Harry Harrison - SSR 06 - A Stainless Steel Rat is Born

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CHAPTE.R ONE
As I approached the front door of The First Bank of Bit 0' Heaven, it sensed my presence and
swung open with an automatic welcome. I stepped briskly through—and stopped. But I was just far
enough inside so that the door was unable to close behind me. While it was sliding shut I took the
arc pen from my bag—then spun about just as it had closed completely. I had stopwatched its
mechanical reflex time on other trips to the bank, so I knew that I had just 1.67 seconds to do
the necessary. Time enough.
The are buzzed and flared and welded the door securely to its frame. After this all the door
could do was buzz helplessly, immobile, until something in the mechanism shorted out and it
produced some crackling sparks, then died.
"Destruction of bank property is a crime. You are under arrest."
As it was speaking, the robot bank guard reached out its large padded hands to seize and hold me
until the police arrived.
"Not this time, you jangling junkpile," I snarled, and pushed it in the chest with the porcuswme
prod. The two metal points produced 300 volts and plenty ofamps. Enough to draw the attention of a
one ton porcuswine. Enough to short the robot completely. Smoke spurted from all its joints and it
hit the floor with a very satisfactory crash.
Behind me. For I had already leapt forward, shouldering aside the old lady who stood at the
teller's window. I pulled the large handgun from my bag and pointed it at the teller and growled
out my command.
2 A STAINLESS STEEL RAT IS BORN
"Your money or your life, sister. Fill this bag with bucks."
Very impressive, though my voice did break a bit so the last words came out in a squeak. The
teller smiled at this and tried to brazen it out.
"Go home, sonny. This is not . . ."
I pulled the trigger and the .75 recoilless boomed next to her ear; the cloud of smoke blinded
her. She wasn't hit but she might just as well have been. Her eyes rolled up in her head and she
slid slowly from sight behind the till.
You don't foil Jimmy diGriz that easily! With a single bound I was over the counte+ and waving
the gun at the rest of the wide-eyed employees.
"Step back—all of you! Quick! I want no little pinkies pressing the silent alarm buttons. That's
it. You, butterball—" I waved over the fat teller who had always ignored
me in the past. He was all attention now. "Fill this bag with bucks, large denominations, and do
it now." He did it, fumbling and sweating yet working as fast as he could. The customers and staff
all stood around in odd
poses, apparently paralyzed with fear. The door to the managers office stayed closed, which meant
that he probably wasn't there. Chubby had the bag filled with bills and
was holding it out to me. The police had not appeared. There was a good chance I was getting away
with it.
I muttered what I hoped was a foul curse under my breath and pointed to one of the sacks that
were filled with rolls of coins.
"Dump out the change and fill that too," I ordered, sneering and growling at the same time.
He obeyed with alacrity and soon had this bag stuffed filll as well. And still no sign of the
police. Could it be that not one of the moronic money employees had pressed the silent alarm
button? It could be. Drastic measures would have to be taken.
I reached out and grabbed up another bag of coins. "Fill this one as well," I ordered, slinging
it across to him.
As I did this I managed to get the alarm button with my
A STAINLESS STEEL BAT IS BOBN
elbow. There are some days when you have to do everything for yourself.
This had the desired effect. By the time the third bag
was fall, and I was staggering towards the door with my loot, the police began to appear. One
groundcar managed to crash into another (police emergencies are pretty rare around these parts),
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but eventually they sorted themselves out and lined up outside, guns ready.
"Don't shoot," I squeaked. With real fear, because most of them didn't look too bright. They
couldn't hear me through the windows but they could see me. "It's a dummy," I called out. "Seel"
I put the muzzle of the gun to the side of my head and pulled the trigger. There was a
satisfactory puff of smoke from the smoke generator and the sound effect of the shot
was enough to make my ears ring. I dropped behind the counter, away from their horrified gaze. At
least there would be no shooting now. I waited patiently while they shouted and cursed and finally
broke down the door.
Now, you might find all of this puzzling—if so I do not blame you. It is one thing to hold up
abank, another thing still to do it in such a manner that you are sure to be caught. Why, you
might ask, why be so foolish?
I'll be happy to tell you. To understand my motives you have to understand what life is like on
this planet—what
my life has been like. Let me explain.
Bit 0' Heaven was founded some thousands of years ago by some exotic religious cult, which has
happily since vanished completely. They came here from another planet;
some say it was Dirt or Earth, the rumored home of all mankind, but I doubt it. In any case,
things didn't work out too well. Maybe the endless labors were too much for them—this was
certainly no picnic-world in the early days. As the teachers at school remind us as often as they
can, particularly when they tell us how spoiled the young folk
are these days. We manage not to tell them that they must be spoiled as well because certainly
nothing has changed here in the last thousand years.
In the beginning, sure, it must have been rough. All of
A STAINLESS STEEL RAT IS BORN
the plantlife was pure poison to human metabolisms and had to be cleared away so edible crops
could be grown. The native fauna was just as poisonous, with teeth and claws to match. It was
tough. So tough that ordinary cows and sheep had a shockingly short life expectancy. Selective
gene manipulation took care of that and the first porcuswine were sent here. Imagine if you
can—and you will need a fertile imagination indeed—a one-tonne angry boar hog with sharp tushes
and mean disposition. That's bad enough, but picture the creature covered with long quills like an
insane porcupine. Odd as it sounds, the plan worked; since the farms are Stil\ breeding porcuswine
in large numbers it had to have worked. Bit 0' Heaven Smoked Porcuswine Hams are famed galaxy-
wide.
But you won't find the galaxy rushing to visit this piggy planet. I grew up here, I know. This
place is so boring
even the porcuswine fall asleep.
The funny part is that I seem to be the only one who notices it. They all look at me funny. My
Morn always thought that it was just growing pains and burnt porcuswine quills in my bedroom, a
folk remedy for same. Dad was always afraid of incipient insanity and used to haul me off to the
doctor about once a year. The doctor couldn't find anything wrong and theorized that I might be a
throwback to the original settlers, a loser in the Mendelian crapshoot. But that was years ago. I
haven't been bothered with parental attention since Dad threw me out of the house when I was
fifteen. This was after he had gone through my pockets one night and discovered that I had more
money than he did. Morn agreed fervently with him and even opened the door. I think they were glad
to see the last of
me. I was certainly too much of an irritation in their bovine existence.
What do I think? I think it can be damn lonely at times, being anoutcast. But I don't think I
would have it any other way. It can have its problems—but problems have solutions.
For example, one problem I licked was getting beat up all the time by the bigger kids. This
began happening as
A STAINLESS STEEL RAT IS BORN 5
soon as I went to school. I made the mistake at first of letting them know I was brighter than
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they were. Barn, • black eye. The school bullies liked it w much that they had to take turns to
beat up on me. I only broke the punishment cycle by bribing a university physical education
teacher to give me lessons in unarmed combat. I waited until I was really proficient before
fighting back. Then I creamed my would-be creamer and went on to beat up three more of the, thugs
one after another. I can tell you, all the little kids were my friends after that and
never tired of telling me how great it looked to see me chasing six of the worst ruffians- down
the block. Like I said, from problems come solutions—not to say pleasures.
And where did I get the money to bribe the teacher? Not from Dad, I can tell you. Three bucks a
week was my allowance, enough to buy maybe two Gaspo-Fizzes and a small sized Get-Stuffed candy
bar. Need, not greed, taught
me my first economic lesson. Buy cheap and sell dear and keep the profits for yourself.
Of course there was nothing I could buy, having no capital, so I resorted to not paying at all
for the basic product. All kids shoplift. They go through the phase and usually get it beaten out
of them when they are detected. I saw the unhappy and tear-stained results of failure and decided
to do a market survey as well as a time and motion study before I entered on a career of very
petty crime.
Firstly—stay away from the small merchants. They know their stock and have a strong interest in
keeping it intact. So do your shopping at the large multis. All you have to worry about then are
the store detectives and alarm systems. Thencareftil study of how they operate will generate
techniques to circumvent them.
One of my earliest and most primitive techniques—1 blush at revealing its simplicity—1 called
the book-trap. I constructed a box that looked exactly like a book. Only it had a spring-loaded,
hinged bottom. All I needed to do
was to push it down on an unsuspecting Get-Stuffed bar to have the candy vanish from sight. This
was a crude but
6 A STAINLESS STEEL HAT IS BORN
workable device that I used for a good length of time I
was about to abandon it for a superior technique when I perceived an opportunity to finish it off
in a most positive
manner. I was going to take care of Smelly.
His name was Bedford Smillingham but Smelly was the only name we ever called him. As some are
born dancers
or painters, others are shaped for lesser tasks. Smelly was a born snitch. His only pleasure in
life was ratting on his schoolmates. He peeked and watched and snitched. No juvenile peccadillo
was too minor for him to note and report to the authorities. They loved him for this—which will
tell you a lot about the "kind of teachers we had. Nor could he be beatup with impunity. His word
was always believed and it was the beater-uppers who suffered the punishment.
Smelly had done me some small ill, I forget exactly what, but it was enough to stir dark
andbrooding thought, to eventually produce a plan of action. Bragging is a thing all boys enjoy,
and I achieved great status by revealing my book-shaped candy bar collector to my peer group.
There
were oohs and ahhs, made more ooh and ahhish by portioning out some of the loot free for the
taking. Not only did this help my juvenile status—but I made sure that it
was done where Smelly could eavesdrop. It still feels like yesterday, and I glow warmly with the
memory.
"Not only does it work—but I'll show you just howl Come with me to Ming's Multistore!" "Can we,
Jimmy—can we really?"
"You can. But not in a bunch. Drift over there a few at a time and stand where you can watch the
Get-Stuffed counter. Be thereat 1500 hours and you will really see something!"
Something far better than they could possibly have imagined. I dismissed them and watched the
Head's office. As
soon as Smelly went through the door I nipped down and broke into his locker.
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It worked like a charm. I take some pride in this since it was the first criminal scenario that
I prepared for others to take part in. All unsuspecting of course. At the appointed
A STAINLESS STEEL RAT IS BORN 7
time I drifted up to the candy counter at Ming's, working very hard to ignore the rentaflics, who
were working equally hard pretending they weren't watching me. With relaxed motions I placed the
book atop the candies and bent to fix my boot fastener.
"Nicked!" the burlier of them shouted, seizing me by the coat collar. "Gotchal" the other
crowed, grabbing up the book.
"What are you doing," I croaked—1 had to croak be-
cause my coat was now pulled tight about my throat as I hung suspended from it. "Thief—give me
back my sevenbuck history book that my Morn bought with money earned weaving matts from porcuswine
quills!"
"Book?" the great bully sneered. "We know all about this book." He seized the ends and pulled.
It opened and the look on his face as the pages flipped over was something sweet to behold. "
"I have been framed," I squeaked, opening my coat and dropping free, rubbing at my sore throat.
"Framed by the criminal who bragged about using that same technique for his own nefarious ends. He
stands there, one Smelly by name. Grab him, guys, before he runs away!" Smelly could only stand
and gape while the ready hands of his peers clutched tight. His schoolbooks fell to the floor and
the imitation book burst open and disgorged its contents of Get-Stuffeds upon the floor.
It was beautiful. Tears and recriminations and shouting. A perfect distraction as well. Because
this was the day that I field-tested my Mark II Get-Stuffed stuffer. I had worked hard on this
device which was built around a silent vacuum pump—with a tube down my sleeve. I brought the tube
end close to the candy bars and—zip!—the first of them vanished from sight. It ended up in my
trousers, or rather inside the hideous plus-fours we were forced to wear as a school uniform.
These bagged out and were secured above the ankle by a sturdy elastic band. The candy bar dropped
safely into it, to be followed by another and yet another.
Except I couldn't turn the damn thing off. Thank goodness for Smelly's screaming and struggling.
All eyes were
8 A STAINLESS STEEL RAT IS BORN
on him and not me as I struggled with the switch. Meanwhile the pump still pumped and theGet-
Stuffeds shot up my sleeve and into my trousers. I turned it off eventually but if anyone had
bothered to look my way, why the empty counter and my bulging-legged form would have been a might
suspicious. But thankfully no one did. I exited with a rolling gait, as quickly as I could. As I
said, a memory 1. will always cherish.
Which, of course, does not explain why I have now, on my birthday, made the major decision to
hold up a bank. And get caught.
The police had finally broken down the door and were swarming in. I raised my hands over my head
and prepared to welcome them with warm smiles.
The birthday, 'that is the final reason. My seventeenth birthday. Becoming seventeen here on Bit
0' Heaven is a very important time in a young man's life.
CHAPTER TWO
The judge leaned forward and looked down at me, not unkindly. »
"Now come on, Jimmy,, tell me what this tomfoolery is all about."
Judge Nixon had a summer house on the river, not too far from our farm, and I had been there
often enough with his youngest son for the judge to get to know me.
"My name is James diGriz, buster. Let us not get too familiar."
This heightened his color a good deal, as you might imagine. His big nose stuck out like a red
ski slope and his nostrils flared. "You will have more respect in this courtroom! You are faced
with serious charges, my boy, and it might help your case to keep a civil tongue in your mouth. I
am appointing Arnold Fortescue, the public defender, as your attorney. . . ."
"I don't need an attorney—and I particularly don't need old Skewey who has been on the sauce so
long there isn't a man alive who has seen him sober. . . ."
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There was a ripple of laughter from the public seats, which infuriated the judge. "Order in the
courti" he bellowed, hammering his gavel so hard that the handle broke. He threw the stub across
the room and glared angrily at me. "You are trying the patience of this court. Lawyer Fortescue
has been appointed. . . ."
"Not by me he hasn't. Send him back to Mooney's Bar. I plead guilty to all charges and throw
myself on the mercy of this merciless court.
He drew in his breath with a shuddering sigh and I
10 A STAINLESS STEEL BAT IS BORN
decided to ease off a bit before he had a stroke and collapsed; then there would be a mistrial and
more time would be wasted.
"I'm sorry, judge." I hung my head to hide an unrepressed smile. "But I done wrong and I will
have to pay the penalty. "
"Well, that's more like it, Jimmy. You always were a smart lad and I hate to see all that
intelligence going to waste. You will go to Juvenile Correction Hall for a term of not less than—"
"Sorry, your honor," I broke in. "Not possible. Oh, tfl only had committed my criraes last week
or last month! The law is firm on this and I have no escape. Today is my birthday. My seventeenth
birthday.
That slowed him down all right. The guards looked on patiently while he punched for information
on his computer terminal. The reporter for the Bit 0' Heaven Bugle working just as hard on the
keys of his own portable terminal at the same time. He was filing quite a story. It didn't take
the judge long to come up with the answers. He sighed.
"That is true enough. The records reveal that you are seventeen this day and have achieved your
majority. You are no longer a juvenile and must be treated as an adult. This would mean a prison
term for certain—if I didn't allow for the circumstances. A first offense,,the obvious youth of
the defendant, his realization that he has done wrong. It is within the power of this bench to
make exceptions, to suspend a sentence and bind a prisoner over. It is my decision . . ."
The last thing I wanted to do was hear his decision now. Things were not going as I had planned,
not at all. Action
was required. I acted. My scream drowned out the judge's words. Still screaming I dived headlong
from the prisoner's dock, shoulder-rolled neatly on the floor, and was
across the room before my shocked audience could even consider moving.
"You will write no more scurrilous lies about me, you grubbing hack," I shouted. As I whipped
the terminal
A STAINLESS STEEL BAT IS BORN
from the reporter's hands and crashed it to the floor. Then stamped the six-hundred-buck machine
into worthless junk. I dodged around him before he could grab me and pelted towards the door. The
policeman there grabbed at me— then folded when I planted my foot in his stomach.
I could probably have escaped then, but escape at this point wasn't part of my plan. I fumbled
with the door handle until someone grabbed me, then struggled on until I was overwhelmed.
This time I was manacled as I stood in the dock and there was no more Jimmy-my-boy talk from the
judge. Someone had found him a new gavel and he waved it in my direction, as though wishing to
brain me with it. I growled and tried to look surly.
"James Bolivar diGriz," he intoned. "I sentence you to the maximum penalty for the crime that
you have committed. Hard labor in the city jail until the arrival of the next League ship,
whereupon you will be sent to the nearest place of correction for criminal therapy." The gavel
banged. "Take him away."
This was more like it. I struggled against my cuffs and spat curses at him so he wouldn't show
any last moment weaknesses. He didn't. Two burly policemen grabbed me and hauled me bodily out of
the courtroom and jammed
me, not too gently, into the back of the black Maria. Only after the door had been slammed and
sealed did I sit back and relax—and allow myself a smile of victory.
Yes, victory, I mean that. The whole point of the operation was to get arrested and sent to
prison. I needed some on-the-job training.
There is method in my madness. Very early in life, probably about the time of my Get-Stuffed
successes, I began to seriously consider a life of crime. For a lot of reasons—not the least of
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which was that I enjoyed being a criminal. The financial awards were great; no other job paid more
for less work. And, I must be truthful, I enjoyed the feeling of superiority when I made the rest
of the world look like chumps. Some may say that is a
A STAINLESS STEEL BAT IS BORN
juvenile emotion. Perhaps—but it sure is a pleasurable
one.
About this same time I was faced with a serious problem. How was I to prepare myself for the
future? There had to be more to crime than lifting Get-Stuffed bars. Some of the answers I saw
clearly. Money was what I wanted. Other people's money. Money is locked away, so the more I knew
about locks the more I would be able to get this money. For the first time in school I buckled
down to work. My grades soared so high that my teachers began to feel there might be. hope for me
yet. I did so well that when I elected to study, the trade of locksmith they
were only too eager to oblige. It was supposed to be a three-year course, but I learned all there
was to know in three months. I asked permission to take the final examination. And was reftised.
Things were just not done that way, they told me. I would proceed at the same stately pace as
the others and in two years and nine months I would get my diploma, leave the school—and enter the
ranks of the wage slaves.
Not very likely. I tried to change my course of study and was informed that this was impossible.
I had locksmith stamped on my forehead, metaphorically speaking of course, and it would remain
there for life. They thought.
I began to cut classes and avoid the school for days at a time. There was little they could do
about this, other than administer stern lectures, because I showed up for all the examinations and
always scored the highest grades. I ought to, since I was making the most of my training in the
field. I carefully spread my attentions around so the complacent citizens of the city had no idea
they were being taken. A vending machine would yield a few bucks in silver one day, a till at the
parking lot the next. Not only did this field work perfect my talents but it paid for my
education. Not my school education of course—by law I had to remain there until the age of
seventeen—but in my free time.
Since I could find no guidelines to prepare myself for a life of crime, I studied all of the
skills that might be of
A STAINLESS STEEL BAT IS BORN 13
service. I found thewordforgery in the dictionary, which encouraged me to learn photography and
printing. Since unarmed combat had already stood me in good stead, I continued my studies until I
earned a Black Belt. Nor was I ignoring the technical side of my chosen career. Before I was
sixteen I knew just about all there was to know about computers—while at the same time I had
become a skilled microelectronic technician.
All of these were satisfying enough in themselves—but where did I go from there? I really didn't
know. That was when I decided to give myself a coming-of-age birthday present. A term in jail.
Crazy? Like a fox! I had to find some criminals—and where better than in jail? A keen line of
reasoning, one has to admit. Going to jail would be like coming home, meeting my chosen peer group
at last. I would listen and learn and when I felt I had learned enough the lockpick in the sole of
my shoe would help me to make my exit. How I smiled and chortled with glee.
More the fool—for it was not to be this way at all.
My hair was shorn, I was bathed in an antiseptic spray, prison clothes and boots were issued—so
unprofessionally that I had ample time to transfer the lockpick and my stock of coins—1 was
thumbprinted and retinapixed, then led to my cell. To behold, to my great joy, that I had a
cellmate. My education would begin at last. This was the first day of the rest of my criminal
life.
"Good afternoon, sir," I said. "My name is Jim diGriz." He looked at me and snarled. "Get knotted,
kid." He went back to picking his toes, an operation which my entrance had interrupted.
That was my first lesson. The polite linguistic exchanges of life outside were not honored
behind these walls. Life was tough—and so was language, I twisted my lips into a sneer and spoke
again. In far harsher tones this time.
"Get knotted yourself, toe-cheese. My monicker is Jim. What's yours?"
I wasn't sure about the slang, I had picked it up from
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old videos, but I surely had the tone of voice right because I had succeeded in capturing his
attention this time. He looked up slowly and there was the glare of cold hatred in his eyes.
"Nobody—and I mean nobody—talks to Willy the Blade that way. I'm going to cut you, kid, cut you
bad. I'm going to cut my initial into your face. A 'V for Willy. " "A 'W'," I said. "Willy is
spelled with a 'W'."
- This upset him even more. "I know how to spell, I ain't no moron!" He was blazing with rage now,
digging furiously under the mattress on his bed. He produced a hacksaw blade that I could~see had
the back edge well sharpened. A deadly little weapon. He bounced it in his hand, sneered one last
sneer—then lunged at me.
Well, needless to say, that is not the recommended way to approach a Black Belt. I moved aside,
chopped his wrist as he went by--then kicked the back of his ankle so that he ran headfirst into
the wall.
He was knocked cold. When he came to I was sitting on
my bunk and doing my nails with his knife. "The name is Jim," I said, lip-curled and nasty. "Now
you try saying it. J • n
im.
He stared at me, his face twisted—then began to cry! I was horrified. Could this really be
happening?
"They always pick on me. You're no better. Make fun of
me. And you took my knife away. I worked a month making that knife, had to pay ten bucks for the
broken blade...."
The thought of all of the troubles had started him blubbering again. I saw then that he was only
a year or two older than me—and a lot more insecure. So my first introduction to criminal life
found me cheering him up, getting a wet towel to wipe his face, giving him back his knife—and even
giving him a five-buck goidpiece to stop his crying. I was beginning to feel that a life of crime
was not quite what I thought it would be.
It was easy enough to get the story of his life—in fact it
was hard to shut him up once he got in full spate. He was
A STAINLESS STEEL BAT IS BORN 15
filled with self-pity and wallowed in the chance to reveal all to an audience.
Pretty sordid, I thought, but kept silent while his boring reminiscences washed over me. Slow in
school, laughed at by the others, the lowest marks. Weak and put upon by the bullies, gaining
status only when he discovered—by accident of course with a broken bottle—that he could be
a bully too once he had a weapon. The rise in status, if not respect, after that by using threats
of violence and more than a little bullying. All of this reinforced by demonstrations of
dissections on live birds and other small and harmless creatures. Then his rapid fall after
cutting a boy and being caught. Sentenced to Juvenile Hall, released, then more trouble and back
to Hall yet again. Until here he was, at the zenith of his career as a knife-carrying punk,
imprisoned for extorting money by threat of violence. From a child of course. He was far too
insecure to attempt to threaten an adult.
Of course he did not say all this, not at once, but it became obvious after endless rambling
complaints. I tuned him out and tuned my inner thoughts in. Bad luck, that
was all it was. I had probably been put in with him to keep me from the company of the real
hardened criminals who filled this prison.
The lights went out at that moment and I lay back on the bunk. Tomorrow would be my day. I would
meet the other inmates, size them up, find the real criminals among them. Befriend them and begin
my graduate course in crime. That is surely what I would do.
I went happily to sleep, washed over by a wave of wimpish whining from the adjoining bunk. Just
bad luck being stuck in with him. Willy was the exception. I had a roommate who was a loser, that
was all. It would all be different in the morning.
I hoped. There was a little nag of worry that kept me awake for a bit, but at last I shrugged it
off. Tomorrow would be fine, yes it would be. Fine. No doubt about that, fine....
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CHAPTER THREE
Breakfast was no better—and no worse—than the ones I made for myself. I ate automatically,
sipping the weak cactus tea and chewing doggedly at the gruel, while I looked around at the other
tables. There were about thirty prisoners stuffing their faces in this room, and my gaze went from
face to face with a growing feeling of despair.
Firstly, most of them had the same vacuous look of blank stupidity as my cellmate. All right, I
could accept that, the criminal classes would of course contain the maladjusted and the mental
mud walls. But there had to be more than that! I hoped.
Secondly they were all quite young, none out of their twenties. Weren't there any old criminals?
Or was criminality a malfunction of youth that was quickly cured by the social adjustment
machines? There had to be more to it than that. There had to be. I took some cheer from this
thought. All of these prisoners were losers, that was obvi-
ous, losers and incompetents. It was obvious once you thought about it. If they had been any good
at their chosen profession they wouldn't be inside! They were of
no use to the world or to themselves.
But they were to me. If they couldn't supply the illegal facts that I needed, they would surely
be able to put me in touch with those who did. From them I would get leads to the criminals on the
outside, the professionals still uncaught. That was what I had to do. Befriend them and extract
the information that I needed. All was not lost yet.
It didn't take long for me to discover the best of this despicable lot. A little group was
gathered around a hulk-
16
A STAINLESS STEEL BAT IS BORN 17
ing young man who sported a broken nose and a scarred face. Even the guards seemed to avoid him.
He strutted a good deal and the others made room around him when he walked in the exercise yard
after lunch,
"Who is that?" I asked Willy, who huddled on the bench next to me, industriously picking his
nose. He biinked rapidly until he finally made out the subject of my attentions, then waved his
hands with despair.
"Watch out for him, stay away, he's bad medicine. Stinger is a killer, that's what I heard, and
I believe it too. And he's a champ at mudslugging. You don't want to know him."
This was intriguing indeed. I had heard of mudslugging, but I had always lived too close to the
city to have seen it in action. There was never any of it taking place near enough for me to hear
about, not with the police all •around. Mudslugging was a crude sport—and illegal—that
was enjoyed in the outlying farm towns. In the winter, with the porcuswine in their sties and the
crops in the barns, time would hang heavy on their agrarian hands. That was when the mudslugging
would begin. A stranger would appear and challenge the local champion, usually
some overmuscled ploughboy. A clandestine engagement would be arranged in some remote barn, the
women dismissed, moonshine sureptitiously brought in plastic bottles, bets made—and the barefisted
fight begun. To end when one of the combatants could not get off the ground. Not a sport for the
squeamish, or the sober. Good, hearty, drunken masculine fun. And Stinger was one of this stalwart
band. I must get to know Stinger better.
This was easily enough done. I suppose I could have just walked over and spoken to him, but my
thought patterns were still warped by all of the bad videos I had watched for most of my life.
Plenty of these were about criminals getting their just deserts in prison; which is probably where
I originated the idea of this present escapade. Never matter, the idea was still a sound one. I
could
prove that by talking to Stinger.
To do this I walked, whistling, about the yard until I
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18 A STAINLESS STEEL BAT IS BORN
was close to him and his followers. One of them scowled at me and I scuttled away. Only to return
as soon as his back was turned, to sidle up beside the head villain.
"Are you Stinger?" I whispered out of the side of my mouth, head turned away from him. He must
have seen the same videos because he answered in the same way. "Yeah. So who wants to know?"
"Me. I just got into this joint. I got a message for you from the outside." "So teH." "Not where
these dummies can hear. We gotta be alone." He gave me a most suipicious look from under his'
beetling brows. But I had succeeded in capturing his curiosity. He muttered something to his
followers, then strolled away. They remained behind but flashed murderous looks at me when I
strolled in the same direction. He went across the yard towards a bench—the two men already there
fleeing as he approached. I sat down ne~t to him and he looked me up and down with disdain. "Say
what you gotta say, kid—and it better be good." "This is for you," I said, sliding a twenty-buck
coin along the bench towards him. "The message is from me and from no one else. I need some help
and am willing to
pay for it. Here is a down payment. There is plenty more where this came from."
He sniffed disdainfully—but his thick fingers scraped up the coin and slipped it into his
pocket. "I ain't in the charity business, kid. The only geezer I help is myself. Now, shove off—"
"Listen to what I have to say first. What I need is
someone to break out of prison with me. One week from today. Are you interested?"
I had caught his attention this time. He turned and looked me square in the eye, cold and
assured. "I don't like jokes," he said—and his hand grabbed my wrist and twisted. It hurt. I could
have broken the grip easily, but I did not. If this little bit of bullying was important to him,
then bully away.
A STAINLESS STEEL RAT IS BORN 19
"It's nojoke. Eight days from now I'll be on the outside. You can be there too if you want to
be. It's your decision." He glared at me some more—then let go of my wrist. I rubbed at it and
waited for his response. I could see him chewing over my words, trying to make up his mind. "Do
you know why I'm inside?" he finally asked. "I heard rumors."
"If the rumor was that I killed a geezer, then the rumor
was right. It was an accident. He had a soft head. It broke when I knocked him down. They was
going to pass it off as
a farm accident but another geezer lost a bundle to me on the match. He was going to pay me next
day but he went to the police instead because that was a lot cheaper. Now they are going to take
me to a League hospital and do my head. The shrinker here says I won't want to fight again after
that. I won't like that."
The big fists opened and closed when he talked and I had the sudden understanding that fighting
was his life, the one thing that he could do well. Something that other
men admired and praised him for. If that ability were taken away—why they might just as well take
away his life at the same time. I felt a sudden spurt of sympathy but did not let the feeling
show.
"You can get me out of here?" The question was a serious one. "I can."
"Then I'm your man. You want something out of me, I know that, no one does nothing for nothing
in this world. I'll do what you want, kid. They'll get me in the end, there is no place
to hide anywhere when they are really looking for you. But I'm going to get mine. I'm going to get
the geezer what put me in here. Get him proper. One last fight. Kill him the way he killed me."
I could not help shivering at his words because it was obvious that he meant them. That was
painfully clear. "I'll get you out," I said. But to this I added the unspoken promise that I would
see to it that he got nowhere near the object of his revenge. I was not going to start my new
criminal career as an accomplice to murder.
A STAINLESS STEEL RAT IS BORN
Stinger took me under his protective wing at once. He shook my hand, crushing my fingers with
that deadly grip, then led me over to his followers.
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"This is Jim," he said. "Treat him well. Anyone causes him trouble got trouble with me." They
were all insincere smiles and promises of affection—but at least they wouldn't bother me. I had
the protection of those mighty fists. One of them rested on my shoulder as we strolled away. "How
you going to do it?" he asked.
"I'll tell you in the morning. I'm making the last arrangements now," I lied. "See you then." I
strolled off on an inspection tour, almost afr eager to be out of this sordid place as he was. For
a different reason. His was revenge— mine was depression. They were losers in here, all losers,
and I like to think of myself as a winner. I wanted to be well away from them all and back in the
fresh air.
I spent the next twenty-four hours finding the best way out of the prison. I could open all of
the mechanical locks inside the prison easily enough; my lockpick worked fine
on our cell door. The only problem was the electronic gate that opened out into the outer
courtyard. Given time— and the right equipment—1 could have opened that too. But not under the
eyes of guards stationed in the observation booth above it right around the clock. That was the
obvious way out, so it was the route to be avoided. I needed a better idea of the layout of the
prison—so a reconnoiter was very much in order. '
It was after midnight when I eased out of my bed. No shoes, I had to be as quiet as possible,
so. three pairs of socks should do the job. Working silently, I stuffed extra clothing under the
blankets so the bed would look occupied if one of the guards should look in through the barred
door. Willy was snoring lustily when I clicked the lock
open and slipped out into the corridor. He wasn't the only one enjoying his sacktime and the walls
echoed with zzzzmg and gronking. The nightlights were on and I was alone on the landing. I looked
over the edge carefully and saw that the guard on the floor below was working on his racing form.
Wonderful, I hoped that he had a winner. Silent as
A STAINLESS STEEL RAT IS BORN 21
ashadow I went to the stairs and up them to the floor above.
Which was depressingly identical to the one below; nothing but cells. As was the next floor and
the one above that. Which was the top floor so I could go no higher. I
was about to retrace my steps when my eye caught a glint of metal in the shadows at the far end.
Nothing ventured,
as the expression goes. I scuttled past the barred doors, and the—hopefully—sleeping inmates, to
the distant wall.
Well, well, what did we have here! Iron rungs in the wall—vanishing up into the darkness. I
grabbed onto the first one and vanished up with them. The last rung was just below the ceiling. It
was also just under a trapdoor that was let into the ceiling above. Metal, with a metal frame—and
locked securely as I discovered when I pushed
up against it. There had to be a lock, but it was invisible in the darkness. And I had to find it.
Looping one arm through the iron rung I began to run my fingertips over the surface of the door in
what I hoped was a regular pattern.
There was nothing there. I tried again, changing hands because my arm felt like it was being
dragged from its socket—with the same result. But there had to be a lock. I was panicking and not
using my brain. I fought back my rising fears and stirred up my brain cells. There must be a lock
or seal of some kind. And it was not on the trapdoor. So—it had to be on the frame. I reached out
slowly, ran my fingers along the sides of the frame. And found it at once.
How simple the answers are when yon ask the right questions! I eased the lockpick from my pocket
and slipped it into the lock. Within seconds it had clicked open. Seconds after that I had pushed
the trapdoor up, climbed through, closed it behind me—and sniffed appreciatively of the cool night
air.
I was out of prison! Standing on the roof, yes, of course, but free in spirit at least. The
stars were bright above and shed enough light so I could see across the dark surface. It
was flat and broad, bordered with a knee-high parapet and
22 A STAINLESS STEEL RAT IS BOHN
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file:///F|/rah/Harry%20Harrison/Harry%20Harrison%20-%2005%20%20-%20A%20S\tainless%20Steel%20Rat%20is%20Born.txtCHAPTE.RONEAsIapproachedthefrontdoorofTheFirstBankofBit0'Heaven,it\sensedmypresenceandswungopenwithanautomaticwelcome.Isteppedbrisklythrough—ands\topped.ButIwasjustfarenoughinsidesothatthed...

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