First Command (13 page)

“Like calls to like,” he replied with bitter flippancy.

“You could put it that way, I suppose, but you’re wrong. Anyhow, I’m sure that I shall be able to persuade John—Commander Grimes—to offer you the sanctuary of our ship if you’re really in a jam.”

“I’m a Spartan,” he said.

“With all the Spartan virtues, I suppose. Do you have that absurd legend about the boy who let the fox gnaw his vitals rather than cry out? No matter. Just tell Captain Diomedes the truth, but not the whole truth. Say that it was all my fault, and that you did your best to restrain me. Which you did—although it wasn’t good enough. Say that you saved me from the wolves.”

They drove on in silence while Brasidus pondered his course of action. What the Arcadian had said was true, what she had proposed might prevent an already unpleasant situation from becoming even more unpleasant. In saving Peggy’s life, he had done no more than his duty; in helping to save the life of the deformed—deformed?—child he, an officer of the law, had become a criminal. And why had he done this? With the destruction of the laser-camera the alien had lost her only advantage.

And why had he known, why did he still know that his part in the rescue operations had been essentially right?

It was this strange awareness of rightness that brought him to full agreement with his companion’s propositions. Until now, he had accepted without question the superior intellectual and moral stature of those holding higher rank than himself, but it was obvious that aboard
Seeker
there were officers, highly competent technicians with superbly trained men and fantastically powerful machinery at their command, whose moral code varied widely from the Spartan norm. (Come to that, what about the doctors, the top-ranking aristocrats of the planet, whose own morals were open to doubt? What about the doctors, and their perverse relations with the Arcadians?)

Peggy’s voice broke into his thoughts. “She’s sleeping now. Out like a light. Drunk as a fiddler’s bitch. I think that we shall be able to smuggle her on board without trouble.” She went on, “I appreciate this, Brasidus. I do. I wish . . .” He realized that she must be standing up in the back of the car, leaning toward him. He felt her breasts against the bare skin of his back. The contact was like nothing that he had ever imagined. He growled, “Sit down, damn you. Sit down—if you want this wagon to stay on the road!”

Chapter 19

THEY ENCOUNTERED NO DELAYS
on their way back to the spaceport, but, once they were inside the main gates, it was obvious that their return had been anticipated. Diomedes, backed by six armed hoplites, was standing, glowering, outside his office. A little away from him was John Grimes—and it was not a ceremonial sword that depended from his belt but two holstered pistols. And there was another officer from the ship with him, wearing a walky-talky headset. The Commander glared at Brasidus and his companion with almost as much hostility as did Diomedes.

Diomedes raised an imperious arm. Brasidus brought the car to a halt. Grimes said something to his officer, who spoke into the mouthpiece of his headset. Brasidus, looking beyond the young man to the ship, saw that the turrets housing her armament were operational, the long barrels of weapons, fully extruded, waving slowly like the questing antennae of some giant insect.

“Brasidus.” Diomedes’ voice was a high-pitched squeal, a sure sign of bad temper. “I have received word from the village corporal at Kilkis. I demand your report—and your report, Doctor Lazenby—immediately. You will both come into my office.”

“Captain Diomedes,” said Grimes coldly, “you have every right to give orders to your own officers, but none whatsoever to issue commands to my personnel. Doctor Lazenby will make her report to me, aboard my ship.”

“I have means of enforcing my orders, Commander Grimes.”

As one man, the six hoplites drew their stun guns.

Grimes laughed. “My gunnery officer has his instructions, Captain Diomedes. He’s watching us from the control room through very high-powered binoculars and, furthermore, he is hearing everything that is being said.”

“And what are his instructions, Commander?”

“There’s just one way for you to find out, Captain. I shouldn’t advise it, though.”

“All right.” With a visible effort, Diomedes brought himself under control. “All right. I request, then, Commander, that you order your officer to accompany Brasidus into my office for questioning. You, and as many of your people as you wish, may be present.”

Grimes obviously was giving consideration to what Diomedes had said. It was reasonable enough. Brasidus knew that, if he were in Grimes’ shoes, he would have agreed. But suppose that somebody decided to investigate the contents of that food hamper on the back seat, some thirsty man hopeful that a drink of wine might remain in the flagon. Or suppose that the effects of the alcohol on the presently sleeping baby suddenly wore off.

Margaret Lazenby took charge. She stood up in the back of the car—and the extent of her dishevelment was suddenly obvious. The men stared at her, and Grimes, his fists clenched, took a threatening step toward Brasidus, growling, “You bastard.”

“Stop it, John!” The Arcadian’s voice was sharp. “Brasidus didn’t do this.”

“Then who did?”

“Damn it all! Can’t you see that I want at least another shirt, as well as medical attention for these scratches? But if you must know, I made Brasidus take me to watch the Exposure.”

“So the village corporal told me,” put in Diomedes. “And between you, the pair of you slaughtered an entire wolf pack.”

“We went too close, and they attacked us. They pulled me out of the car, but Brasidus saved me. And now, Captain Diomedes, I’d like to get back on board as soon as possible for an antibiotic shot and some fresh clothing.” Before leaving the car, she stooped to lift the hamper from the back seat, handed it to Grimes’ officer.

“What’s in that basket?” demanded Diomedes.

“Nothing that concerns you!” she flared.

“I’ll decide that,” Grimes stated. “Here, Mister Taylor. Let me see.”

The officer turned to face his captain, with his body hiding the hamper from Diomedes and his men. It was not intentional—or was it? Grimes, his face emotionless, lifted Brasidus’ torn tunic from the open top of the wickerwork container. He said calmly, “One wine flagon. About six inches of gnarled sausage. The heel of a loaf of crusty bread. You decide, Captain, what may be brought off the ship onto your world, I decide what may be brought from your world onto my ship. Mister Taylor, take this hamper to the biochemist so that its contents may be analyzed. And you, Doctor Lazenby, report at once to the surgeon. I’ll receive your report later.”

“Commander Grimes, I insist that I inspect that hamper.” Three of the hoplites stepped forward, began to surround Mister Taylor.

“Captain Diomedes, if any of your men dare to lay hands upon my officer the consequences will be serious.”

Diomedes laughed incredulously. “You’d open fire over a mug of wine and a couple of scraps of bread and sausage?”

“Too right I would.”

Diomedes laughed again. “You aliens . . .” he said contemptuously. “All right, you can have your crumbs from the sergeants’ mess. And I’d like a few words with your Doctor Lazenby as soon as she can spare me the time. And I’ll have rather more than a few words with you, Brasidus, now!”

Reluctantly Brasidus got out of the car.

“And you let her threaten you with a laser weapon—and, furthermore, one that you had allowed her to carry . . .”

Brasidus, facing Diomedes, who was lolling behind his desk, said rebelliously, “You, sir, checked her equipment. And she told me herself that the thing did function as a camera.”

“All right. We’ll let that pass. You allowed her to use a stun gun on the village corporal and the innkeeper, and then you drove her out to the Exposure. Why, Brasidus, did you have to stop at Kilkis, of all villages, on this day, of all days?”

“Nobody told me not to, sir. And, as you know, the dates of the Exposures are never advertised. You might have been informed, but I was not.”

“So you drove her out to see the Exposure. And you got too close. And the wolves attacked you, and pulled her out of the car.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Surely she could have used this famous laser-camera to defend herself.”

“It was damaged, sir. She had to throw it away in a hurry. It blew up.”

“Yes. I’ve been told that there’s an area on the hillside that looks as though some sort of bomb had been exploded.” He leaned back in his chair, looked up at the standing Brasidus. “You say that the wolves attacked her. Are you sure that it wasn’t you?”

“And why should it have been me, sir?”

“Because it should have been. You let an alien order you around at gun point, and then you ask me why you should have attacked her! And now . . .” the words came out with explosive violence, “What was in the hamper?”

“Wine, sir. Bread. Sausage.”

“And what was your tunic doing there?”

“I lent it to her, sir, to replace her own shirt.”

“So, instead of wearing it, she put it in the hamper.”

“The air was warm, sir, when we got down from the mountains. She asked me if she could have it so that the fibers from which it is woven could be analyzed by the . . . the biochemist.”

“H’m. All in all, Brasidus, you did not behave with great brilliance. Were it not for the fact that these aliens—or one alien in particular—seem to like you, I should dispense with your services. As it is, you are still useful. Now, just what were this Margaret Lazenby’s reactions when she learned of the Exposure?”

Lying, Brasidus knew, would be useless. The village corporal at Kilkis would have made a full report. He said, “She was shocked. She wanted to get to the site in time to rescue the deformed and defective children.”

“You were not in time, of course.”

“No, sir. We were not in time.” He added virtuously, “I made sure of that.”

“How, Brasidus?”

“I knew the way, she did not. I was able to make a detour.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Diomedes. He grunted, “All right. You may sit down.” For a few seconds he drummed on the desktop with his fingertips. “Meanwhile, Brasidus, the situation in the city is developing. Commander Grimes allowed his Arcadians, as well as the human members of his crew, shore leave. There was an unfortunate occurrence in the Tavern of the Three Harpies. An Arcadian, accompanied by a human spaceman, went in there. They got drinking with the other customers.”

“Not the sort of place that I’d drink in by choice,” Brasidus said, the other’s silence seeming to call for some sort of comment.

“They were not so fortunate as to have a guide, such as yourself, to keep them out of trouble.” (You sarcastic swine, thought Brasidus.) “Anyhow, there was the usual crowd in there. Helots of the laboring class, hoplites not fussy about the company they keep. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the two spacemen had just taken one drink and then walked out, but they stayed there, drinking with the locals, and allowed themselves to be drawn into an argument. And you know how arguments in the Three Harpies usually finish.”

“There was a fight, sir?”

“Brilliant, Brasidus, brilliant. There was a fight, and the human spaceman was laid out, and the Arcadian was beaten up a little, and then stripped. There was, you will understand, some curiosity as to what her body was like under her uniform.”

“That was bad, sir.”

“There’s worse to follow. At least four hoplites had sexual intercourse with her by force.”

“So it is possible, sir, in spite of the malformation.”

Diomedes chuckled obscenely. “It’s possible, all right. Everybody in the tavern would have had her if the other spaceman hadn’t come round and started screaming for help on a little portable transceiver he wore on his wrist. A dozen men from the ship rushed in, real toughs—and I wish that my own personnel could learn their techniques of unarmed combat. Then the police condescended to intervene and laid everybody out with their stun guns, and then Commander Grimes, who’d heard about it somehow, came charging into my office threatening to devastate the city, and . . . and . . .

“Anyhow, you can see why I had to handle this Lazenby creature with kid gloves. Even though Grimes admits that his own crew were at fault—he had issued strict orders that no sightseeing party was to consist of fewer than six people—he was furious about the ‘rape,’ as he called it. You saw how he reacted when he thought that you had been doing something of the kind. He demanded that the rapists be punished most severely.”

“But they were hoplites, sir, not helots. They had the right . . .”

“I know, I know. When I need instruction in the finer points of Spartan law, I’ll come to you. The conduct was discourteous rather than criminal. The culprits will, by this time, have been reprimanded by their commanding officer, and will, in all probability, he back in the Three Harpies, telling anybody who cares to listen what intercourse is like with an Arcadian. It is, I gather, quite an experience. Are you quite sure that you didn’t . . .?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

“That’s your story, and you stick to it.” Again there was a pause, and the muffled drumming of Diomedes’ fingers on the top of his desk. Then he went on, “Even on Sparta we have experienced occasional mutiny, infrequent rebellion. Tell me, Brasidus, what are the prime causes of mutiny?”

“Discontent, sir. Overly strict discipline. Unjust punishments . . .”

“And . . .?”

“That’s about all, sir.”

“What about envy, Brasidus?”

“No sir. We all know that if we show ability we shall become officers, with all the privileges that go with rank.”

“But what if there’s a privilege out of reach to everybody except a few members of one aristocratic caste?”

“I don’t see what you mean, sir.”

“Brasidus, Brasidus, what do you use for brains? What about that nest of Arcadians in the créche? What do you suppose the doctors use them for?”

“I . . . I can guess.”

“And so they have something that the rest of us haven’t. And so”—Diomedes’ voice dropped almost to a whisper—“the power that they’ve enjoyed for so long, for too long, may be broken.”