The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection

by Harry Harrison

  It was hard to do. I admit I did not see much of the passing scenery, being too involved with thoughts of survival. Nor did I relax until our little convoy had stopped and the blowtorch behind me was extinguished. The chariot’s door swung open to the blast of discordant horns. I grabbed up my pack and stepped down onto a gray stepping block.

  Which was resistant but soft. I turned and looked and saw that it was not a step at all but a man dressed in gray, kneeling on all fours. He rose and scurried off, along with another human footstep. Midgets, about as tall as my waist and almost as wide. My companions had reacted as I had, our eyes met but we said nothing.

  “Greetings,” a stentorian voice bellowed. “Welcome, welcome visitors to Paradise.”

  “Thanks much,” I said to the tall and barrel-chested man who was draped in gold cloth. “Iron John, I presume?”

  “Most flattering—but you presume wrongly. Musical guests, kindly follow me.”

  The trumpets blared again, then the trumpeters opened ranks. Three gray-clad men hurried up and took our packs. I started to resist, then made the reluctant decision that it would be all right. The reception we had received at the archway had been too spontaneous to be planned. Our gold-clad greeter bowed to us, then led the way. Towards the brick steps of a brick building.

  If the Paradisians were short on building materials they certainly weren’t bereft of architectural imagination. Tall pillars, capped with ornate capitals, rose up to support the architrave of a complex entablature. Just like I had been taught in Architecture 1. To either side tall windows opened onto wide balconies. And all of this done in red brick.

  “Looks great so far,” Floyd said.

  “Yes, great,” I agreed. But I looked back to make sure the porters with our packs were right behind us. And I still had the concussion grenades in my pocket. No one ever got into trouble by being prepared—as we used to say in the Boy Sprouts.

  Down a brick corridor over brick paving we went. Through a brick doorway into a great and impressive room. It was colorfully lit by the sunlight that streamed through the ceiling-high, stained-glass windows. Colorful scenes were depicted there of armies marching, attacking, fighting, dying; the usual thing. This motif was carried through to the walls which were hung with tattered battle banners, shields and swords. Robed men who stood about the room turned and nodded to us as we entered. But our guide led us past them to the far wall where there was an elevated throne, made of you-know-what, on which was seated the tallest man I have ever seen.

  Not only tall—but naked.

  At least he would have been naked if he had not been completely covered with rusty, reddish hair. His beard cascaded down his chest—which was covered as well with hair. Arms and legs and, I couldn’t help peeking when he stood, hair all down his belly and crotch as well. This was all that was visible since he was wearing a sort of jockstrap or sporran woven out of, well possibly, his own hair. All of it the color of rusty iron. I stepped forward and bowed a little bow.

  “Iron John … ?”

  “None other,” he rumbled in a voice like distant thunder. “Welcome Jim—and Floyd and Steengo. Welcome Stainless Steel Rats. Your fame has gone before you.”

  Always good to meet a true fan. We all bowed now since this was not the kind of reception you normally get. Bowed yet again as all in the room cheered lustily.

  Iron John sat down again and crossed his legs. He either painted his toenails or they were naturally rusty. I let it pass since there were a lot more things I would like to know first.

  “All here in Paradise were possessed of a great depression when you were arrested,” he said. “Falsely of course?”

  “Of course!”

  “I thought so. But the galaxy’s loss is our gain. We are pleased since we now have, you might say, a monopoly on your talents.”

  This had an ominous sound which I ignored for the moment, cocking an ear as he rumbled on.

  “The galaxy is so filled with guilt, sorrow and wrong-headedness that we chose, out of disgust, not to watch most of what is disseminated by television. I am sure that it will cheer you to know that, since your arrest and incarceration, we have canceled normal programming and have been running recordings of your numbers, day and night. Now, soon, we will be happily blessed with the originals themselves!”

  This was greeted by cries of enthusiasm and we replied with nods, grins and handshakes over our heads. When the shouts had died away old Rusty boomed out what they all wanted to hear.

  “It is our hope that you will now—play for us!” More shouts. “What a pleasure to hear live our favorite favorite—‘Nothing’s Too Bad For the Enemy.’ But while you are setting up we will broadcast a recording to warm up our nation-wide audience, to prepare them for your first live performance.”

  Which was not a bad idea since, although we could get going fast, their TV technicians were another thing altogether. Very much on the antique side. They dragged in arm-thick cables, antique-looking, homemade cameras and lights and other gear that belonged in a museum. While this was happening a screen dropped down from the ceiling and lit up with lively color when the back projector came on.

  The recorded program did not have what might be called the galaxy’s most inspiring opening. About a thousand suntanned bodybuilders drove heavy stakes into the ground with sledgehammers, backed by the thud of a beating drum. The drum died away but the hammers kept hammering silently as the voice-over spoke.

  “Gentlemen of Paradise—we now bring you the special occasion that was announced a few minutes ago. I know that all of you, right across the land, are riveted to your sets. I think that we are going to get a hundred-percent rating on this one! So while The Stainless Steel Rats are warming up for their first-ever live performance here, we are privileged to play for you their special version of—‘The Spaceship Way’!”

  And it really was special. We watched ourselves attacking the song with our usual gusto, listened once again to those lovely lyrics …

  Working on the engines, in the engine room,

  Wirin’ and firin’ an waiting for the boom.

  When the cannons blast like the sound of doom,

  You know you’re a-sweatin’ in the engine room.

  Captain on the bridge his fingers on the triggers

  All the guns loaded by the spaceship riggers.

  Swoopin’ on the enemy, million miles an hour

  Callin’ to the engine room for power, power, power.

  Power, Power, Power make the electrons whirl,

  Power, Power, Power—hear them protons swirl!

  Power, Power, Power will win the day—

  Power, Power, Power, that’s the SPACESHIP WAY!

  We nodded and smiled with fixed grins. Good-quality picture, good sound as well. The audience was looking at the screen instead of at us for the moment. Floyd looked at me, then raised his extended index finger to the side of his head and rotated it in a quick little circle. The universal hand signal for insanity. I nodded glum agreement. I couldn’t understand it either.

  There we were on the screen playing on a familiar set, wearing our regular concert costumes. Only one thing was wrong.

  Until this moment none of us had ever seen the tenor who was right there with us, singing the song.

  Tenor?

  It had always been sung in sensuous contralto by Madonette.

  CHAPTER 14

  After the TV intro we played our number, pretty mechanically I must say. Not that our audience noticed, they were too carried away simply by being in the Presence. They swayed and waved their hands in the air and fought to keep silent. But when Iron John joined us in the “Power” chorus they cheered and howled and sang right along with him. When the last power had been overpowered they broke into lusty shouted applause that went on for a long, long time. Iron John smiled beneficently at this and finally stopped it with a raised russet finger. There was instant silence.

  “I join you in your enthusiasm for our honored guests. But we must g
ive them time to rest after their strenuous day. We will surely hear them sing for us again. You must remember they are with us now forever. It is their rare privilege to be admitted to Paradise as full citizens, to live until the end of time in our fair land.”

  More cries of masculine joy. We concealed our overwhelming pleasure at this life sentence and kept our silence as we packed up our instruments and handed them to the waiting servants. Our audience moved out, still throbbing slightly with musical passion.

  “A moment please,” Iron John said, waiting for the others to leave. When we were alone he touched a button at his side and the tall doors swung silently closed. “A fine song. We all enjoyed it.”

  “The Stainless Steel Rats aim only to please,” I said.

  “Wonderful.” His smile vanished and he stared at us grimly. “There is one more thing you must do to please me. Your stay here will be a long one and we want you to be happy. You will make us all happy, yourselves included, if you show a certain selection in topics of conversation.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked—although I had a good notion of what he was leading up to.

  “We are very satisfied here. Adjusted and secure. I do not wish to see that security threatened. You gentlemen come to our land from a very troubled outside world. The galaxy is at peace—or so you say. While ignoring the eternal war without end. The conflict of duality that we are free of here. You are the products of a society that is ego destroying instead of being ego building. You suffer from the negativity that blights lives, weakens cultures, sickens even the strongest. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  Neither Floyd nor Steengo answered so it was up to me. I nodded.

  “We do. Although we might quibble with some of your conclusions the object of your attentions is quite clear. I can promise you that while we are enjoying your hospitality, neither I nor my associates will talk to anyone about the other sex. That is girls, women, females. It is a taboo topic. But, since you raised the issue I assume that you can discuss it …”

  “No.”

  “Right, answer enough. We will therefore enjoy your hospitality and not spoil it.”

  “You are wise beyond your years, young Jim,” he said, and a trace of a smile returned. “Now you must be tired. You will be shown to your quarters.”

  The doors opened, he turned away. End of interview. We strolled out as nonchalantly as we could. Old Goldy led us out as he had led us in, to some pretty luxurious, although still red brick, quarters. He turned on the TV, checked that the faucets worked in the bathroom, raised and lowered the curtains, then bowed himself out and closed the door. I touched my finger to my lips. Floyd and Steengo waited in twitching silence while I used the detector, borrowed from Tremearne, to sweep the room for bugs. After what we had seen on TV I had a great admiration for the electronics in this place.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “No women,” Steengo said. “And we can’t even talk about them.”

  “I can live with that for awhile,” Floyd cut in. “But who was that singing our number?”

  “That,” I said, “was a very nifty example of some first-class electronic dubbing.”

  “But where did that joker come from?” Floyd said. “There I am playing right beside him—and I swear that I have never seen him before. Maybe we really did blow baksheesh and this whole planet is a drug-inspired nighI’mare!”

  “Keep cool, keep calm. That guy was nothing but a bunch of electronic bytes and bits. Some really good techs digitalized that entire song, with all of us playing it. Then they animated a computer-generated male singer to follow all of Madonette’s movements. Wrote her image out, wrote his in—then rerecorded the whole thing just as if it were going out live. Only with a him instead of a her.”

  “But why?” Steengo asked, dropping wearily into one of the deep lounges.

  “Now you have asked the right question. And the answer is obvious. This side of Paradise is for men only. Not only haven’t we seen any women here—but pretty obviously they have been edited out of TV and presumably everything else going. It’s a real man’s world. And don’t say why again because I don’t know. You saw how high that wall is when we were on our way here. And we know from views of the thing from space that the city is on both sides of the wall. So the women—if there are any women—might very well be on the other side.”

  No one said why again but that was the only thing on our minds. I stared at their worried faces and tried to think of something nice. I did. “Madonette,” I said.

  “What about her?” Steengo asked.

  “We’ve got to tell her what has happened.” I stuck my thumb in my ear and addressed my pinkie. “Jim calling Madonette. Are you on-line?”

  “Very much so.”

  “I read you as well,” Tremearne said tinnily from my thumbnail.

  I outlined the events of the day. Said over and awaited any reaction. Madonette gasped, nor could I blame her, but Tremearne was all business as usual.

  “You are doing well on your side of the wall. Is it time for Madonette to check out her side?”

  “Not yet, not until we have a few answers to an awful lot of questions.”

  “Agreed—but only for now. What have you discovered about the artifact?”

  “Negative so far. Give us a break, Captain. Don’t you think that getting in here, pressing the flesh and doing a gig is enough for one day?” The silence lengthened. “Yes, sir, right you are—it’s not enough. One alien artifact coming up. Over and out.”

  I pulled my finger out of my ear, wiped the earwax off of it, stared gloomily into space.

  “How do we find it?” Floyd asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. I just said that to get Tremearne off my neck.”

  “I know how we start,” Steengo said. I launched a quizzical look in his direction.

  “First the MIPSC and now this. Our humble harp player reveals hidden depths.” He nodded and smiled.

  “All those years laboring for the League perhaps. Didn’t the ancient gladhander at the gate tell us that there would be a market at dawn tomorrow?”

  “His very words,” Floyd said. “But so what? The artifact is long gone from the market.”

  “Of course. But the merchants aren’t. There is a good chance that whoever bought the thing might still be there.”

  “A genius!” I applauded. “Behind those gray hairs lies even grayer gray matter that knows how to think!”

  He nodded acceptance. “I never did enjoy retirement. What’s next, boss Jim?”

  “Grab Goldy. Show strong interest in the market. Have him lay on a guide to take us there when it opens in the morning …”

  As though speaking his name had been a summons; bugles sounded, the door opened, our gilt-garbed guardian came in.

  “A summons for you, oh lucky ones. Iron John will see you in the Veritorium. Come!”

  We went—since we had little choice. For a change Goldy was not in a chatty mood; waving off our queries with a flick of his hand. More corridors, more bricks—and another door. It opened into misty darkness. Stumbling and barking our ankles we made our way to a row of waiting chairs, sat down as instructed. It was even darker when Goldy closed the door behind him as he left.

  “I don’t like this,” Floyd muttered, muttering for all of us.

  “Patience,” I said for lack of any more intelligent answer, then nervously squeezed my knuckles until they cracked. There was a movement of air in the darkness and a growing glow. Iron John swam into view, a blown-up image really. He pointed at us.

  “The experience that you are about to have is vital to your existence. Its memory will sustain you and uplift you and will never be forgotten. I know that you will be ever grateful and I accept your tearful thanks in advance. This is the experience that will change you, develop you, enrich you. Welcome, welcome, to the first day of the rest of your new and fulfilling lives.”

  As his image faded I coughed to cover the grunt of suspicion that this
old bushwah evoked. Never try to con a conman. I settled my rump more comfortably in the chair and prepared to be entertained.

  As soon as it started I could see that the holofilm was very professionally made. I appreciated that the young, the gullible—or the just plain stupid—would be very impressed by it. The mist churned, the russet light grew brighter and I was suddenly in the midst of the scene.

  The king watched in silence as the group of armed men walked warily into the forest and disappeared from sight among the trees. Outwardly he was patient as he waited, although he reached up and touched his crown from time to time as though reassuring himself that it was still there, that he was still king. A very long time later he stiffened, turned his head and listened as slow footsteps shuffled through the thick leaves below the trees. But no warrior appeared, just the thick and twisted figure of his jester, headdress hobbling, lips moist with flecked saliva.

  “What did you see?” the king asked at last.

  “Gone, Majesty. All gone. Just like all of those who have gone before. Vanished among the trees around the lake. None returned.”

  “None ever return,” the king said, sorrow and defeat dragging him down. He stood that way, unknowing, unseeing as a young man appeared and strode towards him; a silent gray dog walked at his side. The jester, jaw agape, spittle pendulous, backed away as the stranger approached.

  “Why do you grieve, oh king?” he asked in a light and clear voice.

  “I grieve for there is part of the forest in my kingdom where men do go—but none return. They go in tens and twenties—but none is ever seen again.”

  “I will go,” the young man said, “but I will go alone “

  He snapped his fingers and, without another word being spoken, man and dog walked off into the forest. Beneath the trees and pendant mosses, around the hedges and nodding cattails to the edge of a dark pond. The young man stopped to look at it—and a hand, sudden and dripping, rose from the water and seized the dog. Pulled it beneath the surface. The ripples died away and the surface was still.

  The young man did not cry or flee, just nodded.