“Agreed!” they chorused.
“Then put these items into your pockets. They are bits of equipment which are sure to come in handy. Are you wearing your fingerprint gloves?” They raised their hands which glistened slightly in the streetlamp light. “Good. You will be happy to hear that you will be leaving the prints of the mayor of this city, as well as those of the chief of police. That should add a note of interest to an otherwise confusing situation. Now, do you know where we are going? Of course not. It’s a large building around the corner which you cannot see from here. The area HQ of the IIER, Interstellar Internal and External Revenue. In there are records of all their larcenous endeavors…”
“You mean yours, don’t you, Dad?”
“Larceny is in the eye of the beholder, my sons. They take a dim view of my activities, while I in turn look with loathing on their taking ways. Tonight we attempt to even the score. We do not approach the IIER building directly because it has many defenses since they know they are unloved. Instead we enter the building around this corner which, not by chance have I selected it, has a rear that adjoins our target building.”
We walked while I talked and both boys recoiled a bit at the lights and crowds ahead. Sirens screamed as official black groundcars drew up, television cameras churned away, searchlights fanned across the sky. I smiled at their hesitation and patted their backs as we walked.
“Now isn’t that a lovely diversion? Who would consider breaking and entering in a setting like this? The opening night, the premier performance of the new opera Cohoneighs in the Fire.”
“But we’ll need tickets…”
“Bought from a scalper this afternoon at outrageous prices. Here we go.”
We pushed through the crowd, surrendered our tickets, then made our way to the uppermost circle. The opera would be hard to hear from here, not that I had any intention of listening to the bucolic mooing and lowing in any case. There were other advantages to the top of the building. We went to the bar first and I had a refreshing beer and was cheered to see that the lads ordered only nonalcoholic drinks. I was not so elated at other of their activities. Leaning close to Bolivar I took his arm lightly—then clamped down a tight index finger on the nerve that paralyzed his hand.
“Exceedingly naughty,” I said as the diamond bracelet fell to the carpet from his numb fingers. I tapped an exceedingly porcine woman on the shoulder and pointed it out when she turned. “I beg your pardon, madam. But did that bracelet slip from your wrist? It did? No, let me. No, my pleasure indeed, thank you, and may he bless you as well for all eternity.” I then turned about and slipped a steely gaze into James’s ribs. He raised his hands in the sign of peace.
“I get the message, Dad. Sorry. Just keeping in practice. For extra practice I put the wallet back in the gent’s pocket as soon as I saw Bolivar rubbing his numb arm.”
“That’s fine. But no more. We are on a serious mission tonight and want no petty crime to jeopardize our position. There, that’s the last buzzer. Down drinks and away we go.”
“To our seats?”
“Definitely not. To the gents.”
We each occupied a cubicle, standing on the seats so our legs would not reveal our occupation of the premises, and waited until all the footsteps had retreated and the last receptacle had been flushed. We waited even longer until the first wailing notes of the opera assaulted our ears. The rush of running water had been far more musical.
“Here we go,” I said, and we did.
A wet eye on the end of a damp tendril watched them leave. The tendril projected from the waste basket. The tendril was attached to a body that belonged in the waste basket—or even more loathsome surroundings. It was bumpy, gnarled, ugly, clawed. Not nice.
“You seem to know your way around here pretty well,” Bolivar said as we went through a locked door marked “Private” and along a dank corridor.
“When I bought the tickets this afternoon I let myself in and ran a quick survey. Here we are.”
I let the lads disconnect the burglar alarms themselves, good practice, and was chuffed to see that they needed no instruction. They even put a few drops of friction-freer in the tracks before slipping the window silently open. We gazed out into the night, at the dark form of a building a good five meters away.
“Is that it?’ Bolivar asked.
“If it is—how do we get there?” James said.
“It is—and this is how.” I slipped the gunlike object from my inside pocket and held it up by the looped and heavy handle. “It has no name since I designed and made it myself. When the trigger is pulled this projectile—shaped like a tiny plumber’s friend—is hurled forth with great velocity. It trails behind a thin strand of almost-unbreakable monomolecular filament. What happens then, you might ask, and I will be happy to tell. The shock of firing switches on a massive-charge battery in the projectile that expends all of its power in fifteen seconds. But during that time a magnetic field is created here on the projectile’s tip that has enough gauss to hold up a thousand-kilo load. Simple, isn’t it?”
“Are you sure you’re not simple, Dad?” Boliver asked, worried. “How can you be sure of hitting a piece of steel in the dark with that thing?’
“For two reasons, ohh scoffing son. I discovered earlier today that each story of that building has a steel cornice over a steel beam. Secondly, with a magnetic field that strong it is hard to keep this thing away from any steel or iron. It turns as it goes and seeks its own nesting place. James, you have the climbing line? Good. Fasten one end to that sturdy looking pipe, securely mind you since it is a long drop. That’s it, let me have the other end. You are both now wearing your gloves with the armored palms? Capital. It will do your muscles good to swing across this bottomless chasm. I’ll secure the line and twitch it three times when it is ready for you to cross. Here we go.” I raised the vital piece of gadgetry.
“Good luck,” they said as one.
“Thank you. The sentiment is appreciated, but not the idea. Stainless steel rats in the concrete wainscotting of society must make their own luck.”
Cheered by my own philosophy I pulled the trigger. The projectile zinged away and found a nesting place with an audible splat. I pressed the button that drew the monofilament tight—then dived headlong through the open window. Fifteen seconds is not a long time. I bent and extended my legs and started to spin and cursed and hit all at the same moment. All of the impact came on one leg and, if it were not broken, it certainly wasn’t feeling too good. This had not happened during the times I had practiced this maneuver at home. And the seconds were clicking away quite fast while I hung there numbly and swung about.
The nonfunctioning leg had to be ignored, hurt as it did. I tapped with my good leg and found the top of the window frame off to the left. I kicked out so I swung in that direction, letting out some line at the same time. This swung me out and brought me back in line with the window—which I hit with my good foot with all my weight behind it.
Nothing happened, of course, since window glass is pretty tough stuff these days. But my foot found the windowsill and struggled for a purchase as my scrabbling fingers sought a grip on the frame. At which precise instant the magnetic field released and I was on my own.
It was a sticky moment. I was holding myself in place by three fingertips and one insecurely planted toe-tip. My other leg dangled limply like an old salami. Below me was a black drop to sure death.
“Doing all right, Dad?” one of the boys whispered from behind me.
I must say it took a certain amount of internal discipline to control the rush of answers that surged to my lips; boys should not hear that sort of language from a parent. With an effort I contained the words and strangled out something that sounded like fizzlesloop while I fought for balance. I succeeded, though my fingers were growing tired already. With careful patience I clipped the now-defunct gadget to my waist and wriggled my fingers into the pocket that held the glasscutter.