Harry Harrison - SSR 04 - The Stainlees Steel Rat Wants You

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The Stainless Steel Rat Wants You!
by
Harry Harrison
v1.0 Initial release
ONE
Blodgett is a peaceful planet. The sun shines orangely, gentle breezes cool the brow, while
the silent air is disturbed only slightly by the distant rumble of rockets from the spaceport.
Very relaxing-but too much so for one like myself who must stay on guard, alert and aware at all
times. And I admit that I was doing none of these things when the front door announcer bing-
bonged. Hot water splattered my head and I was drowsy as a comatose cat.
"I'll get that," Angelina called out, loud enough to be heard over the splash of the shower. I
gurgled an answer as I reluctantly turned the thing off and climbed out.
The drier blanketed me with warm air while the lotion mist tickled my nose. I hummed to myself
with sybaritic joy, at peace with the world, naked as the day I was born-except of course for the
few devices that I am never without. Voluntarily, that is. Life had its joys and, as I appreciated
my stalwart body and rugged face in the mirrorthe touch of gray at the temples did add a
distinguished note--I could think of nothing to worry about.
Other than the sudden angst that gripped me, chilling me to the bone. Was this a psi
premonition? No, it was the ticking away of seconds. Angelina had been far too long at the door.
Something was wrong.
I burst out into the hall and down it at a run. The house was empty. Then I was through the
front door and bounding down the path like a pink gazelle, hopping desperately on one leg as I
wrenched the pistol from my ankle holster, my eyes bulging in shock at the sight of my Angelina
being bustled into a black ground car by two burly types. It pulled away and I risked a single
shot at its tires, but could not fire again because there was traffic beyond.
Angelina! I ground my teeth with rage, fired more shots into the air so that the spectators
who had been admiring my nude form now dived for cover. I managed to keep just enough peace of
mind to memorize the numbers on the car.
Back in the house I thought briefly of calling the police, as any good citizen would, but
since I have always been a very bad citizen I instantly dismissed the idea. Mighty is Slippery Jim
diGriz in his wrath. Revenge would be mine. I turned on the compterm, mashed my thumbprint onto
the ID plate, punched in my priority code, then the number of the kidnap car and asked for
identification. Not a very complex task for a planetary computer and the answer appeared on the
screen as soon as I hit the PRINT button.
When it did I dropped numbly into the chair. They had her.
This was far worse than I had imagined. Now, look, don't go thinking that I am a coward. Quite
the opposite, I say humbly. You are looking at a survivor of a lifetime of crimewho has also
survived another lifetime of crime-fighting after being drafted into the Special Corps, the elite
galaxywide organization that uses crooks to catch crooks. That I have stayed relatively sound in
wind and body all these years certainly speaks well of my reflexes, if not my intelligence. It was
now going to take all my years of experience to "tract my dear wife from this nasty situation.
Thought was needed, not action and, though it was still early in the day, I cracked out a bottle
of 140 proof Old Thought Provoker and poured a generous amount to lubricate my synapses.
With the first sip came the realization that the boys would have to be in on this one.
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Angelina and I, doting parents, had labored to shield them from the cruel facts of the world, but
that time was over. Their graduation from school was still a few days away, but I was sure that
this could be accelerated with the correct persuasion in the proper quarters. Strange to think
they were almost out of their teens already; how the years slip by. Their mother--Angelina, my
kidnapped treasure!--was as beautiful as ever. As for myself, I may be older but I am no wiser.
The gray in my hair has not affected the lust for gold in my heart.
I did not waste a moment as I mumbled to myself nostalgically. Throwing on my clothes, kicking
on my boots, stowing away about my person a number of lethal and technological devices, I dropped
into the garage even as I closed the last closure. My bright red Firebom 8000 exploded into the
drive as the door snapped open and hurtled down the road, scattering the dull citizens of the
peaceful planet of Blodgett in all directions. The only reason we had settled on this bucolic
world was to be near the boys while they were at school. I would be delighted to leave the place
without a backward glance. Not only had it all the boredom of an agricultural planet, it was also
infested by an octopuslike bureaucracy. Since it was centrally located among a number of star
systems, and boasted a salubrious climate, the bureaucrats and League administrators had moved in
to create a secondary economy of government offices. I preferred the farmers.
The farms gave way to trees as I burned down the road, then to the barren rock hills. There
was a chill in the air at this altitude that went with the somber stone cliffs and, when I whisked
around the final turn, the damp morning perfectly matched the rough finish of the high stone wall
ahead. As the spiked portcullis rumbled slowly upward I admired, not for the first time, the
letters hacked into the black slab of steel by the entrance.
DORSKY MILITARY BOARDING SCHOOL
AND PENITENTIARY
That my dear twins had to be incarcerated here! As a father I felt concern; as a citizen I
suppose it was a blessing. What I thought was just good spirits in the lads, the rest of the world
tended to frown upon. Before coming here they had been expelled from a total of 214 schools. Three
of these schools had burned down under mysterious circumstances; another had blown up. I had never
believed that the mass suicide attempt of all the senior masters at another school had anything to
do with my boys; but vicious tongues will wag. In any case they had finally met their match, if
not their master in old Colonel Dorsky. After being forcefully retired from the military he had
opened the school and put his years of service, experience and sadism to work. My boys had
reluctantly gained an education, served their term and in a few days would face the graduating
ceremonies and parole. Only now things would have to be accelerated just a little bit.
As always I reluctantly surrendered my weapons, was Xrayed and spy-beamed, locked through the
multiple automatic doors and released into the inner quad. Dispirited figures shuffled by, beaten
down by the school's foolproof and escapeproof system. But there ahead, crossing the ferroconcrete
artificial grass, were two upright and brisk figures, unbent by any despair. I whistled shrilly
and they dropped their books and ran up to greet me warmly. After which I rose Slowly to my feet
and dusted myself off-then proved that an old dog can still teach the pups a trick or two. They
laughed as they rubbed their sore spots and stood up again. They were a bit shorter than I was,
taking after their mother there, but soundly muscled and handsome as gods. Many a girl's father
would be out buying a shotgun after they were released from school.
"What was that bit with the arm and elbow, Dad?" James asked.
"Explanations can wait. I am here to accelerate your graduation because something not too nice
has happened to your mother."
Their grins vanished on the instant and they leaned forward alertly, drinking in every word as
I explained what I had seen, nodding in agreement.
"Right, then," Bolivar said, "We go stir up old Dirty Dorsky and get out of here. . ."
". . . and do something about it," James added, finishing the sentence. They did this often,
many times thinking as one.
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We marched. In step, at a good doubletime of 120 paces to the minute. Through the great hall
and past all the skeletons in chains, up the main staircase, splashing through the water running
constantly down it, and into the Head's office.
"You can't go in there," his secretary-bodyguard said, surging to his feet, 200 kilos of
trained fighting flesh. We scarcely slowed and only broke step going over his unconscious body.
Dorsky looked up growling when we came through the door, gun ready in his fist.
"Put it away," I told him. "It is an emergency and I have come for my sons a few days early.
Would you be so kind as to give them their graduation certificates and expiration of term-served
papers."
"Go to hell. No exceptions. Get out of here," he suggested.
I smiled at the unswerving gun and decided that explanation would be more fruitful than
violence.
"This is a bit of an emergency. My wife, the boys' mother, was arrested this morning and taken
away."
"It was due to happen. You lead undisciplined lives. Now get out."
"Listen, you dough-faced, moron-brained, military dinosaur, I came here for neither your
sympathy nor malice. If this was an ordinary arrest the arrestees would have been unconscious soon
after opening the door. Detectives, cops, military police, customs agents, none of those could
stand before the wrath of my sweet Angelina."
"Well?" he said, puzzled, but gun barrel still ready.
"She went along quietly in order to give me time. Time that I will need. Because I checked the
license plate numbers and these thugs were agents for . . ." I took a deep breath, agents for
Interstellar Internal and External Revenue."
"The income tax men," be breathed and his eyes glowed redly. The gun vanished. "James diGriz,
Bolivar diGriz, step forward. Accept these graduation certificates as token of your reluctant
completion of all courses and of time served here. You are now alumni of Dorsky Military Boarding
School and Penitentiary and I hope you will, like the other graduates, remember us with a little
curse before retiring each night. I would shake your hands except my bones are getting brittle and
I am laying off the hand-to-hand combat.
Go forth with your father and join him in the battle against evil and strike a blow for me as
well."
That was all there was to it. A minute later we were out in the sunshine and climbing into the
car. The boys left their childish possessions behind them in the school and entered the world of
adult responsibility.
"They won't hurt Mom, will they?" James asked. "They won't live long if they do," Bolivar
said, and I distinctly heard his teeth grinding together.
"No, of course not. Getting her release will be easy enough, as long as we can get to the
records in time."
"What records?" Bolivar asked. "And why did Dirty Dorsky help so easily? That's not like him."
"It is like him because under that veneer of stupidity, violence and military sadism he is
still roughly human like the rest of us. And like us, he regards the tax man as the natural
enemy."
"I don't understand," James said, then grabbed the handhold as we snarled around a tight bend
just a micrometer from the edge of the vertical drop.
"Unhappily you will," I told him. "Your lives have been sheltered up until now, in that you
have been spending but not earning. Soon you will be earning like the rest of us and, with the
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arrival of your first credit, sweat of your palms and brow, the tax man will arrive as well.
Swooping in ever smaller circles, screaming shrilly, until he perches on your shoulder and with
yellow beak bites most of the money from your grasp."
"You sure turn a nice simile, Dad."
"It's true, it's true," I muttered, swinging into the motorway and roaring into the fast lane.
"Big government means big bureaucracy which means big taxes; there seems to be no way out of it.
Once you're involved in the system you are trapped, and you end by paying more and more taxes.
Your mother and I have a little nest egg put aside for investing for your future. Money earned
before you lads were born."
"Money stolen before we were born," Bolivar said. "Profits from illegal operations on a dozen
worlds."
"We didn't!"
"You did, Dad," James said. "We broke into enough files and records to find out just where all
the money came from."
"Those days are behind us!"
"We hope not!" both boys said in unison. "What would the galaxy be like without a few
stainless steel rats to stir them up. We have heard your bedtime lectures about how bank robbery
helps the economy. It gives the bored police something to do, the newspapers something to print,
the population something to read about, the insurers something to pay off. It is a boost to the
economy and keeps the money in circulation. It is the work of a philanthropist."
"No! I did not raise my boys to be crooks."
"You didn't?"
"Well, maybe to be good crooks. To take only from those who can afford it, to injure no one,
to be kind, courteous, friendly and irreverent. To be crooked just long enough to be enlisted in
the Special Corps where you can serve mankind best by tracking down the real crooks."
"And the real crooks we are tracking down now?"
"The income tax people! As long as your mother and I were stealing money and spending it there
were no problems. But as soon as we took our hard-earned salaries in the Corps and invested them
we ran afoul of the tax people. We made a few minor bookkeeping errors. . ."
"Like not reporting any of your profits?" James asked innocently.
"Yes, that's the sort of thing. By hindsight it was rather foolish. We should have gone back
to robbing banks. So now we are enmeshed in their coils, playing their games, getting involved in
court actions, audits, lawyers, fines, jail terms--the whole mess. There is only one answer, one
final solution. That is why your mother went away calmly with these financial vampires. To leave
me free to cut the Gordian knot and get us out of this mess."
"What will we have to do?" they asked in eager unison.
"Destroy all of our tax records in their files, that's what. And end up broke--but free and
happy."
TWO
We sat in the darkened car and I nibbled nervously at my fingernails. "It's no good," I said
at last. "I am racked with guilt. I cannot steer two innocents into a life of crime."
There were snorts, indicating strong emotions of some kind, from the back seat. Then the doors
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were hurled open and slammed shut again just as quickly and I looked up in shocked surprise as
they both stamped away down the night-filled street. Had I driven them away? Would they attempt to
do the job on their own and bungle it? What disasters lay ahead? I was fumbling with the door
handle, trying to make my mind up, when the footsteps grew louder again, returning. I stepped out
to meet them when they came back, faces, grim and empty of humor.
"My name is James," James said, "and this is my brother, Bolivar. We are adults under law
having passed the age of eighteen. We can legally drink, smoke, curse and chase girls. We can
also, if we choose, decide to break any law or laws of any planet knowing full well that if we are
caught in crime we will have to pay the penalty. We have heard a rumor from a relative that you,
crooked Slippery Jim, are about to break the law in a singularly good cause and we want to sign up
for the job. What do you say, Dad?"
What could I say? Was that a lump in the old rat's throat, a tear forming in his rodent eye? I
hoped not; emotion and crime do not mix.
"Right," I snapped, in my best imitation of a drill sergeant with piles. "You're enlisted.
Follow instructions, ask questions only if the instructions are unclear, otherwise do what I do,
do what I say. Agreed?"
"Agreed!" they chorused.
"Then put these items into your pockets. They are bits of equipment which are sure to come in
handy. Are you wearing your fingerprint gloves?" They raised their hands which glistened slightly
in the streetlamp light. "Good. You will be happy to hear that you will be leaving the prints of
the mayor of this city, as well as those of the chief of police. That should add a note of
interest to an otherwise confusing situation. Now, do you know where we are going? Of course not.
It's a large building around the comer which you cannot see from here. The area HQ of the IIER,
Interstellar Internal and External Revenue. In there are records of all their larcenous endeavors
. .
"You mean yours, don't you, Dad?"
"Larceny is in the eye of the beholder, my sons. They take a dim view of my activities, while
I in tam look with loathing on their taking ways. Tonight we attempt to even the score. We do not
approach the IIER building directly because it has many defenses since they know they are unloved.
Instead we enter the building around this comer which, not by chance have I selected it, has a
rear that adjoins our target building."
We walked while I talked and both boys recoiled a bit at the lights and crowds ahead. Sirens
screamed as official black groundcars drew up, television cameras churned away, searchlights
fanned across the sky. I smiled at their hesitation and patted their back as we walked.
"Now isn't that a lovely diversion? Who would consider breaking and entering in a setting like
this? The opening night, the premier performance of the new opera Cohoneighs in the Fire."
"But we'll need tickets . . ."
"Bought from a scalper this afternoon at outrageous prices. Here we go."
We pushed through the crowd, surrendered our tickets, then made our way from here, not that I
had any intention of listening to the bucolic mooing and lowing in any case. There were other
advantages to the top of the building. We went to the bar first and I had a refreshing beer and
was cheered to see that the lads ordered only nonalcoholic drinks. I was not so elated at other of
their activities. Leaning close to Bolivar I took his arm lightly-then clamped down a tight index
finger on the nerve that paralyzed his hand.
"Exceedingly naughty," I said as the diamond bracelet fell to the carpet from his numb
fingers. I tapped an exceedingly porcine woman on the shoulder and pointed it out when she turned.
"I beg your pardon, madam. But did that bracelet slip from your wrist? It did? No, let me. No, my
pleasure indeed, thank you, and may he bless you as well for all eternity." I then turned about
and slipped a steely gaze into James's ribs. He raised his hands in the sign of peace.
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"I get the message, Dad. Sorry. Just keeping in practice. For extra practice I put the wallet
back in the gent's pocket as soon as I saw Bolivar rubbing his numb arm."
"That's fine. But no more. We are on a serious mission tonight and want no petty crime to
jeopardize our position. There, that's the last buzzer. Down drinks and away we go."
"To our seats?"
"Definitely not. To the gents."
We each occupied a cubicle, standing on the seats so our legs would not reveal our occupation
of the premises, and waited until all the footsteps had retreated and the last receptacle had been
flushed. We waited even longer until the first waiting notes of the opera assaulted our ears. The
rush of running water had been far more musical.
"Here we go," I said, and we did.
A wet eye on the end of a damp tendril watched them leave. The tendril projected from the
waste basket. The tendril was attached to a body that belonged in the wastebasket--or even more
loathsome surroundings. It was bumpy, gnarled, ugly, clawed. Not nice.
"You seem to know your way around here pretty well," Bolivar said as we went through a locked
door marked "Private," and along a dank corridor.
"When I bought the tickets this afternoon I let myself in and ran a quick survey. Here we
are."
I let the lads disconnect the burglar alarms themselves, good practice, and was chuffed to see
that they needed no instruction. They even put a few drops of friction-freer in the tracks before
slipping the window silently open. We gazed out into the night at the dark form of a building a
good five meters away.
"Is that it?" Bolivar asked.
"If it is--how do we get there?" James said.
"It is--and this is how." I slipped the gunlike object from my inside pocket and held it up by
the looped and heavy handle. "It has no name since I designed and made it myself. When the trigger
is pulled this projectile--shaped like a tiny plumber's friend--is hurled forth with great
velocity. It trails behind a thin strand of almost unbreakable monomolecular filament. What
happens then, you might ask, and I will be happy to tell. The shock of firing switches on a
massive-charge battery in the projectile that expends all of its power in fifteen seconds. But
during that time a magnetic field is created here on the projectile's tip that has enough gauss to
hold up a thousand-kilo load. Simple, isn't it?"
"Are you sure you're not simple, Dad?" Bolivar asked, worried. "How can you be sure of hitting
a piece of steel in the dark with that thing?"
"For two reasons, oh scoffing son. I discovered earlier today that each story of that building
has a steel cornice over a steel beam. Secondly, with a magnetic field that strong it is hard to
keep this thing away from any steel or iron. It turns as it goes and seeks its own nesting place.
James, you have the climbing line? Good. Fasten one end to that sturdy-looking pipe, securely mind
you since it is a long drop. That's it, let me have the other end. You are both now wearing your
gloves with the armored palms? Capital. It will do your muscles good to swing across this
bottomless chasm. I'll secure the line and twitch it three times when it is ready for you to
cross. Here we go." I raised the vital piece of gadgetry.
"Good luck," they said as one.
"Thank you. The sentiment is appreciated, but not the idea. Stainless steel rats in the
concrete wainscotting of society must make their own luck."
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Cheered by my own philosophy I pulled the trigger. The projectile zinged away and found a
nesting place with an audible splat. I pressed the button that drew the monofilament tight-then
dived headlong through the open window. Fifteen seconds is not a long time. I bent and extended my
legs and started to spin and cursed and hit all at the same moment. All of the impact came on one
leg and, if it were not broken, it certainly wasn't feeling too good. This had not happened during
the times I had practiced this maneuver at home. And the seconds were clicking away quite fast
while I hung there numbly and swung about.
The nonfunctioning leg had to be ignored, hurt as it did. I tapped with my good leg and found
the top of the window frame off to the left. I kicked out so I swung in that direction, letting
out some line at the same time. This swung me out and brought me back in line with the windowwhich
I hit with my good foot with all my weight behind it.
Nothing happened, of course, since window glass is pretty tough stuff these days. But my foot
found the windowsill and struggled for a purchase as my scrabbling fingers sought a grip on the
frame. At which precise instant the magnetic field released and I was on my own.
It was a sticky moment. I was holding myself in place by three fingertips and one insecurely
planted toe-tip. My other leg dangled limply like an old salami. Below me was a black drop to sure
death.
"Doing all right, Dad?" one of the boys whispered from behind me.
I must say it took a certain amount of internal discipline to control the rush of answers that
surged to my lips; boys should not hear that sort of language from a parent. With an effort I
contained the words and strangled out something that sounded like fizzlesloop while I fought for
balance. I succeeded, though my fingers were growing tired already. With careful patience I
clipped the now-defunct gadget to my waist and wriggled my fingers into the pocket that held the
glasscutter.
This was no time for subtlety or sloth. Normally I would have applied the suction cup, cut out
a small section of glass, lifted it free, opened the latch, etc. Not now. One quick whip of my arm
delineated a rough circle and, in a continuation of the same motion, I made a fist and punched the
circle hard. It fell into the room, I burled the glasscutter after it-and reached in and grabbed
the frame.
The glass hit the floor with a loud clang just as my toes slipped off the sill. I hung,
dangling from one hand, trying to ignore the sharp edge of glass cutting into my arm. Then, ever
so slowly, I bent my arm in a one-armed pullup--oh advantage of constant exercise--until, I could
reach in with my other hand for a more secure grip.
After this it was a piece of cake, though the blood on my arm tended to interfere with
arrangements. Getting my foot back on the windowsill, unlocking and opening the window--after
disconnecting the burglar alarm--sliding through to drop, quite limply, onto the floor.
"I think I'm getting a little old for this sort of thing," I muttered darkly to myself once my
breath had returned. All was silent. The falling of the glass, loud though it had been to me, had
apparently gone unheard in the empty building. To work. There was only silence now from the boys--
that was professional, but I knew they would be worried. With my pinlight I found a secure anchor
for the line, tied it and drew it tight, then twanged it soundly three times.
They were across in seconds.
"You had us worried," one of them understated.
"I had me worried! One of you take this light and a medpak and see if you can do something
about this cut on my arm. Blood is evidence as you well know."
The slashes were superficial and soon bandaged; my numb leg hurt a good deal but was coming to
life. I dragged it around in circles until some function was restored.
"That's it," I finally announced. "Now for the fun part."
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I led the way out of the room and down the dark corridor, walking fast in an attempt to get
normal operation back into the leg. The boys fell a bit behind so that I was a good three meters
ahead of them when I turned the comer. So they were still concealed when the amplified voice
roared out.
"Stay where you are, diGriz. You are under arrest!"
THREE
Life is full of little moments like this--or at least my life is. I can hardly speak for
anyone else. They can be disconcerting, annoying, even deadly if one is not prepared for them.
Happily, due to a certain amount of foresight and specialized knowledge, I was prepared for this
one. The blackout-gas grenade in my hand was flying forward while the voice was still yammering
away. It exploded with a flat boom, the black cloud poured out and many people complained angrily.
To give them something else to complain about I flipped a gunfight simulator into the smoke. This
handy device bangs and booms away like a small war, while at the same time ejecting pellets of
laughing gas concentrate in all directions. Sowing a certain amount of confusion I must add. I
turned quietly back to the boys who were frozen in midstride, eyes as wide and staring as poached
eggs. I put finger to lip and waved them back down the corridor out of earshot of the simulated
battle.
"Here is where we part," I said. "And here are the computer programming codes."
Bolivar took them by reflex, then shook his head as though to clear fuzz from his brain. "Dad,
would you tell us . . ."
"Of course. When I had to punch the window out I knew that the sound, as small as it was,
would be picked up by the security alarms. Therefore I switched to plan B, neglecting to tell you
about it in case you might protest. Plan B involves my making a diversion while you two get down
to the computer room and finish this job. Using my Special Corps priorities I managed to get all
the details you will need to get access to the IIER memory files and to wipe them clean. A simple
instruction to the brainless computer will destroy the files of all the individuals for light
years around who are lucky enough to have their last names begin with the letter D. I see myself,
at times, as a
"Dad!"
"I know, I'm sorry, I digress and ramble. After doing that you will also wipe the U and P
files, in case they see some connection between my presence here and the destruction of the
records. The selection of these other two letters is not by chance . . ."
"Since dup is the most insulting word in Blodgett slang."
"Right you are, James, your brain cells are really ticking over tonight. Your task complete,
you will be able to exit from the ground floor by way of one of the windows and mingle with the
crowd without being apprehended. Now isn't that a simple plan?"
"Except for the fact you get arrested it's a grand one," Bolivar said. "We can't let you do
it, Dad."
"You can't stop me--but the sentiment is appreciated. Be sensible, lads. Blood is much easier
to identify than fingerprints, and they have plenty of mine to play with back in that room. So if
I escape now I am a fugitive on the run as soon as they make the analysis--beside the fact that
they have already seen me. In any case, your mother is in prison and I do miss her and look
forward to joining her there. With the tax records destroyed all they can hold me on is breaking
and entering and I can post bail and jump it and we will all leave this planet forever."
"They may not allow bail," James worried.
"In that case your parents will easily crack out of the local crib. Not to worry. Go to your
task and I'll off to mine. Return home afterward and get some steep and I'll be in touch. Begone."
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And, being sensible boys, they went. I returned to battle, pulling on goggles and inserting
nose plugs. I had plenty of grenades-smoke, blackout, lachrymose, regurgitant--the IIR had made me
throw up often enough and I wanted to return the favor--which I strewed about with great
liberality. Someone began firing a gun, pretty stupid considering that he had a better chance of
shooting his own people than of winging me. I waded into the smoke, found him, rendered him
unconscious with sharp blow that would give him a goodsized headache as well, then took the gun
away. It had a full clip of bullets which I emptied into the ceiling.
"You'll never catch Slippery Jim!" I shouted into the noisy darkness, then led my pack of
pecuniary pirates on a merry chase through the large building. I estimated how long it would take
the boys to finish the job, added fifteen minutes as a safety precaution, then gratefully dropped
onto a couch in the director's office, lit one of his cigars and relaxed.
"I surrender, I surrender," I shouted out to my stumbling, crying, puking pursuers, "you are
too smart for me. Just promise that you won't torture me."
They crept in cautiously, their ranks swollen by the local police who had come to see what all
the fun was about, as well as by a squad of combat troops in full battle gear. "All this for
little me," I said, blowing a smoke ring in their direction. "I feel flattered. And I want to make
a statement to the press about how I was kidnapped, brought here unconscious, then frightened and
pursued. I want my lawyer."
Indeed they lacked any sense of humor and I was the only one smiling when I was led away.
There was not too much rough stuff, too many people around for that, as well as the fact that it
really went against the Blodgett personality. The best selling chewing gum on the planet was
called Cud, and they really chewed it. Sirens screamed, cars raced and I was hauled off in irons.
Though not to prison, that was the funny part. We did reach the prison gate but were stopped
at the entrance where there was a lot of shouting and even some fist waving. Then back into the
cars and off again to the town hall where, to my surprise, the manacles were removed before I was
led into the building. I knew something strange was happening when I was pushed through an
unmarked door--with at least one boot toe helping me on my way. The door closed, I brushed my
rumpled clothes, then turned and raised my eyebrows at the familiar figure in the chair behind the
desk.
"What a pleasant surprise," I said. "Been keeping well ... ?"
"I ought to have you shot, diGriz," he snarled.
Inskipp, my boss, head of the Special Corps, probably the man with the single greatest amount
of power in the galaxy. The Special Corps was empowered by the League to keep the interstellar
peace, which it did in exemplary fashion. If not always in the most honest way. It has been said
that you set a thief to catch a thief--and the Corps personified this ideal. At one time, before
joining the Corps, Inskipp had been the biggest crook in the lenticular galaxy; an inspiration to
us all. I am forced to admit that I too had led a less than exemplary life before my forced
conversion to the powers of goodness. An incomplete conversion, as you may have noticed, though I
like to feel that my heart is in the right place. Even if my fingers are not. I took out the blank
pistol that I carried for just such occasions and pressed it to the side of my head.
"If you think I should be shot, great Inskipp, then I can but help you. Goodbye cruel world. .
." I pulled the trigger and it made a satisfactory bang.
"Stop horsing around, diGriz. This is serious."
"It always is with you, whereas I believe that a certain amount of levity aids the digestion.
Let me take that thread from your lapel."
I did, and slipped his cigar case from his pocket at the same time. He was so distracted that
he did not notice this until I lit up and offered him one as well. He snatched the case back.
"I need your help," he said.
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"Of course. Why else would you be here fixing charges and such. Where is my darling Angelina?"
"Out of jail and on the way home to curb your larcenous offspring. The morons on this planet
may not know what has happened to their tax files but I do. However, we will forget that for the
moment since a ship is waiting at the spaceport to take you to Kakalak-two."
"A drab planet circling a dark star. And what will I find at this unpromising location?"
"It's what you won't find that counts. The satellite base there was the site of the biannual
meeting of all planetary chiefs of staff of the League Navy. . ."
"You said was with a certain amount of accentuation. Should I believe. . . ?"
"You should. They have vanished without a trace. So has the satellite. We haven't the
slightest idea of what happened to them."
"Will they be missed? I should think that a certain amount of jubilation will be beard below
decks--"
"Save the humor, diGriz. If the press gets ahold of this just think of the political
repercussions. Not to mention the disorganized state of our defenses."
"That shouldn't worry you too much. I don't see any intergalactic warfare looming on the
horizon just now. In any case--let me call home with a censored version of this information and
off we go."
Behind the air intake in the wall the creature hung, supported by sucker-equipped tentacles.
It blinked large green eyes in the darkness and made muffled chomping sounds as it worked its
needle sharp red teeth against its bony palate. It stank, too.
"There is something fishy here, Slippery Jim, and I don't like it," my Angelina said, eyes
flashing fire from the viewplate. How I loved her fire.
"Never, my sweet!" I lied. "A sudden assignment, that's all. A few days' work. I'll be back as
soon as it is done. Now that the boys have graduated you must get out the old travel brochures and
find a nice spot for us all to go for a holiday."
"I'm glad you mentioned the boys. They slunk in a few minutes ago all bashed and dirty and
tired and would not say a word as to what had happened."
"They will. Tell them Dad says All Operations Go and they should tell you the entire story of
our evening's interesting adventures. See you soon, my sweet!" I blew her a kiss and switched off
before she could protest again. By the time she had heard of the night's nonsense I would be off
planet and finishing this intriguing new assignment. Not that I cared much what happened to a few
hundred admirals, but the mechanics of their disappearance should prove interesting.
It did. As soon as we were en route to Kakalak-two I cracked open the file, poured a large
glass of Syrian Panther Sweat, a guaranteed coronary in every bottle, and sat down for a good
read. I did this slowly, then a second time a little faster--then a third just to hit the high
points. When I dropped the folder I saw that Inskipp was seated across from me, glaring, chewing
his lip, tapping his fingers on the table and swinging his toe up and down
"Nervous?" I asked. "Try a glass of this--"
"Shut up! Just tell me what you think, what you've found out."
"I've found out that we are going to the wrong place, for openers. Change course for Special
Corps Main Station so I can have a chat with my old friend, Professor Coypu."
"But the investigation--"
"Will accomplish nothing on the spot." I tapped the file. "It's all been done already. All of
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