The Golden Years of the Stainless Steel Rat

When I had tracked him down and discovered the secret location of Terminal Penitentiary, I told Angelina of my plan. Her eyes narrowed as I spoke, her face grew grim. When I had finished speaking she nodded slowly.

"Do it, Jim. It is dangerous and looks suicidal—but you are probably the only man in the galaxy who could pull it off. With my help, of course."

"Of course. Your first task will be to find a bent but professionally competent doctor."

"Not a problem. Did you ever hear of a doctor—or a lawyer—bent or not, who could resist the continual flutter of bank notes onto a tabletop?"

"Now that you mention it—no. How is our expense account?"

"Running a little low. We could use a few million more. Why don't you knock off a really juicy bank while I line up the medic."

"Music to my ears."

But almost a year went by before the preparations were complete. There would be no rushing in, guessing or taking chances. Because if every detail were not worked out to the last decimal point I was going to be spending an awful lot of time behind bars.

Angelina came to pick me up at the clinic—and recoiled in horror.

"Jim—you look awful!"

"Thank you. It was quite an effort. Losing weight was easy enough, as well as skin aging, hair dyeing, all the usual things. It's the muscles I miss the most."

"Me too. Your gorgeous figure—"

"Wasted away with enzymes. No choice. If I am going to pass for an ancient crock I have to look like one. Don't worry, a few months of bodybuilding when this is over and I'll be as good as new."

A tear glistened in her eyes and she gave me a warm hug. "And you're doing this for me."

"Of course. But for him as well—and for Jim diGriz so I can look at myself in the mirror. Not that I really want to just now."

And that had been that. Pulling off an inept jewel robbery and getting nicked had been the easy part. I just made sure that the crime was committed on Heliotrope-2, the site of the original news report that had started this entire thing rolling.

It had rolled well. Here I was in Purgy and I had one week to acquaint myself with the layout, the alarms and videoscanners, before the operation went into phase two. It was time well spent. At breakfast next morning I looked around at all the bald heads and gray polls of my fellow inmates and found him at once. And stayed away. Time enough to renew an old acquaintance at the proper moment. As I spooned up the purple gruel I took everything in. And started with surprise.

Could it be him? Yes, it was. His hair was white now, his face tracked with countless wrinkles. But after two months together in an ice cave—well, there are things you just don't forget. I followed him after we had dumped our trays, sat down next to him in the morning room.

"Been here long, Burin?" I asked.

He turned his head and blinked at me nearsightedly—then his face lit up with a smile.

"Jimmy diGriz as I live and breathe!"

"And I'm most glad that you are living and breathing! Burin Bache, the best forger in the history of the galaxy."

"Kind of you to say that, Jimmy. And it was true at one time. Not lately—" The smile faded and I quickly put my arm around him.

"Do you still get chilblains in your ankles?"

"You bet I do! You know—I still can't put ice into a drink. Hate the sight of it."

"Yes, but the ice cave was only a hiccup. . . ."

"Some hiccup! But you're right there, Jimmy me lad. After what we hauled down on that job I didn't have to work for ten years. You were young but you were a genius. Hate to see you ending up here like me. Never thought they would get you."

"Happens to the best of us."

As I spoke I had my stilo concealed in my cupped hands, printing a quick message on my palm. Then I rubbed my chin with the back of my hand and waited until Burin had looked at it, his eyes widening.

"Got to go now," I said as I blurred the message with a saliva-dampened fingertip. "See you around."

He could only nod shocked and silent agreement as I left. I couldn't blame him. Since his incarceration I am sure he never thought he would ever read those words.

WE'RE GETTING OUT OF HERE.

The immense bribe that Angelina had paid to the city official had been well worth it. The building permission floorplans had not been complete—but they sufficed. I got close to the room we had selected on the second day, stuffed my stilo into the keyhole on the third. After being held in my armpit for an hour, the memory plastic of which it was made had softened to the consistency of clay. A moment after being pressed against the cold metal it had hardened into a perfect mirror image of the lock's innards.

We were permitted an hour in the garden every day and I had found a bench that was well away from any sites that might have held videoscanners. I sat there, apparently dozing over an open book. You would have to stand very close to see what I was doing.