The Stainless Steel Rat Sings the Blues
by Harry Harrison
The Stainless Steel Rat Sings the Blues
by Harry Harrison
CHAPTER 1
Walking up the wall had not been easy. But walking across the ceiling was turning out to be completely impossible. Until I realized that I was going about it the wrong way. It seemed obvious when I thought about it. When I held onto the ceiling with my hands I could not move my feet. So I switched off the molebind gloves and swung down, hanging only from the soles of my boots. The blood rushed to my head-as well it might bringing with it a surge of nausea and a sensation of great unease.
What was I doing here, hanging upside down from the ceiling of the Mint, watching the machine below stamp out five-hundred-thousand-credit coins? They jingled and fell into the waiting baskets-so the answer to that question was pretty obvious. I nearly fell after them as I cut the power on one foot. f swung it forward in a giant step and slammed it solidly against the ceiling again as I turned the binding energy back on. A generator in the boot emitted a field of the same binding energy that holds molecules together, making my foot, at least temporarily, a part of the ceiling. As long as the power was on.
A few more long steps and I was over the baskets. I fumbled at my waist, trying to ignore the dizziness, and pulled out the cord from my oversized belt buckle. Bending double until could reach up to the ceiling, I pushed the knob at the end against the plaster and switched it on. The molebind field damped hard and I released my feet. To hang, swinging, right side up now, while the blood seeped out of my florid face.
“Come on Jim-no hanging about,” I advised myself. “The alarm will go off any second now.”
Right on cue the sirens screamed, the lights blinked, while a gargantuan hooter thundered through the walls. I did not tell myself that I told me so. No time. Thumb on the power button so that the immensely strong, almost invisible, single-molecule cord whirred out of the buckle and dropped me swiftly down. When my outstretched hands clinked among the coins I stopped. Opened my attaché case and dragged it clanking through the coins until it was full of the shining, shimmering beauties.
Closed and sealed it as the tiny motor buzzed and dragged me up to the ceiling again. My feet struck and stuck: I switched off power to the lifting lug.
And the door opened below me.
“Somebody coulda come in here!” the guard shouted, his weapon nosing about him. “The door alarm went off.”
“Maybe-but I don’t see nothin’,” the second guard said.
They looked down and around. But never up. I hoped. Feeling the sweat rolling up my face. Collecting there. Dropping
I watched with horror as the droplets spattered down onto the guard’s helmet.
“Next room!” he shouted, his voice drowning out the splat of perspiration. They rushed out, the door closed, I walked across the ceiling, crawled down the wall, slumped with exhaustion on the floor.
“Ten seconds, no more,” I admonished. Survival was a harsh taskmaster. What had seemed like a good idea at the time maybe really was a good idea. But right now I was very sorry I had ever seen the newsflash.
Ceremonial opening of new Mart on Paskonjak . . . planet often called Mintworld . . . first half-million-credit coins ever issued . . . dignitaries and press invited.
It had been like the sound of the starting gun to a sprinter.
I was off. A week later I was stepping out of the space terminal on Paskonjak, bag in hand and forged press credentials in pocket. Even the massed troops and tough security had not tempered my madness. The machines in my case were immune from detection by any known security apparatus; the case projected a totally false image of its contents when radiation hit it. My step had been light, my smile broad.
Now my face was ashen and my legs trembled with fatigue as I pushed myself to my feet.