The Stainless Steel Rat Wants You

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.

“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 pla

“Which is…?”

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

“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 fu

“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.”