“Let’s go!” Floyd said and led the exodus.

“A toast,” I said when the drinks had arrived. We lifted our glasses. “To The Stainless Steel Rats – long may they play!”

They cheered and drank, then laughed and called for another round. It was all going to work out hunky-dory I thought.

Then why was I so depressed?

I was depressed because it was really a pretty madcap plan. The idea had been to allow a week for our publicity to peak, for some musical awards to be made-then the crime had to occur. In that brief period we were not only going to have to find some music, but we would have to rehearse the stuff and hopefully gain at least a moderate level of ability. Some chance. We were cutting it too fine. We needed some more help.

“Madonette, a question.” I sipped some more beer first. “I must admit to an abysmal ignorance of the mechanics of making music. Is there someone who sort of makes up the tunes, then writes down the stuff that everyone is going to play?”

“You’re talking about a composer and an arranger. They could be one and the same-but it is usually better to divide up the jobs.”

“Can we get one or both of them? Zach, as the closest thing to a professional here-do you have any ideas?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. All we have to do is contact GASCAP.”

“Gascap? You want to fill the tank on a groundcar?”

“Not gascap. GASCAP. An acronym for the Galactic Society of Composers Artists and Players. There is a lot of unemployment in music and we should be able to locate some really competent people.”

“Good as done. I’ll get the Admiral on it at once.”

“Impossible,” he growled in his usually friendly fashion. “No civilians, no outsiders. This is a secret operation all the way.

“It is now-but it goes public in seven days. All we do is invent a cover story. Say that the group is being organized to make a holofilm. Or as a publicity stunt by a big firm. Like maybe McSwineys wants to change their image, go upmarket. Get rid of Blimey McSwiney and his alcoholic red nose, use our pop group instead. But it must be done – and at once.”

It was. The next day an anorexic and pallid young man was brought to our rehearsal studio. Zach whispered in my ear. “I recognize him – that’s Barry Moyd Shlepper. He wrote a pop musical a couple of years back, “Don’t Fry for Me, Angelina.” He hasn’t had a success since.”

“I remember it. The show about the cook who marries the dictator.”

“That’s the one.”

“Welcome, Barry, welcome,” I said walking over and shaking his bony hand. “My name is Jim and I’m in charge around here.”

“Rooty-toot, man, rooty-toot,” he said.

“And a rooty-toot to you as well.” I could see where we would have to learn the argot of the musical world if our plan were to succeed. “Now – was this operation explained to you?”

“Like maybe sort of. A new recording company starting up with plenty of bucknicks to blow. Financing some new groups to get the operation off the ground.”

“That’s it. You’re in charge of the music. Let me show you what we have and you put it into shape.”

I gave him earphones and the player: I couldn’t bear listening to these dreadful compositions yet another time. He plugged in the cubes one by one and, impossible as it was to believe, his pallid skin grew even paler. He worked his way through them all. Sighed tremulously, took off the earphones and brushed the tears from his eyes.

“You want like my honest and truly opinion?”

“Nothing less.”

“Well then, like to break it to you gently, this stuff really sucks. Insufflates. Implodes.”

“Can you do better?”

“My cat can do better. And scratch dirt over it.”

“Then you are unleashed. Begin!”

There was little else I could do until the music was written, rehearsed, recorded. While all the others would play their instruments and sing, my work would be limited to throwing the switch before each piece. Then all of Zach’s drums, cymbals, horns, bells and molecular-synthesizer effects would burst forth from the loudspeakers in full gallop. While this was happening I would throw switches that did nothing, tinkle the keys on a disconnected keyboard. So while they got the music going I looked into the special effects.

This required watching recordings of all of the most popular groups, bands and soloists. Some of it was enjoyable, some horribly dreadful, all of it too loud. In the end I turned off the sound and watched the laser beams, exploding fireworks and physical acrobatics. I made sketches, mumbled to myself a lot, spent a great deal of the university’s money.

And built an incredible amount of complicated circuitry into the existing electronics. Reluctantly, the Admiral produced the extras I asked for and I modified everything in the machine shop. It was altogether a satisfactory and fulfilling week. I also prodded the Admiral until he produced the promised payment of three million credits.

“Most kind,” I said, jingling the six glowing five-hundred-thousand-credit coins. “A decent fee for a decent job done.”

“You better put them in a bank vault before they go missing,” was his surly advice.

“Of course. A capital idea!”

A singularly stupid idea. Banks were for robbing and for the tax authorities to keep track of. So first I went into the machine shop where I did some crafty metalwork before I packed wrapped and labeled the coins. Then I went for a walk and, as a precaution, I exercised all of my considerable talents at avoiding observation to shake off any possible tails the Admiral had put on me. I was risking my life-in more ways than one! – for this money. If I came out of it all in one piece I wanted to have it waiting.

I finally reached a small country post office, selected at random, some distance from the city. It was manned by a nearsighted gentleman of advanced years.

“Spatial express and insured for offplanet delivery. That ain’t gonna be cheap young feller.”

“Do it, daddy – o, do it. I’ve got the gilt.” He blinked and I translated back to his native language. “Payment is not a problem, dear sir. You must assure me that this gets to Professor Van Diver at the Galaksia Universitato at once. He is expecting these historical documents.”

I had already spaciofaxed the professor that I was sending him some personal possessions, that he should please hold on to them until I came and picked them up. In case he got curious the contents were sealed in an armored case that would take a diamond drill to open. I was betting that his curiosity would not go that far. My package vanished into the mailchute and I went back to work.

At the end of the sixth day we were all pretty exhausted. Barry Moyd Shlepper had stayed up for two nights running, cold towels wrapped around his head, fortified by trebcaff coffee, putting together some musical numbers from the archaic junk. He proved to be a good hand at theft – or adaptation as he liked to call it. The group had rehearsed, recorded, then rehearsed some more. I had concentrated on costumes, props and effects and was almost satisfied.

After one last break I called my troops together. “You will be pleased to know that we will now give our first public performance.” This produced the expected groans and shrill cries of complaint and I waited until they had died down.

“I know how you feel-and I feel the same way too. I think that the blues number, ‘I’m All Alone,’ is our best piece. You know we have had a lot of help from the staff here and I think we owe it to them to see what we all have done. I’ve invited something like thirty of them and they should be here soon.

Right on cue the door opened and the suspicious public employees filed in, each carrying a folding chair. Admiral Benbow led the way; his flag officer carried two chairs. Zach supervised the seating arrangements and our cavernous rehearsal studio became a theater for the first time. We retreated to the podium where I dimmed the houselights, then hit myself and my electronic gear with a baby spot.