Free Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns by Harry Harrison

I seized the moment to investigate the chilled jugs of liquid.
    I sipped from an earthenware mug. Fresh fruit flavors—and a hint of something else. Alcohol? I chugalugged some more. Yes indeed, my old friend Ethyl, if I was not mistaken. And I rarely was.
    “I see that you are enjoying our tinkleberry wine,” Bilboa said, pouring himself a good mug full.
    “Health and happiness,” I said. We thunked jugs together.
    “Nature and love.”
    We smiled happily and he poured refills.
    The party was now in full swing. I nibbled on some delicious baked cheese biscuits. Then Angelina joined us and, in the spirit of the day, put her radio on the table and switched on some pastoral music.
    “A wondrous device,” Bilboa said.
    “Don’t you use radios?”
    “Happily, no. The simple, natural life is sacred to us. We left all the machines behind when we sealed and abandoned the vessels that brought us here. Along with other evils like money, property tax, income tax, guns and goatmobiles—or so legend has it. Though I know not the meaning of these words.”
    “You’re better off without them. So . . . no machines, music players, radios, interstellar communications machines?”
    Casually mentioned . . .
    “None of those.” My spirits fell. Still, the city had machines—if TV and ground-to-air missiles counted.
    I waited until we had knocked back a few more mugs of Old Relaxing Juice before I worked the conversation around to more serious matters.
    “Dear friend Bilboa, I so welcome your many kindnesses. But, at the risk of offending you who offers such hospitality and largesse, I must return to a topic of great importance to me. Those who live in the walled city . . .”
    He sighed tremulously and his smile vanished as I made my pitch.
    “Though we approached them in peace they used a weapon in an attempt to destroy us. For our own protection I must know who they are and why they fired on us. We have an expression: know your enemy. I must know more about these people for our own protection.”
    The day appeared to darken and the warmth was gone from the air.
    “You are correct and I was wrong to keep this knowledge from you. It has been written that one black day our peaceful and loving existence—alone on this friendly planet—was broken by the thunder of their great ships landing. Like us they came here seeking escape and the solitude to pursue their own philosophy and ends.”
    His eyes sparkled and he shook his fist at the defenseless sky. “While we are one with nature, they attack it with foul machines and great stinks. They attempted to force us to join them in their evil beliefs. We could only flee in horror. In the end they tired of attempting to convert us to their Church of the Vengeful God and retired behind their city walls.”
    “Then you no longer have any contact with them?”
    Bilboa sighed again, most unhappily, and shook his gray head.
    “Would that were so. Perhaps we are weak, but we welcome their medicines that cure us of illness.”
    “But these Vengefulers don’t sound like the type to indulge in generosity . . .”
    “They are not! We pay a high price! Not in this money thing you talk of, but in toil and labor in exchange for these vital needs.”
    Getting close now! “And that is . . . ?”
    “Flowers.”
    That was a stopper. Interstellar flower power? Religious nutcases with a weakness for blooming buds? I managed to gasp out a query.
    “But . . . I mean what . . . why flowers?”
    “When their machines break down they must be repaired, replaced. Or so it has been explained to me although I know not the details.”
    This was it. Interstellar contact for replacement and repairs.
    “Do you know what they do with these flowers?” I asked humbly.
    “By some devious means they turn the blooms into perfume. It has been said that the flowers of Floradora make a perfume of such beauty that it is prized throughout the galaxy.”
    “You wouldn’t know how this perfume of