She picked up her pack and planted her bottom on the wall, swung her legs up and over and smiled at us from the other side. I didn’t like it.
“It’s not a matter of liking or not liking it,” she said reading my doubts from my expression. “It is just the only way that we can get the job done. Get the radios. Don’t forget that Tremearne will always be listening in and can send the marines if any of us gets into trouble. Call him.”
“I will. But let us make sure they are the right kind of radios before we put in the order. Line of sight is going to be out with the wall standing in the way and blocking the signal. Plus—who knows how thick the thing is going to be? It could soak up all the radio frequencies and that would be the end of that. Anyone know of a kind of radio that shoots a signal through rocks?”
I was speaking my thoughts aloud, half in jest. So was more than a little surprised when a voice behind me said, “Yes.”
I spun about and glared at Steengo who was buffing his fingernails on his shirt, then admiring his image in their shining surfaces.
“You said that?” I accused. He nodded sagely. “Why?”
“Why is a good question. The answer is that although I stand before you, an aging amateur musician drawn from retirement to risk his life for the public good, it should not be forgotten that I worked for many a decade in the cause of that same public good. League communications. Where I helped develop a neat little device referred to as MIPSC.”
“Mipsic?” I echoed inanely.
“Close enough, my good friend Jim. MIPSC is the acronym of Miniaturized Personal Satellite Communicator. I suggest that you clamp your jaw and order up a brace of them. Although four would be better—that way we could all keep in touch at all times. And remind Tremearne to put a commsatellite into orbit as well. Geostationary over the city of Paradise.”
“MIPSCS are not only highly secret but incredibly expensive.” Tremearne said when I contacted him.
“Just like this little task force. Can you do it?”
“Of course. They’re on the way.”
A half an hour later a small package drifted down from the sky hanging from a grav-lifter—which zipped up and vanished as soon as the package had been removed. I popped the end open and shook out a handful of false fingernails. I popped my eyes at these—then remembered how Steengo had been buffing his own fingernails when he told me about MIPSC.
“Tricky,” I said.
“High tech and perfect concealment,” he said. “There should be glue in the package. They come in pairs. The one marked E goes onto the index finger, left hand. M glued to the pinkie of the same hand. Inside the nails are holographed circuitry so they can be trimmed as small as needed to fit. Without damaging the circuits in any way.”
“E? M?” Floyd asked.
“Earplugs and microphone.”
“Then what?” I asked, almost humbly, dazed by the sudden appearance of a communications wizard in our midst.
“They are powered by the destruction of the phagocytes that come to eat them where they touch the cuticle. Which means that the power is always on. Anytime you are outside—or in a building with thin floors—your signal zips up to the satellite and back down to the other receiver. Simple. Just put your index finger into your ear and talk into the microphone on your pinkie.”
I measured a pair, trimmed and glued with, I must admit, a certain amount of trepidation. Stuck my finger into my ear and said, “I hope it works.”
“Of course it does,” Tremearne said, speaking through my fingernail instead of my jaw for a change.
While we had been installing the MIPSCS we had been going over and over all of the possibilities, had returned always to the only viable plan.
“Let’s do it,” Madonette said, admiring her new communicating fingernails. She put on her pack, shrugged it into comfortable position, then turned and walked off on her side of the barrier. With each step the wall grew higher, until, very quickly, it was as high as her head, then higher. After a last wave of her hand she vanished from sight.
“Keep in touch,” I said into my pinkie. “Regular reports and sing out if you see anything—anything at all.”
“Just as you say, boss.”
We slipped on our packs and started walking. By the time an hour had passed the wall was high and unscalable. Though I stayed in radio contact with her, Madonette was now completely alone. I kept telling myself that armed help could zip down from the orbiting spacer if needed. This did not make me feel much better.
“First tilled fields coming up,” Floyd said. “And more than that. That dust cloud next to the wall—it’s coming our way.”
“Weapons ready—and I have some concussion grenades handy if things get hairy.”
We stopped and waited and watched. In the distance it looked like a horse that was trotting towards us.
“Horse—but no rider,” I said.
Steengo had the keener vision. “Looks like no horse I ever saw before. Not one with six legs.”
It slowed to a stop and looked at us. We returned the favor. A robot, metal. Jointed legs and in the front a pair of tentacle-like arms to boot. No head to speak of, just a couple of eyes that rose up on a stalk. A loudspeaker between its arms rustled and squawked metallically.
“Bonan tagon—kaj bonvenu al Paradizo.”
“And a good day to you as well,” I said. “My name is Jim.”
“A masculine surname, most agreeable. I am called Hingst and it is my pleasure to greet you—”
The creature’s words were drowned out by a throbbing roar and a cloud of black smoke emerged from its rear. We stepped back, weapons ready. Hingst’s flexible arms lifted straight up.
“I wish you only peace, oh strangers. You would not know it, since you are untutored in science, but the sound and fumes are merely the exhaust of my alcohol engine. Which is rapidly turning a generator which in turn …”
“Charges up your batteries. We know a thing or two as well, Hingst, greeter of strangers to Paradise, and we are not your usual goaty nomads.”
“Now that is a pleasure to hear, visiting gentlemen. Before my operating system was bolted into this rather crude construction I was a class A42 headwaiterbot and worked at only the most excellent restaurants …”
“Another time,” I said. “I would enjoy your reminiscences. We have a few questions—”
“And I am sure I have a few answers,” it said with surly overtones. “But there are preliminaries to go through.” It had strolled a few paces forward as it talked and now, like a striking snake, one of its tentacles lashed at me. I jumped back, lifted my sword—but not before the cool metal tip had touched my lips and just as swiftly been withdrawn.
“Try that again and you’ll be a tentacle short,” I growled.
“Temper, temper. After all you are armed strangers and I am simply doing my duty. Which is to sample your saliva. And test it, which I have done. You may proceed, Gentleman Jim, because you indeed are of the male sex. I would appreciate samples from your associates.”
“As long as it is just spit you are after,” Floyd growled, hands joined and cupped over his nether regions.
“Oh, I do appreciate a sense of humor, stranger.” The tentacle took its sample from his mouth. “Gentleman stranger I can now say. Final traveler if you please. Lovely, thank you. You may now proceed.”
It turned away and I jumped in front of it.
“A moment first, Hingst the Official Greeter. A few questions …”
“Sorry. I am not programmed for that. Kindly step aside, Gentleman Jim.”
“Only after I get a few answers.”
When I didn’t move the other tentacle touched my arm—and lightning struck!
I was lying dizzily on the ground watching it trot away. “Shocking, isn’t it!” Hingst called back smugly. “Big batteries.”
Floyd helped me to my feet and dusted me off. “So good so far.”
“Thanks. But you aren’t the one who was short-circuited.” I rep
orted to Madonette as we went on, with Tremearne listening in. “Applied technology,” he said. “Perhaps this lot isn’t as bad as the rest of the crumb-bums on this planet.” Since I was still tingling, and had a burnt taste in my mouth, I sneered in silence and did not bother to answer. Very soon after that Madonette called in that a creature like the one we had described was coming towards her. I clutched my sword in helpless anger, relaxed only when she called back.
“Just like you—only with a different name. Hoppe. As soon as it made the test it trotted off. What now?”
“We go on—and you take a break. If things are going to be the same, or similar, on both sides of the wall well find out first.”
“Male chauv superiority?”
“Common sense. We’re three to your one.”
“A solid argument—and I could use the rest. Keep in contact.”
“You’ve got it. Here we go.”
The path had widened and was more of a dirt road now. We passed some tilled fields and came to a large grove of polpettone trees. Obviously cultivated since they were planted in neat rows. Beyond them was a low huddle of buildings that could be a farm.
Blocking the path was a brick building with an archway that spanned the road; we slowed and stopped.
“Is that what I think it is?” Steengo said.
“I think that it is a building with an arch under it,” Floyd said. “And we’re not going to find out any more just standing around here.”
We shuffled forward slowly and stopped again when a man appeared in the archway. Our hands twitched away from our weapons when he stepped out into the sunlight. He blinked his red-rimmed eyes against the glare, nodded his head so his mane of long white hair bobbed, then tapped the arrow-and-circle symbol picked out in white on the front of his gray robe.
“Welcome, strangers, welcome to Paradise. I am Afatt, the official greeter. Market opens at dawn tomorrow. You may stay out here, or if you wish to camp beyond the arch your weapons will be looked after until you return. A payment of one fedha is required for attendance.”
The way he flicked a look over his shoulder as he said this strongly suggested that what he wanted was more bribe than payment.
“No way, aged Afatt,” I intoned. “Those you see before you are not peasant traders but galaxy-famous chart-topping musicians. We are … The Stainless Steel Rats!”
His jaw dropped and he stepped back a pace. “Don’t need no rats in Paradise. A rusty, chipped old fedha will do …”
“We got a real fan in old Afatt here,” Floyd muttered. “I thought the planet was hip-deep in TV sets?”
A more military Paradisian appeared in the archway. Younger, bigger, and he came complete with studded metal helmet and heavy leather trappings. “What did you say?” he said as he swung a shining and singularly nasty looking ax.
“You heard me, Sunny. I don’t repeat myself for the troops.”
This provoked a twisted snarl and a barked command.
“Guard—fall out. We got some sheot shaggers here that need a lesson in civility.”
This was followed instantly by the clanking of metal and the thud of running feet.
Many of them.
CHAPTER 13
There were a lot of them, armed with a collection of nasty and lethal-looking weapons. I must learn to control impetuosity in speech on this slum world. Think quickly, Jim, before things get any worse.
“I tempted a jest, good sir. I will be happy to repeat myself for your benefit. You, and your good men, have the pleasure of being in the presence of the finest musicians in the known galaxy!”
As I spoke I touched the remote control on the side of my backpack and a mighty organ sounded out the opening bars of “Mutants of Mercury.” Floyd and Steengo quickly joined in with the opening lines.
One head good—but two heads better—
Got brown eyes like an English setter …
The effect of this little jingle of genetic jest was very impressive. As a man the soldiers roared aloud and surged towards us.
“Do we fight or run?” Floyd said grimly, grabbing at his sword.
I started to shout fight—but at the last instant called out—“Listen!”
For they had forgotten about their weapons and were shouting with joy!
“It’s them, like on the Galactic Greasecutter show …”
“The hairy, ugly one—that’s Floyd!”
“I want to hear ‘How Much Is the Snakey in the Snakepit?’!”
Then they were around us, trying to shake our hands and emitting hoarse cries of fannish enthusiasm.
“But—but—” I but-butted. “Your official greeter never heard of us?”
The first soldier, snarls now turned to smiles, not too gently pushed the old man aside. “Afatt never looks at the boggle gox. But we do! Let me tell you it was like suicidesville around here when we heard that you were sent down. Should have known that you would have to end up here. Wait until the boys in the barracks hear about this. There’ll be a crackup in the old kaserne tonight!”
They escorted us cheerily under the arch and onto the drillfield beyond, our new host proudly leading the way.
“I’m Ljotur, Sergeant of the Guard. You all take it easy while I call this in. Drinks!” he ordered his men. “And food—whatever they want.”
This was more like it. The beer tasted like beer, although it was of an interesting green color. The soldiers crowded close, hanging on every word we said, so I chomped my jaw to get Tremearne’s attention and made my report to him in the form of a speech.
“Gallant warriors of Paradise—we are overwhelmed by your greeting. You have welcomed we drug-ridden convicts as heroes to your fair land. You ply us with food and drink and, by your loud cheers, I feel we have a beautiful future here.”
“I certainly hope so,” Tremearne’s voice said inside my head. “But until you find out the score on this male-female thing I am ordering Madonette to stay where she is.”
“I agree completely,” I called out. “Don’t you agree completely, guys, that this is the warmest welcome we have ever received?”
My companions nodded without interrupting the flow of food and drink and there were gurgled shouts of agreement from all sides as more beer vanished. I was wiping my lips with the back of my hand when Ljotur reappeared.
“I have talked to Iron John himself who summons you to his presence soonest. But until the Chariots of Fire appear could you—oh, would you?—play us a number!”
His words were drowned out by hearty masculine cries of joy.
“Let’s set up for a quick gig, boys—these guys deserve it.” I looked around. “Any requests?”
Many were shouted, but ‘Nothing’s Too Bad For the Enemy’ seemed to be most popular. Best choice too since it had an all-male lyric. Loud thunder rolled while lightning flared and sizzled. Our fans fell back into an appreciative half circle while we let fly.
Death and torture and murder and rape—
WE LIKE IT! WE LIKE IT!
Cutting and slashing and murder and looting,
Hacking and cracking and stabbing and shooting.
Blowing up slowing up showing up to kill
Arson and cursin’ done with a will—
‘Cause …
NOTHING’S TOO BAD FOR THE ENEMEEE …
Drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking
Shouting and cursing and lying and stinking
Chasing girls grabbing girls huggin’ and kissin’
Showing girls all the things they been missin …
As can easily be imagined this delicate flower of a lyric really went down well with the troops. They were still cheering when there was a hissing rumble behind us and we turned to see that our transportation had arrived. Perhaps the locals were used to these things but it was really eye-bugging time for the tourists.
“Only for special occasions, special people,” Ljotur said proudly.
We gaped in silence, lost for words. There were two of the v
ehicles, made of wood and decorated with gilt scrolls and strands of jewels. Each had a single wheel in front which was steered by a tiller. This was manned by the driver who rode high above. I looked at the closer one. A wide seat was in the middle and there were two wheels to the rear. All of which was pretty commonplace—not counting the pricey decoration—if you did not allow for the propulsion at the back. This was a shining metal tube, now crackling and emitting an occasional puff of smoke. I drew my attention away from it as the ornate door was thrown wide. I stepped in and seated myself on the soft cushions. Floyd and Steengo were ushered reverently into the other vehicle. Doors were slammed and Ljotur shouted a command to the drivers.
“You’re off! Fuel on! Frapu viajn startigilojn! Drivers hit your starters!”
I saw now that there was a metal tank under my driver’s seat. He reached down and opened a valve and I could hear the gurgle of liquid in the pipe. Then he stamped down on a pedal; the starter I guess.
No—it just started the starter. The pedal pulled on a cord that ran on pulleys to the rear of the chariot. This lifted and dropped a small hammer that banged the starter on the shoulder. This was an individual, dressed completely in black, who sat on a little platform slung behind the wheels. Not only dressed in black, but with blackened arms and face, his hair a burnt stubble. I soon found out why. Liquid was now dripping from the metal tube and the starter reached out and touched a match to it, jumped back as it ignited. A tongue of black smoke and flame leaped out to the rear, singeing the soldiers who weren’t quick enough out of the way.
Now the starter was grinding away at a handle, presumably pumping air into the primitive jet. Within seconds the roar grew louder, the flame longer—and my Chariot of Fire shuddered and began to slowly roll forward. Very showy. Though it probably only got about a mile to a hundred gallons. I waved cheerfully to my fellow victims, who waved feebly and fearfully back. Relax Jim, sit back and enjoy the ride.
The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection Page 56
