The Stainless Steel Rat

When the office door opened suddenly I knew the game was up. It had been a moneymaker⁠—but it was all over. As the cop walked in I sat back in the chair and put on a happy grin. He had the same somber expression and heavy foot that they all have⁠—and the same lack of humor. I almost knew to the word what he was going to say before he uttered a syllable.

“James Bolivar diGriz I arrest you on the charge⁠—”

I was waiting for the word charge, I thought it made a nice touch that way. As he said it I pressed the button that set off the charge of black powder in the ceiling, the crossbeam buckled and the three-ton safe dropped through right on the top of the cop’s head. He squashed very nicely, thank you. The cloud of plaster dust settled and all I could see of him was one hand, slightly crumpled. It twitched a bit and the index finger pointed at me accusingly. His voice was a little muffled by the safe and sounded a bit annoyed. In fact he repeated himself a bit.

“… On the charge of illegal entry, theft, forgery⁠—”

He ran on like that for quite a while, it was an impressive list but I had heard it all before. I didn’t let it interfere with my stuffing all the money from the desk drawers into my suitcase. The list ended with a new charge and I would swear on a stack of thousand credit notes that high that there was a hurt tone in his voice.

That is almost the full extent of crime in our organized, dandified society. Ninety-nine percent of it, let’s say. It is that last and vital one percent that keeps the police departments in business. That one percent is me, and a handful of men scattered around the galaxy. Theoretically we can’t exist, and if we do exist we can’t operate⁠—but we do. We are the rats in the wainscoting of society⁠—we operate outside of their barriers and outside of their rules. Society had more rats when the rules were looser, just as the old wooden buildings had more rats than the concrete buildings that came later. But they still had rats. Now that society is all ferroconcrete and stainless steel there are fewer gaps between the joints, and it takes a smart rat to find them. A stainless steel rat is right at home in this environment.

It is a proud and lonely thing to be a stainless steel rat⁠—and it is the greatest experience in the galaxy if you can get away with it. The sociological experts can’t seem to agree why we exist, some even doubt that we do. The most widely accepted theory says that we are victims of delayed psychological disturbance that shows no evidence in childhood when it can be detected and corrected and only appears later in life. I have naturally given a lot of thought to the topic and I don’t hold with that idea at all.

I was a rat looking for a hole⁠—and there was none. The doors were locked, all of them, I tried each as I came to it, knowing I would never make it. That stairwell door was opening behind me and the gun was coming up, I didn’t dare turn and look but I could feel it. When the door opened under my hand I fell through before I realized what had happened. I locked it behind me and leaned against it in the darkness, panting like a spent animal. Then the light came on and I saw the man sitting behind the desk, smiling at me.

There is a limit to the amount of shock the human body can absorb. I’d had mine. I didn’t care if he shot me or offered a cigarette⁠—I had reached the end of my line. He did neither. He offered me a cigar instead.

“Have one of these, diGriz, I believe they’re your brand.”

The body is a slave of habit. Even with death a few inches away it will respond to established custom.

“Howsabout buying a girl a drink,” the tart said spiritlessly, and I shook my head no with the same lack of interest. The hostesses, pallid creatures of the night, were coming out as the evening progressed. I was getting a good share of propositions since I had taken care to look like a spaceman on leave, always a good source of revenue for these women. This one was the latest of a number who had approached me. A little better looking than most, at least better constructed. I watched her walking away with interest that bordered on admiration. Her skirt was short, tight and slashed high up on the sides. High heels lent a rotating motion to this producing a most effective result. She reached the bar and turned to survey the room, and I couldn’t help but appreciate the rest of her. Her blouse was made of thin strips of shimmering fabric, joined together only at the tops and bottoms. They separated to reveal enticing slices of creamy skin whenever she moved, and I’m sure had the desired effect on masculine libidos.

My eyes finally reached her face⁠—a long trip since I had started the survey at her ankles⁠—and she was quite attractive. Almost familiar.⁠ ⁠…

Exactly at this instant my heart gave a grinding thud in my chest and I grew rigid in my chair. It seemed impossible⁠—yet it had to be true.

She was Angelina.