“Agreed!” they chorused.
“Then put these items into your pockets. They are bits of equipment which are sure to come in handy. Are you wearing your fingerprint gloves?” They raised their hands which glistened slightly in the streetlamp light. “Good. You will be happy to hear that you will be leaving the prints of the mayor of this city, as well as those of the chief of police. That should add a note of interest to an otherwise confusing situation. Now, do you know where we are going? Of course not. It’s a large building around the corner which you cannot see from here. The area HQ of the IIER, Interstellar Internal and External Revenue. In there are records of all their larcenous endeavors…”
“You mean yours, don’t you, Dad?”
“Larceny is in the eye of the beholder, my sons. They take a dim view of my activities, while I in turn look with loathing on their taking ways. Tonight we attempt to even the score. We do not approach the IIER building directly because it has many defenses since they know they are unloved. Instead we enter the building around this corner which, not by chance have I selected it, has a rear that adjoins our target building.”
We walked while I talked and both boys recoiled a bit at the lights and crowds ahead. Sirens screamed as official black groundcars drew up, television cameras churned away, searchlights fanned across the sky. I smiled at their hesitation and patted their backs as we walked.
“Now isn’t that a lovely diversion? Who would consider breaking and entering in a setting like this? The opening night, the premier performance of the new opera Cohoneighs in the Fire.”
“But we’ll need tickets…”
“Bought from a scalper this afternoon at outrageous prices. Here we go.”
We pushed through the crowd, surrendered our tickets, then made our way to the uppermost circle. The opera would be hard to hear from here, not that I had any intention of listening to the bucolic mooing and lowing in any case. There were other advantages to the top of the building. We went to the bar first and I had a refreshing beer and was cheered to see that the lads ordered only nonalcoholic drinks. I was not so elated at other of their activities. Leaning close to Bolivar I took his arm lightly—then clamped down a tight index finger on the nerve that paralyzed his hand.
“Exceedingly naughty,” I said as the diamond bracelet fell to the carpet from his numb fingers. I tapped an exceedingly porcine woman on the shoulder and pointed it out when she turned. “I beg your pardon, madam. But did that bracelet slip from your wrist? It did? No, let me. No, my pleasure indeed, thank you, and may he bless you as well for all eternity.” I then turned about and slipped a steely gaze into James’s ribs. He raised his hands in the sign of peace.
“I get the message, Dad. Sorry. Just keeping in practice. For extra practice I put the wallet back in the gent’s pocket as soon as I saw Bolivar rubbing his numb arm.”
“That’s fine. But no more. We are on a serious mission tonight and want no petty crime to jeopardize our position. There, that’s the last buzzer. Down drinks and away we go.”
“To our seats?”
“Definitely not. To the gents.”
We each occupied a cubicle, standing on the seats so our legs would not reveal our occupation of the premises, and waited until all the footsteps had retreated and the last receptacle had been flushed. We waited even longer until the first wailing notes of the opera assaulted our ears. The rush of running water had been far more musical.
“Here we go,” I said, and we did.
A wet eye on the end of a damp tendril watched them leave. The tendril projected from the waste basket. The tendril was attached to a body that belonged in the waste basket—or even more loathsome surroundings. It was bumpy, gnarled, ugly, clawed. Not nice.
“You seem to know your way around here pretty well,” Bolivar said as we went through a locked door marked “Private” and along a dank corridor.
“When I bought the tickets this afternoon I let myself in and ran a quick survey. Here we are.”
I let the lads disconnect the burglar alarms themselves, good practice, and was chuffed to see that they needed no instruction. They even put a few drops of friction-freer in the tracks before slipping the window silently open. We gazed out into the night, at the dark form of a building a good five meters away.
“Is that it?“ Bolivar asked.
“If it is—how do we get there?” James said.
“It is—and this is how.” I slipped the gunlike object from my inside pocket and held it up by the looped and heavy handle. “It has no name since I designed and made it myself. When the trigger is pulled this projectile—shaped like a tiny plumber’s friend—is hurled forth with great velocity. It trails behind a thin strand of almost-unbreakable monomolecular filament. What happens then, you might ask, and I will be happy to tell. The shock of firing switches on a massive-charge battery in the projectile that expends all of its power in fifteen seconds. But during that time a magnetic field is created here on the projectile’s tip that has enough gauss to hold up a thousand-kilo load. Simple, isn’t it?”
“Are you sure you’re not simple, Dad?” Boliver asked, worried. “How can you be sure of hitting a piece of steel in the dark with that thing?’
“For two reasons, ohh scoffing son. I discovered earlier today that each story of that building has a steel cornice over a steel beam. Secondly, with a magnetic field that strong it is hard to keep this thing away from any steel or iron. It turns as it goes and seeks its own nesting place. James, you have the climbing line? Good. Fasten one end to that sturdy looking pipe, securely mind you since it is a long drop. That’s it, let me have the other end. You are both now wearing your gloves with the armored palms? Capital. It will do your muscles good to swing across this bottomless chasm. I’ll secure the line and twitch it three times when it is ready for you to cross. Here we go.” I raised the vital piece of gadgetry.
“Good luck,” they said as one.
“Thank you. The sentiment is appreciated, but not the idea. Stainless steel rats in the concrete wainscotting of society must make their own luck.”
Cheered by my own philosophy I pulled the trigger. The projectile zinged away and found a nesting place with an audible splat. I pressed the button that drew the monofilament tight—then dived headlong through the open window. Fifteen seconds is not a long time. I bent and extended my legs and started to spin and cursed and hit all at the same moment. All of the impact came on one leg and, if it were not broken, it certainly wasn’t feeling too good. This had not happened during the times I had practiced this maneuver at home. And the seconds were clicking away quite fast while I hung there numbly and swung about.
The nonfunctioning leg had to be ignored, hurt as it did. I tapped with my good leg and found the top of the window frame off to the left. I kicked out so I swung in that direction, letting out some line at the same time. This swung me out and brought me back in line with the window—which I hit with my good foot with all my weight behind it.
Nothing happened, of course, since window glass is pretty tough stuff these days. But my foot found the windowsill and struggled for a purchase as my scrabbling fingers sought a grip on the frame. At which precise instant the magnetic field released and I was on my own.
It was a sticky moment. I was holding myself in place by three fingertips and one insecurely planted toe-tip. My other leg dangled limply like an old salami. Below me was a black drop to sure death.
“Doing all right, Dad?” one of the boys whispered from behind me.
I must say it took a certain amount of internal discipline to control the rush of answers that surged to my lips; boys should not hear that sort of language from a parent. With an effort I contained the words and strangled out something that sounded like fizzlesloop while I fought for balance. I succeeded, though my fingers were growing tired already. With careful patience I clipped the now-defunct gadget to my waist and wriggled my fingers into the pocket that held the glasscutter.
This was no time for stubt
lety or sloth. Normally I would have applied the suction cup, cut out a small section of glass, lifted it free, opened the latch, etc. Not now. One quick whip of my arm delineated a rough circle and, in a continuation of the same motion, I made a fist and punched the circle hard. It fell into the room, I hurled the glasscutter after it—and reached in and grabbed the frame.
The glass hit the floor with a loud clang just as my toes slipped off the sill. I hung, dangling from one hand, trying to ignore the sharp edge of glass cutting into my arm. Then, ever so slowly, I bent my arm in a one-armed pullup—oh advantage of constant exercise—until I could reach in with my other hand for a more secure grip.
After this it was a piece of cake, though the blood on my arm tended to interfere with arrangements. Getting my foot back on the windowsill, unlocking and opening the window—after disconnecting the burglar alarm—sliding through to drop, quite limply, onto the floor.
“I think I’m getting a little old for this sort of thing,” I muttered darkly to myself once my breath had returned. All was silent. The falling of the glass, loud though it had been to me, had apparently gone unheard in the empty building. To work. There was only silence now from the boys—that was professional, but I knew they would be worried. With my pinlight I found a secure anchor for the line, tied it and drew it tight, then twanged it soundly three times.
They were across in seconds.
“You had us worried,” one of them understated.
“I had me worried! One of you take this light and a medpak and see if you can do something about this cut on my arm. Blood is evidence as you well know.”
The slashes were superficial and soon bandaged; my numb leg hurt a good deal but was coming to life. I dragged it around in circles until some function was restored.
“That’s it,” I finally announced. “Now for the fun part.”
I led the way out of the room and down the dark corridor, walking fast in an attempt to get normal operation back into the leg. The boys fell a bit behind so that I was a good three metres ahead of them when I turned the corner. So they were still concealed when the amplified voice roared out.
“Stay where you are, diGriz. You are under arrest!”
Three
Life is full of little moments like this—or at least my life is. I can hardly speak for anyone else. They can be disconcerting, annoying, even deadly if one is not prepared for them. Happily, due to a certain amount of foresight and specialized knowledge, I was prepared for this one. The blackout-gas grenade in my hand was flying forward while the voice was still yammering away. It exploded with a flat boom, the black cloud poured out and many people complained angrily. To give them something else to complain about I flipped a gunfight simulator into the smoke. This handy device bangs and booms away like a small war, while at the same ejecting pellets of laughing gas concentrate in all directions. Sowing a certain amount of confusion I must add. I turned quietly back to the boys who were frozen in midstride, eyes as wide and staring as poached eggs. I put finger to lip and waved them back down the corridor out of earshot of the simulated battle.
“Here is where we part,” I said. “And here are the computer programming codes.”
Bolivar took them by reflex, then shook his head as though to clear fuzz from his brain. “Dad, would you tell us…”
Of course. When I had to punch the window out I knew that the sound, as small as it was, would be picked up by the security alarms. Therefore I switched to plan B, neglecting to tell you about it in case you might protest. Plan B involves my making a diversion while you two get down to the computer room and finish this job. Using my Special Corps priorities I managed to get all the details you will need to get access to the IIER memory files and to wipe them clean. A simple instruction to the brainless computer will destroy the files of all the individuals for light years around who are lucky enough to have their last names begin with the letter D. I see myself, at times as a…”
“Dad!”
“I know, I’m sorry, I digress and ramble. After doing that you will also wipe the U and P files, in case they see some connection between my presence here and the destruction of the records. The selection of these other letters is not by chance…”
“Since dup is the most insulting word in Blodgett slang.”
“Right you are, James, your brain cells are really ticking over tonight. Your task complete, you will be able to exit from the ground floor by way of one of the windows and mingle with the crowd without being apprehended. Now isn’t that a simple plan?”
“Except for the fact you get arrested it’s a grand one,” Bolivar said. “We can’t let you do it, Dad.”
“You can’t stop me—but the sentiment is appreciated. Be sensible, lads. Blood is much easier to identify than fingerprints, and they have plenty of mine to play with back in that room. So if I escape now I am a fugitive on the run as soon as they make the analysis—beside the fact that they have already seen me. In any case, your mother is in prison and I do miss her and look forward to joining her there. With the tax records destroyed all they can hold me on is breaking and entering and I can post bail and jump it and we will all leave this planet forever.”
“They may not allow bail,” James worried.
“In that case your parents will easily crack out of the local crib. Not to worry. Go to your task and I’ll off to mine. Return home afterward and get some sleep and I’ll be in touch. Begone.”
And, being sensible boys, they went. I returned to battle, pulling on goggles and inserting nose plugs. I had plenty of grenades—smoke, blackout, lachrymose, regurgitant—the IIER had made me throw up often enough and I wanted to return the favor—which I strewed about with great liberality. Someone began firing a gun, pretty stupid considering that he had a better chance of shooting his own people than of winging me. I waded into the smoke, found him, rendered him unconscious with a sharp blow that would give him a good-sized headache as well, then took the gun away. It had a full clip of bullets which I emptied into the ceiling.
“You’ll never catch Slippery Jim!” I shouted into the noisy darkness, then led my pack of pecuniary pirates on a merry chase through the large building. I estimated how long it would take the boys to finish the job, added fifteen minutes as a safety precaution, then gratefully dropped onto a couch in the director’s office, lit one of his cigars and relaxed.
“I surrender, I surrender,” I shouted out to my stumbling, crying, puking pursuers, “you are too smart for me. Just promise that you won’t torture me.”
They crept in cautiously, their ranks swollen by the local police who had come to see what all the fun was about, as well as by a squad of combat troops in full battle gear. “All this for little me,” I said, blowing a smoke ring in their direction. “I feel flattered. And I want to make a statement to the press about how I was kidnapped, brought here unconscious, then frightened and pursued. I want my lawyer.”
Indeed they lacked any sense of humor and I was the only one smiling when I was led away. There was not too much rough stuff, too many people around for that, as well as the fact that it really went against the Blodgett personality. The best selling chewing gum on the planet was called Cud, and they really chewed it. Sirens screamed, cars raced and I was hauled off in irons.
Though not to prison, that was the funny part. We did reach the prison gate but were stopped at the entrance where there was a lot of shouting and even some fist waving. Then back into the cars and off again to the town hall where, to my surprise, the manacles were removed before I was led into the building. I knew something strange was happening when I was pushed through an unmarked door—with at least one boot toe helping me on my way. The door closed, I brushed my rumpled clothes, then turned and raised my eyebrows at the familiar figure in the chair behind the desk.
“What a pleasant surprise,” I said. “Been keeping well…?”
“I ought to have you shot, diGriz,” he snarled.
Inskipp, my boss, head of the Special Corps, probab
ly the man with the single greatest amount of power in the galaxy. The Special Corps was empowered by the League to keep the interstellar peace, which it did in exemplary fashion. If not always in the most honest way. It has been said that you set a thief to catch a thief—and the Corps personified this ideal. At one time, before joining the Corps, Inskipp had been the biggest crook in the lenticular galaxy; an inspiration to us all. I am forced to admit that I too had led a less than exemplary life before my forced conversion to the powers of goodness. An incomplete conversion, as you may have noticed, though I like to feel that my heart is in the right place. Even if my fingers are not. I took out the blank pistol that I carried for just such occasions and pressed it to the side of my head.
“If you think I should be shot, great Inskipp, then I can but help you. Goodbye cruel world…” I pulled the trigger and it made a satisfactory bang.
“Stop horsing around, diGriz. This is serious.”
“It always is with you, whereas I believe that a certain amount of levity aids the digestion. Let me take that thread from your lapel.”
I did, and slipped his cigar case from his pocket at the same time. He was so distracted that he did not notice this until I lit up and offered him one as well. He snatched the case back.
“I need your help,” he said.
“Of course. Why else would you be here fixing charges and such. Where is my darling Angelina?”
“Out of jail and on the way home to curb your larcenous offspring. The morons on this planet may not know what has happened to their tax files but I do. However, we will forget that for the moment since a ship is waiting at the spaceport to take you to Kakalak-two.”
“A drab planet circling a dark star. And what will I find at this unpromising location?”
“It’s what you won’t find that counts. The satellite base there was the site of the biannual meeting of all planetary chiefs of staff of the League Navy…”
The Stainless Steel Rat Wants You ssr-4 Page 2
