 Volume One of a forthcoming series:

			       A Cool 3.7 Million
			...An Excursion Into The World of
			    The Stainless Steel Rat...


  I stood in line, as patient as everyone else, my filled out forms gripped
hotly in my hand.  There was 3.7 million credits being held (for the moment) in
the supposed safety of the vault here at the Planetary Revenue Service office,
and I intended to have every single millicred in my hot little hands within the
hour.

  After an interminable wait I came to the be second-in-line.  I assured myself
that I had all of my equipment by casually patting my various pockets.

  The ancient, waspish teller scowled as she asked, "Your forms please sir."
Then she expectantly extended a aged and wrinkled hand over the counter.

  "Yes is a matter of fact," I reply, letting the paperwork fall away to reveal
the bore of the immense .70 recoilless pistol in my hand, "bring me to the
vault."

  All of the alarms went off at once, and I heard the doors crash shut.  The
teller grimaced smugly.

  "Good for you," I said, with a broad smile that showed the broad expanse of
gleaming, needle sharp teeth I sported today.

  "Don't let a litle thing like that stop you from leading me to the loot."

  She chose that moment to faint.  People started to rush about in a cheerfully
agitated way and gun-waving guards began to appear, looking about
enthusiastically for someone to shoot, so I tripped the radio relay in my
pocket.  There was a series of delightful explosions all around the bank, from
trash cans where I had planted a variety of different gas bombs, followed by the
even more delightful screams of panicky customers.  I slipped on the gas tight
goggles and clamped my mouth shut so I was forced to breathe through the filter
plugs in my nostrils.  The combination of tear gas and sleepy-gas was almost too
much and for a moment I thought I might succumb too.

  I leapt dexterously over the counter and ran for the "safe." My trusty
laser-cutter made short work of the manifold locks, and I was in.

  There were a few guards inside, so I smiled and tossed a sleepy-gas grenade to
the nearest.  He caught it reflexively, and then slid to the floor with a look
of bafflement.

  The other guards barely had time to draw their guns before they too were
affected by the gas.  Someone had thoughtfully put the money in bags for  me, so
I hurriedly donned the uniform of one of the guards and grabbed the money.

  Leaving the vault, I exited the bank through the back exit, and found that the
same thoughtful someone who had bagged the money had towed my getaway car away.
Luckily for me, they left a nice armored car in it's place.  I climbed in, and
tossed a sleepy-gas grenade into the driver's lap.

  After moving him to the passenger side, I wheeled around the block, ditched
the truck, And removed the uniform, pointy dentures, wig and the pillow in my
shirt.	I then hailed a cab and rode with him for awhile.  After paying the
cabbie, I loitered about for a bit, hailed another cab, sped for the airport to
my waiting helijet and a glass of premium alcohol, at the expense of the
taxpayers, of course.

		 -- Berserker	(10/29/85)
