The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (69 page)

“Play,” he ordered and sat back to enjoy the music.

“Okay, gang, ready to go!” I blew into my lapel microphone and my amplified breath gusted across the audience. “Well, hello there music lovers. By popular appeal—and the fact that we were busted by the narcs—we have come to your sunny
planet to bring you the music known right around the galaxy. It is our very great pleasure now to dedicate this next song to the concert master himself, Svinjar—” He nodded acceptance and I rolled a drum roll out across the surrounding fields.

“A song that you will all know, and hopefully love, something that we can all feel, share, enjoy together, laugh together and cry together. I bring you
our own and original version of that classic of modern musicality—‘The Itchy Foot Itch’!”

There were shouts of joy, screams of pain, wild enthusiasm. As we launched into this overamplified and very catchy—if not itchy—number.

There was a vast amount of itchy foot stomping, let me tell you. And plenty of cheers and cries of joy when we had finished. Buoyed up by enthusiasm we played two more numbers before I called a break.

“Thanks folks, thanks much—you’re a great
audience. Now if you will give us a few minutes we’ll be right back …”

“Very well done, well done indeed,” Svinjar said, waddling over and plucking the microphone from my lapel. “I know that we all have heard these musicians before—on the box—so their delightful entertainment comes as no surprise to us all. Yet still, there is something fine about having them here in person. I am grateful—I know
that everyone out there is grateful.” He turned and smiled broadly at me. A smile that, I could see quite clearly, held no warmth or humor at all. He turned back and spread his arms wide.

“I am so grateful that I have prepared a little surprise for all of you out there—do you want to know what it is?”

Absolute silence now—and a sideways shuffling by the audience. They apparently did not like
any of Svinjar’s little surprises.

They were right.

“Go!” he shouted into the microphone, so loudly that his amplified voice rolled and echoed like thunder. “Go—go—GO!”

I staggered and almost fell as the platform shook and vibrated. There was a roar of masculine voices as out from under
our feet, brushing aside the disguising leafy boughs, burst a mass of armed men. More and more appeared,
waving cudgels, howling as they ran, bearing down on the fleeing audience.

We looked on dumbfounded as men and women were clubbed to the ground, chained, tied. The attack was brief and vicious and quickly over with. The fields were empty, the last visitor gone. Those that remained were bound and silent, or groaning with pain. Over their moans of agony Svinjar’s laughter sounded clearly. He was
rocking in his chair, possessed by sadistic humor, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“But where—” Madonette said. “Where did they all come from? There was no one under here when we started the concert.”

I jumped to the ground, kicked some branches aside, saw the gaping mouth of the tunnel. The opening had been concealed by a dirt-covered lid, now thrown aside. There was a heavy thud and Svinjar
landed beside me.

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” He gestured at the opening. “I have had my men digging that thing for months now. Stamping the removed dirt into the mud whenever it rains. I had planned a meeting here, some gifts, all very vague. Until you showed up! If I were capable of gratitude I would be grateful. I am not. The blind workings of chance. And victory to those—meaning me—who have the
intelligence to seize the opportunity. Now a small celebration. We will have food and drink and you will play for me.”

He turned and issued instructions, kicked one of his new slaves when she stumbled close.

“It would be nice to kill him,” Madonette said. Speaking for all of us, if the nodding heads meant anything.

“Caution,” I cautioned. “He has all the cards and the thugs right now. Let’s
play the concert and figure out how we can get out of here after that.”

It wasn’t going to be easy. Svinjar’s oversized log cabin was
filled with his men. Drinking but not drunk, boasting of their feats, drinking even more. We played a number but no one was listening.

Yes; Svinjar was. Listening and looking. Waddling towards us, silencing the music with a swipe of his hand. Dropping into his
chair and fingering the hilt of his large sword embedded in the stone close by his hand. Smiling that humorless smile at me again.

“Life is a bit different here, isn’t it Jim?”

“You might say that.”

If he was looking for trouble I wasn’t going to supply it. I didn’t like the odds at all.

“We make our own life—and our own rules here. Out there in the androgynous, settled worlds of the galaxy,
the effete intellectuals rule. Men who act like women. Here we hearken back to the days of the primitive, virile, important men. Strength through strength. I like that. And I make the rules here.” He looked at Madonette in a singularly repulsive manner.

“A fine singer—and a lovely woman,” he said, then looked at me. “Your wife you say? Can anything be done about that? Let me think—yes—something
can be done. Out there, in those so-called civilized planets nothing could be done. Here it can. For I am Svinjar—and Svinjar can always do something.”

He lifted one gross hand and tapped me on the forehead. “By my law and my custom I now divorce you.” He heaved himself to his feet while his henchmen roared with laughter at his subtle humor.

“That is not possible. It can’t be done—”

For his
size he was fast, whipping out the broadsword from the niche in his throne.

“Here is my first lesson for my new bride.
Nobody
says no to Svinjar.”

The blade slashed out to slit my throat.

I
jumped back to avoid the slash, stumbled over a man’s legs, fell on top of him.

“Hold him!” Svinjar shouted and I was grabbed tightly, struggled to get free, couldn’t quite make it.

Svinjar was standing over me, pushing the point of the sword into my throat—

Then he toppled sideways and fell with a great thud. Revealing the fact that Steengo, despite age and overweight, had jumped
to the attack and was behind him, had dropped him with a chop to the neck.

What was happening had by this time sunk into even the tiniest of the birdbrains present. Men struggled to draw weapons and roared crude oaths. I saw Floyd laying about the warriors nearest him—but it wouldn’t be enough. In about two seconds there was going to be a massacre of musicians if I didn’t do something to stop
it.

I did. First by planting my elbow in the solar plexus of my captor. Who gurgled and let go of my arms. One second gone. I didn’t waste any time trying to stand up but writhed on my side and pulled the black sphere from my pocket, thumbed the actuator and threw it up towards the ceiling.

Two seconds. Weapons swinging on all sides. My best defense was to jam the filter plugs into my nostrils.
The gas bomb popped and I spent a busy few seconds more dodging my attackers. Who moved more and more slowly until they dropped. When I looked around I saw that the gas had done a
great job. The entire great room was filled with prone and snoring forms. I shook my hands over my head.

“Let’s hear it for the good guys!” I had an audience of one, myself, which made the victory no less sweet. The
sleep gas had hit my friends as well, though Floyd had been doing quite well before he dropped. A number of crumpled bodies were collapsed around him. I opened my pack and got the gas antidote, one by one I shot up my companions with the styrette. Then went to the door and stared gloomily out at the rain until they revived.

Soft footsteps behind me and Madonette held me lightly by the arms.

“Thanks, Jim.”

“Was nothing.”

“It was something. You saved our lives.”

“We’re still in it,” Floyd said. “And like Madonette said, we owe you a good bit of thanks.” Steengo nodded agreement.

“I wish you didn’t. If this operation had been planned better all these emergencies wouldn’t be taking place. My fault. I’m under what you might call a certain kind of time pressure. For reasons I can’t
go into right now we have to find the artifact and finish this operation within twenty days.”

“That’s not much time,” Steengo said.

“Right—so let’s not waste any of it. Our welcome has worn out around here. Grab weapons because we might have trouble getting out of town empty-handed. Packs on, armed to kill, ruthless and deadly expressions. Forward!”

After what had almost happened to us with
Svinjar and his macho swinemen we were in no mood to be trifled with. It must have shown in our faces—or more likely in the metal of our weapons—because the few people we met slipped away as soon as they saw us. The rain had almost stopped and the sun was burning through and raising trails of mist from the waterlogged ground. The hovels were farther apart now, the
mounds of garbage fewer and more
easily avoided. Straggly little bushes began to appear, then trees and larger shrubs covering the easy slope of the rolling hills. Mixed in were low bushes from which hung hard-skinned spheres the size of a man’s fist. Maybe these were the polpettone trees we had been told about. This would have to be investigated—but not now. I led on at a good pace, not calling a halt until we had reached the
concealment of the first coppice. I looked back at the crude buildings, with the great bulk of the Pentagon rising behind them.

“No one seems to be following us—so let’s keep it that way. Five-minute break every hour, keep walking until sunset.”

I touched the skull-computer hanging from my neck and the keyboard snapped into existence. I summoned up the holomap, glanced up at the sun—then pointed
ahead.

“We go thataway.”

It was tiring at first, struggling up one hill and down the other side, then up again. But we soon left the trees and the rolling countryside behind and marched out onto a grassy plain. We stopped for a break at the end of the first hour, dropped down and drank some water. The bravest of us chewed industriously on the concentrated rations. Which had the texture of cardboard—if
not the same exciting flavor. There was a grove of the polpettone trees close by and I went and picked a few of the spherical fruits. Hard as rocks and looking just about as appetizing. I put them into my pack for later examination. Floyd had dug a small flute out of his pack and played a little jig that lifted our spirits. When we stepped out again it was to a jolly marching tune.

Madonette
walked beside me, humming in time with the flute. A strong walker, she seemed to be enjoying the effort. And surely a great singer, good voice. Good everything—and that included her bod. She turned and caught me looking at
her and smiled. I looked away, slowed a bit to walk next to Steengo for a change. He was keeping up with the rest of us and did not look tired I was happy to see. Ahh, Madonette
… Think of something else, Jim, keep your eye on the job. Not the girl. Yes, I know, she looked a lot better than anything else around. But this was no time to go all smarmy and dewy eyed.

“How long you think until dark?” Steengo asked. “That pill you gave me is wearing off with a vengeance.”

I projected a holo of a watch. “I truly don’t know—because I don’t even know the length of the day here.
This watch, like the computer, is on ship’s time. It’s been a good long time since they threw us out the gate.” I squinted at the sky. “And I don’t think that sun has moved very much at all. Time to ask for some advice.”

I bit down three times hard on the left side of my jaw, which should have triggered a signal on the jawbone radio.

“Tremearne here.”
The words bounced around clearly inside
my skull.

“I read you.”

“You read what?” Steengo asked.

“Please—I’m talking on the radio.”

“Sorry.”

“Reception clear at this end. Report.”

“We were less than charmed by the Machmen. We left town a couple of hours ago and are hiking out across the plain …”

“I have you on the chart, satellite location.”

“Any of the Fundamentaloid bands in sight as well?”

“A number of them.”

“Any of them
close to this position?”

“Yes, one off to your left. Roughly the same distance you’ve walked already.”

“Sounds a winner. But one important question first. How long are the days here?”

“About one hundred standard hours.”

“No wonder we’re beginning to feel tired—and it’s still full daylight. With the total daylight at least four times longer than what we’re used to. Can you put your satellite
to work looking back the way we came—to see if we are being followed?”

“I’ve already done that. No pursuers in sight”

“That’s great news. Over and out.” I raised my voice. “Company—halt. Fall out. I’ll give you the other side of the conversation that you didn’t hear. We’re not being followed.” I waited until the ragged cheer had died away. “Which means we are stopping here for food, drink, sleep,
the works.”

I slung my pack to the ground, stretched largely, then dropped down and leaned against it, pointed to the distant horizon. “The Fundamentaloid nomads are somewhere out in that direction. We are going to have to find them sooner or later—and I vote for later.”