The Stainless Steel Rat for President ssr-5

by Harry Harrison

  “It’s working,” Bolivar said, as he finished a call on the radio. “That was the tenth precinct in Primoroso. We caught them packing the ballot box. One of the newsmen got it all on 173 tape and there is going to be a recount. We’re really lucky that so many newsmen came for this election.” “Luck, my son, is never a matter of chance.” I humbly averted my eyes. “There are forty-three freelance newsmen here because that was the most I could hire at short notice. Their fares have been paid, they are enjoying their holidayand anything they may make by selling their material is found money.” “I should have known,” he said. “If there is any crooked way of getting a thing done my dad will think of it!” I slapped him on the shoulder and turned away, too filled with emotion to speak. Praise like this is more precious than pearls. ~ By midaftemoon the fat was really in the fire. We were fighting a rear-guard action and barely holding our own. In some of the smaller towns we knew that we had lost since Zapilote’s supporters had simply closed the polls at gunpoint and substituted their own stuffed boxes. We had to let them get away with it. It was the big population centers that counted and we were still managing to hold our own there. With any luck it might be a fairly honest ballot, with a final vote that represented the will of the people.

  As the reports came in the marquez began to grow more and more depressed. He cracked his knuckles pensively and shook his head in anger.

  “This is no way to go about it! We do nothing on our own! Our people just sit around looking at the wall until it is too late. Only after the illegal acts have been committed do they go into action. We can never win unless we hit them first and hit them hard. Why don’t we just shoot all the Zapilote supporters?” “My dear marquez, we have to win in the way we are doing it now. Otherwise it would not be a democratic election.” “I’m beginning not to like this democracy of yours. It is too much work. It is much easier to tell the peasants what to do. They like it that way. We know that you will make a better president than that piece of filth Zapilote. So let’s just make you president and let it go that.” I sighed deeply. Gonzales de Torres, the Marquez de la Rosa, had an attitude towards the world that went with his name. He would never understand the reality of democracy. I had to count upon his kindness and personal code of values to get his cooperation.

  “I’ll explain some other time. Meanwhile we have to set up the automatic ballot box stuffers.” “The what?” “The machines that will return whatever vote we like in the districts we chose.” “You can do this? And if you can do it-why aren’t you doing it for all the districts and save a lot of time and effort?” “Because we must have what at least appears to be an honest election. If our new world starts corruptly it is going to go on being corrupt. However if we have to give it a little corrupt help I intend to keep that a secret from the electors. We want them to think that democracy works-and it will work after the election. So what we are doing is keeping track of every ballot box that has been rigged, stuffed or falsified in any way. And we are not interfering with the boxes themselves. “ “Then we will lose.” “No we will win. That ~uaranteed in each of those districts. Because it is not tne boxes that will be interfered with-but the information about those boxes.” “You have lost me,” he said, then poured some ron into a glass. “This is said to help the mental processes.” “Well help mine too, thank you. It is really very simple. We are attaching one of these devices to the phone lines of each of the vote-counting officers in each of the affected districts. “ I held up a compact metal box with wires coming from it. He looked at it dubiously. “A miracle of microcircuitry and applied chip technology. With this we monitor all calls to a selected number. Eventually the ballots will be counted and a phone call made. The official will then read out the results. As he does this his call will be intercepted and relayed to your big computer here on another phone line. The computer will take the image of the speaker and his voice, break them down into bits, restructure them so the speaker will then give the results we want-and send the corrected image back down the telephone line. This process will take a small amount of time.” “How small? The deception will be detected... “ “Not in four milliseconds, four-thousandths of a second, which is all it will take. You have a good computer.” “We should do it for all the ballot results?” “No, that would be immoral. What we are doing is moral but illegal. It is a fine point upon which I base my entire existence, which I will attempt to explain to you some day when we have more time. Just a drop more ron-fine, thank you-then back to work.” The results of the ballot would be declared in the Primoroso Opera House, a giant ball that been designed for this occasion. Every four years it was packed with Zapilote’s followers, who would do no more than greet the rigged vote with wild applause, then hail victory just one more time. This year there would be two candidates on the platform and the results, hopefully, would be a lot different. We kept working and put off leaving as long as possible, until Angelina and the marqueza forcefully dragged us outto the waiting copter.

  “Isn’t that a little ornate?” Angelina asked, pointing to all the gold braid and jingling rows of medals on my uniform.

  “Not in the slightest. People appreciate a good show. And they like a president to look like a president. Let’s go!” We flew to the city in an armed group, and equally wellarmed cars met us at the airport. Zapilote would love to assassinate us if he got a chance so all precautions were taken. Once we entered the opera house we would be all right, since by mutual agreement no weapons would be allowed inside. Zapilote was just as careful of his skin as I was of mine.

  He was on the platform ahead of us, and snarled and spat when I waved a cheery greeting.

  “Not in a very cheerful mood is he? I hope he has good reason. “ It was a great social occasion and the crowd was buzzing with excitement. Champagne was being drunk in great quantities, though between sips all eyes were on the great screen over our heads where the results would be displayed. Right now it read zero zero just like the opening of a ball game.

  There was a sudden hush as a bell rang loudly and the chairman of the balloting committee took his position before the microphone.

  “The polls are closed and counting will now begin,” he said, and everyone cheered. “Here is our first count, just in, from Cucaracha City. Are you there, Cucaracha?” The screen below the scoreboard cleared and an immense projected face appeared.

  “Here is the count from Cucaracha City,” the man said, then lowered his eyes to consult the paper in his hand. “For President Zapilote, sixteen votes. Next, for Sir Harapo... nine hundred and eighty-five. Long live Harapo!” But as soon as he had shouted this he looked around worriedly, then vanished from the screen. The marqu6z leaned over to me and whispered behind his hand.

  “Very good. You would never know that it was a computer talking, not the real man.” “It’s even better than that-because that was the real man. An honest vote. Let’s hope they all come in like that.” But of course they didn’t. Zapilote’s henchmen had done their work well, so that a number of counts were just as skewed as the first one-only in the opposite direction. Bit by bit the returns mounted-and the tension did . as well. Because we were neck and neck. Wherever an honest vote had been recorded the Avenging Terriers ate the Happy Buzzards. Far too often the opposite was true. At times we would be ahead by a whisker, at other times they led by a beak. It was neck and neck.

  “It is very exciting,” de Torres said. ‘This election business has more fascination than a bull fight. But it gives one a thirst. I happen to have some ninety-year-old ron in my pocket flask. Would you care to give me an opinion on its quality?” Without too much urging I gave my opinion and he checked it. There were now only four polling stations to go. “Are any of these ours?” de Torres whispered. “I don’t know!” I groaned. “I’ve lost track.” First Zapilote led, then the votes fell to me, then, on the next to last report, he was ahead by seventy-five votes.

  “You could have done a better job of cooking the books,” Angelina said. “Or simply shot the old
buzzard.” “Democracy, my pet. One person, one vote, you know the theory, and the results never known until the very last vote is counted...” “Here it is, ladies and gentlemen, the report is coming in now, the very last report!” A face filled the screen above our heads and we twisted our necks to look up at it. A man, heavily moustached and gloomy of mien.

  “It is my pleasure to bring to you the final ballot from the resort town of Solysombra, garden spot of the south coast • ..” The audience groaned and I gritted my teeth. “... the final count is... just a moment I have the paper here.” “I want that man killed at once!” Zapilote called out, and the marquez nodded agreement with the dictator for the first and only time in his life.

  “Yes, here it is. It is my pleasure to report that fair Solysombra has awarded eight hundred and nineteen votes to our beloved General-President Zapilote...” “That puts us eight hundred and ninety-four votes behind,” Angelina said. “It’s still not too late to poison him.” “... and for the other candidate, what’s his name, yes, Harapo, I have the unhappiness to report he has managed to scrape together-my goodness!” His eyes bulged and he looked around and began to sweat. “I must report that he has... eight hundred and ninety-six.—votes.” The crowd went wild as the numbers were flashed on the board. Zapilote was shaking his fist in my direction and Angelina was shouting in my ear.

  “You won by two votes! Your own and de Torres’s.” “Truth will out!” I stood and waved back at the audience, clenched my fists over my head, bent and kissed Angelina, shook hands with the marquez, thumbed my nose at Zapilote who was frothing with rage, then stepped forward to the microphone. I had to stand there for a minute with my hands raised before the pandemonium died down. The cameras were trained on me, the ears of the galaxy waiting eagerly to hear my words. At last I could speak.

  “Thank you, my friends, thank you. I am a modest man-” Angelina clapped loudly at that, which started the audience off again. I nodded and smiled and waited patiently for the applause to die away again.

  “As I was saying, I am a modest man and do not thrust myself forward. But the public will has spoken and I will answer it. You have my promise...” I’m not sure if I heard the shot, but the impact of the bullet buried me backwards. My chin dropped to my chest and I saw the red blood pumping out, spreading.

  I was falling. Falling into oblivion...

  Chapter 32

  Afterword There might possibly be someone, someplace in one of the more backward parts of this planet, who might not know me. My name is Ricard Gonzales de Torres y Alvarez, Marquez de la Rosa. I have been asked by the official historians of Paraiso-Aqui to record the events of that black day. Though I am no writer by trade, I consider it a repulsive and degenerate occupation for a grown man, I nevertheless agreed, since I am the person obviously best suited to the task. The men of the de Torres family have never shirked their responsibilities, no matter how onerous they might be. Therefore I begin at the beginning, where I am told all stories should begin.

  I was sitting just behind that wonderful man, that paragon of all virtue, the noble Sir Hector Harapo, Knight of the Beeday, gentleman, scientist and loving father. I can not praise him too highly. But I digress. I was sitting next to him when he spoke to the audience, to the world-the entire galaxy-at that moment of our greatest joy. That repellent slug Zapilote had been defeated in an honest and democratic election. Hector was President and I the Vice-president-elect. The world was going to be a better place.

  Then the shot was fired. It came from high in the building, from one of the small windows at the rear I believe, used by technicians or things like that. I saw this dear man’s body quiver with the impact. Then fall. I was at his side in an instant and the light of life was still in his eyes. But it was growing dimmer. I bent over him and seized his hand and could barely feel the feeble grasp that he returned.

  “My friend...” he said, then coughed and his lips turned carmine with his very life’s blood. “My dear friend... I am going now. It is up to you... to carry on ., . our work. Be strong. Promise me... that you will build the world we both wanted... “ “I promise, I promise,” I said, my voice hoarse with emo179 tion. His saintly eyes were closed, but he must have heard me for his dying hand gave one last tremor as it tightened on mine. An instant later it went limp.

  Then his loyal wife was pushing me aside, seizing him up with a strength I did not know she possessed, then others rushed to her aid.

  “It cannot be!” she cried, and my heart went out to her in her moment of pain. “It cannot be-he cannot be deaddoctors, ambulance! He must be saved!” They hurried him off and I did not stop them. She would know soon enough. I dropped into my seat and looked down in despair, then saw for the first time his noble blood upon my hand. Reverently I took my handkerchief from my breast pocket and pressed it to the red droplets, soaking them up, then carefully refolding the linen to preserve them forever.

  And that I have done. The handkerchief is before me now, under a glass dome filled with a neutral gas that will preserve its fabric intact for eternity. It stands beside the case holding the crown jewels, discovered in Zapilote’s private chamber where that creature used to fondle them for some perverse reason.

  You all know the rest. Thousands of you were at his funeral. Nor is he forgotten. His simple grave is still visited by multitudes every day.

  You know about his enemies as well, for that story has been writ most often. How the crowd surged to their feet and cried “Death to the Despot” and were about to throw themselves upon that monster Zapilote and tear the flesh from his body with their fingers. How he quailed before their wrath and how he looked upon death and was possessed by fear.

  It was then, at that very moment, that Harapo’s noble wife returned and stood before the quailing creature and raised her hand and the crowd was silent and she did address them.

  “Hear me, oh people of Paraiso-Aqui, hear me. My dear husband is dead. It is over. But do not throw away the world that he died to give you. Abide by the rule of law, even when dealing with pieces of filth like the wicked Zapilote. Condemn him for his crimes but do not kill him. My husband did not believe in murder-so do not commit it in his name. I thank you.” I am not so proud that I would deny that there were tears in my eyes when she spoke. There was not a dry eye in that immense hall. For even Zapilote was weeping with relief.

  His widow left Paraiso-Aqui the very next day, for his memory was everywhere here. I saw her walk into the spaceship, turn and wave once, then go on. Behind her were the two brave young men, James and Bolivar. She left all of her possessions behind. There were just the few bags that the steward carried into the ship behind her. The spacelock swung shut and I have never seen her since.

  The rest is history. Though I had no wish to serve in the high office of President I could not refuse that good man’s dying wish. I have labored for you to the best of my abilities, and the majority have declared that I have served you well. I am satisfied. The scoundrels who terrified this world are no longer with us. They were condemned at public trial and found guilty. Our appeal to the Interstellar League of Justice was answered and you all know how they were removed to the prison planet of Calabozo. Every corrupt judge and policeman went. Every last one of the Ultimados who terrified this planet for two centuries. All gone. We have been purified. And they are all alive and, if not well, at least surviving. For it is a matter of record that there are no warders on Calabozo, just a few robots. The planet is wild and has a severe climate. All of the prisoners there must grow their own food and fend for themselves for the rest of their natural lives. They are their own destinies. They cannot escape. It is a well-deserved fate for that scurrilous crew.

  My story must end at this point. As your president it was a far, far better thing that I did than I have ever done; it is a far, far better world we have here than we have ever known. We have Him to thank for that. He will live in our memories forever. Thank you, dear friend, and good-bye.

  Still Another Afterword As
the saying goes, it’s hard to really kill a stainless steel rat. But it’s easy enough to tire one out. I don’t know what souvenirs Angelina had put into the suitcases, bars of gold perhaps, but they were slowly tearing my arms out at the sockets. I staggered up the ramp behind her and the boys and on into the security of the spaceship. It wasn’t until the airlock closed behind us that I felt free to drop them and straighten up.

  “James,” I said, “or Bolivar. Would either of you like to help your aging father by carrying these bags the rest of the way?” I pressed my fist against my aching back and my spine crackled nicely. What a relief. Then I saw two passengers turning my way and I grabbed up the bags again just as Bolivar was reaching for them.

  “No young sir, not your job to carry bags, not on this ship. Old Jim will carry them. This way madam, kind young gentlemen, I’ll show you to your suite of cabins.” I tottered off with my family following close behind. Only when the cabin door had closed behind me did I drop the awful bags and groan with relief.

  “You poor dear,” Angelina said, patting my hand then leading me to the chair. “Now just sit there for a bit while I see if I can find something that might cheer you up,” I peeled off the gray moustache and eyebrows and buried the gray wig from me while she bent to open the suitcase. The lid flipped back to reveal row after row of dark bottles nestled into a soft protective bed. Angelina took one out and held its dusty form up to the light.

  “Hundred-year-old ron. Lots of it. A little souvenir of Paraiso-Aqui that I thought you might enjoy. Let me pour you a drop to see if it was bruised in travel.” “Light of my life!” I gushed with sincere admiration. “You 182 are too kind.” It was pure paradise as it trickled down my throat. She smiled and nodded approval.