The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (65 page)

“Why?”

“Why not?”

The Admiral was not happy. His scowl turned to a snarl and he jabbed a judgmental finger at me. “More coffee. Then tell me what you are talking about or I will kill you.”

“Temper, temper, Admiral. Remember the old blood pressure. What I am talking about is getting to Liokukae with all the equipment I need, along with some strong armed help.
We are going to form a group of musicians called The Stainless Steel Rats—”

“What musicians?”

“Me for one—and you are going to supply me with the rest. You did tell me that you were head of League Navy Security?”

“I did. I am.”

“Then summon your troops. Get one of your techs to research all your field operators, all your rankings who have ever served in what passes for action in this civilized
universe. The search will be a simple one because we want to know just one
single fact about all of them. Are they musically inclined? Can they play a musical instrument, sing, dance, whistle or even hum in tune? Get the list and we will have our band.”

He nodded over his coffee. “You’re beginning to make sense. A pop group composed only of security agents. But it will take time to put together,
to organize, to rehearse.”

“Why?”

“So it will sound good, you moron.”

“Who could tell the difference? Have you ever listened to country-and-coal-mining music? Or Aqua Regia and her Plutonium Pals?”

“Point taken. So we get this group together and publicize them well so all Liokukae knows about them—”

“And has heard their music—”

“And wants to hear more. On tour. Which is impossible. The planet
is quarantined.”

“That is the beauty of my plan, Admiral. When the publicity peaks, and the fame of the group is galaxy-wide, that is when the Rats will commit some crime so awful that they will instantly be shipped off to this prison planet. Where they will be received with great enthusiasm. And no suspicion. Where they will investigate and find the alien artifact and get it back so I can have
the antidote. One other thing. Before we start operations I will need three million Interstellar Credits. In coins that have been newly minted here.”

“No way,” he snarled. “Funds will be supplied as needed.”

“You missed the point. That is my fee for conducting this operation. All operating expenses are on top of that. Pay up—or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else I die in twenty-nine days and
the operation dies and you get a black mark on your service record.”

Self-interest prodded him into an instant decision. “Why
not. Those financially overburdened academics can afford it and not even notice it. I’ll get that list for you.”

He undipped his phone from his belt, shouted a multi-digit number into it, then barked some brief commands. Before I had finished my coffee the printer hummed
to life in the office; sheets of paper began to pile up in the bin. We went through them and ticked off a number of possibilities. There were no names, just code numbers. When this was done I passed the list back to the Admiral.

“W’ll need complete files on all the marked ones.”

“That is classified and secret information.”

“And you are the Admiral and you can get it.”

“I’ll get it—and censor
it. There is no way I am going to let you know any details of my Security Department.”

“Keep your secrets—I couldn’t care less.” Which was of course an outright lie. “Give them code names as well as numbers, conceal their identities. All I want to know is their musical abilities, and will they be any good in the field when the going gets rough.”

This took a bit of time. I went for a long jog
to loosen the muscles. Then, while my clothes were being zapped clean in the vacuum washer, I took a hot shower followed by a cold one. I made a mental note to get some more clothes soon—but not until this operation was up and running. There was no escaping that deadly clock that was ticking off the seconds to doomsday.

“Here is the list,” the Admiral said when I entered the office. “No names,
just numbers. Male agents are identified by the letter
A
and …”

“Let me guess—the females are B?”

A growl was his only response; he completely lacked any sense of humor. I flipped through the list. Slim pickings among the ladies who ran the gamut from Bl to B4. Pipe-organ player, not very likely, harmonica, tuba—and a singer.

‘I’ll need a photograph of B3. And what do these other entries after
Bl mean? 19T, 908L, and such.”

“Code,” he said, grabbing the sheet away from me. “It translates as skilled in hand-to-hand combat, qualified marksman on hand weapons, six years in the field. And the rest is none of your business.”

“Thanks, wonderful, you’re a big help. I sure could use her—but not if she has to carry the pipe organ on her back. Now let us make some selections from the male list
and get the photos coming. Except for this one, A19. No photograph—I just want him here soonest, in the flesh.”

“Why?”

“Because he is a percussionist and plays a molecular synthezier. Since I know next to nothing about music—he is going to teach me my job in this pickup band. A19 will show me the ropes, then record the numbers and set up the machines to play the different hunks of music. I’ll
just smile and press buttons. Speaking of machines—does your highly secret service have electronic repair facilities on this planet?”

“That is classified information.”

“Everything
about this operation is classified. But I’ll still need to do some electronic work. Here or someplace else. All right?”

“Facilities will be made available.”

“Good. And tell me—what is a gastrophone, or a bagpipe?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. Why?”

“Because they are listed here as musical skills or instruments or something. I’ll need to know.”

Lubricated by all the credits from the university, manned by the Admiral’s minions, the machinery of my plan began to churn into high gear. The League did have an outpost on this planet—disguised as an interstellar shipping firm—which contained a fully equipped
machine shop and electronic facilities.
The fact that they gave me full use of everything meant that it would undoubtedly vanish as soon as this operation was over. While the auditions were being arranged, agent A19 was sent for by the fastest transportation available. He appeared, slightly glassy-eyed, later that same afternoon.

“You are known to me only by the code reference A19. Could you
give me a slightly better name to call you by? And it doesn’t have to be your own.”

He was a big man with a big jaw, which he rubbed as he kicked his brain into action. “Zach—that’s my cousin’s name. Call me Zach.”

“Right on, Zach. You have quite a musical record.”

“You betcha. I worked my way through college playing in the band. Still do a gig or two from time to time.”

“Then you have the
job. You must now sally forth with an open checkbook and buy the best, most expensive and complex hunks of electronic music making that you can find. And they have to be the most compact and microminiaturized ones going. Bring them back and I’ll make it all smaller since everything we bring with us has to be carried on our backs. If you can’t find it on this planet use galactic mail order. Spend!
The more you spend the better.”

His eyes glowed with musical fervor. “Do you mean that?”

“Absolutely. Check with Admiral Benbow who will authorize all expenses. Go!”

He went, and the auditions began. I draw a veil over the more repulsive details of the next two days. Apparently musical ability and military service were mutually incompatible for the most part. I whittled away and the list grew
smaller with great rapidity. I had hoped for a large band—now it appeared that I had a tiny combo.

“This is it, Admiral,” I said, passing over the abbreviated list. “We will have to make up in quality what we lack in quantity. It is going to be me and these three others.”

He frowned. “Will it be enough?”

“Going to have to be. The discards may be great operators but I will dream about their
sounds for years. In my nightmares. So take the survivors aside, tell them about me and the assignment. I’ll meet them after lunch in the audition room.”

I was setting glasses and bottles of refreshment on the table when the four of them trooped in. In step!

“First lesson!” I shouted. “Think civilian. Anything that even resembles the military will get us all quickly dead. Now—have you all talked
to the Admiral? Everyone is nodding, good, good. Nod again if you agree to take orders from me and no one else. Even better. Now I will introduce you to each other. I have been forbidden knowledge of your real names and positions so I have invented some. Let us now begin the world anew. The gentleman on your left, code name Zach, is a professional musician and is tutoring me in my new skills.
He will be of utmost help in getting this project off the ground. I am Jim and I will soon be able to play the electronic gadgetry and lead this group. The young lady in your presence, now named Madonette, is a contralto of great talent and our lead singer. Let’s give her a big hand.”

Slowly at first, then louder and jollier, they clapped until I lifted a hand to stop them. They were an uptight
lot and I had to get them a lot looser. Madonette was fair of skin and dark of hair; a tall and solid girl and quite attractive, she smiled and waved in return.

“Good beginning gang. Now you last two guys, you’re the rest of this group, Floyd and Steengo. Floyd is the tall and skinny guy with the artificial beard—he is growing a real replacement for it, but we needed one now for the publicity
pix. The miracle workers of hirsutical science have developed an antidipilatorisational agent that stimulates hair growth. So he will grow a fine beard in three days. In addition to growing
hair he plays a number of wind instruments which are, if you don’t know, a historic family of musical instruments into which one blows strongly to emit sounds. He comes from a distant planet named Och’aye,
which is perhaps galaxy-famous for its other native son Angus McSwiney, founder of the McSwiney chain of automated eateries. Floyd plays an instrument whose antecedents are lost in the mists of time and at times I wish they had stayed there. Floyd, a quick tune on the bagpipe if you please.”

I had heard it before so was slightly more prepared as he opened the case and removed an apparatus that
looked like a large and bulging spider with many black legs. He slung it about him, puffed strongly and pumped furiously on the spider’s abdomen with his arm. I looked at the others and admired their horrified expressions as the screams of mortally wounded animals filled the room.

“Enough!” I shouted and the last slaughtered pig moaned away into deathly silence. “I don’t know if this instrument
will be featured in our recitals—but you must admit that it does draw attention. Last, and certainly not least, is Steengo. Who after he left the service became quite adept on the fiddelino. Steengo, a demonstration if you please.”

Steengo smiled paternally at us and waved. He had gray hair and an impressive paunch. I was concerned about his age and general fitness but the Admiral, after secretly
scanning the records, reassured me that Steengo’s health was A-OK, that he worked out regularly and, other than a tendency towards slight overweight, he was fit for field conditions. I shrugged—since there was little else I could do. The records revealed that he had taken up the instrument after retirement from active duty; with talent in such short supply I had had the veterans’ records searched
as well. When approached he was more than happy to get back into harness. The fiddelino had two necks and twenty strings and sounded rather jolly in a plucking scratching
way that everyone seemed to enjoy. Steengo bowed graciously to acknowledge the applause.

‘That’s it then. You have just met The Stainless Steel Rats. Any questions?”

“Yes,” Madonette said, and all eyes turned her way. “What
is the music that we will be playing?”

“Good question—and I think I have a good answer. Research into contemporary music reveals a great variety of rhythms and themes. Some of them pretty bad, like country-and-steel-mill music. Some with a certain charm like the Chipperinos and their flock of singing birds. But we need something new and different. Or old and different as long as no one has heard
the music in a few thousand years. For our inspiration I have had the music department at Galaksia Universitato research their most ancient databases. Millennia have passed since this music was last heard. Usually with good reason.”

I held up a handful of recordings. “These are the survivors of a grueling test I put them through. If I could listen for more than fifteen seconds I made a copy.
We will now refine the process even more. Anything we can bear for thirty seconds goes into the second round.”

I popped one of the tiny black chips into the player and sat back. Atonal musical thunder rumbled over us and a soprano with a voice like a pregnant porcuswine assailed our ears. I popped the recording out, ground it under my heel, then went on to the next one.

By late afternoon our
eyes were red-rimmed with tears, our ears throbbing, our brains numbed and throbbing as well.

“Is that enough for the moment?” I asked sweetly and my answer was a chorus of groans. “Right. On the way in here I noticed that right next door is a drinking parlor by the name of Dust on Your Tonsils. I can only assume that is a little joke
and they intend to wash the dust from their clients’ tonsils.
Shall we see if that is true?”

“Let’s go!” Floyd said and led the exodus.

“A toast,” I said when the drinks had arrived. We lifted our glasses. “To The Stainless Steel Rats—long may they play!”

They cheered and drank, then laughed and called for another round. It was all going to work out hunky-dory I thought.

Then why was I so depressed?

I
was depressed because it was really a pretty madcap plan. The idea had been to allow a week for our publicity to peak, for some musical awards to be made—then the crime had to occur. In that brief period we were not only going to have to find some music, but we would have to rehearse the stuff and hopefully gain at least a moderate level of ability. Some chance. We were cutting it
too fine. We needed some more help.