Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns

by Harry Harrison

  Once back inside with my helmet off I downed a liter of water with almost a single glug.

  “There is only one thing we can do,” Stramm said as he pulled out the suit’s absorption pack and put in a dry one.

  “Drill?”

  “Right. Locate the site of the melted instrumentation. Seal the compartment. Drill out through the hull and put in new cabling. Reseal and install the equipment from the outside.”

  “A big job.”

  “I’ll find out from the captain the minimum instrumentation that he needs.”

  I finished the water and sighed. “Let’s get going.”

  After three days of singularly long and hard work, the electronic and ocular pickups were in place. Along with a broadband aerial that would have to handle all communication. I had slept very well indeed and ached in a number of spots that had never ached before. When everything had been installed and inspected, I crawled out of the spacesuit for the last time. Angelina helped me open the last clamps and a frosted glass was waiting when I emerged.

  “The captain asked me to relay his thanks,” she said. “And invites you to the bridge to take a look at our target destination.”

  “Let’s go!” I said. I didn’t want to ruin this happy moment by saying that I hoped all the labor had been worth it. We climbed the stairs to the bridge and were joined by Pinky who squealed greetings. Which probably meant feed me in porcuswinese.

  We looked on as the captain ran a stellar scan, modified it, then put the software to work identifying the location.

  “Not good,” he said. “It appears that we have hit an unrecorded sector of the local galaxy. It is so empty of stars that apparently it was skipped by all the earlier stellar scans.”

  “So what we see is what we get,” I said. “We either take a look at this one star—or make another Bloat.”

  “Correct,” the captain said. “Since we are in close proximity I suggest we expend a few more gravitons and get close enough to make a spectral analysis. That will tell us if it is worth the expenditure to examine any planets that we find more closely.”

  “Do it,” Angelina said. And we all agreed.

  It was a short Bloat and a successful scan.

  “Four planets. One with an orbit that is just one astronomical unit from the primary.”

  “Habitable location?” I asked.

  “Very. And I am detecting what could be very weak radio signals.”

  “Worth a look,” Stramm said; no objections were raised. “May I make a suggestion?” he added.

  “Of course,” the captain said.

  “We are short of gravitons, but not of reaction mass. Which grows by the day. At an acceleration of one G it won’t take us long to get within radio contact.”

  The captain looked at me. “Let’s do it.” I said. “The ship will be all the better for large evacuation of reaction mass.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Boss Jim and Crew to the bridge.”

  The captain was actually smiling as well, as he pointed to the figures displayed beside the planet’s disk, enlarging and glowing in the center of the screen

  “Most satisfactory,” he said. “Habitable, oxygen atmosphere. And it gets better. Figures flowed down the screen, mostly colored amber or gray. Then one set of numbers turned green and a distant buzzer sounded.

  “Amplify,” the captain said.

  “Habitable planet. Gravity one point zero three . . .” There were more specifications to which he nodded happily. “Now look—and listen to this.”

  He touched the controls and a new window opened on the screen, with a grainy, out-of-focus TV image of a weather map with a rasping voice-over.

  “Light rain moving in from the east into the area. It will clear by morning and be another sunny day for all you folk enjoying the Founder’s Day holiday . . .”

  We broke into hearty cheers and pummeled one another on the back.

  “Good news I gather?” Angelina said as she entered the bridge.

  “Party!” I said. “Time to celebrate.

  “Shouldn’t that wait until we see just what is down there?” Angelina suggested, ever the practical one.

  “I have a suggestion,” the captain said. “We are close enough now so that it will take nominal gravitons for an approach Bloat. It will save us many days of deceleration . . .”

  “Do it!” I said to happy nodded agreement. “If they have TV they almost certainly will have interstellar communication . . .”

  “Can we be sure . . .” Angelina said.

  “No, but I feel it’s worth the chance.”

  No one disagreed. It had been a long trip.

  It was a quick Bloat. The few stars drifted across the screen and the blue dot of a planet centered on the screen, then grew quickly into a cloud-bright world. The captain worked at the controls.

  “Getting more TV and better radio signals now . . . I’ll see if I can amplify them.”

  Static crackled, then dim voices could be heard—just as clear images appeared on the TV screens—most of them were talking heads.

  “. . . tell me Pyotr—why does a turkey cross the road?”

  “Don’t know, Vassily. Why does a turkey . . .”

  The heads swam into focus. Two men in funny hats, wearing clown makeup. The channel changed to a nature program with screen-filling volcanoes belching flames.

  “Elmo and his TV-watching friends will be right at home,” I said. “See if you can find some music.”

  The captain obliged and eventually found a not-too-new jazz concert that would surely please the viewers belowdecks.

  “Considering the contents of their TV, I have to agree with Jim. They must be in touch with off-planet broadcasts,” Angelina wisely said.

  I looked around at the others. “I’m for making contact with these people. Agreed?”

  There was a concerted nodding of heads. I went and sat down at the ship-to-planet communication console. “Are we close enough for our signal to reach the surface receivers?” I asked.

  “Well within range,” the captain said. “Power on.”

  “Just a moment,” Stramm said. “There is one thing that we have to consider first.” There was a sudden silence as all eyes were on him.

  “What?” I asked.

  “We can land all right, but how do we get out of the ship? One at a time through the emergency lock?”

  “Yes, that is a good question,” I said, speaking for us all. “How do we get out?”

  “Quite simple, really. But we can’t do it while we are in space, which is why I didn’t mention it before this. We will have to unseal the lower port, so we can lower the ramp. This can only be done when there is normal pressure outside the hull. Then we open the inner door. Use the override so both doors can be opened at the same time. Then we cut our way out. Burn away the outer seal, which was welded shut by the nova blast.”

  “It will require extensive repairs if you do that,” the captain said, worried about the integrity of his ship’s hull. Stramm nodded.

  “It will. But it must be done. And I’ll fit a new seal as soon as possible. We’ll do it—unless anyone can think of a better plan?”

  Only silence followed, since this was obviously the only way to go.

  “Let me see what kind of reception we will have,” I said. “Then we’ll worry about the next step.”

  I turned to the transmitter that was already set to the ship-to-ground frequency that all planets used. I thumbed on the microphone.

  “Spaceship Porcuswine Express now in orbit. Can you read me? Over.”

  I repeated this message twice before I had any response. I just hoped it would be a little more friendly than the ground-to-air missile of our last encounter. The speaker crackled, a distorted image flowed across the screen—then steadied as the control circuitry sorted it out. A white-uniformed man with pleasant dark-skinned features swam into focus.

  “Southampton Spaceport here. I read you loud and clear. Over.”

 
“Hello Southampton. Seeking permission to make landing.”

  “Hold your altitude and orbit, spacer. Am contacting health officials.”

  “Roger that. Some information, please. You’re not in our planetary ephemeris. Could I ask—who are you?” My contact laughed out loud.

  “You need to update your files, orbiting spacer. You’ll find the corrected listing under United States of England. President Churchill. This is an elective democracy on the British Continent—the only habitable landmass on the planet.” He looked off-camera and nodded his head. “Yes, sir.” He turned back. “I’m putting you through to Admiral Soumerez, Port Commander.”

  The screen flickered and rolled, then swam into focus. A sturdy gray-haired man in uniform, sitting behind a desk taking some papers from another uniform. They had interesting pigmentation—pink skin on the admiral, sallow yellow on his aide. Who exited as the admiral looked up.

  “You wish to land here?”

  “We certainly do.”

  “Do you have medical clearance records from your last port of call?”

  I looked over at the captain who nodded.

  “I have them to hand.”

  “Good.” A number appeared on the screen beside him. “That is the radio frequency of the spaceport. It will also guide you to the quarantine landing area. A medical inspection team will be waiting.”

  “They are going to have to wait a bit. We were hit by a solar flare that sealed our outer locks shut. We will have to cut our way through it after we land.”

  The admiral picked up a sheaf of papers, obviously losing interest in our problems.

  “That’s fine. Open contact again when you have unsealed.” The screen went blank.

  “I have the frequency and landing coordinates,” the captain said. “I’ll do a visual and radar scan of the site. Then we can land.”

  “Can we put a hold on that?” I asked.

  “Of course. But why?”

  “The skin colors of these people—” Angelina said.

  “The lady gets a prize!” I kissed her and she smiled. The crew were simply puzzled.

  “It is a bit of a mystery,” I said. “And I don’t like mysteries.” I had their attention now. I was about to get my own back at the captain and give him a lecture for a change.

  “It is a matter of genetic history that mankind was originally composed of different races. I forget what they were called. But I do remember that there were various physical differences as well. One of which was skin color. Once mankind became integrated most of these differences slowly vanished. But traces still remain. I’ll wager that Captain Singh comes from an isolated community.”

  “I do indeed! A happy refuge surrounded by mostly hostile territory. We Sikhs are proud of our heritage.”

  “As well you should be. You must have a strong and beneficial culture to exist this long. But neither Angelina nor I remember visiting a world where different skin types exist. They should have been bred out centuries ago.”

  The captain was puzzled by all this. “So—how does it affect our course of action? Should we not land here?”

  Now I was troubled. “We don’t want to take another Bloat without at least determining if they have off-planet communication facilities.”

  “We could ask them,” Stramm said.

  “We could, but how could we be sure they were telling the truth?” I was a creature of dark suspicions, which had saved my skin more than once.

  “Let’s land,” Angelina said. “After taking all possible precautions. There must be a simple answer to our questions.”

  We were in agreement on that.

  “We’ll head for the spaceport,” the captain said. “Get into orbit above it and examine it as well as we can before we land.” He entered the coordinates and our final approach began.

  “Looks like any other spaceport,” Angelina said as the clouds drifted away and the image filled the screen. A large cleared area was completely surrounded by verdant forest. A single long, straight road cut through the greenery and stretched off to the horizon.

  “A good-sized one,” the captain said. “There are six spacers grouped on one side, by those buildings . . .”

  “Come in orbiting spacecraft. This is landing control,” the speaker rasped.

  “Hello control. Do you have landing instructions?”

  “Positive. Do not land near other craft until you have cleared your medicals. The contamination zone is away from other craft. The pad is marked with our national flag.”

  “Roger and out.” The captain zoomed in and a large red flag painted on the landing area swam into view. It was decorated with a golden hammer and a curved instrument of some kind.

  “Twenty minutes to landing,” he said into the ship’s intercom; we hurried to our acceleration couches.

  It was an easy landing—the safety of the animals was still a consideration. Before the passengers started milling again, the captain told them about the planet—and the fact that there would be a slight delay, because of access difficulties, before the port was opened. Stramm went to get the oxyacetylene torch; I had the inner lock opened and the interlock switched off by the time he arrived. My ears popped slightly.

  “I’ve opened the exterior air pressure vents,” he said. “Very slight difference from our ship pressure.”

  It was a hot and nasty job of work. He sparked the igniter, put on his welding mask and went to work. It was easy enough at first, though the smoke from the burning gasket was annoying. I had to fetch a ladder when the cutting area became too hard to reach. When his arms grew tired I spelled him and the unsealed area grew. Until the circle was complete and we reached the opening cut.

  “Done,” I said and turned the valve; with a pop the flame died. “Now let us see if the motor still operates.”

  Stramm flipped open the safety cover on the control box and pressed the actuator. The sound of the electric motor was music to our ears; at least something was working. The gears ground and the door opened wide. Then the ramp slid out and fresh, warm air poured in. I sniffed happily.

  “I forget what the outdoors smelled like.” Stramm nodded agreement.

  “Ship’s air gets a little ripe after a long trip. Particularly on this ship.” The sound of distant squealing behind us was a poignant reminder.

  The end of the ramp thudded down on the tarmac and we saw the waiting health reception party. Two uniformed men.

  On horseback.

  “Do you have the health documents?” One of them called out. His skin was deeply dark; his companion pallidly sallow. Stramm handed me the folder and I held it up.

  “Please place them on the landing pad,” he said, swinging down to the ground. “Then you must return to your ship. I’m afraid no one can exit until the health documents are processed.” The sound of distant squeals and grunts registered a protest.

  “No problem,” I said, and did as requested. He took the folder, remounted and they both galloped away. I sat down on the ramp, still sniffing the air. I called the captain to put him in the know, while Stramm joined me.

  “I wonder why the horses?” he said.

  “Fuel shortage maybe. And you saw their different skin color.”

  “Hard to miss. Is it important?”

  “It might be. Or maybe I’m too suspicious for my own good.” My radio buzzed, then turned on when I said radio.

  “Jim here, Captain,” I said. His hologram image floated in space before me.

  “They just radioed through a medical clearance. The customs team is on the way.”

  “They don’t seem to be in any hurry . . .” I muttered.

  “Meanwhile we have permission to leave the ship—as long as we stay within two hundred meters of it. That’s as far as the trees.”

  “What about the animals?”

  “They can exit too—before they break out.”

  Even as he spoke we heard a happy squealing and the thunder of hooves. We jumped to one side as the boars crashed by, closely
followed by sows and piglets. As they entered the nearest stand of forest their human minders hurried after them.

  “Shore nice to smell all this fresh air!” Elmo cried out as he followed after. A master of spelling out the obvious.

  The women were next—in a very holiday mood. They carried folding chairs and baskets; let the jollity begin.

  “I still don’t like it,” I muttered, scowling after their retreating backs.

  “I agree completely,” Angelina said, following the others down the ramp. “Nothing—other than the fresh air—smells right.”

  I pointed to the satchel she was carrying and raised my eyebrows.

  “Ship’s registration and assorted paperwork the authorities asked for. What I didn’t like is that they asked for the commander of this vessel to bring it. I took it from the captain before he could leave. I said that you were the owner and would take care of it. I also told him that he must stay on the bridge until you told him otherwise.”

  “You have read my mind!”

  “I didn’t have to. I’m as suspicious as you are.” She handed me the satchel.

  “Did they say what I was to do with this?”

  “The authorities are on their way to pick it up.”

  “On horseback again, I suppose?”

  “Come over here away from the others,” she said quietly. We sat on the grass in the sun and she pointed to the spaceships grouped together at the other end of the port.

  “Have you had a chance to look closely at those other spacers?”

  “Negative. I have been too busy burning open the lock.”

  “Well I have. There are no people there—or vehicles. No one going in or out of the buildings. And the lower locks on the ships appear to be open. But there is no movement in or out. We’re too far away to tell, but they have a very deserted, abandoned look about them. And . . . where are the workers in those buildings?”

  “I like nothing about this planet at all, nothing!”

  I was puzzled and frustrated—and positive that things here were very, very wrong.

  “Something is finally happening,” Angelina said, pointing across the field to the road that led into the forest.