Гарри Гаррисон - The Golden Years of the Stainless Steel Rat

Well if it isn't Dirty Old Jim diGriz!" The man's ugly face broke into an evil grin when he saw me standing there, handcuffed to the large policeman. He threw the door wide with unconcealed pleasure, stepped out as the handcuffs were removed, and took me firmly—a little too firmly—by the arm and hauled me forward. I tottered but kept my balance, shuffled through the door, passed under the verdigris-covered brass plate with its penetrating message:

THROUGH THIS GATE PASS THE

ANTIQUATED CRIMINAL

CROCKS OF THE GALAXY

Great stuff. That's the way with the police—always kick a man when he's down. I had to shuffle faster as the sadistic attendant quickened his pace.

"Got to sit—" I gasped, pulling feebly at his restricting hand as I tried to sit on the bench against the wall.

"Plenty time to sit later, Pops—that's about all you will be doing. You gotta see the warden first."

I could only make feeble resistance as he hauled me down the corridor to the heavy steel door. He knocked loudly. I staggered and gasped and found myself facing a mirror on the wall with an admonitory warning over it.

ARE YOU CLEAN?

ARE YOU NEAT?

WHEN'S THE LAST TIME

YOU WASHED YOUR FEET?

"Can't remember ..." I quavered. Looking with trembling disgust at my mirrored image. Wispy white hair tangled and matted. A white string of drool on the pendent lower lip. Skin wattled and doughy, eyes red and poochy. Not nice.

"In!" my keeper ordered as a green light flickered and the door clicked open. He pushed me forward with a meaty hand; I stumbled and fought to keep my balance. Behind me the door swung shut. Before me the warden brooded over a thick file.

"Yours," he said grimly, looking up at me. He had the face of an unshaven camel. "The file of a criminal. James diGriz, a.k.a. The Stainless Steel Rat." The rubbery lips twisted into a poor imitation of a smile. "Stainless no more, rusty if anything." He wheezed happily at his feeble joke, until smile turned to snarl.

"I get them all, Rusty Rat. In the end they all end up before Warden Sukks. They run and hide—but finally I get them. Even the smartest criminal grows old, grows dim, makes one mistake. That's all it takes to get caught and sent to Terminal Penitentiary. That's the official name. But do you know what they really call it . . . ?"

"Hell's Waiting Room!" Unwanted, the words slipped from my lips and dropped greasily to the floor.

"You got it. But that's what they call it on the outside. You come in but you don't go out. In here we don't use that fancy name. We have a better one. This is the Purgy. That's short for Purgatory if you don't know. Which is a word that means ..."

"I gotta go to the toilet," I wheezed, legs crossed tightly. His sneer deepened.

"That's all you old crocks ever do." He thumbed a button and the door squeaked open behind me. "Bogger will show you where the heads are. Then he'll take you for your medical. We shall see that you keep fit, diGriz—so that you can enjoy our hospitality for a nice long time."

His sadistic laughter followed me down the corridor. I can't say that I was overly impressed with the reception.

Or the medical either. The burly, bored, and sadistic attendants stripped me naked, then slipped a flimsy gray smock over my scrawny bones. Then proceeded to drag me from one diagnostic machine to another, completely ignoring my mewling protests. Commenting offhandedly on the results.

"Pin in that hip. Looks kind of old."

"Not as old as those plastic knee-joints. This ancient crock has had a lot of mileage."

"The doc is really going to like this one. Spots on the lung. TB or black lung or something."

"Done yet?" Bogger asked, popping up like a bad memory.

"Done. All yours, Bogger. Take him away."

Clutching my clothes to my chest, barefooted on the cold floor, I was dragged to my cell and pushed through the door. Despite my feeble resistance Bogger pulled my clothes from me, shook the few personal objects from my pockets onto the floor, threw onto the bed an armload of coarse prison clothing and a pair of scuffs.

"Dinner at six. Door unlocks a minute before. If you're late you don't eat." His sadistic chuckle was cut off by the closing door.

I sat tremblingly onto the bed, dropped my face into my hands. Shivered. A sorry sight for anyone watching from any concealed pickups. The end of a proud, though criminal, man. A doomed nonagenarian reaching the end of his tether.

What they could not see because my hands were over my face was the quick, happy, and successful grin. I had done it!

When I raised my face the grin was gone and my lips were trembling again.

The transparent cover of my cheap plastic watch was so scratched that I could barely make out the numbers. I held it up to the light, twisted it and panted with the effort, finally made out the time.

"Dinner at six, oh deary me. Must get out when the door unlocks." I shuffled up to it just when the lock clicked open, pulled it wide, and stumbled through.

It was pretty obvious where the chow hall was, with the feeble horde of gray-clad geriatric figures all shuffling in the same direction. I joined the shuffle, took a tray at the entrance, held it out for dollops of institutional sludge. I could not tell what it was by looking at it, knew even less after I had tasted it. Well, hopefully it contained nourishment. I spooned it up with trembling hand.

"I never seen you before," the octogenarian seated beside me said suspiciously. "You a police spy?"

"I'm a convicted felon."

"Welcome to Purgy, heh-hee," he chuckled, cheered to see a newcomer. "Ever hijack a spaceship?"

"Once or twice."

"I did three. Third was a mistake. It was a decoy. But I ran out of credits, bad investments, nearing eighty and couldn't see so well . . ."

The reminiscences droned on like a babbling brook and were just about as interesting. I let them burble while I finished my muckburger and gunge. As I was choking down the last depressing morsel a familiar and detested voice cut through the clatter and slurp.

"Rusty Rat. You're finished with your dinner. So rattle your ancient bones to see the doc. Now."

"How do I find him?"

"Follow the green arrows on the wall, numbnuts. The green ones with the little red cross. Go."

I dragged to my feet and went. There were arrows of different colors pointing in both directions on the corridor walls. I blinked and leaned close and made out the ones I needed. Lurched off to the left.

"Come in, sit down, answer my questions, are you incontinent?" The doctor was young, in a hurry, impatient. I scratched my head and muttered.

"Don't rightly know ..."

"You must know!"

"Not really. Don't know what the word means."

"Bed-wetting! Do you wet the bed at night?"

"Only when I'm drunk."

"Not much chance of that in here diGriz. I've been looking at your charts. You're a wreck. Spots on the lung, pins in the hips, staples in the skull—"

"I led a rough life, Doc."

"Without a doubt. And your electrolytes are all skewed. I'll give you a couple of shots now to slow the deterioration, then you take one of these pills three times a day."

I took the jar and blinked at the bullet-sized tablets.

"Kind of big."

"And you're kind of ill. Specially formulated for your multiple problems. Keep them with you at all times. A buzzer in the lid will tell you when to take one. Now—roll up your sleeve."

He wielded a wicked needle. I swear the point hit bone a couple of times. With aching arms I stumbled around looking for my room, got lost, got put right by passing attendants, finally found it. The door locked when I closed it and a few minutes later the lights began to dim. I fumbled off my clothes, fumbled on the sickly orange pajamas, dropped onto the bed, and was just pulling up the covers when the lights went out.