The Stainless Steel Rat Wants You ssr-4

by Harry Harrison

  “This invasion was carefully prepared,” Coypu said, shuffling his notes and rattling his fingernails against his protruding teeth. “Since the invasion we have found many alien life forms lurking in dustbins, air conditioner vents, manholes, flush toilets, everywhere. They have obviously been observing us for a long time and massing reports. The kidnapping of the admirals was the first blow of the invasion, an attempt to disrupt our forces by removing their commanders. This left us very short of admirals, but Chief petty officers were put in command of units lacking senior officers and the unit efficiency has doubled. However, we lack real intelligence of the enemy’s structures and bases since only small ships have been captured, manned by junior officers. It is suggested that more information be obtained…”

  “Oh, thanks very much,” Inskipp growled, cutting Coypu off in midsuggestion. “I never would have thought of that myself.”

  “I can do it,” I told him, and enjoyed the way the whites—or really the reds—of his eyes appeared as he rolled them in my direction.

  “You? Succeed where all of our forces have failed?”

  “Of course. I will abandon modesty and tell you that I am the secret weapon that will win the war.”

  “How?”

  “Let me talk to Coypu first. A few questions, then all shall be revealed.”

  “We’re going after Mom and James?” my son asked.

  “You betcha, boy. Top priority on the list, and at the same time we shall save the civilized galaxy from destruction.”

  “Why do you bother me when I must work?” Coypu screeched from the comscreen, sputtering saliva and as red-eyed as Inskipp.

  “Relax,” I cajoled. “I will solve all your problems for you, as I have done in the past, but I must enlist your aid to do so. How many different species of alien have you discovered so far?”

  “Three hundred and twelve. But why…”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment. All sizes, shapes and colors?”

  “You better believe it! You should see my nightmares.”

  “No thank you. You must have discovered the language they use to communicate with each other. Is it difficult?”

  “You already speak it. It’s Esperanto.”

  “Come off it, Coypu!”

  “You can’t scream at me in that tone of voice!” he said hysterically. Then got control of himself, took a pill and shuddered. “Why not? They obviously have been watching us for a long time, learning all about us before they invaded. They would have heard a lot of our languages, then settled on Esperanto just as we did as the simplest, easiest and most efficient form of communication.”

  “You’ve sold me. Thank you, Professor. Get some rest because I’ll be over there and you are going to outfit me to slip into the alien HQ and discover what is going on and to rescue my family, and maybe the admirals if I get a chance.”

  “Just what the hell are you talking about?” Inskipp snarled, with Coypu’s screened image echoing the same words in an equally repellent tone of voice.

  “Simple. At least for me. Prof Coypu is going to manufacture an alien suit, complete with built-in slime-dripper, and I am going to get inside of it. They will welcome me as one of their own. It will be a new kind of loathy who has just heard of their crusade and who is rushing up to enlist. They’ll love me. I’m on the way, Professor.”

  The technicians did a fast but excellent job. They stuffed the computer full of disgusting alien details, tentacles, claws, eye-stalks, feelers, everything, then programmed it to draw pictures of variations. Wow! Even Bolivar was impressed. We put a couple of them together and juggled the result around a bit and came up with one that would suit.

  “That’s my dad!” Bolivar said, walking around the thing and admiring it from all angles.

  It looked roughly like a miniature tyrannosaurus rex with advanced leprosy and molting fur. A biped for the obvious reason that I was one. The heavy tail, that bifurcated into sucker-tipped tentacles at the end, both balanced the weighty device and contained storage space for the powerplant and equipment. An oversized jaw, just aswarm with yellow and green teeth, adorned the front of the head; a little bucktoothed too like its maker. Ears like a bat, whiskers like a rat, eyes like a cat, gills like a spratt—it really was loathsome. The front split open and I climbed carefully inside.

  “The forearms are only lightly powered and fit over your own arms,” Coypu said. “But the heavy legs are servopowered and follow the movements of your legs. Watch out for them, those claws can tear a hole in a steelwall.”

  “I intend to try that. What about the tail?”

  “Automatic counterbalance and it wags as you walk. These controls will enable you to thrash it about when you are not walking, make it look realistic. This switch is the automatic twitcher, that moves the tail about a bit when you are sitting or standing for a long time. Watch out for this switch—it controls the recoilless seventy-five mounted in the head just between the eyes. The sight is here on your nose.”

  “Wonderful. What about grenades?”

  “The launcher is under the tail, of course. The grenades themselves are disguised as you-know-what.”

  “A pretty touch. I see you have the warped kind of mind for this sort of business. Now let me close the zipper and you step back while I try it out.”

  It took a bit of practice to move the hulking thing about naturally, but after a few minutes I got the knack. I stalked about the lab leaving a trail of slime wherever I went, gouging ruts in the steel deck with my claws, swishing my tail and knocking things about, and even poked my head into the firing range to let go a few shots with my headgun. Recoilless or not, I decided, as I took pills for the headache, to save this gun for real emergencies. As I went back to the lab a small treaded robot came out of a doorway and ran over my tail.

  “Hey, get rid of that thing,” I called out as the PAIN IN TAIL signal flashed on my readout board. I aimed a kick at the robot which it easily dodged. Then it stopped in front of me and the turret with the optic lenses popped open and I found myself staring into Bolivar’s smiling face.

  “Is one permitted to ask just what the hell you are doing in that thing,” one asked.

  “Sure, Dad. I’m going with you. Servant-robot to carry your gear. Isn’t that logical?”

  “No, it is not.” I marshalled my arguments and knew, even as I began, that this was one argument I was going to lose. I lost it—and was secretly glad. Although I feared for his safety, I could sure use someone to back me up. We would both go.

  “Where?” Inskipp asked, looking with disgust at my alien suit when I climbed out.

  “To that armed planet where they took the admirals. And, probably, Angelina and James as well. If it’s not their headquarters or main base or some such it certainly will do until the real one comes along.”

  “You wouldn’t care to tell me how you plan to get there, would you?”

  “Delighted. In the same patrol boat that we arrived in. But before we go I want the hull blown open fatally, then roughly patched. Knock it about inside a good deal, crunch some of the nonessential equipment to make it look good. Get plenty of blood from the slaughterhouse and sprinkle it all over. And, I don’t like to suggest this, but realism is what counts—do you have some spare human corpses?”

  “Far too many,” he answered grimly. “And you want one or two of them, in uniform, aboard?”

  “They may save our lives. I am going to go blasting in with that ship, radio blaring and lights flashing, and volunteer myself and my planet of creepies to the noble cause of humanity-destruction.”

  “Which you just happened to find out about when your people captured this ship?” “You catch on quick for someone your age. Get it done at once, Inskipp, because I want to leave about five minutes ago.”

  Since this mission seemed to be the single ray of hope in the unmitigated gloom of the losing war, we had the best of service. The battered patrol boat was loaded aboard a combat cruiser that blasted off the instant we were aboard. T
hey ferried us to our destination, the nearest safe area to the enemy stars, then chucked us out. I navigated us around a massive cloud of dust, skirted a black hole or two to blur our trail, then scuttled into the arm of the galaxy that held the enemy.

  “Ready, son?” asked, poking my head out through the slit in the alien’s neck.

  “Ready when you are, Slippery Jim,” the robot responded as the turret clacked down and locked into place.

  I sealed up and reached out a clawed arm and shook his tentacle. Then got to work. Extra lights had been installed on the hull, of ugly, alien construction, and I switched these on so that we looked like a space-going Christmas tree. I then started the tape of the recently written anthem of my imaginary home planet and began broadcasting it at full volume on 137 wave-lengths. Thus prepared we headed leisurely for the armored planet, wafted there on the strains of delightful groaning music.

  Sliming and gurgling,

  gnashing with crunch.

  We’re the most sordid,

  of the alien bunch.

  Seven

  “Kiu vi estas?” the gravelly voice said, the screen lighting up at the same instant to display a particularly repulsive alien physiognomy.

  “Kiu mi estas? Çiuj konas min, se mi ne konas, vin, belulo…”

  I had decided to be arrogant, secure in a warm welcome, and very flattering—though calling this worm-faced echh “handsome” took some doing. But the flattery appeared to help, it preened a handful of tendrils with a damp tentacle, and continued in a more friendly tone of voice.

  “Come, come, cutey. They may know who you are at home—but you’re a long way from home now. And there is a war on so we have to obey security regulations.”

  “Of course, naturally, I am just filled with enthusiasm. Are you really fighting a war of extermination against the dry-stick-pink-black aliens?”

  “We’re doing our best, gorgeous.”

  “Well, count us in! We caught this ship sneaking up on our planet—we have no spacers but fire a mean combat rocket—and shot it down. We brainsucked the survivors, learned their language, and discovered that all the attractive races in the galaxy had united against them. We want to join your forces, I am ambassador—so issue instructions for we are yours!”

  “Mighty nice sentiments,” the thing slobbered. “We’ll send a ship up to guide you in and the welcoming committee will make you welcome. But there is one question, sweety.”

  “Ask away, handsome.”

  “With eyes like yours—you are female, aren’t you?”

  “Next year, at this same time I will be. Right now I’m in neuter state halfway from he to she.”

  “It’s a date then. See you in a year.”

  “I’ll write it in my diary now,” I cooed and hung up and reached for the nearby bottle. But Bolivar the Robot was ahead of me and had poured a large glass which I sucked at through a straw.

  “Am I wrong, Dad,” he asked, “or did that refugee from the sewage works have the hots for you?”

  “Unhappily, my boy, you are right. In our ignorance my little disguise turns out to be the height of female pulchritude among the awful-awfuls. We must make it more loathsome!”

  “That will probably make it more sexy.”

  “You’re right, of course.” I insufflated feelingly through the straw. “I’ll just have to put up with their amorous attentions and try to turn it to some benefit.”

  Our guide ship appeared moments later and I locked the automatic pilot onto its tail. We floated downward, through unseen minefields and defensive screens, to land on a metal pad inside a large fortress. I hoped this was the VIP field, not the prison entrance.

  “You’ll want your helmet, won’t you, Dad,” Bolivar said in a sea of black thoughts, drawing me back from the brink of my sea of black thoughts.

  “Right you are, oh good and noble robot.” I put on the goldplated steel helmet, with the diamond nebula on front and examined my image in the mirror. Delicious. “And best not to call me Dad any more. It gives rise to some impossible biological questions.”

  An improbable parade of slithering, hopping and crawling figures slogged up when we appeared through the lock, the Bolivar-robot carrying the carefully constructed alien luggage. One individual in slimy gold braid stepped out of the pack and waved a lot of claws in my direction.

  “Welcome, stellar ambassador,” it said. “I am Gar-Baj, First Official of War Council.”

  “A pleasure I’m sure. I am Sleepery Jeem of Geshtunken.”

  “Is Sleepery your first name or a title?”

  “It means, in the language of my race, He Who Walks on Backs of Peasants With Sharp Claws, and denotes a member of the nobility.”

  “A remarkably compact language, Sleepery, you must tell me more about it again—in private.” Six of his eighteen eyes winked slowly and I knew the old sex-appeal was still at work.

  “I’ll take you up on that my next fertile period, Gar. But for now—it is war! Tell me how things go and what we of Geshtunken can do to aid this holy cause.”

  “It shall be done. Let me guide you to your personal quarters and explain as we go.”

  He dismissed the onlookers with the wave of one tentacle, signaling me to follow him with another. I did, with my faithful robot rolling after me.

  “The war goes as planned,” he said. “You would of course not know, but we have been many years in the planning stage. Our spies have penetrated all of the human worlds and we know their strength down to the last ray gun charge. We cannot be stopped. We have absolute control of space and are now preparing for the second phase.”

  “Which is…?”

  “Planetary invasion. After knocking off their fleet we’ll pick off their planets, one by one, like ripeçerizoj.”

  “That’s for us!” I shouted, and raked great gouges in the metal flooring with my claws. “We Geshtunken are fighting fools, ready to lead the charge, willing to die in a cause that is just.”

  “Just what I was hoping to hear from someone as well built as you, claws, teeth and such. In here, if you please. We have plenty of transport ships but can always use experienced troops—”

  “We are death-defying warriors!”

  “Even better. You will attend the next meeting of the War Council and plans will be drawn up for mutual cooperation. But now you must be tired and want to rest.”

  “Never!” I chomped my jaws and bit a chunk out of a nearby couch. “I want no rest until the last dry enemy has been destroyed.”

  “A noble sentiment, but we must all rest sometime.”

  “Not the Geshtunken. Don’t you have a captive or two I could disembowel for a propaganda film?”

  “We have a whole load of admirals, but we need them for brainsuck to aid in the invasion.”

  “Too bad. I pluck legs and arms from admirals like petals from flowers. Don’t you have any female prisoners—or children? They scream nice.”

  This was the 64,000 credit question hidden among the other rubbish and my tail twitched as I waited for the answer. The robot stopped buzzing.

  “It’s funny you should ask. We did capture an enemy spy ship that was crewed by a female and a male youth.”

  “Just the thing!” I shouted, and my excitement was real.

  “They must need torture, questioning, crunching. That’s for me. Lead me to them!”

  “Normally I would be happy to. But that is now impossible.”

  “Dead…?” I said, fighting to turn the despair in my voice into disappointment.

  “No. But I wish they were. We still haven’t figured out what happened. Five of our best fighting things alone in a room with these two pallid and undersized creatures. All five destroyed, we still don’t know how. The enemy escaped.”

  “Too bad,” I said, simulating boredom now with the whole matter, swinging my tail around and scratching its scrofulous tip with a claw. “You have of course recaptured them?”

  “No. And that’s the strange part. It has been some days
now. But you do not wish to be bothered by petty worries. Refresh yourself and a messenger will be sent for you when the meeting is joined. Death to the crunchies!”

  “Death to the crunchies yourself. See you at the meeting.”

  The door closed behind him and the Bolivar-robot spoke.

  “Where will you have the bags, mighty Sleepery?”

  “Anywhere, metallic moron.” I lashed out with a kick that the robot scuttled back to avoid. “Do not bother me with such petty matters.”

  I walked about the room, singing the Geshtunken national anthem in a shrill voice, managing to cover all parts of the room as I did so. In the end I plopped down and opened the zipper in my neck.

  “You can come out and stretch if you want to,” I said. “These drips are really most trusting because I can detect no bugs, spies or optic pickups anywhere in these quarters.”

  Bolivar exited the robot quickly and did some deep knee bends to the accompaniment of cracking joints. “It gets tight in there after awhile. What next? How do we find Mom and James?”

  “A good question that brings no easy answer to mind. But at least we know that they are alive and well and causing the enemy trouble.”

  “Maybe they left messages for us—or a trail we could follow.”

  “We will look, but I don’t think so. Anything we might follow these uglies could as well. Crack out a bottle of Old Thought Provoker from your kit there and see if there is a glass in this dump. And I will think.”

  I thought hard, but with little results. Perhaps the atmosphere was a bit offputting. The wall hangings were of moldy green over flaking red paint. Half of the room was filled with a swimming-pool-sized mud wallow that brimmed over with steaming gray sludge that burbled and plopped up big bubbles from time to time that stank atrociously. Bolivar went exploring, but after almost being sucked under by the sanitary arrangements and having a quick look at the food supply—he turned as green as my alien hide—he was happy enough to sit and switch channels on the TV. Most of the programs revealed were impossible to understand, though loathsome to a great degree, or if understandable were depressing—like the current battle reports.