'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?'
'I haven't the slightest idea. Why?'
'Because they are listed here as musical skills or instruments or something. I'll need to know.'
Lubricated by all the credits from the university, manned by the Admiral's minions, the machinery of my plan began to churn into high gear. The League did have an outpost on this planet - disguised as an interstellar shipping firm - which contained a fully equipped machine shop and electronic facilities.
The fact that they gave me full use of everything meant that it would undoubtedly vanish as soon as this operation was over. While the auditions were being arranged, agent A19 was sent for by the fastest transportation available. He appeared, slightly glassy-eyed, later that same afternoon.
'You are known to me only by the code reference A19. Could you give me a slightly better name to call you by? And it doesn't have to be your own.'
He was a big man with a big jaw, which he rubbed as he kicked his brain into action. Zach. That's my cousin's name. Call me Zach.'
'Right on, Zach. You have quite a musical record.'
'You betcha. I worked my way through college playing in the band. Still do a gig or two from time to time.'
'Then you have the job. You must now sally forth with an open checkbook and buy the best, most expensive and complex hunks of electronic music making that you can find. And they have to be the most compact and microminiaturized ones going. Bring them back and I'll make it all smaller since everything we bring with us has to be carried on our backs. If you can't find it on this planet use galactic mail order. Spend! The more you spend the better.'
His eyes glowed with musical fervor. 'Do you mean that?'
'Absolutely. Check with Admiral Benbow who will authorize all expenses. Go!'
He went, and the auditions began. I draw a veil over the more repulsive details of the next two days. Apparently musical ability and military service were mutually incompatible for the most part. I whittled away and the list grew smaller with great rapidity. I had hoped for a large band — now it appeared that I had a tiny combo.
'This is it, Admiral,' I said, passing over the abbreviated list. 'We will have to make up in quality what we lack in quantity. It is going to be me and these three others.'
He frowned. 'Will it be enough?'
'Going to have to be. The discards may be great operators but I will dream about their sounds for years. In my nightmares. So take the survivors aside, tell them about me and the assignment. I'll meet them after lunch in the audition room.'
I was setting glasses and bottles of refreshment on the table when the four of them trooped in. In step!
'First lesson!' I shouted. 'Think civilian. Anything that even resembles the military will get us all quickly dead. Now have you all talked to the Admiral? Everyone is nodding, good, good. Nod again if you agree to take orders from me and no one else. Even better. Now I will introduce you to each other. I have been forbidden knowledge of your real names and positions so I have invented some. Let us now begin the world anew. The gentleman on your left, code name Zach, is a professional musician and is tutoring me in my new skills. He will be of utmost help in getting this project off the ground. I am Jim and I will soon be able to play the electronic gadgetry and lead this group. The young lady in your presence, now named Madonette, is a contralto of great talent and our lead singer. Let's give her a big hand.'
Slowly at first, then louder and jollier, they clapped until I lifted a hand to stop them. They were an uptight lot and I had to get them a lot looser. Madonette was fair of skin and dark of hair; a tall and solid girl and quite attractive, she smiled and waved in return.
'Good beginning gang. Now you last two guys, you're the rest of this group, Floyd and Steengo. Floyd is the tall and skinny guy with the artificial beard - he is growing a real replacement for it, but we needed one now for the publicity pix. The miracle workers of hirsutical science have developed an antidipilatorisational agent that stimulates hair growth. So he will grow a fine beard in three days. In addition to growing hair he plays a number of wind instruments which are, if you don't know, a historic family of musical instruments into which one blows strongly to emit sounds. He comes from a distant planet named Och'aye, which is perhaps galaxy-famous for its other native son Angus McSwiney, founder of the McSwiney chain of automated eateries. Floyd plays an instrument whose antecedents are lost in the mists of time and at times I wish they had stayed there. Floyd, a quick tune on the bagpipe if you please.'
I had heard it before so was slightly more prepared as he opened the case and removed an apparatus that looked like a large and bulging spider with many black legs. He slung it about him, puffed strongly and pumped furiously on the spider's abdomen with his arm. I looked at the others and admired their horrified expressions as the screams of mortally wounded animals filled the room.
'Enough!' I shouted and the last slaughtered pig moaned away into deathly silence. 'I don't know if this instrument will be featured in our recitals - but you must admit that it does draw attention. Last, and certainly not least, is Steengo. Who after he left the service became quite adept on the fiddelino. Steengo, a demonstration if you please.'
Steengo smiled paternally at us and waved. He had gray hair and an impressive paunch. I was concerned about his age and general fitness but the Admiral, after secretly scanning the records, reassured me that Steengo's health was A-OK, that he worked out regularly and, other than a tendency towards slight overweight, he was fit for field conditions. I shrugged - since there was little else I could do. The records revealed that he had taken up the instrument after retirement from active duty; with talent in such short supply I had had the veterans' records searched as well. When approached he was more than happy to get back into harness. The fiddelino had two necks and twenty strings and sounded rather jolly in a plucking scratching way that everyone seemed to enjoy. Steengo bowed graciously to acknowledge the applause.
'That's it then. You have just met The Stainless Steel Rats. Any questions?'
'Yes,' Madonette said, and all eyes turned her way. 'What is the music that we will be playing?'
'Good question - and I think I have a good answer. Research into contemporary music reveals a great variety of rhythms and themes. Some of them pretty bad, like country-and-steel-mill music. Some with a certain charm like the Chipperinos and their flock of singing birds. But we need something new and different. Or old and different as long as no one has heard the music in a few thousand years. For our inspiration I have had the music department at Galaksia Universitato research their most ancient data bases. Millennia have passed since this music was last heard. Usually with good reason.
I held up a handful of recordings. 'These are the survivors of a grueling test I put them through. If I could listen for more than fifteen seconds I made a copy. We will now refine the process even more. Anything we can bear for thirty seconds goes into the second round.'
I popped one of the tiny black chips into the player and sat back. Atonal musical thunder rumbled over us and a soprano with a voice like a pregnant porcuswine assailed our ears. I popped the recording out, ground it under my heel, then went on to the next one.
