The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (66 page)

“Madonette, a question.” I sipped some more beer first. “I must admit to an abysmal ignorance of the mechanics of making music. Is there someone who sort of makes up the tunes, then writes down the stuff that everyone is going to play?”

“You’re talking about a composer and an arranger. They could be one and the same—but it is usually better to divide up the
jobs.”

“Can we get one or both of them? Zach, as the closest thing to a professional here—do you have any ideas?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. All we have to do is contact GAS-CAP.”

“Gascap? You want to fill the tank on a groundcar?”

“Not gascap. GASCAP. An acronym for the Galactic Society of Composers Artists and Players. There is a lot of unemployment in music and we should be able to locate
some really competent people.”

“Good as done. I’ll get the Admiral on it at once.”

“Impossible,” he growled in his usually friendly fashion. “No civilians, no outsiders. This is a secret operation all the way.”

“It is now—but it goes public in seven days. All we do is invent a cover story. Say that the group is being organized to make a holofilm. Or as a publicity stunt by a big firm. Like
maybe McSwineys wants to change their image, go upmarket. Get rid of Blimey McSwiney and his alcoholic red nose, use our pop group instead. But it must be done—and at once.”

It was. The next day an anorexic and pallid young man was brought to our rehearsal studio. Zach whispered in my ear. “I recognize him—that’s Barry Moyd Shlepper. He wrote a pop musical a couple of years back, ‘Don’t Fry for
Me, Angelina.’ He hasn’t had a success since.”

“I remember it. The show about the cook who marries the dictator.”

“That’s the one.”

“Welcome, Barry, welcome,” I said walking over and shaking his bony hand. “My name is Jim and I’m in charge around here.”

“Rooty-toot, man, rooty-toot,” he said.

“And a rooty-toot to you as well.” I could see that we would have to learn the argot of the musical
world if our plan were to succeed. “Now—was this operation explained to you?

“Like maybe sort of. A new recording company starting up with plenty of bucknicks to blow. Financing some new groups to get the operation off the ground.”

“That’s it. You’re in charge of the music. Let me show you what we have and you put it into shape.”

I gave him earphones and the player: I couldn’t bear listening
to these dreadful compositions yet another time. He plugged in the cubes one by one and, impossible as it was to
believe, his pallid skin grew even paler. He worked his way through them all. Sighed tremulously, took off the earphones and brushed the tears from his eyes.

“You want like my honest and truly opinion?”

“Nothing less.”

“Well then, like to break it to you gently, this stuff really
sucks. Insufflates. Implodes.”

“Can you do better?”

“My cat can do better. And scratch dirt over it.”

“Then you are unleashed. Begin!”

There was little else I could do until the music was written, rehearsed, recorded. While all the others would play their instruments and sing, my work would be limited to throwing the switch before each piece. Then all of Zach’s drums, cymbals, horns, bells
and molecular-synthezier effects would burst forth from the loudspeakers in full gallop. While this was happening I would throw switches that did nothing, tinkle the keys on a disconnected keyboard. So while they got the music going I looked into the special effects.

This required watching recordings of all of the most popular groups, bands and soloists. Some of it was enjoyable, some horribly
dreadful, all of it too loud. In the end I turned off the sound and watched the laser beams, exploding fireworks and physical acrobatics. I made sketches, mumbled to myself a lot, spent a great deal of the university’s money.

And built an incredible amount of complicated circuitry into the existing electronics. Reluctantly, the Admiral produced the extras I asked for and I modified everything
in the machine shop. It was altogether a satisfactory and fulfilling week. I also prodded the Admiral until he produced the promised payment of three million credits.

“Most kind,” I said, jingling the six glowing five-hundred-thousand-credit coins. “A decent fee for a decent job done.”

“You better put them in a bank vault before they go missing,” was his surly advice.

“Of course. A capital
idea!”

A singularly stupid idea. Banks were for robbing and for the tax authorities to keep track of. So first I went into the machine shop where I did some crafty metalwork before I packed wrapped and labeled the coins. Then I went for a walk and, as a precaution, I exercised all of my considerable talents at avoiding observation to shake off any possible tails the Admiral had put on me. I was
risking my life—in more ways than one!—for this money. If I came out of it all in one piece I wanted to have it waiting.

I finally reached a small country post office, selected at random, some distance from the city. It was manned by a nearsighted gentleman of advanced years.

“Spatial express and insured for offplanet delivery. That ain’t gonna be cheap young feller.”

“Do it, daddy-o, do it.
I’ve got the gilt.” He blinked and I translated back to his native language. “Payment is not a problem, dear sir. You must assure me that this gets to Professor Van Diver at the Galaksia Universitato at once. He is expecting these historical documents.”

I had already spaciofaxed the professor that I was sending him some personal possessions, that he should please hold on to them until I came
and picked them up. In case he got curious the contents were sealed in an armored case that would take a diamond drill to open. I was betting that his curiosity would not go that far. My package vanished into the mailchute and I went back to work.

At the end of the sixth day we were all pretty exhausted. Barry Moyd Shlepper had stayed up for two nights running, cold towels wrapped around his
head, fortified by trebcaff coffee, putting together some musical numbers from the archaic junk. He proved to be a good hand at theft—or adaptation as he liked to call it. The group had rehearsed, recorded, then rehearsed some more. I had concentrated on costumes, props and effects and was almost satisfied.

After one last break I called my troops together. “You will be pleased to know that we
will now give our first public performance.” This produced the expected groans and shrill cries of complaint and I waited until they had died down.

“I know how you feel—and I feel the same way too. I think that the blues number, I’m All Alone,’ is our best piece. You know we have had a lot of help from the staff here and I think we owe it to them to see what we all have done. I’ve invited something
like thirty of them and they should be here soon.”

Right on cue the door opened and the suspicious public employees filed in, each carrying a folding chair. Admiral Benbow led the way; his flag officer carried two chairs. Zach supervised the seating arrangements and our cavernous rehearsal studio became a theater for the first time. We retreated to the podium where I dimmed the houselights, then
hit myself and my electronic gear with a baby spot.

“Ladies, gentlemen, guests. We have all worked hard this last week and in the name of The Stainless Steel Rats I would like to thank you.”

I hit a switch and my amplified voice echoed Thank You, Thank You. Overlaid by a growing crescendo of drums and ending with a crack of thunder and a few realistic lightning bolts. I could see by their wide
eyes and dropped jaws that I had their attention.

“For our first number the melodious Madonette will render heart-rendingly the tragically lonely—I’m All Alone’!”

At this the colored kliegs burst down on us, revealing our pink-sequined skintight costumes in all their iridescent glory. As we played the opening bars of the theme the lights concentrated on Madonette, whose costume had more flesh
than fabric and seemed to be deeply appreciated. After a last whistle of wind and crash of thunder and lighting she extended her lovely arms to the audience and sang:

This was all done to
the accompaniment of holographic shaking trees, storm clouds and other spooky effects. The music wailed as Madonette seguidillad into the rest of the song.

With a last wail and a writhe of purple fog the sun rose majestically behind us and the music trickled to an end.

The silence stretched and stretched—until it was finally broken by a tumultuous applause.

“Well gang,” I said, “it looks like we have done it. Or as Barry Moyd says it looks like
we are but really rooty-getooty!”

On the seventh day we did not rest. After a final round of rehearsals I called an early break. “Get some racktime. Pack
your bags. The music and props are ready to go. We ship out at midnight. Transportation to the spaceport leaves here an hour earlier—so don’t be late.”

They shuffled out wearily with dragging feet. The Admiral stamped in as they left, with
Zach trailing in his wake.

“This agent informs me that all preparations have been made and you are ready to embark.” I could only nod agreement.

“Wish I could go with you,” Zach said. “You set it all up—you have our thanks for that. Now get going.”

He numbed my fingers with his handshake and the door closed behind him.

The Admiral’s smile had all of the warmth of a striking snake. “Drug Enforcement
has come up with a crime so awful that it means an instant sentence to Liokukae.”

“That’s nice—what is it?”

“Misuse of a highly refined and expensive drug called baksheesh. You and the rest of the musicians have been caught smuggling it and are addicted to it. There is a medical cure for the addiction that leaves the victim weak and vibrating for a number of days. This should give you a little
time to look around before you have to play your first concert. The press release has already gone out about your capture and your sentence to prison hospital for the criminally doped. The natives of Liokukae will not be surprised at all when you arrive there. Questions?”

“A big one. Has the communication been set up?”

“Yes. The coded radio built into your jaw can reach the receiver at the entrance
terminal from any place on the planet. It will be manned all of the time and an officer will be listening in on all communication. Your contact on the ground will give you what aid he can before you go out of the sealed terminal. Then he will move to the spacecruiser
Remorseless
in orbit
above, which will also monitor your radio. We can hit anywhere on the planet in a maximum of eleven minutes.
Send the signal when you have found the artifact and the space marines will be there. Report at a minimum of once a day. Location and results of your investigation.”

“Just in case we get blown away and you have to send in the second team?”

“Exactly. More questions?”

“One. Going to wish us luck?”

“No. Don’t believe in it. Make your own.”

“Gee, thanks, you really are all heart.”

He turned
and stamped away and the door swung shut behind him. Fatigue washed through me and black depression hit just one more time. Why was I doing this?

To stay alive of course. Twenty-two days more before my curtain fell for the final performance.

T
he Faster Than Light voyage aboard the good ship
Remorseless
was blessedly brief. Being surrounded by the military has always had a deleterious effect on my morale. We had a solid day of rehearsal, some bad food, a good night’s rest, followed the next day by a very non-alcoholic party—since the Navy was remorselessly teetotal. Then, a few hours before we were to meet the shuttle, the
medics gave us the injections that were to simulate the aftereffects of our drug treatment.

I think I would have preferred the treatment. I didn’t mind seeing my last meal go by for a second time; it had been pretty bad and I would not miss it. But the shakes and shivers were something else again. And all of my vibrating and stumbling co-musicians had eyeballs as red as fire. I dared not look
in the mirror for fear of what I would see there.

Steengo was gray and drawn and looked a hundred years old. I felt a quick blast of guilt for dragging him out of retirement. Said guilt fading instantly when I thought about my own problems.

“Do I look as bad as you do?” Floyd said in a hoarse voice, his new-grown beard black against his parchment skin.

“I hope not,” I husked in return. Madonette
reached over and patted my shaking hand in what might have been a maternal way.

“It will be all right on the night, Jim. Just you wait and see.

I did not feel filial in return since I was rapidly developing
a crush on her that I hoped I disguised. I growled something or other and stumbled away to the heads where I could be alone with my misery. Even this did not work for the speaker in the ceiling
rustled ominously—then crashed out Admiral Benbow’s voice.

“Now hear this. All Stainless Steel Rats will assemble at debarkation station twelve in two minutes. We are now in parking orbit. One minute and fifty-eight seconds. One minute and …”

I slammed out into the passageway to escape his voice but it followed me as I fled. I was the last to arrive and I collapsed and joined the others where
they slumped on the deck beside our backpacks. The Admiral appeared suddenly behind me like a bad dream and roared his command.