The Stainless Steel Rat Returns

by Harry Harrison

  “Inskipp. And he has a job for you that is already terribly long overdue.”

  “Oh reader of minds—it is true.” I looked at the mighty burden of packages she had bought. “But let us first celebrate! This is going to be the mother of all parties.”

  “Indeed it will.”

  I REMEMBER THE OPENING OF the evening’s festivities, the many toasts, the magnificent meal, the many toasts, singing strange songs along with an off-key chorus, the many toasts . . . But the ending of the party is, for some reason, quite blurred.

  When I struggled awake—lip smacking with a bone dry mouth—I had just enough energy in one feeble finger to press the dispenser button on the headboard of the bed. Managed to catch the Back From the Brink pill before it rolled onto the floor. Washed it down with a liter of water. Lay there until the vibrations stopped. Opened one undoubtedly bloodshot eye as Angelina appeared in the doorway.

  “Quite a party,” she said. “Enjoyed by all. Including the porcuswine—who managed to munch their way through a ton of mangle-wurzels. Coffee?”

  “Yes nurse . . .” I rasped hoarsely as I struggled to sit up.

  “The captain would like to see you on the bridge. As soon as you are fit.”

  “More coffee first, if you please.”

  As soon as it looked as though I would live, Angelina relayed another invitation. This one much more dubious than the last.

  “I have been talking with the ladies—who would like to see us both.”

  “No men?” Hopefully.

  “Well, just a few of them.”

  I didn’t have to guess who would be heading the male posse. “After I meet with the captain.” Putting off the inevitable as long as possible.

  Tomas was already on the bridge when I got there.

  “Glass of wine?” the captain asked; he and Tomas had filled glasses before them: a dust-covered bottle of red wine was open and breathing on the plotting table. “There are some excellent, well-aged wines in the satellite cellar here.”

  I sipped, savored, drank more. Just being sociable, of course.

  “I’ve updated my charts from the satellite’s memory bank,” the captain said. “We can get to Mechanistria in five, six Bloats at the most. When we arrive this charter ends. What do you plan to do with this vessel then?”

  I could think of a few snappy answers that could not be spoken in public. I took another drink; excellent wine. Noting my hesitation, he went on.

  “I—and Captain Schleuck here—have a proposal to make.”

  “But before we do that,” Tomas said. “We have to see to the other escaped prisoners, who are planning to return to their home planets.”

  “My organization will take care of their transportation.”

  Inskipp had grumbled over the cost, but in the end had agreed.

  “I won’t be with them,” Tomas said. “I don’t propose to return home. I’ve contacted my union there and they have already transferred my accrued back pay, sick leave and pension funds.”

  “And I have a bit laid by from my ship broker days,” Captain Singh added. “We would like to buy this ship from you. We rather like the old tub—as does Stramm who is ready to sign on as well.”

  “We are going to do scenic old-time tours of pastoral planets in a rustic spacer,” Tomas added. “The retirees and veteran cruise passengers will love it.”

  “You’re on!” I said, raising my glass. “To a happy future for the Bloat Family Tours!”

  “And one thing more,” I said. After we had clinked glasses and drank deep. “The ship is now yours. Prepare the documents of ownership and I will sign.”

  “But payment . . .”

  “None. It’s all yours now. I will get the money back, from my employers, whom I know will be thrilled at the thought.” Or not, as the case may be. I felt no nostalgia, no regrets.

  Just a sensation of immense, overwhelming . . . relief.

  DECORATIVE BUNTING FESTOONED THE WALLS; the tables were heavily laden with cookies and jugs of hard cider. I nibbled the one, eschewed the other. After the captain’s wine I was on the wagon for life. Or at least the rest of the day. I looked around at the bucolic audience and tried to smile; did not quite succeed. The dreaded Elmo rose to a spattering of applause.

  “Ladies and folks, honored guests. Got a few words to say . . .”

  They weren’t a few. Numberless would be a more accurate description. My fragile constitution forgotten, I looked longingly at the hard cider—and restrained myself. A spreading numbness set in and, after a century or two, I heard the welcome words . . .

  “To get to the business of the day, as the feller said. Miz Julia has got something important to tell you.”

  She rose, blushing, nervously smoothing down her apron.

  “I just want to say how much we have to thank Angelina and Jim for. So—thank you ever so much!” We nodded and smiled at the fervent round of applause. It died away when Miz Julia gestured for silence.

  “It ain’t much I know, but our knitting ladies have done this for you, Angelina.”

  She waved one of the knitting ladies forward, who produced a fine, multicolored sweater that she gave to Angelina. More applause—then I realized I was fated to be next when she glanced my way.

  Through a gray haze I tried to do and say all the right things as the hideous knitted thing was passed over. For the first time—and undoubtedly the last—I was happy when Elmo rose to speak again.

  “And we have a little something extra as the feller said. One of the boys—Little Billy—does what he calls scrumpshap”—scrimshaw a dozen voices hissed—“or whatever. Go on Little Billy, show us what you done.”

  Little Billy was one of the hulking weight lifters who had retrieved the collector from Heavyworld. Speechless, he shuffled forward, holding out a box. Managed to squeeze out a few words. “Carved from a boar’s tusk, that’s what.”

  It was a work of art. A fluid image of a porcuswine boar. Delicately done with each quill carefully delineated. My thanks were legitimate, his handshake crushing and numbing at the same time.

  After all this heady excitement I did have a small cider. And fled as soon as possible.

  Angelina joined me later in the bar. Where I was packing up the bottles.

  “I shall miss them,” she said sadly. “Pinky most of all. But you know what they say: get a piglet today, and have a sow tomorrow.” I clunked another bottle into the box and she looked up. “Packing?”

  “Moving. Into the satellite hotel. Captain Singh wants to leave as soon as possible—as I am sure do our passengers as well. Mechanistria will look very welcome after some of the planets we have been on. Peace, security, TV—all the wonders of civilization.”

  “And the porcuswine. How they must yearn for green pastures and open skies.”

  “As do we all.”

  And that was it. After we packed the last bag she left me to supervise the porterbots in our move to the hotel while she went and said her last last good-byes. To Pinky as well, I am sure. I made a final call from our hotel suite to captain and crew.

  “And don’t forget to send me a brochure of your first cruise . . .”

  When the call had ended and the screen went black I emitted a deep and heartfelt sigh. After Angelina returned we went to the satellite lounge, with its immense viewport, and watched our home for so many months as it drifted free. It moved slowly into the distance, turning as it did.

  Long seconds later it was illuminated by a pink glow. There was a familiar, distant Bloat pop. When the glow faded the Porcuswine Express had gone.

  “I shall miss them all,” Angelina said. “Pinky in particular.”

  There was the distant chime of a bell, followed by quick trumpet call from the wall speaker. “Welcome newly arrived customers, welcome,” a synthesized woman’s voice cooed. “The Cactus Lounge is now open for lunch—or dinner—whatever the case may be. Snacks or a whole roast cow—the choice is yours. Plus the finest beverages in the known universe .
. .”

  “Silence,” I ordered.

  “It has been a long time since breakfast,” Angelina said, turning away from the viewport. “Shall we?”

  IF ANGELINA MISSED HER SHIPBOARD friends she never mentioned it. She frequented the Filly’s Beauty Lounge for facials, rubdowns, tail-braiding, hairdos and all the other arcane rituals that women and fillies enjoy. I worked out in the gym, swam many laps in the pool—and did not miss my late incarceration in the spacesty in the slightest. May it have many a successful voyage in its new role as a cruise ship.

  Better them than me.

  Dinner was by candlelight, charmed by soft music from the Bronco-Busters Rodeo Band. Transformed in the evening to Martha’s Musical Maidens. In addition to changing sex, the robots now played sentimental violin music.

  “I think this is wonderful,” Angelina said as we glided across the dance floor.

  “Quite a change from down on the farm,” I added as we executed a fancy bit of footwork.

  But by the time the Special Corps spacer arrived I had had about enough of the robotic pleasures and looked forward to the great outdoors again. But without the green men around to spoil it all.

  “Message from newly arrived vessel for Sire diGriz,” the speaker said. A moment later the smarmy robot voice was replaced by a crisp military one.

  “General Caruthers here.”

  “Welcome aboard, General. Will you join us in suite One Prime One?”

  “On the way.”

  The general was not one to lay about; the entrance bell chimed soon after.

  “Open,” Angelina said as she stepped forward. “Please come in, General.”

  She opened the door and the general came in . . .

  A fake—a trap!

  The general was GREEN!

  Even as this realization churned across my brain I was leaping forward.

  Fingers extended and pointed in the deadly larynx-destroyer blow. Which caused instant death.

  Striking at that loathsome green throat . . .

  Angelina’s neatly extended foot caught me on the ankle—sending me sprawling on the rug. The general stepped back, eluding my snapping fingers. Angelina stood on my hand.

  “Of course I’m green,” he snarled. “Why else do you think I head OOGA?”

  The red haze faded and I dropped, muttering, back into my chair. Nursing my crunched hand.

  Angelina calmed things down. Relieving the general of his case and returning with champagne and glasses on a tray.

  “That was not quite the reception General Caruthers deserved, Jim,” she said as she passed him a glass of bubbly.

  I muttered an apology—and took my glass with my good hand.

  “I can understand your feelings,” the general said. “Now perhaps you can understand the reaction of the Greens when they see a pink face. Pure hatred.”

  “But you seem immune to those feelings,” Angelina said.

  “That is the whole point of the Office of Green Affairs. The incident that caused the green changes, while not common, has happened a number of times in the past. One model of an early spacer atomic engine did emit, under unfortunate circumstances, gamma radiation. A sublethal dose of gamma irradiation causes Chloasma—from the Greek chloazein, to be green. The green skin associated with this condition, Chloasma, occurs due to an increase in melanin, of melanocytes and melanosomes. Usually, the condition is caused by UVB exposure that causes the green skin phenomenon. Unfortunately, due to the unusual effect of the gamma radiation, there is the added consequence that means they will have green skin with early maturity, increased fertility and lowered intelligence. Since gamma radiation can penetrate deeply it also damages the neuromelanin, which is active in the synthesis of monoamine neurotransmitters. This resulted in what you have seen. Hatred as well as a combination of heightened fertility with concomitant lowering of intelligence. But the condition is treatable.”

  “How?” I asked. Cooler and calmer; the champagne helped.

  “The loss of these neurotransmitters is commonly found in advanced Alzheimer’s disease, which is why these unfortunates suffered the loss of intelligence and the increased aggression when the very sensitive neuromelamine-producing cells were killed off by the gamma radiation. So, by injecting into the brain stem cells that have been engineered to turn into neurotransmitter cells, it is possible to restore brain function but leave the harmless green skin intact. The heightened fertility is simply due to the loss of intelligence. Too dumb to think but not too dumb to . . . well, you know what. Once you restore normal intelligence and introduce birth control measures fertility returns to normal.

  “OOGA are peacekeepers. All of us, of course, are green. So there is not the instant hatred that a pink skin would elicit when landing on a newly discovered Green planet. In fact, we are warmly welcomed for the aid that we bring.”

  He drained his glass and put it on the table. Took what looked like a pencil from his pocket and placed it beside the glass. Then I realized that it was a recorder—the eraser on the end the microphone-eye.

  “On,” he said. “Now, I want you to tell me everything you know about this planet. The groups, subgroups, social organization, relations with nongreens—everything.”

  It took a very long time, for the general was a painstaking researcher. The champagne was long gone and I was growing hoarse, before he sat back in his chair.

  “I think it is time we took a break. And I have orders for you.”

  “I’ll get your case,” Angelina said.

  The general took some papers from the case, then passed an envelope to Angelina. “Can you identify this man?” he asked.

  She frowned as she slipped out a photograph—then gasped aloud.

  “It’s Rifuti!”

  “Good,” he said, taking back the photo and putting it away. “We wanted to be absolutely sure. You reported that he was guilty of spacer sabotage. The Special Corps takes a very dim view of this crime. More so when Inskipp saw your name on the report. He was found, arrested, tried—and sentenced to ten years labor. He is in chains aboard my ship. He will serve his time wearing green makeup and helping us in our many tasks.”

  “I wish him all luck,” she said. “Particularly after his prison term is increased after we report more criminal violations.”

  We smiled warmly at the pleasant thought.

  “For you,” he said, extracting an envelope. I had to sign four different receipts before he passed it over.

  I pushed my thumb against the seal. It bleeped after it had read my print—then hissed open.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said, pulling out the sheets of paper.

  “By all means,” he said. “I’m afraid my throat is a bit dry . . .”

  “Of course,” Angelina said, going for a fresh jeroboam.

  It was a quick read. I read it slowly a second time, then settled back into my chair. Angelina gave me an inquiring glance.

  “Interesting,” I said. “Undoubtedly dangerous.”

  “But we’ve been there before,” she said, smiling. “But I’m sure that it beats early retirement.”

  “Oh, it certainly does that!”

  Just how dangerous we were soon to find out.

  WE WERE TRAVELING ON A stripped-down no-frills Special Corps troop transport. We were probably going to have been put in steerage class, but Angelina had a friendly talk with the captain before we unpacked our bags. An unlucky officer volunteered his cabin and vanished belowdecks. I was perfectly happy piling up rack time in the cabin since I had a lot of sleep to catch up on. Plus I needed time for the worst of my bruises to heal. Our last assignment had been a little strenuous—to say the least. I relaxed seriously—while Angelina became the toast of the officers’ mess. She beat them on the pool table and took their money at poker. They loved it and came back for more. I joined her there after a postprandial siesta.

  I still hesitated—if ever so slightly—at being among all the smiling green faces. But it was good acclimatization
for the planet.

  “I talked to the captain,” I told Angelina. “We are due to land tomorrow morning. At six bells in the morning watch.”

  “What do you think that means?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest. I think he has been reading too many historical novels.”

  “Be nice to breathe fresh air again.” She held her hand up and looked at her fingernails. “I think I had better do my nails.”

  She waved good-bye at the troops, while I ordered a ship’s rum—a beverage I was increasingly quite drawn to. As I sipped I was joined by a green-skinned officer.

  “I’m Major Bond. Jim Bond.”

  “We share a first name.”

  “I’m to be your guide. I’ll have a squad with me.”

  “Guides . . . or bodyguards?”

  “A little of both. There are still a few Pinkies on the Green parts of the planet. So we have to be careful. Emotions run deep.”

  “Sit. Rum?”

  “Yes indeed. I’m still off duty.”

  “Have you been to Salvation before?”

  “This is my second tour. It will be a fine planet once the new mutation proportion increases.”

  “Good luck. Have you ever had anything to do with the . . . Pinkies there?”

  “I was liaison officer with one of the larger septs. Nice people. It is all pretty much at peace now. They are more than happy to stay away from the Greens. We have established separation zones to make sure they don’t meet. Some fences, but mostly electronic detectors to assure that it stays that way.”

  “I’m looking for one group—one hunter in particular.”

  “Go to the Bureau of Pink Indigenous Affairs. They have complete records of all the groups. I don’t deal with them anymore. I’m with FAN now—Food and Nutrition. We establish eating stations and train people to go there at the correct time. Instead of the old fight and feed way.”

  “That’s a big job.”

  “It’s a big planet. Population is now steady at a little over four million. That will go down steadily as the birth control management kicks in. Each year it will be a little better. Particularly after the average IQ rises.”