"They should not have done that," de Torres said with

savage fury. "Killed an innocent man. Not that." I could understand his feelings—but had little time to consider them. One escape route was closed. I had to find another. Quickly.
  "Keep moving!" I called to Bolivar as a car full of troops hurtled around the corner behind us. Could we get another copter? It didn't look like it, the only ones in sight were tethered and silent. The soldiers would be on top of us long before we got airborne.
"What's ahead of us, beyond the heliport?"
  "Homes, factories, the suburbs," de Torres said. "After that the highway north. They will cut that off; we will never be able to pass them."
  "Perhaps. Straight on, driver!" Spoken in tones of assur-

ance to bolster the troops' morale. But mine was pretty low. We were out of one trap and driving straight into another. Into a nest of local roads with only one exit. Our present freedom was an illusion. They would be closing in on all sides, blocking all exits. There was no escape. At that very instant, an amplified voice spoke these very words aloud. "There is no escape!"
  The voice crashed down upon us like the wrath of the gods. The street behind us was empty for the moment, and nothing visible ahead except the quiet suburban homes. What was it? Bolivar spun the heavy car in its own length and shot it up a side street, driving flat out to escape the mysterious voice.
  "You cannot escape. Stop at once or we will fire down

upon you!"
  Down? I poked my head out of the window and there, just above us, hovered a two-place police floater. It drifted, light

as butterfly, held aloft by a gravity generator, the same kind that powered grav-chutes. A nasty-looking, large-orificed

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78          The Stainless Steel Rat for President

weapon pointed straight at me. I pulled my head back in just in time to grab de Torres's wrist. He had extracted a deadlylooking machine pistol from the folds of his cloak and was about to fire.
"Release me! I'll blow those swine out of the air!" "Don't! I have a better plan. Bolivar, stop the car." I managed to wrestle the marquez's gun away from him. Aside from the fact that I am reluctant to kill anyone, even Zapilote's creatures, I really did have a plan.
  "Slow down, then stop. We are all going to get out of the

car and wave our empty hands in the air. If they wanted to shoot they would have done so already. I'm sure that they have something even more rtasty in mind . . . " The marqu6z gasped. "You mean to surrender to these offal—without a fight!"
  "Not at all," I reassured him. "We just won't use weapons. I want that floater intact—because that is our ticket out of here. Now—let's move it before any ground support arrives." The floater just hovered there above our heads as we climbed out, the gun still aimed. I tried not to look at it and sincerely hoped that my theory was correct. Or we were dead.
  "Move away from the car," the amplified voice ordered, and we did so. Only then did it slowly settle to the ground.
  The pilot wore the green uniform of the police. The man seated beside him, with the large-caliber gun, was all in black, his eyes concealed by black glasses. He waggled the gun in

our direction.
 "Just keep doing what you are doing now," he said. "I don't want to shoot you, believe me." Then he laughed. "Because that is not what we have in mind. No bullet holes. You're all going to burn to death when your defective copter crashes on takeoff. Isn't that nice? But be warned, I'll shoot if I have to. You're not walking away from this one . . ." "I can't bear it! My heart . . ." James gasped, clutching his chest, then collapsing to the ground.
  "He has a coronary obfuscation!" Bolivar wailed. "I must give him his medicine!" He bent over his brother's limp body.
  "Stay away—don't touch him!" the Ultimado ordered, waving his gun at them.
  His attention was off de Torres for the moment, who noticed this and spoiled what should have been a smoothly opera-

             The Stainless Steel Rat for President         79

tional plan. The marqu6z roared in anger and dived for the secret policeman.
  He had too far to go. The machine-gun blasted and de Torres spun about and fell—even as Bolivar moved aside so James could fire. James had drawn his needle gun the instant his brother had come between him and the Ultimado. It spat a cloud of needles that dropped the gunman, then it elevated to send more needles through the open door of the floater, knocking out the pilot before he could aim his own gun.
  It was over in an instant. I jumped to the marqu6z's side, tore aside the folds of his cloak.
"Damn! Bolivar—quick—the medkit from the floater." There was blood everywhere. I used my dagger to cut

away his sodden clothing. A hole in his leg, not important, a puncture wound in his abdomen. A bad one. Not much that first aid could do here. I sprayed on antibiotic, slapped pres-

sure bandages on the wounds. Turned him a bit and did the same thing to an exit wound in his side. And tried to remember my anatomy. He had been shot in the gut, that was all too obvious, but at first look no important organs seemed to be hit. And the telltale revealed that his vital signs were still good. What was the next step? "Bolivar—can you fly this thing?" "I can fly anything. Dad. "
  "Right. Drag out the pilot and take his place. James, take the marquez's legs. Gentle does it, up into the seat." "Shall I get him to a hospital?" Bolivar asked.
  "No, that would just be murdering him. The Ultimados would see to it that he never left the place alive. The only chance he has is to get back to the castle. In behind them, James. These two-seaters will carry three in an emergency..." "But, Dad, you . . ."
  "They'll never lift four. Start a saline drip going, watch his vital signs, you know what to do—now move.  And don't

worry about your old dad. He's been in tight spots before. Lift it!"
  They did. They were good lads. As the floater shot up into the air I dragged the pilot across the road and heaved him into the car. The Ultimado followed; I wasn't quite as gentle with him. Someone looked out of a nearby house, then darted back inside. I had to get out of this area quickly—an imoor-

80          The Stainless Steel Rat for President

tant first step for any survival plan I might come up with. I could hear the sirens coming this way already.
  As I jumped behind the wheel I realized I should have asked Bolivar for a driving lesson. I didn't share his enthusi-

asm for antique machinery. All I could do was gape at the hundreds of polished valves, handles, buttons and gauges. But this was no time to gape! I grabbed the largest handle and pulled.
  There was a hideous roar, and an immense black and white cloud enveloped the car; I quickly pushed the handle back. I had blown the stack, used live steam to blast clean the exhaust. I worked more gingerly after that. Not too much later,  after I had cleaned the windshield,  turned on the lights, radio and music player, I succeeded in feeding steam to the engine and we trundled off down the road.
  I took the first turning at random, then the next. The road led gradually up into the foothills and the houses began thinning out. I couldn't hear the sirens any more so I slowed in order to attract less attention. But where could I go? There was no escape from airborne observation. They would be on to me any minute now. Another bend revealed a large home with attached garage. A car had just backed out of the garage and had turned into the road.
  I hit the brakes, twisted the wheel, bounced over the curb and across the lawn and skidded into the just-vacated garage. I was still braking as the car slammed into the rear wall with metallic bang.
 The steering wheel had caught me on the forehead, so I felt very rubber-legged as I climbed down and staggered out into the fresh air. I really wasn't prepared for any conversation with the large and irate man who stood before me.
 "Are you insane? What do you mean driving into my

garage like this, wrecking it?"
  "Urggle," I said, or something that sounded very much like that. I waggled my jaw a bit to free it up.
  "What games are you playing at?" Words failed him as he spluttered with rage; violence overcame him. He swung a hard fist at my jaw.
  Well, dizzy or no, this was a language I could easily understand. I stepped inside the clumsy blow and let him have a far better aimed, and possibly harder, fist into the midriff. His only option was to fold over and collapse, which he promptly did. A siren shrieked loudly as I stepped over him

              The Stainless Steel Rat for President          81

and clutched the handle of the overhead door. As I pulled it shut I had a quick glimpse of a police cruiser hurtling by. I swallowed loudly and listened for the squeal of the brakes as it stopped, turned, came back . . .
The sound lessened and died away. They hadn't seen me.
  For the first time in a century and half I let myself relax. And looked at my watch. That was exaggerating the time span

a little bit. In fact less than two hours had passed since we had walked through the front door of the Presidio. So much for subjective and objective time.
  Action over for the moment. A question presented itself that needed answering soonest. Was the owner of this garage and house alone? A small window set into the garage door let in a measure of light. I squinted through it to see the owner's car still standing patiently before the house. Empty, All I could do was leave it there for the moment. If there were

anyone in the house who saw it and came to investigate, why that bridge would be crossed if it were ever there to cross.
  Next step. Plan. The house and car owner stirred and moaned and I gave him surcease from sorrow with a quick needle from my gun. I pondered his now-still form and bits of

a plan began to come together. A change of identity was needed since my garish aristocratic rig would easily be noticed. A uniform? A possibility, but eventually a liability. But what about an excellently cut white summer suit, with wide-brimmed matching white hat decorated with a snakeskin band? A very nice one lay on the floor before me; all it needed was dusting off.  And the owner of the suit had a car waiting for him outside. Nor did I feel too sorry for this not-too-innocent victim. Anyone who had prospered to his degree under the corrupt Zapilote regime had to be into something not too nice. I rationalized as I stripped him. Trying not to notice that all of his undergarments were lace-edged gold lame set with scarlet hearts. This hinted at situations best left unconsidered.
  The first thing that had to go was my beard. There was solvent in my bag which loosened the adhesive so that I could tear the hair away in big chunks. I stuffed it into the bag to take with me, since the longer the forces of evil thought it

was still attached to my face the happier I would be.
  The suit made a really good fit as did, surprisingly, his shoes. We were like twins, except of course for our tastes in underwear. And I was still undisturbed. I placed my benefac-

82          The Stainless Steel Rat for President

tor tenderly on the rear seat of the car, his feet resting on the face-down form of the unconscious Ultimado thug, then picked

up my bag and let myself out of the garage. The sun shone warmly even though it was close to the horizon, there was no sign of activity in the adjoining house—and my car awaited at the curb. As I strolled towards it a large, black police vehicle roared back the way it had come. Paying me no heed at all. My car was bright red and sporty and, how considerate!, the motor had been left running. The controls were far simpler than those of the steam car, so much so that within a minute I

was rolling majestically down the street.
  Where to? The answer to that one was obvious. Back into the city. By now there woald be roadblocks on all the exits from Primoroso. And once the police begin to stop people to ask for identification they always get carried away by enthusi-

asm. Everyone gets stopped, all the vehicles are searched. And, though we were of tile same build, the car-owner's ID would certainly not fit me. No, the best idea was to move

away from the action, to seek the security of the big city. Then I could stop and think about the next step. A rat is always safest in the warrens of the city, a stainless steel rat no less.
  I worked away at the controls and, after only a few mistakes, folding top up and down, a blast on the horn, I managed to find the music player controls. After this I rolled in comfort back to Primoroso, whistling melodically along with a catchy tune that was all syncopation and percussion.