“Our jailers are most generous in their desire that we be entertained at all times. They distribute these in great numbers. Unbreakable, eternal—and four hundred and twelve channels.”
“What powers it?”
“Slaves,” he said and reached out a toe to prod the nearest one. The slave groaned and climbed to his feet, stumbled over, clanking his chains as he went, and began to turn the handle on the internal generator. The thing burst to life with a commercial for industrial strength cat food.
“Enough!” Svinjar ordered and the meows faded and died. “You and your companions kept the news channels alive. When they said crime and hospital treatment I was rather convinced they meant here. Ready to play?”
“The Stainless Steel Rats are always at the service of those in control. Which, in this case, I assume is you.”
“You assume right. A concert it is—and now. We haven’t had any live entertainment here since the cannibalistic magician died of infection after being bitten by accident in the heat of passion. Begin.”
By necessity all our gear had to be compact. The fist-sized loudspeakers contained holoprojectors that blew their image up to room size.
“All right guys,” I called out. “Let’s set up by the back wall. No costumes for this first gig and we’ll start with ‘The Swedish Monster from Outer Space.’”
This was one of our more impressive numbers. It had been found in one of the most ancient databases, the lyric written in a long-lost language called Svensk or Swedish or something like that. After much electronic scratching about, one of the computers in the language department at the university had been able to translate it. But this lyric was so dreadful that we threw it away and sang it in the original which was far more interesting.
Ett fasanfullt monster med rumpan bar
kryper in till en jungfru sa rar.
There was more like this and Madonette belted it out at full volume to the accompaniment of my syncopated soundtrack, with Floyd knocking himself out on his blower-powered bagpipe. Steengo plucked at a tiny harp—whose holographic image stretched up to the ceiling. Sound filled and reverberated through the great chamber and dust was jarred loose from the log walls.
I don’t think that this tune would make the galactic top ten—but it sure went down well here in endsville. Particularly when it ended with an atomic mushroom cloud that grew to room size—along with the best the amplifiers could do to simulate the atomic explosion itself. The part of the audience that wasn’t collapsed on the floor had fled shrieking into the rain. I took out my earplugs and heard the light clapping of approval. I bowed in Svinjar’s direction.
“A pleasant divertimento—but the next time you play it I would appreciate a little less forza in the finale and a little more riposo.”
“Your slightest wish is our command.”
“For a young and simple-looking lad you learn fast. How come you were caught pushing drugs?”
“It’s a long story—”
“Shorten it. To one word if possible.”
“Money.”
“Understandable. Then the music business isn’t that good?”
“It smells like one of your bully-boys. If you can stay up there with the big ones, fine. But we slipped from the top notch some time ago. What with recording fees, agents’ commissions, kickbacks and bribes we were quickly going bust. Steengo and Floyd have been snorting back baksheesh for years. They started selling it to support the habit. It’s nice stuff. End of story.”
“Or beginning of a new one. Your singer, what’s her name?” He smiled a very unwholesome smile as he looked over at Madonette. I groped for inspiration. Came up with the best I could do at such short notice.
“You mean my wife, Madonette …”
“Wife? How inconvenient. I am sure that something can be done about that, though not exactly at this moment. Your arrival is, to say the least, most timely. Fits in with what you might call a general plan of action I was considering. For the general good of the populance.”
“Indeed,” I said, controlling my enthusiasm for any plan of his that might be forthcoming.
“Yes, indeed. A concert for the public. Barbecues and free drinks. The public will see Svinjar as a benefactor of the first order. I gather that you are prepared to play a benefit performance?”
“That’s what we are here for.”
Among other things that we are here for, Svinjar old chubkin. But the longest journey begins with but a single step.
“I’m not happy about the way this operation is going,” I said unhappily. Spooning up the almost tasteless gruel that appeared to be the stuff of life in this place.
“Who’s arguing?” Steengo said, looking suspiciously into his own bowl of food. “This stuff not only looks like glue—it tastes like it.”
“It will stick to your ribs,” Floyd said and I gaped. Did he have a sense of humor after all? Probably not. Looking at his serious expression I doubted if he had explored all the meanings of what he had just said. I let it lie.
“I’m not only unhappy with this operation so far—but with the company we have been
keeping. Svinjar and his loathsome lads. We’ve shot almost a day here already—for little purpose. If the artifact is with the Fundamentaloids we ought to be out there tracking them down.”
“But you promised a concert,” Madonette pointed out with a certain logic. “They are building a sort of bandstand and the word has gone out. You don’t want to let our fans down, do you?”
“Heaven forbid,” I muttered gruelly and put the bowl aside. I couldn’t tell them about the thirty-day poison or the fact that as of the moment over seventeen days had passed. Oh the hell with it. “Let’s get set up. Maybe a quick rehearsal to see if all the gear is working and, hopefully, we are still in good from.”
We put lunch aside with a great deal of pleasure and humped our packs to the concert site. There was a grove of trees here that were serving as supports for a singularly crude platform. Planks had been set up between them, with an occasional support stuck in below if the thing sagged too much. Our audience was reluctantly and suspiciously gathering in the surrounding field. Small family units with the men all armed with swords or cudgels, keeping close watch on the womenfolk. Well, this was a slave-holding society so such concern was easily understood.
“At least they are trying to make it look nice,” Madonette said, pointing. Pretty crude and crummy, I thought, but spoke not my thoughts aloud. Shuffling slaves had brought up leafy branches which they were arranging around the platform; there were even a few flowers stuck in among the leaves. Oh, things were really swinging on Liokukae tonight.
I was depressing myself sorely and did not want to pass it on to the others. “Here we go, gang!” I said swinging my pack up onto the platform and clambering behind it. “Our first live performance for this waiting world. If you don’t count that quick gig upon arrival. Let’s show them what a pack of real rats can do!”
With our appearance the assembling audience took heart and moved closer; latecomers hurried to their places. While we tuned up and played a riff or two, I rolled some thunder effects that had people looking at the sky. When we were ready to go, Svinjar himself came trundling through the crowd, a couple of armed heavies at his side. With their help he climbed onto the platform and raised his arms. The silence was total. Maybe it was respect, perhaps hatred and fear—or all of them rolled together. But it worked. He smiled around at the gathering, lifted his great gut so he could hook his thumbs into his belt. And spoke.
“Svinjar takes care of his people. Svinjar is your friend. Svinjar brings you The Stainless Steel Rats and their magic music. Now let us hear a big cheer for them!”
We got a big murmur which had to do. While he had been speaking his bully-boys had manhandled a sizable padded chair up onto the platform; it creaked when he dropped into it.
“Play,” he ordered and sat back to enjoy the music.
“Okay, gang, ready to go!” I blew into my lapel
microphone and my amplified breath gusted across the audience. “Well, hello there music lovers. By popular appeal—and the fact that we were busted by the narcs—we have come to your sunny planet to bring you the music known right around the galaxy. It is our very great pleasure now to dedicate this next song to the concert master himself, Svinjar—” He nodded acceptance and I rolled a drum roll out across the surrounding fields.
“A song that you will all know, and hopefully love, something that we can all feel, share, enjoy together, laugh together and cry together. I bring you our own and original version of that classic of modern musicality—‘The Itchy Foot Itch’!”
There were shouts of joy, screams of pain, wild enthusiasm. As we launched into this overamplified and very catchy—if not itchy—number.
I get up at dawn and look at the river
The mist rising there it gives me a shiver.
Leaves on the trees they’re wet with dew
Looking at them I think of you—
Far far away from me today
I don’t like it—but all I can say
Is the galaxy’s wide and I like to stray
To the stars and beyond ‘cause that’s my way
I got the—
Itchy foot, itchy foot, itchy foot itch!
Gotta keep going, never get rich!
Itchy foot, itchy foot, itchy foot itch!
Keeping me going, ain’t that a bitch!
Itchy foot, itchy foot, itchy foot itch!
Keeping me going from place to place
Gotta keep going, what can I do?
Keep going forever—and I’ll never see you.
Keep on going round the galaxy—no place is home
For the likes of mee-ee-e-e!
There was a vast amount of itchy foot stomping, let me tell you. And plenty of cheers and cries of joy when we had finished. Buoyed up by enthusiasm we played two more numbers before I called a break.
“Thanks folks, thanks much—you’re a great audience. Now if you will give us a few minutes we’ll be right back …”
“Very well done, well done indeed,” Svinjar said, waddling over and plucking the microphone from my lapel. “I know that we all have heard these musicians before—on the box—so their delightful entertainment comes as no surprise to us all. Yet still, there is something fine about having them here in person. I am grateful—I know that everyone out there is grateful.” He turned and smiled broadly at me. A smile that, I could see quite clearly, held no warmth or humor at all. He turned back and spread his arms wide.
“I am so grateful that I have prepared a little surprise for all of you out there—do you want to know what it is?”
Absolute silence now—and a sideways shuffling by the audience. They apparently did not like any of Svinjar’s little surprises.
They were right.
“Go!” he shouted into the microphone, so loudly that his amplified voice rolled and echoed like thunder. “Go—go—GO!”
I staggered and almost fell as the platform shook and vibrated. There was a roar of masculine voices as out from under our feet, brushing aside the disguising leafy boughs, burst a mass of armed men. More and more appeared, waving cudgels, howling as they ran, bearing down on the fleeing audience.
We looked on dumbfounded as men and women were clubbed to the ground, chained, tied. The attack was brief and vicious and quickly over with. The fields were empty, the last visitor gone. Those that remained were bound and silent, or groaning with pain. Over their moans of agony Svinjar’s laughter sounded clearly. He was rocking in his chair, possessed by sadistic humor, tears rolling down his cheeks.
“But where—” Madonette said. “Where did they all come from? There was no one under here when we started the concert.”
I jumped to the ground, kicked some branches aside, saw the gaping mouth of the tunnel. The opening had been concealed by a dirt-covered lid, now thrown aside. There was a heavy thud and Svinjar landed beside me.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” He gestured at the opening. “I have had my men digging that thing for months now. Stamping the removed dirt into the mud whenever it rains. I had planned a meeting here, some gifts, all very vague. Until you showed up! If I were capable of gratitude I would be grateful. I am not. The blind workings of chance. And victory to those—meaning me—who have the intelligence to seize the opportunity. Now a small celebration. We will have food and drink and you will play for me.”
He turned and issued instructions, kicked one of his new slaves when she stumbled close.
“It would be nice to kill him,” Madonette said. Speaking for all of us, if the nodding heads meant anything.
“Caution,” I cautioned. “He has all the cards and the thugs right now. Let’s play the concert and figure out how we can get out of here after that.”
It wasn’t going to be easy. Svinjar’s oversized log cabin was filled with his men. Drinking but not drunk, boasting of their feats, drinking even more. We played a number but no one was listening.
Yes; Svinjar was. Listening and looking. Waddling towards us, silencing the music with a swipe of his hand. Dropping into his chair and fingering the hilt of his large sword embedded in the stone close by his hand. Smiling that humorless smile at me again.
“Life is a bit different here, isn’t it Jim?”
“You might say that.”
If he was looking for trouble I wasn’t going to supply it. I didn’t like the odds at all.
“We make our own life—and our own rules here. Out there in the androgynous, settled worlds of the galaxy, the effete intellectuals rule. Men who act like women. Here we hearken back to the days of the primitive, virile, important men. Strength through strength. I like that. And I make the rules here.” He looked at Madonette in a singularly repulsive manner.
“A fine singer—and a lovely woman,” he said, then looked at me. “Your wife you say? Can anything be done about that? Let me think—yes—something can be done. Out there, in those so-called civilized planets nothing could be done. Here it can. For I am Svinjar—and Svinjar can always do something.”
He lifted one gross hand and tapped me on the forehead. “By my law and my custom I now divorce you.” He heaved himself to his feet while his henchmen roared with laughter at his subtle humor.
“That is not possible. It can’t be done—”
For his size he was fast, whipping out the broadsword from the niche in his throne.
“Here is my first lesson for my new bride. Nobody says no to Svinjar.”
The blade slashed out to slit my throat.
CHAPTER 9
I jumped back to avoid the slash, stumbled over a man’s legs, fell on top of him.
“Hold him!” Svinjar shouted and I was grabbed tightly, struggled to get free, couldn’t quite make it.
Svinjar was standing over me, pushing the point of the sword into my throat—
Then he toppled sideways and fell with a great thud. Revealing the fact that Steengo, despite age and overweight, had jumped to the attack and was behind him, had dropped him with a chop to the neck.
What was happening had by this time sunk into even the tiniest of the birdbrains present. Men struggled to draw weapons and roared crude oaths. I saw Floyd laying about the warriors nearest him—but it wouldn’t be enough. In about two seconds there was going to be a massacre of musicians if I didn’t do something to stop it.
I did. First by planting my elbow in the solar plexus of my captor. Who gurgled and let go of my arms. One second gone. I didn’t waste any time trying to stand up but writhed on my side and pulled the black sphere from my pocket, thumbed the actuator and threw it up towards the ceiling.
Two seconds. Weapons swinging on all sides. My best defense was to jam the filter plugs into my nostrils. The gas bomb popped and I spent a busy few seconds more dodging my attackers. Who moved more and more slowly until they dropped. When I looked around I saw that the gas had done a great job. The entire great room was filled with prone and snori
ng forms. I shook my hands over my head.
“Let’s hear it for the good guys!” I had an audience of one, myself, which made the victory no less sweet. The sleep gas had hit my friends as well, though Floyd had been doing quite well before he dropped. A number of crumpled bodies were collapsed around him. I opened my pack and got the gas antidote, one by one I shot up my companions with the styrette. Then went to the door and stared gloomily out at the rain until they revived.
Soft footsteps behind me and Madonette held me lightly by the arms.
“Thanks, Jim.”
“Was nothing.”
“It was something. You saved our lives.”
“We’re still in it,” Floyd said. “And like Madonette said, we owe you a good bit of thanks.” Steengo nodded agreement.
“I wish you didn’t. If this operation had been planned better all these emergencies wouldn’t be taking place. My fault. I’m under what you might call a certain kind of time pressure. For reasons I can’t go into right now we have to find the artifact and finish this operation within twenty days.”
“That’s not much time,” Steengo said.
“Right—so let’s not waste any of it. Our welcome has worn out around here. Grab weapons because we might have trouble getting out of town empty-handed. Packs on, armed to kill, ruthless and deadly expressions. Forward!”
After what had almost happened to us with Svinjar and his macho swinemen we were in no mood to be trifled with. It must have shown in our faces—or more likely in the metal of our weapons—because the few people we met slipped away as soon as they saw us. The rain had almost stopped and the sun was burning through and raising trails of mist from the waterlogged ground. The hovels were farther apart now, the mounds of garbage fewer and more easily avoided. Straggly little bushes began to appear, then trees and larger shrubs covering the easy slope of the rolling hills. Mixed in were low bushes from which hung hard-skinned spheres the size of a man’s fist. Maybe these were the polpettone trees we had been told about. This would have to be investigated—but not now. I led on at a good pace, not calling a halt until we had reached the concealment of the first coppice. I looked back at the crude buildings, with the great bulk of the Pentagon rising behind them.
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