The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection

by Harry Harrison

  There was a second door behind his desk and, to my satisfaction, he exited that way. The instant it closed I had the other door open and poked my head through. When the reception clerk looked up I turned and called back over my shoulder.

  “Do you want him in here as well, corporal?” I nodded my head and turned back. “You, recruit, get in here!”

  Morton jumped at the sound of my voice, then scurried forward. I closed and locked the door behind him.

  “Get comfortable,” I said, pulling off my boot and rooting about inside it for the lockpick. “No questions. I have to work fast.”

  He slumped into a chair, eyes bulging in silence as I gently tickled the lock until the terminal came to life.

  “Menu, menu,” I muttered as I hammered away on the keys.

  It all went a lot smoother and faster than I had hoped. Whoever had written the software had apparently expected it to be accessed by morons. Maybe he was right. In any case I was led by the hand through the menus right to the current shipping orders.

  “Here we are, leaving at noon today, a few minutes from now. Fort Abomeno. Your full name and serial number, Morton, quickly.”

  I had my own dogtags spread out as I punched in all the requested information. A bell pinged and a sheet of paper slipped out of the printer.

  “Wonderful!” I said, smiling and letting some tension out of my muscles: I passed it over to him. “We’re safe for the moment since we have just left for Fort Abomeno.”

  “But … we”re still here.”

  “Only in the flesh, my boy. For the record, and records are all that count to the military, we have shipped out. Now we make the flesh inviolate.” I read through the shipping orders, checked off two names, then turned back to the terminal and entered data with some urgency. We had to be long gone before the corporal returned. The printer whiffled gently and one sheet slipped out, then another. I grabbed them up, relocked the terminal, and waved Morton to his feet.

  “Here we go. Out the back door and I’ll tell you what is happening as soon as we are clear of this building.”

  Someone was coming up the stairs, a corporal, and my heart gave a little hip-hop before I saw that it wasn’t the corporal in question. Then it was down the hall to the front door and yes, there was Corporal Gamin coming up the stairs with a very nasty cut to his jib!

  “Sharp right, recruit!” I ordered and we turned into the first doorway with military precision. A lieutenant was combing his hair in front of a mirror there. Her hair I realized when she turned about and glared at me.

  “What kind of cagal-head are you, corporal? Or doesn’t the sign on the other side of this door read female personnel only?”

  “Sorry, sir, Ma’am, dark in the hall. Eye trouble. You, recruit, why didn’t you read the sign correctly? Get the cagal out of here and march straight to the MPs.”

  I pushed Morton out ahead of me and closed the door. The hall ahead was empty.

  “Let’s go! Quick as we can without attracting attention.”

  Out the door and down the steps and around the corner and another corner and the pace was beginning to tell. I leaned against a wall and felt the sweat run down my face and drip from my nose. I wiped it with the sheaf of papers I still carried—then held up the two new sheets of orders and smiled; Morton gaped.

  “Freedom and survival,” I chortled. “Shipping orders, or rather cancellation of shipping orders. We are safe at last.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea of what you are talking about.”

  “Sorry. Let me explain. As far as the military is concerned we are no longer at this base but have been shipped to Fort Abomeno. They will search for us there, but we will be hard to find. In order to keep the body count correct two soldiers who are in that shipment, still physically in that shipment, have been removed on paper. These are their orders, corporal, I thought a bit more rank wouldn’t hurt. I am a sergeant now as you can see. We will occupy their quarters, eat their food, draw their pay. It will be weeks, perhaps months, before the error is discovered. By which time we will be long gone. Now—shall we begin our new careers as noncommisioned officers?”

  “Urgle,” he said dimly and his eyes shut and he would have slumped to the ground if I had not held him erect against the wall. I nodded agreement.

  “I feel somewhat the same way myself. It really has been one of those days.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Fatigue was of no importance, thirst equally so—although both were present and sending imperative messages. To be ignored. Rank has its privileges and we were not going to enjoy ours until we assumed the trappings. I shook Morton until his eyes opened and he blinked dully at me.

  “One last effort, Mort. We are going to the PX, about whose heady joys we have heard, and there we will spend some money. When that has been done we will be free spirits and will eat and drink and relax. Are you ready?”

  “No. I’m beat, shagged, dead. I cannot move. You go on. I can’t make it …”

  “Then I’ll just have to turn you over to Sergeant Klutz who has just arrived and is standing right behind you.”

  He sprang into the air with a shriek of agony, feet already running before he hit the ground. I held on to him.

  “Sorry about that. No Klutz here. A ruse to get your adrenaline flowing. Let’s go.”

  We went. Quickly before this burst of energy faded. It got him as far as the post exchange where I leaned him against the wall near the cashier and handed him my sheaf of papers.

  “Stand there, recruit, and do not move and do not let go of those papers or I will skin you alive or worse.”

  I slammed the papers into his limp hands and whispered, “What size jacket do you take?” After much blinking on his part, and reiteration on mine, I extracted the needed information. I made my purchases from a bored clerk, added some stripes and a tube of superglue, paid for everything with some of Gow’s money, thank you corporal, and led Morton farther into the reaches of the PX. To the latrine, empty this time of day.

  “We’ll use the booth one at a time,” I said. “We don’t want anyone making improper conclusions. Take off those fatigues and slip into this uniform. Move it.”

  While he changed I glued the new sargeant’s stripes over the corporal’s on my sleeves. When Morton had flushed and emerged I straightened his necktie and glued his promotion to his sleeve. His fatigues went into the rubbish, along with the sheaf of papers, and we went into the noncom’s bar.

  “Beer—or something stronger?” I asked.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “You do now. And curse. You’re in the army. Sit there and sneer like a corporal and I’ll be right back.”

  I ordered two double neutral grain spirits and some beers, dumped the ethyl alcohol into the beer, sipped it to make sure it had not gone off, then went back to our table. Morton drank as ordered, widened his eyes, gasped, then drank again. Color returned to his cheeks as I drained half of my glass and sighed happily.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, what to say …”

  “Then say nothing. Drink up. What I did was to save my own hide and you just came along for the ride.”

  “Who are you, Jak? How do you know how to do those things you did?”

  “Would you believe me if I said I was a spy sent here to seek out the military secrets?” “Yes.”

  “Well I’m not. I’m just a draftee like yourself. Though I will have to admit that I come from a lot further away than Pensildelphia. That’s it, drain the glass, you’re learning fast. I’ll get a couple more drinks and some food. I saw they had catwiches. I’ll get a couple of those.”

  Food and drink helped, as did the stripes on our arms. Morton tore into his rations. I ate more slowly, finding myself already thinking about the next step. Cigars followed, Gow’s wallet was bottomless, and more drink.

  “Thish is really great, Jak, really great. You’re really great, really great.”

  “Sleep,” I said as his eyes unfocused and his head hit the
table with a thump. “You will awake a new man.”

  I sipped lightly at my own drink for I wanted only the stimulation of the alcohol and not the oblivion. The club was almost empty, only one other table occupied, the noncom there just as asleep as Morton. Probably as drunk as well. The simple pleasures of military life. I sipped and thought of my previous military career on Spiovente, and of The Bishop, now dead, and of the man who was responsible for his death.

  “I haven’t forgotten you, Captain Garth, not at all,” I said softly to myself. The bartender polished a glass and yawned. Well acquainted with customers who talked to themselves and drank themselves into extinction. “For the last few days it has been survival only. Now I pick up your trail. We’re in the same army, on the same base.”

  I felt suddenly dizzy and put the glass down. It had been a long day and I was as tired as Morton. Country and coal-mining music was grating enchantingly from the jukebox: the world about was at peace. For the moment. I was aware of a light scratching sound and glanced down at the boxes that leaned against the wall. Something moved in the darkness behind them. I watched in silence as a twitching nose and whiskers emerged. Then the head, the bar lights reflected in the rat’s eyes. It appeared to be looking up at me.

  “Get lost,” I said, “before you end up in the stew.” I cackled at my own witticism.

  “Jim diGriz, I must talk with you,” the rat said in a deep voice.

  It had really been one of those days. Too much. I had not realized it but the strain was so great that I had cracked.

  “Go away,” I hissed. “You are a figment of my imagination and not a real rat at all.” I gulped the rest of my drink in a single swallow. The rat climbed up onto the box and looked at me.

  “Of course I am not a real rat. I am Captain Varod of the League Navy.”

  Gently, so as not to awaken Morton—this was my hallucination and I wanted to keep it for myself—I pried his drink from his slack fingers and drained it as well as my own.

  “You’ve shrunk a bit since the last time I talked with you, captain,” I smirked.

  “Stop playing the idiot, diGriz, and listen to me. This spyrat is controlled from our base. You were recognized and identified.”

  “By who? The rat?”

  “Shut up. This communication is limited because there is a chance their detectors will pick up the spyrat’s broadcast signal. We need your help. You have penetrated their military base, the first agent to do so …”

  “Agent? I thought I was the criminal you were shipping home for trial and persecution?”

  “I said we need your help. This is vital. There are lives at stake. The generals are planning an invasion. We know that much from intercepting their communications. But we don’t know where the landing will take place. Brastyr is a big continent and they might be attacking anywhere. There could be a lot of deaths. We must find out where they plan to …”

  The door to the bar burst open and a gun-waving officer burst in, followed by a technician weighted with electronic equipment.

  “The signal is coming from that direction, sir,” the man shouted and pointed directly at me.

  “What is that cagal-head private doing in the noncoms’ bar ?” I shouted, leaping to my feet and kicking the box as I did. The rat fell to the floor and I stamped on it. Hard.

  “Don’t get your cagal in an uproar, sergeant,” the officer said. “This is a priority investigation …”

  “Signal has stopped, sir,” the technician said, fiddling with his dials.

  “Cagal!” the officer said, stuffing his gun back into the holster. “These alcoholics don’t have a transmitter.”

  “Could be the street outside, other side of the wall. A moving vehicle.”

  “Let’s go!”

  The door slammed shut behind them. The barman wiped his glass. “This happen very often around here?” I asked.

  “Yeah. This is sure an uptight base.”

  Morton snored heavily and I poked the crushed remains of the stainless steel rat with my toe. An omen? A gear wheel rolled out and rattled on the floor.

  “Set them up again,” I called out. “And take one yourself since the rest of these cagal-kopfs are in dreamland.”

  “You’re all heart, sarge. Just ship in?”

  “Today.”

  “An uptight base like I say—”

  His voice was drowned out by the loud whistle from the TV as it turned itself on. The blackclad military announcer glared out of the screen just one more time.

  “The spy who landed in Marhaveno has been identified. He attempted to disguise himself as a harmless draftee and was inducted into the army. Resolute police work has identified him by his clothing.”

  Some police work. They just looked at their mail. I was beginning to think that sending my clothing from the reception center to the police station was not at all as funny as it had seemed at the time. There was a scratch of static and the announcer vanished from the screen to be replaced by another officer.

  “Now hear this,” he shouted. “As of this moment this entire base is sealed to outgoing. I repeat, Mortstertoro is locked tight, gates sealed, aircraft departures canceled. The spy who landed in Marhaveno has been identified as a recruit who was shipped to this base. Here is his picture.”

  My heart skipped a beat or two, then settled down as the blurred photo of Jak, from my stolen ID, appeared on the screen. I was still one jump ahead of them. It would soon be discovered that Jak5138 was no longer on the base and the search would go elsewhere. I took my drink and went back to the table to stare into the wide and frightened eyes of Morton.

  “You want a drink?” I asked before he could speak. He gurgled and pointed at the screen.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked, and kicked him under the table. “Can’t be much of a spy if he lets himself get drafted. Some spy! I’ll bet you five he’s caught and dead before dark.” When he relaxed slightly I went on in a hoarse whisper. “It will take a long time to search this base …”

  “No it won’t—because they know just where to look. They know who you are, Jak. They’ll go to Sergeant Klutz who will tell them he transferred you to Corporal Gow. Then they’ll find Gow and …”

  “And the trail will run cold. It will take them days to search a camp this size. And when they don’t find the spy the first time they’ll just do it again. They are not bright enough to consider having the computer check the records for the spy.”

  “Attention!” the announcer on the screen called out, waving a sheet of paper. “I have just been given this new information. The spy—and an accomplice—have managed to have themselves transferred from this base by illegal use of the base computer. All computer personnel are now under arrest and will probably be shot.”

  I turned away, not able to look Morton in the eye.

  “Now that they know where to look,” Morton asked hollowly, “how long will it take them to discover that we were never on that shipment? And then find out that a corporal and a sergeant who really were on that shipment were not on that shipment and are still here on the base?”

  “How long?” I laughed, but there was a very hollow ring to it. “Could take days, weeks, no way to tell.”

  “How long?”

  I sighed deeply. “They got some hotshot computer programs. Good security. I would say that we have maybe thirty minutes before they start looking for us.”

  His body shook as though he had received ten thousand volts and he started to jump to his feet. I reached out and held him down, then glanced at the bartender. He was looking at the TV.

  “You’re right,” I said. “We get out of here, but slowly. On your feet. Follow me.”

  As we started toward the door the bartender glanced in our direction.

  “Where’s the transient barracks?” I said.

  “Out the back door, turn right. See you.”

  “Yeah. See you.”

  We strolled out the back door and turned left. It was getting dark which might help.r />
  “You got a plan?” Morton said, eagerness in his voice. “You know a way to get us out of this.”

  “Of course,” I said, clapping him on the back. “Every step planned. We go this way.”

  I could hear the forced joviality in my voice; I hoped that he couldn’t. He had to think that I knew what I was doing or he might crack. It was a white lie for the sake of his morale.

  But what about my morale? I was holding it down successfully for the moment, but I could feel an awareness of dark panic knocking and ready to come in. I kept it at bay. We walked on down the company street, the lights coming on, lost in the milling military mass. How long would this last? The question was the answer: not very. The panic pushed a little harder.

  I have heard it said that when a man knows that he is to be hanged, it concentrates his mind wonderfully. I wasn’t going to be hanged, not for the present at least, but the foul breath of military prosecution on my neck was concentrating my mind almost as well. So much so that when an officer passed I turned to look at him. Turned and stopped until he vanished in the crowd. Morton was pulling feebly at my arm.

  “What are you looking at? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing wrong. Everything right. I know now exactly what we must do next.”

  “What?”

  “Just come with me. I know that it is back this way, I noticed it when we passed.”

  “What, what?”

  “BOQ.” Before he could say What? What? What? I explained. “Bachelor Officers Quarters. Where the officers live when they are not getting drunk and making life a hell for the enlisted men. That is where we are going. There.”

  I pointed to the brightly lit building, guards at the front entrance, officers in their military finery pouring from it.

  “That’s suicide!” Morton said. The edge of hysteria back in his voice.

  “Easy does it,” I cozened. “We do not enter the building by this portal. Suicide as you say. But what has a front surely has a back. And from the exodus visible from that officerial snakepit it looks like everyone is on duty tonight. Everyone except us, that is.” I chortled darkly and he looked at me out of the corners of his eyes as if I had gone mad. Perhaps I had. We would soon find out.