and tired I lay the gun beside me, dropped the sword close to hand, lay back on the blanket and followed Dreng’s good example.

  By dawn we were slept out and slightly hungover. Dreng brought me water, then handed over a strip of what looked like smoked leather. He took one himself and began chewing on it industriously. Breakfast in bed – the greatest! I bit my piece and almost broke a tooth. It not only resembled smoked leather, but tasted exactly like it as well.

  By the time that the drawbridge clanked down for the day we were lying in a copse on the hill above it, as close as we could get. It was the nearest cover that we could find since, for pretty obvious reasons, all the trees and shrubs had been cleared away from the approaches to the gate. It wasn’t as near as I liked, but would have to do. But it was far too close for Dreng for I could feel him shivering at my side. The first thing to emerge from the gate was a small body of armed men, followed by four slaves dragging a cart.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘Tax collecting. Getting in their share of the crops.’

  ‘We’ve now seen who comes out – but do any of your farmers ever go in?’

  ‘Madness and death! Never!’

  ‘What about selling them food.’

  ‘They take all they want from us.’

  ‘Do you sell them firewood?’

  ‘They steal what they need.’

  They had a pretty one-sided economy, I thought gloomily. But I had to come up with something – I just couldn’t leave The Bishop as a slave in this dismal place. My cogitation was interrupted by a commotion inside the gate. Then, as though my thoughts had coalesced into reality, a figure burst out of the gate, knocking aside the guard there, rushing on.

  The Bishop!

  Running fast. But right behind him were the pursuing guards.

  ‘Take this and follow me!’ I shouted, jamming the hilt of the sword into Dreng’s hand. Then I was off down the slope as fast as I could go, shouting to draw their attention. They ignored me until I fired a shot over their heads.

  Things got pretty busy after that. The guards slowed, one even dived to the ground and put his hands over his head. The Bishop pelted on – but one of his pursuers was right behind him, swinging a long pike. Catching The Bishop on the back and knocking him down. I fired again as I ran, jumped over The Bishop and felled the pikeman with the butt of my gun.

  ‘Up the hill!’ I called out when I saw The Bishop was struggling to his feet, blood all over his back. I banged off two more shots then turned to help him. And saw that Dreng was clutching the sword – but still lying on top of the hill.

  ‘Get down here and help him or I’ll kill you myself!’ I shouted, turning and firing again. I hadn’t hit anyone but I was sure keeping their heads down. The Bishop stumbled on and Dreng, having plumbed some deep well of decency – or in fear that I would kill him – was coming to our aid. Shots were whistling past us now so I spun and returned their fire.

  We reached the top of the low hill, went over it towards the relative safety of the woods. Dreng and I half carried the great form of The Bishop as he stumbled and staggered. I took a quick – and reassuring – look at his back. There was a shallow cut there, nothing too bad. Our pursuers were still not in sight when we crashed through the bushes and reached the safety of the trees.

  ‘Dreng – lead us out of here. They mustn’t catch us now!’

  Surprisingly enough they didn’t. The farm lad must have played in these woods for all of his young life because he knew every track and path. But it was hard work. We staggered on then struggled our way along a steep grassy slope with a few miserable bushes halfway up. Dreng pulled the bushes aside to reveal the entrance to a shallow cave.

  ‘Chased a Furry in here once. No one else knows about it.’

  The entrance was low and it was a labour to pull The Bishop through. But once inside the cave opened out and there was more than enough space to sit up, although it wasn’t high enough to stand. I took one of the blankets and spread it out, then rolled The Bishop onto it so that he lay on his side. He groaned. His face was filthy and bruised. He had not had an easy time of it. Then he looked towards me and smiled.

  ‘Thank you, my boy. I knew you would be there.’

  ‘You did? That’s more than I knew.’

  ‘Nonsense. But, quickly please, the …’

  He writhed and moaned and his body arched into the air with unbearable pain. The paincuff – I had forgotten about it! And it was receiving a continuous signal, certain death.

  Haste makes waste. So I controlled my anxiety and slowly slipped off my right shoe, opened the compartment and seized the lockpick firmly in my fingers. Bent over, inserted it – and the cuff sprang open. Pain lanced through my hand, numbing it, as I threw the thing aside.

  The Bishop was unconscious and breathing heavily. There was nothing more I could do except sit and wait.

  ‘Your sword,’ Dreng sai
d, holding it out to me.

  ‘You take care of it for a while. If you think you are up to it?’

  He lowered his eyes and trembled again. ‘I want to be a fighter, but I am so afraid. I could not move to help you.’

  ‘But you did – finally. Remember that. There isn’t a person alive who has not been afraid at one time or another. It is only the brave man who can feel fear and still go forward.’

  ‘A noble thought, young man,’ the deep voice said. ‘And one that you should always remember.’

  The Bishop had regained consciousness and was smiling a wan smile.

  ‘Now Jim, as I was saying before they turned on their little machine, I was certain that you would be here this morning. You were free – and I knew that you would not leave me alone in that wicked place. There was an immense hue and cry when you escaped, with abundant to-ing and fro-ing until the gate was closed for the night. It was obvious that it would be impossible for you to come then. But with dawn the gate would be opened and I had not the slightest doubt that you were sure to be close by, trying to find a way to get to me. Simple logic. So I simplified the equation by coming to you.’

  ‘Very simple! You almost got yourself killed.’

  ‘But I didn’t. And we are both safely away from them. Plus I see that you have managed to enlist an ally. A good day’s work. Now the important question. What do we do next?’

  What indeed?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘As to what we do next – the answer is obvious,’ I said. ‘We stay here until the excitement has died down. Which should happen fairly quickly since there is not much market value in a dead slave.’

  ‘But I feel remarkably healthy.’

  ‘You have forgotten that the paincuff will kill if used continuously. So, when our Way is clear we head for the nearest habitation and dress your wound.’

  ‘It is bloody, but can’t be more than a scratch.’