“What is it?”

“Don’t be greedy. All in good time.”

The automated kitchen produced another stale sandwich, the machine was half-knackered and out of adjustment, along with a lukewarm cup of watery cocoa. I crunched and sipped gloomily, then found the bedroom down the hall. Air-conditioned of course-but the window wasn’t sealed. I opened it and sniffed the cool night air. The moon was rising, to join the other three already up. Made for some interesting shadows. A leg over the windowsill, a drop into the garden-and I would be long gone before any alarm might go off.

And I would be dead in twenty-nine days. That little drink I had drunk in prison really concentrated my attention and guaranteed my loyalty. But could I pull this complicated operation off in that space of time?

Considering the consequences I had no choice. I sighed tremulously, closed the window and went to bed. It had been a very, very long day.

In the morning I had picked the lock on the control panel in the kitchen and was busy rewiring it when Admiral Benbow came in.

“May I inquire politely just what the hell you are doing?”

“Obviously trying to get this crook device to produce something other than stale cheese sandwiches. There!”

I slammed the panel shut and punched in a command. A cup of steaming coffee instantly appeared. Followed by a porcuswinewich, steaming and juicy. The Admiral nodded.

“I’ll take this one-get another for yourself. Now tell me your plan.”

I did. Mumbling through mouthfuls of breakfast.

“We are going to spend some credits out of the mountains of money that we have access to. First we plant some news items. I want interviews, reviews, gossip and more-all about the new pop group that is the hit of the galaxy.”

He scowled and growled. “What pop group? What in hades are you talking about?”

“The planet-busting hit group called… ”

“Called what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it yet. Something way out and memorable. Or kinky.” I smiled and raised an inspired finger. “I have it! Ready? The group is called… The Stainless Steel Rats!”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

The Admiral was not happy. His scowl turned to a snarl and he jabbed a judgmental finger at me. “More coffee. Then tell me what you are. talking about or I will kill you.”

“Temper, temper, Admiral. Remember the old blood pressure. What I am talking about is getting to Liokukae with all the equipment I need, along with some strong-armed help. We are going to form a group of musicians called The Stainless Steel Rats – ”

“What musicians?”

“Me for one-and you are going to supply me with the rest. You did tell me that you were head of League Navy Security?”

“I did. I am.”

“Then summon your troops. Get one of your techs to research all your field operators, all your rankings who have ever served in what passes for action in this civilized universe. The search will be a simple one because we want to know just one single fact about all of them. Are they musically inclined? Can they play a musical instrument, sing, dance, whistle or even hum in tune? Get the list and we will have our band.”

He nodded over his coffee. “You’re beginning to make sense. A pop group composed only of security agents. But it will take time to put together, to organize, to rehearse.”

“Why?”

“So it will sound good, you moron.”

“Who could tell the difference? Have you ever listened to country-and-coal-mining music? Or Aqua Regia and her Plutonium Pals?”

“Point taken. So we get this group together and publicize them well so all Liokukae knows about them – ”

“And has heard their music – ”

“And wants to hear more. On tour. Which is impossible. The planet is quarantined.”

“That is the beauty of my plan, Admiral. When the publicity peaks, and the fame of the group is galaxy-wide, that is when the Rats will commit some crime so awful that they will instantly be shipped off to this prison planet. Where they will be received with great enthusiasm. And no suspicion. Where they will investigate and find the alien artifact and get it back so I can have the antidote. One other thing. Before we start operations I will need three million Interstellar Credits. In coins that have been newly minted here.”

“No way,” he snarled. “Funds will be supplied as needed.”

“You missed the point. That is my fee for conducting this operation. All operating expenses are on top of that. Pay up or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else I die in twenty-nine days and the operation dies and you get a black mark on your service record.”

Self-interest prodded him into an instant decision. “Why not. Those financially overburdened academics can afford it and not even notice it. I’ll get that list for you.”

He unclipped his phone from his belt, shouted a multi-digit number into it, then barked some brief commands. Before I had finished my coffee the printer hummed to life in the office; sheets of paper began to pile up in the bin. We went through them and ticked off a number of possibilities. There were no names, just code numbers. When this was done I passed the list back to the Admiral.

“We’ll need complete files on all the marked ones.”

“That is classified and secret information.”

“And you are the Admiral and you can get it.”

“I’ll get it-and censor it. There is no way I am going to let you know any details of my Security Department.”

“Keep your secrets-I couldn’t care less.” Which was of course an outright lie. “Give them code names as well as numbers, conceal their identities. All I want to know is their musical abilities, and will they be any good in the field when the going gets rough.”

This took a bit of time. I went for a long jog to loosen the muscles. Then, while my clothes were being zapped clean in the vacuum washer, I took a hot shower followed by a cold one. I made a mental note to get some more clothes soon-but not until this operation was up and running. There was no escaping that deadly clock that was ticking off the seconds to doomsday.

“Here is the list,” the Admiral said when I entered the office. “No names, just numbers. Male agents are identified by the letter A and… ”

“Let me guess – the females are B?”

A growl was his only response; he completely lacked any sense of humor. I flipped through the list. Slim pickings among the ladies who ran the gamut from B1 to B4. Pipe-organ player, not very likely, harmonica, tuba-and a singer.

“I’ll need a photograph of B3. And what do these other entries after B1 mean? 19T, 908L, and such.”

“Code,” he said, grabbing the sheet away from me. “It translates as skilled in hand-to-hand combat, qualified marksman on hand weapons, six years in the field. And the rest is none of your business.”

“Thanks, wonderful, you’re a big help. I sure could use her but not if she has to carry the pipe organ on her back. Now let us make some selections from the male list and get the photos coming. Except for this one, A19. No photograph-I just want him here soonest, in the flesh.”

“Why?”

“Because he is a percussionist and plays a molecular synthezier. Since I know next to nothing about music he is going to teach me my job in this pickup band. A19. will show me the ropes, then record the numbers and set up the machines to play the different hunks of music. I’ll just smile and press buttons. Speaking of machines – does your highly secret service have electronic repair facilities on this planet?”

“That is classified information.”

“Everything about this operation is classified. But I’ll still need to do some electronic work. Here or someplace else. All right?”

“Facilities will be made available.”

“Good. And tell me-what is a gastrophone, or a bagpipe?”