The Stainless Steel Rat Gets Drafted ssr-7

by Harry Harrison

  The river and bridges were up ahead. With the residential suburbs on the far side.

  When I trundled my battle wagon across the bridge there was still no sign of pursuit. Fine. Time to go to ground. I turned off along the river bank, put the gears in low-low, angled toward the water and jumped down. The car ground steadily on, demolished a bench—sorry about that—and plowed majestically over the edge. There was plenty of burbling and splashing, then nothing. The river was deep here. Behind me I could hear the wail of distant sirens. I walked briskly through the park and into the nearest street. Though I was tired I needed to put some distance between myself and the river, in case there were tracks left which might be seen by day.

  “Enough is enough, Jim!” I said, leaning against a wall and all too aware that I was drooping with fatigue, I had turned corners at random, lost myself completely, and the river was far behind me. There was a gate in the wall beside me, with Dun Roamin carved into the wood. Message received. Without hesitation I opened the gate, climbed the steps beyond and knocked on the front door. I had to do it a second time before there were stirrings inside and a light came on. Even after all the time here on Chojecki I still found it hard to believe that this was the correct way to meet strangers.

  “Who is it?” a male voice called out as the door opened. “Jim diGriz, ofiworlder, tired.”

  The light came on and an ancient citizen with wispy gray beard biinked out myopically at me.

  “Can it be? It certainly is! Oh what luck for old CzolgosczU Come in brave ofiworlder and share my hospitality. What may I do for you?”

  “Thank you, thank you. For openers let’s get these lights offjust in case there is a patrol around. And then a bed for the night…”

  “My pleasure! Illumination off, follow closely, this way,

  my daughter’s room, now married and living on a farm, “forty geese and seventeen cows, here we are. Curtains closed, a moment, then the liehtsl”

  2-M

  iteurry HWTIMU

  Old Czolgoscz, although he tended to talk too much,

  was the perfect host. The room was pink with lace curtains and about twenty dolls on the bed.

  “Now you wash up, right in there, and I’ll bring you a nice hot drink, friend Jim.”

  “I would prefer a nice cold drink rich with alcohol, friend Czolgoscz.”

  “I have the very thing!”

  By the time I had rinsed the last of the military muck away he was back with a tall, purple bottle, two glasses—he wasn’t that old—-and a patf of pajamas ablaze with red lightning bolts. I hoped that they didn’t glow in the dark.

  “Homemade gingleberry wine.” He poured two large glasses. We raised them, clinked, drank and smacked our lips. I sighed with happiness and a bit of nostalgia.

  “I haven’t had this since I was back on the farm. Used to have a bottle hidden out in the porcuswine sty. On dull days I used to get blotto on it and sing to the swine.”

  “How charming! Now I will leave ‘you to your rest.” A perfect host, vanished even before I could thank him. I raised my glass in a toast to the electronic benevolence of the portrait of Mark Forer upon the wall. Drained it. And went to sleep.

  When consciousness reluctantly returned I could only lie and blink, drugged with sleep, at the sunlight behind the curtains. Yawning, I rose and opened them and looked out at a flower-filled garden. Old Czolgoscz looked up from his labors and waved his secateurs at me. Then scurried into the house. In a remarkably short period of time he knocked on the door, threw it open, and brought in a groaning breakfast tray. I don’t normally have a liter of juice, large portion of wiffles with syrup and three eggs. I did today. “How did you know?” I lip-smacked satedly.

  “Guessed. Young lad your age, been working hard, seemed natural. I talked to a few people and I am sure that you will be pleased to hear that the teams are in training all over the city for D-Day.”

  “D-Day?”

  TUB eMIMI BCC efBBI •*? ARTC nBfKTBfl

  “Desertion Day. Today, tonight. Extra trains have been scheduled and people all over the country are looking forward to welcoming the new citizens.”

  “Fantastic. I hope you will welcome me as well. My stay on Chojecki may be longer than originally planned.”

  “You are more than welcome, as is your knowledge. Would you like a teaching position at the university?” I smiled at the thought. “Sorry, I ran away from school, never graduated.”

  “I regret in my provincial ignorance that I do not know the meaning of either run away or graduate. Students here go to school when they want, stay as long as they want, study what they want, leave when they want. The only scholastic requirement a child has is to learn about Individual Mutualism, so he or she can lead a full and happy life.”

  “I suppose the parents pay for the child’s schooling?” Czolgoscz drew back, horrified. “Of course not! A child will get love and affection from its parents, but they would not embarrass their offspring byviolating IM’s tenets. The child’s wirr account, opened when it was born, will be in debit until he or she begins to earn. At a very early age, for the child will not be a free and independent citizen until the wirr account is in credit.”

  Now I was shocked. “The workhouse for infants! Laboring day and night for a few crusts!”

  “Friend Jim—what a wonderful imagination you do have! Not quite. Most of the work will be done around the house, the labors that were usually done by mother, collecting the wirrs father would pay her…”

  “Enough, I beg. My blood sugar is low, my head thick and the details of IM so novel that they must be absorbed just a bit at a time.”

  He nodded agreement. “Understandable. As you will teach us about the novelties of the great civilizations out there among the stars, we have been cut off from them for centuries, so will we reveal to you the fruits of Mark Forer’s genius—may electrons flow forever through its

  ~inrfic!

  A pleasant prayer for that long-vanished machine. I still found it hard to understand such affection for a bunch of circuitry, no matter how complex. Enough, it was time to get back to work.

  “Can you find out where my friend Morton is staying?”

  “Would you like to go there? I will be honored to take you.”

  “You know…” I gaped, then answered my own questions. “Of course, everyone in the city knows where we have been staying.”

  “That is correct. Do you ride the bike?”

  “Not for many years—but once learned, never forgotten. “ A sensible form of transportation, the bicycle, and the streets of this city were busy with them. I bundled up the uniform for possible future use, pulled on a pair of baggy shorts that Czolgoscz produced. This, and my undershirt, produced an inconspicuous cycling outfit. Thus garbed I went into the garden and limbered up with a hundred pushups. When I finished and climbed to my feet I shied back from the man who stood behind me leaning on a bright red bicycle.

  “I did not mean to startle you,” he said. “But I did not wish to interrupt your ritual. Czolgoscz phoned me and I brought your bicycle around. The best one I had in stock.”

  “Thank, thank you—indeed a beauty. But I am afraid I cannot pay you for it…”

  He smiled. “You already have. I stopped at the wirrbank and debited your account. They asked me to give this to you.”

  I did some rapid blinking at the wirrdisc he handed me. James diCriz it was labeled. And in the little LCD window it read Balance 64.678.

  “The bank asked me to ask you to contact them. They were not sure how many hours you worked for the public service last night. If you would kindly report to them they will make the correction.”

  “I am in the system!” I shouted happily. The bicycle man beamed happy agreement.

  “Of course! You are an individual and Individual Mutualism is your right. Welcome, welcome! May your wirrbalance grow and may your life be a long and happy nnpl~’

  Chapter 26

  It was next morning when the cagal hi
t the fan. Reports had come in during the night of the fantastic success of D-Day. The troops had trooped into town with their passes, had expressed a great appreciation of fresh air, had been welcomed at the back entrance of any clothing store to change out of their uniforms, had boarded train after train. The last one left just before midnight when the curfew had descended.

  And there had been no alarm, not at first. Luckily there were four gates into the camp and I presumed that the MPs, in their native ignorance, had all thought the returning soldiers had used the other gates. Therefore they had all been happy to cagal off for the evening. So successful had been our operation that even the extra trains had not sufficed for the mobs of deserters. Over a hundred were still in the city. They would stay hidden until nightfall when, hopefully, they would be smuggled to the station.

  With my new-found wealth I had bought a giant TV as a gift for our hosts. Morton and I were watching a local broadcast when the military cut in. Neither of us appreciated it for this was a day of celebration of some kind, the anniversary of the wiring of Mark Forer’s first circuit board or some such, and all the city had turned out. We were enjoying a parade, headed by the local girls’ cycle club, all flashing bronzed limbs and fluttering skirts, when the picture sizzled and died to be replaced by General Zennor’s scowling features.

  “Turn it offi” Morton moaned. “If I look at him I won’t be able to eat lunch.”

  “Leave it. It won’t be good news, but since we will have to hear it sometime—better now.”

  “Attention!” Zennor said and Morton made a rude noise with his tongue; I waved him to silence. “You all know me. General Zennor of the liberating forces. You know me as a kind and patient man . ..”

  “He is a great fiction writer!”

  “Quiet!”

  “. . . a firm leader and ajust one. And now the time has come for firmness and justice to be applied. I have just discovered that a few cowards among the ranks of my loyal troops have been foolish enough to attempt to desert. Desertion is punishable by death…”

  “What isn’t in the rotten army!”

  “. . . and I know that none of you out there would want that to happen to foolish and misguided young men. Therefore this announcement. I am extending all passes issued last night for twenty-four hours. They are good until midnight tonight. No soldier will be punished who returns to the base before midnight. I therefore advise all the people of this city to speak to these misguided youths who are hidden among you. Tell them to return. You know where they are. Go to them. Tell them of this generous offer.” The fake kindness vanished from his face in an instant as he leaned close to the camera and snarled.

  “Tell them also that my generosity vanishes at midnight! Martial law will then be declared. This city will be sealed. No one will enter or leave it. Then the city will be searched. Block by block, building by building. Any deserter who is then found will be taken prisoner, will be given one bottle of beer and will be allowed to write one letter home. And will then be shot.

  “Is that clear enough? You have this single warning. You have until midnight tonight to return. That is the message I send to the deserters. After that—you are as good as dead—” I hit the button and turned the set off.

  “Pretty depressing,” Morton said, looking pretty depressed. “Turn it back on so we can at least look at the girls.”

  I did. But they were long gone and had been replaced by a man with long hair and an enthusiastic expression who was going on in great detail about the untold joys of IM. I killed the sound.

  “You know, Morton, he eans us too.”

  “Don’t say it! I know. Isn’t there another station with space opera? I need a drink.”

  “No you don’t. You need to sit quiet and pull yourself together and help me find a way out of this for all of us. Well, maybe a small drink, a glass of beer just to get the thoughts rolling.”

  “I could not but overhear,” Stirner said, entering with a tray of glasses and bottles. “If you will permit I will join you. The day is warm.”

  We clinked and glugged. “Any word from the city?” I asked.

  “A good deal of words. All the trains leaving the city have been canceled so there is no way out by train.”

  “The roads?”

  “Roadblocks on all arteries leading from the city. Flying machines supported by rotating wings—”

  “Choppers.”

  “Thank you, I have noted the word. Choppers flying over the countryside between so none may escape that way. All young men who attempt to leave are being detained, even when they are obviously Chojecki citizens who speak only our native tongue. They are imprisoned until their hands have been pressed to a plate on a machine, that is what has been reported. So far all have been released.”

  “Very neat,” I muttered, “and just about foolproof. Fingerprint check. Right through to the base computer. So we can’t get out that way. It will have to be the fields, after dark.”

  “Not that I want to cast a note of gloom,” Morton said, gloorncasting. “Choppers, infrared detectors, side-mounted machine guns, death from the sky…”

  “Point taken, Morton. Too dangerous. There must be another way.”

  The lecture had finished and once more hearty biking enthusiasts swept across the screen. All males with hairy knees: Morton grumbled in his throat. Then instantly cheered up as the girls’ club appeared, waving and smiling at the camera.

  “Wow!” I shouted, jumping to my feet and running in small circles. “Wow-wow!”

  “Down the hall, second door on the left.”

  “Shut up, Morton. This is inspiration, not constipation. You see genius at work. You see before you the only man who knows how to get us all safely from the city. ”

  “How?”

  “That’s how,” I said, pointing at the screen. “Stimer—get busy on the phone and the backfence gossip circuit. I want this show on the road by midaftemoon. It will take us at least that long to organize it.”

  “Organize what?” Morton cried. “I’m lost. What are you talking about?”

  “I think I know,” Stimer said, being quicker on the uptake than Mort. “You are going to leave the city on bicycles. But you will be stopped.”

  “No we won’t—because you got the answer only half right. Well all be leaving as girls!”

  Once the idea had penetrated joy reigned for a bit—then we got down to work. Since I was doing most of the planning and organizing I was the very last one to actually get involved in the nitty-gritty of personal survival. There was much coming and going. I was vaguely aware when Morton’s bicycle arrived, but then got busy again with the men’s cycle club. I ate a sandwich, drank another beer, and looked up blinking when Morton called to me.

  “We’ve got to leave soon. The first guys are already in the square. Now don’t laugh!”

  I fought hard. The fluffy chintz dress wasn’t really him. Nor had shaving his hairy legs made much of an improvement. But the foam-stuffed bra helped, as did the wig. From a distance, sure, but close up the effect was a little disconcerting.

  “I think a touch of lipstick is needed.”

  “Yeah! Well let’s see how great you look. Get changing!” I did. .The cute little pleated skirt was green so went nicely with my redhair.“l looked into the mirror and sighed. “Jim—you never looked better.”

  We parted, thanking our hosts again for their hospitality. Hoping that we would meet again—after the war. Stimer, as stout a biker as he was a hiker, would be our guide. He set off at a good clip and we girls had to push hard to keep up.

  Mark Forer Square was a scene of gay abandon. Or maybe that is not the right word. Better, perhaps, to say that everyone had been dragged there. As we pedaled up the first thing we saw was the Bellegarrique Girls’ Cycle Club. Just like on television, but infinitely more attractive in the flesh. Flesh—some very strange flesh. Because beyond the girls were other girls. Lantern of jaw, thick of thigh, scowling of mien. Our escaping draftees. Some of them hadn�
��t been on a bike in years and were wobbling about the square, occasionally falling in a flurry of skirts and guttural oaths.

  “Attention!” I shouted, then again until there was a modicum of silence. “Firstly, knock off the cursing. These kind people are risking their lives to help you deserters,

  se be nice to them. Secondly—if anyone falls offwhen we go past the roadblock we all have had it. Some threewheelers are on the way, plus some bicycles built for two. Sort yourselves out and mount up. We are on schedule.”

  “Where are we going?” one of them called out.

  “You’ll be told when you get there. Now timing is important. When I say go—we go. And anyone left behind is in the cagal. And cursing is a privilege of rank,” I added at their cries of protest. “I’m in charge so I’ll curse for all of us until we get clear. Mount up.”

  I led the deserter-girls around the square two or three times until they closed up and got it together. Only then did I signal the real girls’ club to go into action. They were beautiful. With a swoop they came down upon us, breaking into two ranks that swept by on both sides, closed up around us. The leader carried the flag and we followed her with passion. Down the road, smoothly and swiftly.

  Toward the roadblock at the junction ahead.

  Then around the corner, cutting in front of us girls,

  came the Veterans’ Cycle Club. Every head gray, or if not gray as bald as a billiard ball. Knotty gnarled legs pumped, ancient tickers ticked. Ahead of us they swooped—and on to the barriers that had been set up across the road. Some went around them, others dismounted and pulled them aside. The sergeants and officers shouted back, struggled feebly, but an opening appeared. Just as we did. And just wide enough to get through.

  Some of our outriding girls peeled off and helped the ancients make the opening wider. Some of them laughed and kissed the officers. Confusion reigned—and through the confusion, and the opening in the barrier, I led my girls. Silent and sweating and pumping for all they were worth. Through the barrier and down the road and around the bend.