Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns by Harry Harrison Page B

and shabby. The only touch of color coming from some badly framed painting of figures burning in leaping fires. Repulsive.
    We followed our stumbling guide up a flight of stone stairs and through a gilt-framed doorway. The large roombeyond was lit by stained-glass windows depicting more scenes of diabolic torture. I did not have a chance to look at them because my attention was drawn at once to the black-clad man seated on a heavy chair before me. I had been right: black was the new black.
    I had been even luckier with the skull-and-crossbones cap design, for he was wearing a large silver skull on a chain about his neck.
    “I have never heard of you or your organization,” he said. Words dripping with venom.
    “That is because you are on this backward and forgotten planet. Your name?”
    He was silent for long moments, glaring at me, his hands gripping tight on the arms of the chair. Then, reluctantly.
    “I am Father Coagula, prime rector of the Church of the . . .”
    “Then you are the one I am here to see. We have had grave complaints about your church.”
    He wasn’t getting up and I wasn’t going to stand before him like a penitent. There were chairs against the wall: I caught Angelina’s eye and pointed towards them. She nodded grimly back and brought one over.
    “Females are not permitted in this chamber,” he hissed.
    “They are now. Where I go Sister Angelina goes.”
    I sat and matched him stare for icy stare. He blinked first.
    “What do you want here?”
    “I told you—we have had complaints.” I took out a black-covered notebook, thumbed through it, then read . . .
    “You have attempted to subvert another religion, namely that of the Children of Nature and Love, with whom you share this planet.”
    “They are idolaters and worship a false god. We simply showed them the Way—”
    “You oppressed them, drove them from their homes and now cheat them of their rightful gain.”
    “What are you saying?”
    Was there a touch of defensiveness in his voice? Naturally he would cheat the Children out of the true worth of the flowers they traded for.
    “We have had complaints from those to whom you sell the perfume.”
    “They lie!”
    “They speak only the truth. Our agents have talked to them. Other skilled agents have penetrated your ranks and found the secrets of your stills that are used to make the perfume you trade.”
    Coagula leaned back as though struck a physical blow. “You can’t—”
    “We can . . . and we will. Distillation is a well-known process on all civilized worlds. We will disclose every secret of the perfume process to the Children of Nature and Love. Then give them the materials to construct the stills. These are the people you have so viciously cheated. Unless you agree to our terms.”
    “What . . . are they?”
    I tapped my notebook. “They are written here. Bring in your scribes to write them down as I read them out to you.”
    He was slumping now, defeated in every way. After a moment he seized the bell hanging from the arm of his chair and rang it.
    “You are being wise. I will order my troops to stand down.”
    Then I added, in the same bored voice. “We will use your communication facilities to contact our ship.”
    He looked up and shook his head.
    “But . . . we have none.”
    “Do not test my temper,” I roared at him. “We know that you contact the traders when you have perfume to sell.”
    “But . . . we do not. They come whenever they want to. They have refused to give us communication apparatus. They did not want us contacting others of their trade.”
    Zero. Nothing. The best-laid plans . . . I drew myself up and salvaged what I could from the ruins.
    “It matters not.” Angrily. “Where is your scribe?”
    “He comes.” He shouted instructions at the priest who had answered his bell.
    Depressed, I pondered the future.
    We must leave Floradora.
    But . . . where would we go?

CHAPTER 13
     
    I had to play out this farce to the very