Then all be well!” She exclaimed in an abrupt change of mood. “We look to you Kirpal for salvation.”
“I am deadly in financial dealings, Angelina! We Sikhs are a warrior race.”
“That explains the turban. I assume that you have your dagger and iron bangle?”
“I do, wise lady.” He lifted his cuff a bit; metal gleamed. Then tapped his ankle. “You are indeed a student of ancient religions and customs.”
My Angelina never ceases to amaze me.
“We’ll have celebratory bottle of champers while you bring me up to speed,” James said leading the way to the bar. He whistled and their wheeled cases trundled after us.
We clinked glasses and drank. Angelina, ever the pragmatist, outlined our problem while I downed a second glass of morale-raiser. When she was through she sipped daintily from her glass while we all applauded.
“What a worthy cause for a most charitable lady!” Kirpal cried aloud. “Count upon my expert help to save these rural refugees!”
“Which leaves us with only one problem—” she said, glancing at me. I nodded for her to continue, pouring another glass; she was doing fine. “Do we have the financial well-to-do to carry this off?”
“Alas, no,” James said, then held her hand as her brow darkened. “But I am calling in a number of long-term investments that I made for you some years ago. However, even by warpdrive interstellargram this will take a day or two. In the meantime a million credits have been deposited in your account for day-to-day expenses.”
“All’s well that ends well,” I said, and put my glass down. Enough sauce, Jim, this is a time for level heads. “To the spaceport and a showdown with Captain Rifuti.”
We grabbed a cab—I wasn’t using Moolaplenty Motors again if I could help it. We made a brief hotel stop on the way—where a checkinbot was waiting for us at the entrance to the Spaceman’s Paradise. James signed in and passed over their luggage. We drove on and when we reached the Rose of Rifuti’s spacelock we were pleased to discover that a small welcoming committee was there to greet us.
“She was pinein’ for you, Miz Angelina,” Elmo said in his best cap-twisting toe-dragging servile mode. His voice was all but drowned out by Pinky’s joyous squealing. She changed to a happy snurgle when Angelina knelt and gave her a good under-quill scratch. Elmo beamed as he led the way to the messhall.
Which was no longer the messhall. That scruffy nameplate had been replaced by a hand-sewn tapestry that read PARLOR & DINING ROOM in pink letters, surrounded by a floral wreath.
“I made a few improvements while we were waiting for you,” Angelina said. “This—and the rest of the living quarters—were an ecodisaster.” I was barely aware that Kirpal was slipping back down the corridor.
The messhall was no more. Stout farm-hardened arms, soap and water had scrubbed and cleaned so that the floors—and walls—were cleansed and shining. Colorful tablecloths abounded, pillows were on the chairs, while large holopix of prize porcuswine adorned the walls. We were quickly seated with pride at the top table and the air filled with merry cries as we knocked back the jugs of hard cider.
Then, suddenly, a hush fell over the room and joy was replaced by angry mutters. Captain Rifuti was dragged into the room, head lolling and semiconscious, firm in the muscular grip of two stout porcuswineherds. Engineer Stramm followed them, livid with anger. He had a small, fist-sized machine in one hand, a large wrench in the other.
“I caught this criminal messing with my engines. Got him with my spanner and called for help. He was stealing this atomic copraxilater. Cost a fortune—and the ship won’t move without it. Thought you might want to have a word with him.”
“Oh, I do indeed!” I said, dry-washing my hands with a sadistic rustle. “I’ll take over now, thank you. If you kind people will leave us to it, you will have my full report soonest.”
They exited. Each sneering or muttering a curse as they passed the wretched captain, now immobile in James’s firm grip.
As the last farmer left Kirpal entered and locked the door behind him.
“I have inspected this spacegoing slum from stem to stern,” he said warmly, nostrils flaring in anger. “A dump. The owner will have to sell it at a laughable rock-bottom price!”
“Sit, Rifuti!” I ordered as the door clicked shut. “Meet the honorable spaceship broker Kirpal Singh who will now arrange the sale and purchase of this miserable tub at the best price—for us—that is possible.”
“Broke my arm . . .” he complained, holding up his wounded arm and waggling his cast at us. “Hit me on the head too. Got a lawyer, gonna sue!”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I said, leaning over, my voice dripping venom, my breath washing him with hard-cider vapor. He cringed. As well he might. “Mention your arm again and you will be in jail for attempted swinicide, condemned, jailed, labeled a pauper by court order and have everything you own—particularly this ship—taken from you. Do I make myself clear?”
I did. Kirpal had no trouble proceeding with the negotiations at a distant table. The diGriz family clicked glasses, sipped a bit more of the cider, while James brought Angelina up to date on family matters. We were just refilling our glasses when Kirpal joined us, happily brandishing a sheaf of papers.
“Preliminary agreement for you to look at James.”
They muttered, scratched out, rewrote, chuckled.
“You’ll have to find a welcoming planet for our porcuswine friends,” Angelina said.
“The search progresses.” Which was true. I had a search program running on my computer. Searching for a compatible planet that would take this mob. “As soon as I can, I’ll see what the program has turned up.”
“Good. The next question is what do we do with the house while we are away? Put it in stasis store or rent it out?”
I fought down the reflex gurgle and gape, choked out an answer.
“But . . . we’re not going away . . . are we?” A desperate, doomed attempt at an escape.
“Of course we are. We can’t let those sweet creatures travel alone—tended only by simple farmers—to face the troubles and tribulations of a new world. We’ll go along to make sure they are settled in. Make it a holiday—it has been quite a time since we’ve had one.”
Holiday! Squealing, rattling, rutting, groaning, grunting porcuswine forever . . . I had fought so long to leave the farm and the chuntering swine behind me. I was not going back.
“Never!” I cried aloud. “I escaped that life once—I can’t go back!”
“Understandable,” she said coolly, taking a small sip of her drink. “I do share your feelings. Perhaps it is too much of a good thing—like sweet little Pinky.”
I shuddered—did I hear a rustle of quills?!
“But we must see that these people and their charges are settled in. Then, and you have my promise, we will say bye-bye and go on a relaxing holiday.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek.
Disarmed, outfought on all fronts, helpless. I raised the white flag.
“Put the house in stasis. It will be so nice to come home to . . .”
“I agree. Now, how should we pack?”
“Congratulations,” James said. Placing a thick folder of papers on the table before me. “You are now the proud owner of the spacer Rose of Rifuti.”
“Change the name.” I heard myself say as from a great distance.
“To the Porcuswine Express!” Angelina said, and there were cheers of happy agreement. Behind them I saw Rifuti stumbling away; he turned and shook his fist in our direction, then left.
What would the future hold? I had no idea.
But I had some very strong and vile intuitions. Could there be a way to escape this desperate and tragic situation?
I WRIGGLED ON THE HOOK.
“It will not be easy to get this ship ready. It will be impossible here on Moolaplenty to find a qualified captain . . .”
Kirpal smiled widely and white-toothedly at me. “You will be overjoyed, erstwhi
le employer Jim, to hear that I am a qualified and expert spacer pilot. I look forward to taking the helm of this soon-to-be-greatly-improved vessel.”
“But the comm officer quit. Impossible to replace . . .”
“Already done! In my CV you will find my licenses, experiences and so forth as a qualified communications officer.”
By now I was grasping for straws.
“You’ll need a crew—”
“Only by law, as the previous captain showed with his alcoholic layabouts. The ship is fully automated. To satisfy the bureaucrats we can enlist some of your farmers. Sign them on as crew for the records.”
Charming. A spacegoing sty manned by moronic yokels.
“Qualified off-planet spacer inspectors have already been engaged and are on the way here,” Kirpal added before I could think of any more excuses. “Needed repairs will be made soonest.”
“Kirpal and I will handle everything,” James said. “Just do your packing and relax. And be prepared for the trip of a lifetime.”
That’s just what I was afraid of. My head vibrated as my sinaphone began ringing. In a moment of madness I had discarded my pocket phone and had this new gadget implanted in my sinus. Powered by body heat it would operate for decades. But I had to have the ringing tone turned down. Still in shock I muttered on and Angelina’s voice rattled inside my head. “I told everyone the good news and they are all celebrating.” Her voice was almost drowned out by the happy cries, clinking glasses, swinish squealing. “They want to thank you . . .”
“I am overwhelmed but too shy to face them. And I must rush—my computer has reported finding a possible planet for our pilgrims. I have to follow up the lead . . .”
Beating back all protests, I muttered off, indulged in a few moments of whining self-pity.
“Enough, Jim,” I muttered after sadistically enjoying my own misery. I shook myself by my metaphorical neck. “Find the planet, transport these rube relatives and their porcine charges there, bid them all bye-bye and get on with your life. Think how pleasurable this pleasure planet will look upon your return.”
I skulked through the corridors to avoid all contact and endless excuses. Exited and smiled at the guard sergeant’s snappy salute earned by much financial largesse.
Once home I resolutely passed by the bar, entered my study and told the computer to turn on. Then tempered my prohibitionary resolution by getting a cold beer; that would have to do until I found a suitable planet.
I sat, sipped, stared at the screen—and muttered a sibilant curse as the apparently endless names of possible planets scrolled down the screen.
I wrote a quick filtering program to shorten the list. Climate, native population, form of government, average IQ of policemen, death penalty, proportion of incarcerated prisoners to general population, form of government, capitalization of the banking system—must always think of business opportunities—the usual things.
Hours later I straightened up and sighed. The beer had gone flat, thousands of planets had been turned to electrons—only three survived. I yawned and stretched and went for a fresh beer. There was a note on the bar.
“Didn’t want to disturb. See you in a.m. Good luck.”
I blinked at the clock: well past midnight. I hadn’t even heard Angelina come in. I added a single whiskey to the beer, an ancient drink called a boilermaker for reasons lost in the immensity of time. I yawned again.
My synapses sizzling with the stimulation, I went back to work. Two more planets fell. I hit a key and the lone survivor expanded to fill the screen.
MECHANISTRIA
As soon as I did this sweet music filled the air. When I had accessed the planetary website an expensive, powerful message had punched right through my spam filters. An incredibly beautiful and underdressed girl smiled out of the screen and pointed a sweet finger in my direction.
“I want you . . .” she breathed salaciously. “If you are a farmer, or employed in the agricultural or food supply trade, then Mechanistria could be your new home. Let me explain . . .”
Music enthused, the girl faded to be replaced by smiling workers laboring at mighty machines as she explained in a lilting voice-over.
“Our happy workers are joyful in their labors for they know that work will make them free. We build and export vehicles and machines of all kinds to many planets in the nearby star systems.”
Fading shots of planes, cars, engines, pimple removers, elevators, goatmobiles, machines beyond number marched across the screen. This changed in an instant as the music clashed, the machines vanished to be replaced by workers sitting down for a meal, smiling as they forked up their chow—and then stopping in mid-bite. They then stared and overacted horror at the food on their plates as drums rolled—then stopped. They froze and a male voice, oozing with distaste spoke.
“Yet we are being cheated, starved, taken advantage of. The planets who supply our food have joined together in a cabal of evil! They have raised their prices in unison and lowered the quality of their produce. To put it bluntly—we are being shafted! Our founding fathers were so busy building an enterprising planet that they neglected to provide self-sufficient planetary produce. But no more!”
An exuberant voice-over of scenes of laughing, jolly farmers, happy farm beasts, smoked hams, ripening crops and laden tables. “Our new policy is to encourage agriculturists of all kinds to come here to aid us in making ours a new and fruitful world! All expenses will be paid, as well as large bonuses, farm buildings, resettlement allowances, free medicare, free life insurances, cradle to grave . . .”
There was more like this, but I had seen enough. This was it!
In my enthusiasm I swallowed the rest of my drink too hastily and coughed until tears filled my eyes. Swept them away with the back of my hand and went to pour some Old Cough Killer.
I was saved! I sipped my poisonous potion and radiated sheer happiness. I could hear little trotters thundering down the gangways into the shining future. Hypocritical good-byes, a few tears shed, hosing out the decks—then up, up and away . . .
My pleasant dreams faded as I realized that my arm was being gently patted. I opened a gummy eye to see a smiling Angelina standing over me.
“Time to wake up. I’ve put the coffee on.”
Sunlight streamed in through the windows. My neck hurt where I crunched it when I had slipped down in the chair.
“Good news . . .” I croaked, then coughed hoarsely.
“Save it until you are more lifelike,” she cozened.
Good advice. I staggered into the shower room, hurled my clothes in the direction of the laundrybot—which snatched them out of the air—and dived into the shower, which inundated me as sweet music filled the air.
Washed, scrubbed, depilated, refreshed—I sat at the table and sipped at my coffee.
“Good news?” Angelina asked, raising one quizzical eyebrow.
“The best. I have found the planet of choice, a world that will welcome us with open arms, settle our friends, aid them and provide them with all the necessities for a happy future.”
“Named . . . ?”
“Mechanistria. Just enter that into the computer, then sit back and be enthralled.”
While she did that I whistled at the stove, gave it my order and tucked into an ample breakfast the instant it slid steaming onto the table before me.
“Just for a change you didn’t lie or exaggerate,” Angelina said entering the room with an armful of brochures from the printout. I was in too good a mood to defend this mild attack on my veracity and only smiled as I munched a mouthful. She sighed.
“I will be sorry to see them go, but it will be for their own benefit in the long run.”
Sorry! I choked, gurgled, drank some coffee, smiled, spoke.
“See—it all came right in the end!”
I MUST SAY THAT OUR good captain Kirpal organized our departure with military precision. For two days he did not appear to sleep as he goaded the laboring technicians into frenzied activity.
Loads of equipment arrived and were seized by eager hands. Without being asked he had torn out a number of cabins and had rebuilt them as a luxury suite for Angelina and me—complete with adjacent barroom. Welding sparks flew high, drills roared, hammers clanged, porcuswine squealed in angry answer. We went home to pack and I resorted to drink. I was not charmed by the thought of our coming flight. Moolaplenty had never looked better. I raised my glass at the thought of its myriad soon-to-vanish delights.
For all too quickly I would soon be many moons away from its warm embrace. I drank deeply to fond memories. Relaxed, muttered, dozed and sipped some more as darkness descended.
An indefinite period of time later, I awoke to find Angelina grasping my nose. I opened my mouth to register my protest and she popped a sizable pill into it. Followed by a healthy glug of water. I gasped, recoiled, vibrated like a strummed string on a bass viol as smoke trickled from my ears. I shuddered and writhed as the Sobering Effect pill had its sobering effect.
“Did you have to do that?” I croaked.
“Yes. I have been informed that the departure celebration on the ship is winding down and takeoff is scheduled to take place as soon as we arrive. We leave.”
We left. The front door crunched tight behind us as a stasis field sealed it into place. Our chauffeur saluted as he held the limo door open for us. Efficiency ruled as well at the spaceport. We admired the polished and rust-free Porcuswine Express as it shone in the sunlight. As we approached it the elevator came down and James stepped off waving cheerfully.
“Have a great trip to your porcuswine paradise. I’ll expect glowing reports.”
His mother embraced him; his father exchanged hearty handshakes. Then we waved cheerful good-byes as he vanished into the sunset. I turned back, concealing a quavering sigh, to our interstellar sty. We stepped aboard the access gantry and the elevator bore us swiftly towards what, I am sure, would be an interesting future. The airlock door hummed behind us and closed.
“Positions for takeoff, please. Three minutes to go.”
The Stainless Steel Rat Returns Page 4