Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns by Harry Harrison Page B

Stramm said, getting into the spirit of our endeavor. “But it’s bright yellow—”
    “Spray it black to match my uniform!”
    “Good as done.”
    “Then I blast up to the gate, screech to a halt and issue my orders . . .”
    “With a remote mike patched through to my amplifier.”
    He was really getting into the spirit of the occasion—as was the captain as well.
    “What you need are troops to back you up. What about all of the farmers behind you just at the edge of the clearing?”
    “With the dungarees they all wear dyed black,” Stramm added.
    “And wooden rifles also black,” I broke in.
    “It’s a good plan,” the captain said, draining his glass.
    “But next—what will you do after you get to the gate?” Stramm asked, suddenly worried.
    “Fear not! With this buildup they should be rattled enough to follow my orders—at least in the beginning. I’ll just have to stay on top of the situation.”
    I hoped. It was a pretty mad plan—but I had to make it work. I reached for the gin bottle. Then stopped and put the empty glass down. Time, Jim, for a clear head and some detailed cogitation.
    Stramm hurried back to his shop to start work. The captain went to the bridge—while I found a memory tablet to make notes. A good deal of time passed while I planned my attack. My concentration was broken only when Angelina appeared at the bar door. Of stern expression.
    “I thought I’d find you here. Isn’t it early to—” Her eyes widened when she looked at the table before me. “Jim DiGriz . . . is that a cup of coffee in front of you . . .”
    “No—” Her expression grew grim. Until I added “it’s a cup of tea.”
    She blew me a kiss. “Congratulations on a booze-free day.”
    I nodded acceptance and kept silent. Not wanting to change her happy mood.
    “How long will you be?” she asked.
    I held up my notes. “Just about done.”
    “Good. I want to clean up and change and then we’ll declare the cocktail hour open.”
    “I’ll be here.”
    When she returned I was flipping through the pages of the barputer.
    “I have been searching through the history of drink—and reams of recipes for cocktails. Amazing! Would you like to try a Horse’s Neck, or a Manhattan? A Sheep Dip Special? Consider a Rusty Nail, The Widow’s Kiss or a Hound Dog’s Hair?”
    “Surprise me.”
    “Done!” I entered data and hit the MIX button.
    The machine gave a mechanical rattle and a deep chunter. Ice crackled and a chilled pitcher and frosted glasses appeared on the delivery tray. I poured and passed her a glass.
    “A Very Dry Martini with a Twist.”
    “Sounds terrible—tastes wonderful!” She sipped—then sipped again, then put her glass on the table.
    “Your uniform is going well—although we had to make some minor changes—and one major one.”
    “Which is . . . ?”
    “We have a problem with gold braid and the gold buttons. There is simply nothing that even resembles gold to hand. We tried various kinds of yellow fabric with mixed results. The braid looks cheap and nasty. And the buttons are all carved wood or bone. They can be died yellow but with very poor results . . .”
    “In adversity lies the answer. Let us forget the military glitter and stay with all black. Gloom and doom! Very impressive. But do they have enough black dye?”
    “They do indeed—a deep, dark and impressive one. Made from a species of lake shellfish.”
    “Let’s do it.” I glanced up at the bar clock. “There are still a few hours of daylight left. I want to have a conference with Bilboa. Unless we want to move this ship we are going to need some help getting to the city.”
    “See you at dinner. I want to take Pinky for a long walk. All that rooting and eating under the nut trees has made her more than rotund.”
    “A porcuswine’s job.”
    “The others maybe, but I want her to keep her figure.”
    We parted at the foot of the gangway and I was not surprised to find Bilboa waiting patiently at a