“Afternoon, Miss Shirl,” Tab said stoically, staying in the hall. “I’m sorry, but this is no social call. I’m on the job now.”

  “What is it?” Andy asked, walking over next to Shirl.

  “You have to realize I take the work that is offered to me,” Tab said. He was unsmiling and gloomy. “I’ve been in the bodyguard pool since September, just the odd jobs, no regular assignments. We take whatever work we can get. A man turns down a job, he goes right back to the end of the list. I have a family to feed… .”

  “What are you trying to say?” Andy asked. He was aware that someone was standing in the darkness behind Tab and could tell by the shuffle of feet that there were others out of sight down the hall.

  “Don’t take no guff,” the man in back of Tab said in an unpleasant nasal voice. He stayed behind the bodyguard where he could not be seen. “I got the law on my side. I paid you. Show him the order!”

  “I think I understand now,” Andy said. “Get away from the door, Shirl. Come inside Tab, so we can talk to you.”

  Tab started forward and the man in the hall tried to follow him. “You don’t go in there without me—” he shrilled. His voice was cut off as Andy slammed the door in his face.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” Tab said. He was wearing his spike-studded iron knuckles, his fist clenched tight around them.

  “Relax,” Andy said. “I just wanted to talk to you alone first, find out what was going on. He has a squat-order, doesn’t he?”

  Tab nodded, looking unhappily down at the floor.

  “What on earth are you two talking about?” Shirl asked, worriedly glancing back and forth at their set expressions.

  Andy didn’t answer and Tab turned to her. “A squat-order is issued by the court to anyone who can prove they are really in need of a place to live. They only give so many out, and usually just to people with big families that have had to get out of some other place. With a squat-order you can look around and find a vacant apartment or room or anything like that, and the order is sort of a search warrant. There can be trouble, people don’t want to have strangers walking in on them, that kind of thing, so anyone with a squat-order takes along a bodyguard. That’s where I come in; the party out there in the hall, name of Belicher, hired me.”

  “But what are you doing here?” Shirl asked, still not understanding.

  “Because Belicher is a ghoul, that’s why,” Andy said bitterly. “He hangs around the morgue looking for bodies.”

  “That’s one way of saying it,” Tab answered, holding on to his temper. “He’s also a guy with a wife and kids and no place to live, that’s another way of looking at it.”

  There was a sudden hammering on the door and Belicher’s complaining voice could be heard outside. Shirl finally realized the significance of Tab’s presence, and she gasped. “You’re here because you’re helping them,” she said. “They found out that Sol is dead and they want his room.”

  Tab could only nod mutely.

  “There’s still a way out,” Andy said. “If we had one of the men here from my precinct, living in here, then those people couldn’t get in.”

  The knocking was louder and Tab took a half step backward toward the door. “If there was somebody here now, that would be okay, but Belicher could probably take the thing to squat court and get occupancy anyway because he has a family. I’ll do whatever I can to help you—but Belicher, he’s still my employer.”

  “Don’t open that door,” Andy said sharply. “Not until we have this straightened out.”

  “I have to—what else can I do?” He straightened up and

  closed his fist with knucks on it. “Don’t try to stop me, Andy. You’re a policeman, you know the law about this.”

  “Tab, must you?” Shirl asked in a low voice.

  He turned to her, eyes filled with unhappiness. “We were good friends once, Shirl, and that’s the way I’m going to remember it. But you’re not going to think much of me after this because I have to do my job. I have to let them in.”

  “Go ahead, open the damn door,” Andy said bitterly, turning his back and walking over to the window.

  The Belichers swarmed in. Mr. Belicher was thin, with a strangely shaped head, almost no chin, and just enough intelligence to sign his name to a Welfare application. Mrs. Belicher was the support of the family; from the flabby fat of her body came the children, all seven of them, to swell the Relief allotment on which they survived. Number eight was pushing an extra bulge out of the dough of her flesh; it was really number eleven since three of the younger Belichers had perished through indifference or accident. The largest girl, she must have been all of twelve, was carrying the sore-covered infant, which stank abominably and cried continuously. The other children shouted at each other now, released from the silence and tension of the dark hall.

  “Oh looka the nice fridge,” Mrs. Belicher said, waddling over and opening the door.

  “Don’t touch that,” Andy said, and Belicher pulled him by the arm.

  “I like this room—it’s not big you know, but nice. What’s in here?” He started toward the door in the partition.

  “That’s my room,” Andy said, slamming it shut in his face. “Just keep out of there.”

  “No need to act like that,” Belicher said, sidling away quickly like a dog that has been kicked too often. “I got my rights. The law says I can look wherever I want with a squat-order.” He moved farther away as Andy took a step toward him. “Not that I’m doubting your word, mister, I believe you. This room here is fine, got a good table, chairs, bed …”

  “Those things belong to me. This is an empty room, and a small one at that. It’s not big enough for you and all your family.”

  “It’s big enough. We lived in smaller …”

  “Andy—stop them! Look!” Shirt’s unhappy cry spun Andy around and he saw that two of the boys had found the packets of herbs that Sol had grown so carefully in his window box, were tearing them open, thinking that it was food of some kind.

  “Put those things down,” he shouted, but before he could reach them they had tasted the herbs, then spat them out.

  “Burn my mouth!” the bigger boy screamed and sprayed the contents of the packet on the floor. The other boy bounced up and down with excitement and began to do the same thing with the rest of the herbs. They twisted away from Andy and before he could stop them the packets were empty.

  As soon as Andy turned away, the younger boy, still excited, climbed on the table—his mud-stained foot wrappings leaving filthy smears—and turned up the TV. Blaring music crashed over the screams of the children and the ineffectual calls of their mother. Tab pulled Belicher away as he opened the wardrobe to see what was inside.

  “Get these kids out of here,” Andy said, white-faced with rage.

  “I got a squat-order, I got rights,” Belicher shouted, backing away and waving an imprinted square of plastic.

  “I don’t care what rights you have,” Andy told him, opening the hall door. “We’ll talk about that when these brats are outside.”

  Tab settled it by grabbing the nearest child by the scruff of the neck and pushing it out through the door. “Mr. Rusch is right,” he said. “The kids can wait outside while we settle this.”

  Mrs. Belicher sat down heavily on the bed and closed her eyes, as though all this had nothing to do with her. Mr. Belicher retreated against the wall saying something that no one heard or bothered to listen to. There were some shrill cries and angry sobbing from the hall and the last child was expelled. Andy looked around and realized that Shirl had gone into their room; he heard the key turn in the lock. “I suppose this is it?” he said, looking steadily at Tab.

  The bodyguard shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry, Andy, honest to God I am. What else can I do? It’s the law, and if they want to stay here you can’t get them out.”

  “It’s the law, it’s the law,” Belicher echoed tonelessly.

  There was nothing Andy could do with his clenched fists and he had to force himself to open them. “Help me carry these things into the other room, will you, Tab?”

  “Sure,” Tab said, and took the other end of the table. “Try and explain to Shirl about my part in this, will you? I don’t think she understands that it’s just a job I have to do.”

  Their footsteps crackled on the dried herbs and seeds that littered the floor and Andy did not answer him.

  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.

  This was it. End of the line. Purgy. The purgatory before hell. Fed and healed to make the stay that much longer. The sentence with only one end.

  Oh yeah! I said silently to myself, and permitted a wide grin to brush my lips under the cover of the blankets. My back itched under the transparent plastic patches and I scratched them happily. They were invisible to the eye, but coated with a lead-antimony alloy that blocked X rays. I had gambled on the fact that this place would not have expensive tomographs or such—and had won. On the two-dimensional X-ray plates the plastic patches on my legs looked like metal pins, on my skull dark staples. They had done their job, would dissolve and vanish the next time I washed.

  I had done it! The first part of this operation was complete. Finding out about this hospital-prison had been the hardest part. It took a lot of risky work getting into planetary-government files before I managed to track it down. Risky but interesting. Guiding the twins in their successful semilegal careers had kept Angelina and me pretty busy. Now that they were successful, and rich I must add, we had been enjoying what might be called semiretirement. This suited Angelina quite well since she was happy with all those pleasure planets and luxury cruises. I, as you might very well imagine, loathed it. If I hadn’t been able to polish off the occasional bank or lift a lucrative space yacht I might have gone around the twist. But it wasn’t real work. Then this wonderful opportunity had revealed itself. A tiny item in the nightly news. I printed it out and brought it to Angelina. She read it swiftly, put it down in silence.