The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (53 page)

“You are wrong, she is not my daughter.”

“Just
for tonight she is your daughter, like in a play. You do have plays here?”

“Of course. In fact I was on the stage when younger, before I was attracted to the delights of flowing electrons. I even acted the title role in some classics, how does it go again … to was, or not to was—”

“Fine, great, glad to have an old thespian aboard. So tonight you act the role of Sharla’s dad. Follow my lead and
it should work. I’ll pick an easy target this first time, an apple ripe for plucking. So there should not be any trouble.”

“What do I do?” Morton asked. “You said I was on the team.”

“Right. You have the important job of taping all of this for the record. So when it works as it should we can make training copies for others. Keep the recorder out of sight and the mike close. Ready?”

“Ready!”

We waited until after dark before we set out. Volunteers, drafted from the street of course, worked ahead of us to make sure we didn’t meet any roadblocks or MPs. They reported back all the obstructions so we had a pleasant, if circuitous, walk to the Vaillant quarter of the city which I had been assured was the correct place to go for theatre, opera, dining out, IM reinforcement groups and the
other heady joys of this civilized planet. It looked an interesting locale. Although it was fairly empty this evening with no more than a quarter of the establishments lighted up. Stirner led the way to the Fat Farmer, where he said he always enjoyed good food and better drink when in the city. There were some locals sampling its pleasures—but no invading soldiers.

“You told me that the army
had leave passes, that they could be found in this area. Where are they?”

“Not in here, obviously,” Stirner said.

“What do you mean—obviously?”

“Since they cannot pay they won’t be served.”

“Sounds fair. But, since they are the invading army, what stops them from just grabbing the booze and helping themselves?”

“They are not stopped. However everyone leaves and the establishment shuts down.”

“Obvious. All right then. To your stations and I’ll see if I can drum up some trade.”

I felt very pimpish standing under the streetlight with a dead cigar for a prop. In the local garb I was just part of the passing parade and no one took notice of me. I watched all of them though—on the lookout for MPs or anything that resembled the part of the military I did not want to see, stripes, bars,
the usual thing. None of these appeared, but eventually two unmilitary figures in military uniform drifted into sight. Hands in pockets—shame!—caps on at odd angles. They stopped at the Fat Farmer and looked in the window with longing. I stepped up behind them and held up the cigar.

“Either of you guys got a light?”

They jumped as though they had been goosed, shying back from me.

“You talked
to us!” the bolder one said.

“I did. I pride myself on my linguistic ability. And if you will remember I asked you for a light for my cigar.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Good for you. Cigarettes kill. But don’t you carry a fire apparatus for those who do?” They shook their heads in gloomy negation. Then I raised a finger rich with inspiration. “I know what—we will enter this eating and drinking place
and they will light my cigar. Perhaps you young gentlemen from distant planet will also join me in a drink and I can practice my talking?”

“Won’t work. We tried it and they closed the place and went home.”

“That is only because you had no wirr, the local unit of exchange, our money, so could not pay. I am rich with wirr and am buying …”

I followed after their rapidly retreating footsteps, found
them pushing against the bar in eager anticipation. Stirner had given me his wirrdisc and briefed me on its operation.

“Three beers,” I ordered, “large ones,” and dropped the plastic slab of integrated circuits into the slot in the top of the bar. While the robot bartender, all chrome and brass with bottlecaps for eyes, drew three big brews, the cost was subtracted from Stirner’s lifetime account.
I grabbed the wirrdisc as it was ejected.

“Here’s to the army, lads,” I said raising my beer high. “I hope you enjoy your chosen careers.”

They chugalugged enthusiastically, then gasped and whined nostalgically familiar whines that took me back to my own army days.

“Chose an army career! Cagal! Drafted. Chased, hunted down, caught.”

“Then after that, basic training. Pursued at the double night
and day by foul-mouthed fiends. Would anyone voluntarily choose a career like that?”

“Certainly not! But at least you eat well …”

I enjoyed the outraged cries and loathsome descriptions of hotpups while I ordered up another round of beers. When their faces were buried in the suds again I made the suggestion.

“I know it is past your dinner hour, but I see three seats vacant at that table, next
to the elderly gentleman with the kinky bird. Would you join me for a small repast—say a large steak and fried wirfles?”

The thunder of feet was my only answer yet one more time. I joined them in the steaks, and very good they were too. We polished them off quickly, had a few more beers—and tried not to belch because there was young lady at our table. Sated and boozed they now had time for the
third of the troika of military pleasures and their eyes moved steadily in Sharla’s direction. Time for act two.

“Well,” I said, “if the food is bad in the army, at least you enjoy the wisdom and companionship of the sergeants.”

I listened to the answers for a bit, nodding and commiserating, then elicited other similar complaints with leading questions about officers, latrines, kitchen police—and
all the other bitches so dear to the enlisted man’s heart. When enough had been ventilated I gave Stirner his clue and sat back.

“Young draftee soldiers from a distant planet, you must excuse my impertinence in addressing strangers. But I, and my lovely daughter Sharla, could not help but overhear your conversation. Can it be true that you were forced into military service completely against
your will?”

“You better believe it, Pops. Hi, Sharla, you ever go out with guys other than your Dad?”

“Very often. I simply adore the company of handsome young men. Like you.”

All three of us fell into the limpid pool of her eyes, splashed around for a bit and emerged gasping and in love. Stirner spoke and they did not hear. I finally ordered large beers and had them placed in front of their
bulging eyes to cut off sight of the gorgeous Sharla. This produced the desired result. While they glugged Stirner talked.

“I am greatly taken by your plight, young gentleman. On this planet such a thing is impossible. Against our laws, which laws state that there are no laws. Why do you permit yourself to be treated in this vile manner?”

“No choice, Pops. Barbed wire all around, watched night
and day, shot if you try to escape, shot twice if recaptured. No place to go to, no place to hide, in uniform, every man’s hand turned against you.”

He sniffed in maudlin self-pity; a tear ran down his companion’s cheek.

“Well,” Stirner said, sinking the gaff in deep and twisting it so it would take hold. “None of those things are true here. There is no barbed wire, no one is watching you, no
one is about to shoot you. There is a great big country out there that stretches away beyond the mountains and rivers. A country where you will always find a welcome, always find hospitality and refuge. A country where the army will never find you.”

They sat up at that, trying to understand his words through their alcoholic haze. “Cagal …” the drunkest one muttered. Sharla smiled angelically.

“I do not understand that word, young friend, but I feel that it indicates disbelief. Not so. Every word my father has spoken is true. For example, we live a full day’s journey distant from this city in an idyllic farming village. We travel there by speedy railroad—and these are our tickets to prove it. Why, look, the machine made a mistake, it issued four tickets instead of two. I must return them—unless
you would like them for souvenirs?”

Faster than light, they vanished.

“There is a side entrance to the railway station that is not guarded,” she said brightly.

“But the train leaves soon,” Stirner said, standing and picking up the bundle from the floor. “Before going I must use the
necesejo,
as we say down on the farm, and I am taking this bundle with me. It contains clothing for my two sons
at home who, strangely enough, are just your size.” He started away, then turned. “You may borrow the clothes—if you wish.”

They beat him to the cagalhouse door. Sharla smiled beatifically after them.

“You know this farming town well?” I asked. “So you can line the lads up with friends.”

“I have never been there—I found its name on the map. But you forget the strength of IM. We would welcome
them here and aid them, so they will be welcome there. Do not worry. I will guide them and return in two days. Ohh, here they come, don’t they look handsome out of those dreary uniforms!”

They looked rotten, I thought, the demon of jealousy burning within me. I almost wished that I was going with them. But no, the work was here. I turned to the next table where Morton was mooning after the lovely
retreating form of Sharla. I had to kick him twice before I could attract his attention.

“She’ll be back, don’t worry. Did you get all that on tape.”

“Every word. Can I have another beer? All I had was the one Sharla bought me before you came in. And you had a steak …”

“No drinking on duty, soldier.”

Stirner joined us and pointed to the basket he was carrying. “I have their uniforms in here,
just as you asked.”

“Good. We’ll need that for the video. Now—take us to your recording studio.”

He led us by back streets to the back of a building, to the back door that opened as we approached. They were eagerly waiting for us on the soundstage, brightly lit, windowless and invisible from the street. Volunteers all, IM enthusiasts just dying to subvert the troops. I held up the audio cassette.

“We’ll need a few hundred copies of this.”

“Within the hour!” It was snatched from my hand and whisked away. I turned to the waiting production crew who were
trembling with enthusiasm. “Director?” I asked. A gorgeous redhead stepped forward. “At your service. Lights, sound, camera ready.”

“Wonderful. As soon as my associate and I put on these uniforms—you can roll. Point us to the dressing room.”

As I stripped Morton took one of the uniforms out of the basket and held it out between thumb and index finger like a dead rat.

“I feel depressed even looking at this thing,” he said. Depressedly. “To feel its touch upon my skin again, the clammy embrace …”

“Morton,” I hinted, “shut up.” I whipped it away and held it before me. A good fit. I climbed into it. “You are an actor now, Morton, playing
before the camera. You will act your role—then remove the uniform forever. Burn it if you wish to. Thousands will applaud your performance. So put it on. Like this.”

I sat and pushed my legs into the trousers and something fell from a pocket and tinkled to the floor. I bent and picked it. An ID disc. Private soldier Pyek0765 had been eager to wipe all memory of the army from him, to be reborn
a happy civilian. I turned it over and over in my fingers and an idea began to sizzle about low down in my brain. Morton’s cry of dismay cut through my thoughts.

“It’s there! I can see it! That glazed look in your eye. Whenever you are dreaming up a suicidal idea you get it. Not again! I don’t volunteer!”

I patted his shoulder cheerfully, then reknotted his tie into a semblance of military order.
“Relax. I have had a brilliant idea, yes. But you are not involved, no. Now let us shoot this video and after it is done I will tell you all about this plan.”

I stood Morton up with a wall for a backdrop; not a good choice because he looked like he was waiting to be shot. No changes, time was of the essence.

“If you please. I want a full-figure shot of that man. Let me have a roving microphone.
Ready when you are.”

Morton winced a bit when two spotlights pinned him to the wall. A mike was thrust into my hand and a pure contralto voice rang out across the set.

“Silence. Ready to roll. Sound. Camera. Action.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of Chojecki, I bring you greetings. You are looking at a typical unwilling member of the invading Nevenkebla army. With this video you will have received
an audio cassette that is a live recording of an actual encounter with two of these soldiers. You will listen to their bleating complaints, will be shocked at the terror of their involuntary servitude, will cry with joy as they are given the opportunity to hurl the shackles from their shoulders and stride forth into the green countryside, to prosper under the glowing sun of Individual Mutualism.”

My sales pitch was so sincere that Stirner could not restrain himself and burst out clapping—as did the crew and technicians. Morton clasped his hands over his head—there is a bit of ham lurking in all of us—and bowed.

“Silence,” I ordered and all was instantly quiet. I strode onto camera and pointed at the subdued Morton. “This is the kind of soldier you will meet and befriend and subvert. Note
then the complete absence of markings upon the sleeve.” Morton extended his arm and I pointed to the right place. “Empty of stripes, chevrons, angled or curved bits of colored cloth. This is what you must look for. If there is a single stripe, two or more, or most frightening thought, three up and three down with a lozenge in the middle—retreat! Do not talk to anyone with these kinds of adornment
because you will be addressing one of the enslaving devils incarnate!

“Also be warned if there are shining bits of metal on the shoulders, here and here. Those who wear these are known as officers and are usually too stupid to be dangerous. They must still be avoided.

“Another group, very dangerous, can be recognized by their headgear and brassard. If the letters MP appear upon the arm—go the
other way. Also look for the redcap which will be mounted squarely upon the brutal head.