The Stainless Steel Rat Joins the Circus

Chapter 21

Before we parted at the heliport we called James one last time. Still no news, still no luck in finding Kaia's elusive living quarters. It had been easier to crack into the government records than it was now to get past the privacy barriers of that exclusive city. When Bolivar was gone I picked up my bag and trudged wearily back into Fetorrscoria. I was too tired to go very far. When I came to a liquor store, with a bench out in front of it for the alcoholics, I knew I had reached journey's end. Popping a cold beer I settled back in the sun and called Chaise.

"Pretty good job if I say so myself."

"Where are you?"

I told him and hung up. By the time I had finished the beer his car rolled up. The door opened and I climbed in. I threw the fake ID he had supplied me with onto the back seat. Took off my face and heard one last plaintive "chicken soup?" as I threw it back there as well.

"Plenty of people saw me in Swartzlegen. And I had to use the face and ID to rent a copter. Since the maglev train pretty obviously wasn't running. Did you like the job I did?"

"I would be more pleased if you hadn't seen fit to cut off all communication."

"If you mean all the bugs you planted on me-of course I got rid of them. I do value my privacy."

"You will be going to the depository tonight."

"No thanks? No day off? No pat on the back?"

"Don't be tiresome, diGriz. This will be your last assignment, as I promised. I should think that you would be very pleased that our relationship will soon be over."

I would be pleased when it really was over. I did not trust him in the slightest. Once back at the warehouse he got right down to business.

"Igor. Bring the large box from the car and then go away."

Igor scuffled back with it, dropped it onto the table and went out. Chaise took a photograph from the box and passed it over to me.

"This man is known as Iba Ibada, nicknamed Iba-illfavored for obvious reasons."

Too true! A man of average, height and schlumpy build. He wouldn't have looked that bad had it not been for the jagged scar that ran down from his forehead, across his nose-leaving a deep dent-and down his cheek. It had been coarsely stitched up, so roughly that the scars of the sutures still showed.

"Industrial accident," Chaise said. "Machine caught him. He was sewn up by the first-aid assistant, who obviously had little experience. Then Iba was fired from the job for taking the rest of the day off from work. He was very grateful to me when I found him employment on the cleaning squad at the depository. In addition to his salary I pay him very well, to enable him to indulge in his repulsive vices. He is appreciative and does me favors. You will take his place tonight."

"Won't anyone notice?"

"No. I have planned this down to the last detail."

And so he had. The artificial scar that he brought out was identical to the original. Waterproof as well, and could only be removed by a special solvent. Shaped wedges went inside my cheeks and puffed them out to match Iba's photograph. His work clothes were baggy and ugly enough to cover any differences in build. The heavy boots suitably scuffed.

"How about ID?" I asked, scowling in disgust at my image in the mirror. Chaise passed over a small case. "A contact lens, right eye. Do not lose it. It is expensive and irreplaceable. It has his retinal patterns. And four sets of plastic gloves with his palm pattern on them. That should be enough, since you will only be in the repository twice. Once to see for yourself the layout and the alarms, particularly those on the bearer-bond vault, in order to plot out the theft. Then the theft on the next night. I have a specialized security-trapper kit that is also expensive and irreplaceable. Do you know how to operate it?"

I took it, opened it-and sneered. "I was making better kits than this before I learned to shave. And what makes you think that I will be able to do to the job on the second night?"

"You have to. There will not be a second chance. A ticket has been bought for Iba and he has been paid a large bonus. He will be going offplanet today. And don't forget-remember the video you looked at-that you are what might be called a hostage to fortune."

And I was, surely enough.

"Look at this," Chaise said, breaking into my thoughts, passing over another memory card. I plugged it into the computer. "This is Iba on his nightly round. The route he takes, the cleaning he does. You will note that he is not a very fast worker. So you can do his job-and still have time to complete yours."

"How do I get to work?"

"Igor will drive you there and will leave you close by. He will pick you up at the same spot when your shift is over. Do you have any questions before I go?"

"None that I can think of now."

"There will be no opportunity later. I will not see you again until after you have returned here."

If there is anything more boring than mopping floors and emptying out shredding machines-it is watching someone else doing it. Including an extraordinary amount of standing about, nose and bum scratching, since the workbots did most of the cleaning. I had some fun when I speeded the film up, but even that grew tiresome. I memorized everything I needed then, since I would not be leaving until close to midnight, I lay on my cot and dozed off in front of the television.

"Time go," was my chauffeur's shouted suggestion.

We went. Trundling through the dark and empty streets. The contact lens in my eye itched and I had to strongly resist the temptation to scratch it. My palm print gloves were pulled on and the trapper kit was in my pocket. Igor stopped the truck finally and pointed ahead. "Around corner."

To work. A few other night workers, also in uniform, were climbing the steps to the depository. I ignored them just as Iba had done in my training film.

"How's your girlfriend?" one of them shouted, a question that promoted great glee among the other mental giants. I answered, as did Iba in the film.

"Bowb off."

These were the only words I ever heard him speak. Quite often. A bored guard held open an outer door: I walked slower in order to make sure that I would be last one in. If my fake identification did not work I wanted to get out of this place just as quickly as I could. As I walked towards the glowing eye of the retinal pattern detector I blinked inadvertently, my eye irritated by the contact lens. Which slid out of position.

I cursed, walked even slower, trying to push it back into position, watched the last man before me walk away from the detector.

"Move it, big-butt," the guard helpfully suggested. "I ain't got all night."

Thus encouraged I pressed the contact lens hard, hoping it was in the right place, bent and looked into the opening. There was a brief flash of light.

I stood up, holding my breath, waiting for the alarm bells.

The entry light flashed green. I walked slowly towards the locked door. Pressed my palm on the plate next to it.

The door clicked open and I walked in.

The other night workers fanned out and disappeared in the dark and silent building. I pushed open the door to the service steps and went down two flights. The lights came on when I entered the battery room, illuminating the peaceful ranks of silent robots.

"Bowb off," I said, as my double always did. Hanging by the door was my lightning prod, fully charged. I unplugged it and jabbed the nearest robot. "Bowb off."

A great spark snapped into the thing's receiver plate, closing a relay and bringing it to robotic life. Its charging cable disconnected and slid back into its container. The robot turned and exited the room as I danced about my charges, goosing them electrically, until they were all under way.

Through office after office. The rattle and thud of shredders being emptied, clatter of ashtrays. Behind us was the swish of mops cleaning the floor as we went. Occasionally one of the brainless robots would freeze in a feedback cycle, picking up and emptying a container over and over. A quick spark in the right place would jolt it back to work. I imagined doing this job for the rest of my life and shuddered. I had been at it for a little over an hour and was bored to stupidity. I stuck with it. Sparking and cursing monotonously until we reached the vault level.

"All stop. Take a ten-minute break."

They kept going and I cursed again. What was the correct order?

"Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop." On the fourth repetition they did. I leaned my lightning prod against the wall and trotted down the dimly lit hall. Counting the entrances as I went past them, rewalking in reality the virtual reality that I had walked through so many times before. There it was.

The outer door had an uncomplicated lock and no alarms; I opened it easily. The inner, metal-barred gate, would not be that simple. Thank goodness all of the alarms were antiques. More suitable for a museum than their guardian function.

First a length of wire to short the alarm on the electronic lock. There were supposed to be millions of combinations possible on this ancient mechanism, making it impossible to open without hours of computer time. My machine broke the code in less than three minutes. I punched the numbers into the thing's memory and relocked the gate.

The alarms built into the door frame would not be a problem; I had passed through their type often in the past. However, when I put on infrared goggles the room beyond lit up with a pattern of interlaced beams. Break one beam and all the alarms would sound.

But if I put a beam generator of the correct frequency in front of the receiver lens I would be able walk around the room undetected, no matter how many beams I cut.

That was it. I could get into the room. I could remove the bonds from their shelves. Load the robots down and take the bonds away. To where? And, even more important, how could I get them out of the building?

"Bowb off!" I said, with some feeling this time, as I sparked my robots back to life. I had until the end of my shift to figure out a way.

Time dragged. Time crawled its sluggish track. Robots mopped, dumped, clattered, sparked and, eventually, my midshift break came. I zapped my horde into frozen silence and looked for a pleasant place to dine. The office of some major executive seemed fine. Seated in his leather chair, gazing across many square meters of glistening desktop, I looked out through his crystal window at the light-sparkled bulk of a bank building. And tried not to taste what I was eating. For some perverse reason Iba had a passion for pickled and smoked porcuswine tails, and always brought a container to work. For verities' sake I had to do the same. I chewed and gagged on the gristly bits, pulled a quill from a piece of attached skin, used it to dig horrible fragments from between my teeth.

But, even as I suffered through my grisly repast, my subconscious was at work. Analyzing, plotting, scheming, working.

I finished quickly, threw the porcine remains into the contraterrene disposal unit-where they flared into cosmic rays-and stood to leave.

Then sat down again as the solution to my problems surfaced in my brain and bobbed about in my cerebral cortex.

Yes, it could be done. Not easily, and there were some very risky factors involved. I was probably the only person in the known galaxy, I thought humbly, who could even imagine a crime like this, much less pull it off.

And all for no profit. There must be a way to get out of Kaia's clutching grasp.