The Stainless Steel Rat Gets Drafted ssr-7

by Harry Harrison

  “Indeed!” Stirner agreed enthusiastically. “I shall go at once and tell the others.” He rushed to the door and out of the house. I gaped after him. Morton spoke my thoughts before I could.

  “I heard what you said—but haven’t the slightest idea of what your Mark Four was talking about.”

  “Clarity!” the doctor said. “Clarity and wisdom. If we all persist in noncompliance we are in a sense killing ourselves. So we comply and withdraw.”

  “I am still not sure what you are talking about,” I said.

  “The electricity will be turned back on, the markets will reopen. The invaders will seize food and some farmers will work longer hours if they wish to, because that will avert the natural disaster. Others will not and will stop bringing food to the city. As the supply diminishes people will leave the city and the process will accelerate. With less call for electricity, generating plants will shut down, work-

  ers will leave. In a very short time the soldiers will have the city to themselves because we will all be gone.”

  “They can enslave you—make you work at gunpoint.”

  “Of course, but only on a one-to-one basis. One armed man can force another to work, possibly, it is of course up to the individual. But the man with the gun is essentially doing the work himself because he must be there every moment or the work will not get done. I don’t think your General Zennor will like this.”

  “You can say that again!”

  “I don’t think your General…”

  “No, not really say it again, I meant it as an expression of agreement. You people are too literal, too much IM I imagine. A question then, a hypothetical one.”

  “Those are the best kind!”

  “Yes, indeed. If I should walk into a distant city and look for work—would I be accepted?’’ “Of course. That is a basic tenet of IM.”

  “What if there are no jobs going?”

  “There always are—remember the value of the rising wirr. Theoretically as it gets larger and larger, the working hours will get fewer and fewer, until in the long run a few seconds’ work will suffice…”

  “All right, great, thanks—let’s just stick with the application of theory for a moment. If one of these invading soldiers should walk away from the army…”

  “Which is of course his right!”

  “Not quite what the army thinks. If he walks away to a distant town and gets a job and meets a girl and all the usual good things happen—is this possible?”

  “Not only possible, but inescapable, a foundation-of IM inherent in its acceptance.”

  “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking!” Morton shouted, jumping to his feet with elation.

  “You bet your sweet chunk I’m thinking that! Leaving aside the officers and the career noncoms, this is a draftee army and a good number of them were draft evaders. If we make the opportunity available for them to walk away from it all, why then Zennor might have to give a war that nobody will come to.”

  The front door opened and Morton and I dived for cover. But it was Stimer leading the triumphal return of the released captives. Morton rushed to Sharia and took her hand to see if it had been hurt during her incarceration. “That’s pretty fast work,” I said.

  “I used the TV phone across the street,” Stirner said. “I purchased national access and told them what we had discovered. The electricity was turned on instantly, the first food shipped. The prisoners were released.”

  “Zfinnnr miist thinlf that lip lia
  tell you what we have just discovered. The way to guarantee that he loses his war—even if the Navy never gets here.”

  “I am encouraged by your enthusiasm but miss your meaning.”

  “I will explain—but first a drink to celebrate.” This seemed like a good idea to all concerned. We poured and drank, then Morton and I listened with some interest as the others sang a song about Individual Mutualism freeing mankind from the yoke of oppression and so forth. While the theory was“fine the lyric was as bad as all other anthems I had ever heard, though I took considerable interest in the great efforts made to rhyme Individual Mutualism. I also took the time to organize my thoughts so when they had finished, and sipped a bit more wine for dry throats, I took the floor.

  “I must first tell you kind people about the uniformed mob of thugs who have invaded your fair planet. A large group like this is called an army. An army is a throwback

  – to the earliest days of mankind when physical defense was needed against the rigors of existence. The combative gene was the successful gene. The primitive who defended his family group passed on this gene. This gene has caused a lot of trouble since that time, right down through the ages. It is still causing trouble as you now have cause to understand. When all of the threatening animals were killed, the gene caused mankind to turn upon itself to kill each other. With shame I admit we are the only species that kills its own kind on a very organized basis. The army is the last gasp of the combative gene. In charge are old men, and they are called officers. They do nothing except issue orders. At the bottom are the soldiers who follow these orders. In between are the noncommissioned offi-

  cers who see that this is done. The interesting thing to us now is that the soldiers are all drafted and a good number of them are draft dodgers.”

  It took some time to explain what these last two terms meant and there was horrified shock on all sides when understanding finally penetrated, I waited until the cries of disbelief and despair had simmered down, then signaled for silence.

  “I am cheered by your reaction. Do you think your people would volunteer, without payment in wirrs, to free these young men from bondage?”

  “It would be our duty,” the doctor said and heads nodded like fury on all sides. “It would be like saving someone from drowning, a public duty, no payment expected.”

  “Great! Then I will now teach you another word…”

  “Can I guess?” Morton cried out, I nodded. “Desertion!” I nodded aeain. Battle ioined at last!

  Chapter 22

  Enthusiasm gave way quickly to fatigue and it was agreed that the session would continue after we all had had some sleep. I found myself tucked away m a small room in a soft bed, with a portrait of Mark Forer beaming down electronically upon me. I sipped a last sip of wine and crashed.

  By the next evening I had put together the rudiments of a plan and had assembled my team.

  “We have to try it out, smooth it out. Then, if it works,

  we pass it on to others. We will operate and proceed like an ancient seam, a term I ran across when doing research into crime.” I did not add that my reasons for doing this were to improve myself as a criminal. This would .have been too much for these simple IMers to understand. “Here is how it will work. This evening I will enter one of the eating and drinking establishments you have described to me. I will then stand next to a soldier and engage him in conversation. You, S timer, will be seated at a table with empty chairs, or next to an empty table. I will come over with the soldier and sit close enough for you to overhear our conversation. Sharia will be with you, she is your daughter.”

  “You are wrong, she is not my daughter.”

  “Just for tonight she is your daughter, like in a play. You do have plays here?”

  “Of course. In fact I was on the stage when younger, before I was attracted to the delights of flowing electrons. I even acted the title role in some classics, how does it go again… to was, or not to was—”

  “Fine, great, glad to have an old thespian aboard. So tonight you act the role of ShaHa’s dad. Follow my lead and it should work. I’ll pick an easy target this first time, an apple ripe for plucking. So there should not be any trouble.”

  “What do I do?” Morton asked. “You said I was on the team.”

  “Right. You have the important job of taping all of this for the record. So when it works as it should we can make training copies for others. Keep the recorder out of sight and th
e mike close. Ready?”

  “Ready!”

  We waited until after dark before we set out. Volunteers, drafted from the street of course, worked ahead of us to make sure we didn’t meet any roadblocks or MPs. They reported back all the obstructions so we had a pleasant, if circuitous, walk to the Vaillant quarter of the city which I had been assured was the correct place to go for theatre, opera, dining out, lM reinforcement groups and the other heady joys of this civilized planet. It looked an interesting locale. Although it was fairly empty this evening with no more than a quarter of the establishments lighted up. Stirner led the way to the Fat Farmer, where he said he always enjoyed good food and better drink when in the city. There were some locals sampling its pleasures—but no invading soldiers.

  “You told me that the army had leave passes, that they could be found in this area. Where are they?”

  “Not inhere, obviously,” Stirner said. “What do you mean—obviously?”

  “Since they cannot pay they won’t be served.”

  “Sounds fair. But, since they are the invading army, what stops them from just grabbing the booze 3hd helping themselves?”

  “They are not stopped. However everyone leaves and the establishment shuts down.”

  “Obvious. All right then. To your stations and I’ll see if I can drum up some trade.”

  I felt very pimpish standing under the streetlight with a dead cigar for a prop. In the local garb I was just part of the passing parade and no one took notice of me. I watched all of them though—on the lockout for MPs or anything that resembled the part of the military I did not want to see, stripes, bars, the usual thing. None of these appeared, but eventually tlIO unmilitary figures in military uniform drifted into sight. Hands in pockets—shame!—caps on at odd angles. They stopped at the Fat Farmer and looked in the window with longing. I stepped up behind them and held up the cigar. “Either of you guys got a light?”

  They jumped as though they had been goosed, shying back from me.

  “You talked to us!” the bolder one said.

  “I did. I pride myself on my linguistic ability. And if you will remember I asked you for a light for my cigar.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Good for you. Cigarettes kill. But don’t you carry a fire apparatus for those who do?” They shook their heads in gloomy negation. Then I raised afinger rich with inspiration. “I know what—we will enter this eating and drinking place and they will light my cigar. Perhaps you young gentlemen from distant planet will also join me in a drink and I can practice my talking?”

  “Won’t work. We tried it and they closed the place and went home.”

  “That is only because you had no wirr, the local unit of exchange, our money, so could not pay. I am rich with wirr and am buying…”

  I followed after their rapidly retreating footsteps, found them pushing against the bar in eager anticipation. Stimer had given me his wirrdisc and briefed me on its operation.

  “Three beers,” I ordered, “large ones,” and dropped the plastic slab of integrated circuits into the slot in the top of the bar. While the robot bartender, all chrome and brass with bottlecaps for eyes, drew three big brews, the cost was subtracted from Stirner’s lifetime account. I grabbed the wirrdisc as it was rejected.

  “Here’s to the army, lads,” I said raising my beer high. “I hope you enjoy your chosen careers.”

  They chugalugged enthusiastically, thengasped and whined nostalgically familiar whines that took me back to my own army days.

  “Chose an army career! Cagal! Drafted. Chased, hunted down, caught.”

  “Then after that, basic training. Pursued at the double night and day by foul-mouthed fiends. Would anyone voluntarily choose a career like that?”

  “Certainly not! But at least you eat well…” I enjoyed the outraged cries and loathsome descriptions of hotpups while I ordered up another round of beers. When their faces were buried in the suds again I made the suggestion.

  “I know it is past your dinner hour, but I see three seats vacant at that table, next to the elderly gentleman with the kinky bird. Would you join me for a small repast—say a large steak and fried wirfles?”

  The thunder of feet was my only answer yet one more time. I joined them in the steaks, and very good they were too. We polished them off quickly, had a few more beers—and tried not to belch because there was young lady at our table. Sated and boozed they now had time for the third of the troika of military pleasures and their eyes moved steadily in Sharla’s direction. Time for act two.

  “Well,” I said, “if the food is bad in the army, at least you enjoy the wisdom and companionship of the sergeants.” I listened to the answers for a bit, nodding and commiserating, then elicited other similar complaints with leading questions about officers, latrines, kitchen police—and all the other bitches so dear to the enlisted man’s heart. When enough had been ventilated I gave Stimer his cue and sat back.

  “Young draftee soldiers from a distant planet, you must excuse my impertinence in addressing strangers. But I, and my lovely daughter Sharia, could not help but overhear your conversation. Can it be true that you were forced into military service completely against your will?”

  “You better believe it, Pops. Hi, Sharia, you ever go out with guys other than your Dad?”

  “Very often. I simply adore the company of handsome young men. Like you.”

  All three of us fell into the limpid pool of her eyes, splashed around for a bit and emerged gasping. and in love. Stirner spoke and they did not hear. I finally ordered large beers and had them placed in front of their bulging eyes to cut off sight of the gorgeous Sharia. This produced the desired result. While they glugged Stirner talked.

  “I am greatly taken by your plight, young gentlemen. On this planet such a thing is impossible. Against our laws, which laws state that there are no laws. Why do you permit yourself to be treated in this vile manner?”

  “No choice, Pops. Barbed wire all around, watched night and day, shot if you try to escape, shot twice if recaptured. No place to go to, no place to hide, in uniform, every man’s hand turned against you.” He sniffed in maudlin self-pity; a tear ran down his companion’s cheek.

  “Well,” Stirner said, sinking the gaff in deep and twisting it so it would take hold. “None of those things are .true here. There is no barbed wire, no one is watching you, no one is about to shoot you. There is a great big country out there that stretches away beyond the mountains and riv-

  ers. A country where you will always find a welcome, always find hospitality and refuge. A country where the army will never find you.”

  They sat up at that, trying to understand his words through their alcoholic haze. “Cagal…” the drunkest one muttered. Sharia smiled angelically.

  “I do not understand that word, young friend, but I feel that it indicates disbelief. Not so. Every word my father has spoken is true. For example, we live a full day’s journey distant from this city in an idyllic farming village.

  We travel there by speedy railroad—and these are our tickets to prove it. Why, look, the machine made a mistake, it issued four tickets instead of two. I must return them—unless you would like them for souvenirs?” Faster than light, they vanished.

  “There is a side entrance to the railway station that is not guarded,” she said brightly.

  “But the train leaves soon,” Stimer said, standing and picking up the bundle from the floor. “Before going I must use the necesejo, as we say down on the farm, and I am taking this bundle with me. It contains clothing for my two sons at home who, strangely enough, are just your size.” He started away, then turned. “You may borrow the clothes—if you wish. ”

  They beat him to the cagalhouse door. Sharia smiled beatifically after them.

  “You know this farming town well?” I asked. “So you can line the lads up with friends.”

  “I have never been there—1 found its name on the map. But you forget the strength of IM. We would welcome them her
e and aid them, so they will be welcome there. Do not worry. I will guide them and return in two days. Ohh, here they come, don’t they look handsome out of those dreary uniforms!”

  They looked rotten, I thought, the demon of jealousy burning within me. I almost wished that I was going with them. But no, the work was here. I turned to the next table where Morton was mooning after the lovely retreating form of Sharia. I had to kick him twice before I could attract his attention.

  “She’ll be back, don’t worry. Did you get all that on tape?”

  “Every word. Can I have another beer? All I had was the one Sharia bought me before you came in. And you had a steak…”

  “No drinking on duty, soldier.”

  ’Stimer joined us and pointed to the basket he was carrying. “I have their uniforms in here, just as you asked.”

  “Good. We’ll need that for the video. Now—take us to your recording studio.”

  He led us by tack streets to the back of a building, to the back door that opened as we approached. They were eagerly waiting for us on the soundstage, brightly lit, windowless and invisible from the street. Volunteers all, IM enthusiasts just dying to subvert the troops, I held up the audio cassette.