Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (48 page)

“And what are you doing here on New Venusberg, Mr. Grimes?”

Grimes found it hard to talk; he still had not regained full control of his faculties. At last he croaked, “I am owner-master
of Little Sister,
at present berthed at Port Aphrodite.”

“And you, Miss?”

“I am Captain Grimes’ passenger. His charterer, rather. And people who can afford to charter spaceships are not to be trifled with. Especially not on this money-hungry mud ball!”

“Your name, please?”

“Prunella Fenn, a citizen of Bronsonia. Our ambassador here will be told of what has happened to me!”

“Bronsonia has no ambassador on New Venusberg, Miss Fenn. I doubt if such a minor colony has representation on any other world.”

“The Federation High Commissioner represents us.”

“And will the Federation High Commissioner bother his arse about a pair of trespassers? Trespassers, moreover, who went to the trouble of disguising themselves. Trespassers who did not enter the spaceport through the gate; the records have been scanned and nobody of your appearance was seen to enter. In any case you have no identity badges. A search of the perimeter fence has been initiated; we shall soon know how you did get in.”

“And much good will it do you!” sneered Fenella Pruin.

“And much good it will do
you,”
replied the colonel mildly. He picked up an elongated sheet of paper that had been protruded through a slot in the surface of his desk. “Ah, the print-out from Port Aphrodite . . . You get quite a write-up, Captain Grimes. Always getting into trouble in the Survey Service, finally resigning after the
Discovery
mutiny. Yacht-master for the Baroness d’Estang. Owner-master
of Little Sister,
which used to be the deep space pinnace carried by the Baroness’s Yacht. Quite an expensive little ship, your
Little Sister.
It says here that she’s constructed from an isotope of gold . . . You should have no trouble in paying your fine . . .

“And now, Miss Fenn . . . Winner of the Bronson Bonanza Lottery. Blowing your winnings on a galactic tour, with first stop New Venusberg . . .

“But why,
why,
WHY should you and Grimes be trespassing on the Port Vulcan landing field?”

Aloysius Dreeble was looking hard at Fenella Pruin. He said, “I think that I may have the answer, Colonel. May I use your telephone?”

“Of course, Captain.”

“What number has been allocated to my ship?”

“Seven six three,” volunteered one of the uniformed officers.

Dreeble went to the colonel’s desk, punched the number on the panel of the handset, picked up the instrument.
“Willy Willy?
Captain here. Get me the Chief Officer, please.” There was a short delay. “Oh, Mr. Pelkin . . . Will you go up to my day cabin and look in my bookcase . . . You’ll find a bundle of old copies of
Star Scandals,
you know, that magazine they put out on New Maine . . . Will you bring them across to Colonel Dietrich’s office?”

“Star Scandals?” murmured the colonel thoughtfully.

“Star Scandals!” said Fenella Pruin scornfully. “Does somebody here have some take-away food to wrap up?”

“Only crumpet,” leered Dreeble.

She glared at him.

“You always seem to be getting into trouble, Captain Grimes, don’t you,” said the colonel, making conversation. “Weren’t you involved in that
Bronson Star
affair?”

“Bronson Star . . .” repeated Dreeble. “Of course. Syndication . . .”

“I demand that we be released, with apologies!” snapped Fenella Pruin. “Are we to be held here while this disreputable tramp skipper paws through his cheap pornography?”

“There are writers as well as readers!” retorted Dreeble. “And some publications are more disreputable than any tramp ship could ever be!”

Dreeble’s mate, a chubby, sullen young man, came in.

He said to his captain, “Your reading matter, sir.”

“Put it on the colonel’s desk, Mr. Pelkin.”

The spaceman dropped the bundle of gaudily covered magazines on to the polished surface. Dreeble started to sort through them.

“Ah, here we are!
Sex Slaves of Solatia.
By Fenella Pruin. Syndicated from
The Bronson Star . . .
And there’s a picture of the distinguished authoress, Colonel.”

Dietrich looked from the photograph to Fenella Pruin, then back again. “There is a resemblance . . .” he murmured. “And Fenella Pruin’s from Bronsonia, as is Prunella Fenn . . .”

“I always read Fenella Pruin’s pieces,” said Dreeble. “In fact I am—or was—quite an admirer of hers. She’s been in jail at least once, you know. I remember the article she did on the experience.
I
Was A Prisoner Of The Prince Of Potsdam.
Kinky that prince was. Very kinky. Potsdam’s one of the Waldegren planets, you know.”

“I know,” said Dietrich. “I’ve relatives living there.”

“They’ll have records on Potsdam, colonel. Fingerprints, retinal patterns, bone structure, the lot. Unless Miss Pruin—or her employers—went to the expense of a complete body sculpture job something is bound to match.”

“If Miss Fenn is Miss Pruin,” said Dietrich.

“Which of course, I am not,” said that lady. “You’d better release us before you make further fools of yourselves.”

“Captain Dreeble,” said Grimes, sufficiently recovered to shove his oar in, “would be pleased and flattered to have as a passenger his favourite author. Do you think that I’d charter
my
ship to such a notorious woman?”

“You’d do anything for money, Grimes,” said Dreeble. “For all your airs and graces you’re no better than Drongo Kane or myself. What sort of rake-off did you get from the Dog Star Line for interfering with our quite legitimate enterprises on Morrowvia?”

“You should know that officers of the Federation Survey Service don’t take rake-offs, Dreeble.”

“And is that why you’re not in the Service now?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” admonished Dietrich. “This is my office, not a spaceman’s bar.” He turned to a woman officer. “Take Miss Fenn—or Miss Pruin—away and record all, and I mean
all,
her personal data.” Then, to one of his male assistants. “Send a Carlottigram to the governor of the Leipzig Jail on New Potsdam, over my name, requesting all available information on Fenella Pruin . . .”

She tried to put up a struggle but stunguns flashed. She was carried out.

“And now, Captain Grimes,” said Dietrich, “I must invite you to accept our hospitality until this little matter has been cleared up.”

Grimes shrugged. A token resistance would do him no good and would please only the obnoxious Dreeble. He let himself be led out of the office and to a cell. This had a heavily barred door, a hard bed, a water faucet, a drainage hole in the corner for body wastes and a single overhead light strip. It was not luxurious accommodation.

After he was locked in a guard pushed a bundle of magazines through the bars.

“With Captain Dreeble’s compliments,” he said, grinning.

Grimes wondered if Fenella Pruin would ever be writing about the star scandal in which she and he were now involved.

Chapter 15

INEVITABLY DREEBLE
came to gloat.

He stood well back from the grille as though afraid that Grimes would reach out through the bars to grab his throat. He smirked greasily. He said, “You’ve had it. Grimes. You’ve really had it. It’s a bloody pity that Drongo Kane’s not here. He’d be enjoying this as much as I am.”

Grimes said nothing.

“But I’m sorry about the Pruin bitch. She can really write, you know. I’ll miss her pieces in Star Scandals and the other sexzines.”

“So will plenty of others,” said Grimes. “Including her employers back on Bronsonia. She’s a valuable piece of property. But they know where she is. They’ll soon buy her out of jail. They’ve done it before.”

“I know. I’ve read her stories. But
The Bronson Star
will be told that she’s missing, presumed dead, when they start making enquiries. It’ll be a sad story. Shall I tell it to you?”

“Go ahead, if it amuses you.”

“It’s you that I want to amuse, Grimes. Well, she left Port Aphrodite in a hired camperfly. Correct? Piloted by yourself. And on a flight over the sea the thing just vanished. Pilot error? Pilot incompetence? Your guess is as good as mine.”

Grimes laughed scornfully. “It’s a known fact that we came in to the Vulcan Island airport. And the camperfly’s still there.”

“Is it?” Dreeble made an elaborate production of consulting his watch. “For your information, it should be lifting off about now. The good Colonel Dietrich has some talented people in his employ—masters of disguise and all that. So you and the fair Fenella, carrying your packaged purchases—lots of tourists do shopping in Vulcan City—will have boarded the camperfly. You have decided not to stay the night after all. You will tell Aerospace Control that you are bound for Delphi to consult the Oracle. (It’s a pity that you didn’t do that before you came here!)

“So you lift. So you wamble off to the west’ard. Out of sight of land a police launch will be waiting. By this time your impersonators will have unpacked their parcels. In two of them are minaturised, personal inertial drive units. The pseudo Grimes and the make-believe Fenella bail out, landing on the deck of the launch. The camperfly flies on. And that’s where the third parcel comes in. Or goes off.”

“A bomb?” asked Grimes.

“How did you guess? Anyhow, when you don’t arrive at Delphi enquiries will be made and, eventually, a search initiated. A few shreds and splinters of wreckage may be found. But no Grimes. No Fenella Pruin. I imagine that she’ll get quite nice obituaries in the rags she wrote for—but nobody is going to miss
you.
”

“You missed your vocation, Dreeble,” said Grimes. “You should have been a fiction writer. Do you really expect me to believe all this crap?”

“But you haven’t heard the best of it yet, Grimes. As soon as your identities were established—the authorities on New Potsdam were very prompt and cooperative—the colonel made a full report to the New Venusberg committee of management. The Committee doesn’t like snoopers. Too, most of its members are sadistic bastards. They decided that the punishment should fit the crime. You came here to find things out. Well, the pair of you are going to do just that. The hard way. My big regret is that Fenella Pruin will not survive to write about her experiences.”

“If you’re short of reading matter,” Grimes told him, “you can always write your own. You’d be a good hand at pornographic fantasy.”

“Fantasy, Grimes?”

“What else? This is a civilised planet. Decadent as all hell but still civilised. An Associate Member of the Interstellar Federation—and both Miss Pruin and I are citizens of the Federation. The only crime that we’ve committed is the minor one of trespass. I’ve no doubt that the very worst we can expect is a heavy fine followed by deportation.

“And Miss Pruin will get a story of sorts. There was that very nasty hunting down and gang rape of some of your passengers; I didn’t notice
you
doing anything to protect them. I’ll get my charter money. Oh, on your way out you might ask the colonel just how long he intends to keep me in this cell. I can afford bail, you know.”

“Bail, Grimes? They might accept a pound of flesh, but nothing less. You’re in a jam, the very last jam of your career, and don’t forget it.”

“Fuck off, Dreeble,” said Grimes tiredly. “Go and make up some more sensational fiction.”

“Isn’t there a saying, Grimes, that truth is stranger than fiction?” retorted Dreeble as he walked away.

Chapter 16

GRIMES WAS FED
at regular intervals—filling but savourless sludge. He was allowed toilet requisites—a towel, a washcloth, soap, depilatory cream. He was given a change of underclothing. But the guards who brought him these things refused to answer his questions, ignored his demands for an interview with Colonel Dietrich, a telephone call to the Federation High Commissioner. He could not find out what had happened to Fenella Pruin. Much as he disliked her he felt responsible for her. He realised that he was worrying more about her safety than his own.

And what if Dreeble’s wild story were not fiction?

But it had to be.

Fenella Pruin was a famous journalist, known throughout the galaxy. He, as a shipmaster and a shipowner, was a person of some consequence and possessed some slight measure of fame himself. They couldn’t just vanish. There would be enquiries made—and not only by people outside New Venusberg. Captain McKillick, for example. The Port Captain must already be wondering what had happened to his new inamorata . . .

But the faked camperfly disaster . . .

That would answer all questions, especially when identifiable wreckage was found.

And then one morning they came for Grimes. (He didn’t know that it was morning until he was hustled out of the prison to a waiting van; his watch had been taken from him shortly after his arrest.) He was taken to the airport. The vehicle pulled up right alongside a big, inertial drive atmosphere transport; no bystander would be able to see who or what was transferred from car to aircraft. He was thrown into an unfurnished, padded cell, locked in.

Sitting there on the deck—it was comfortable enough—he could do nothing but wait and worry. Perhaps, he thought, he was just being given the bum’s rush from Vulcan Island. Perhaps he was being taken back to Port Aphrodite where he would be put aboard
Little Sister
and told to get off the planet and never come back. As long as Fenella Pruin was with him he would do just that, and thankfully.

He felt rather than heard—the padding of the cell was effective sonic insulation—the aircraft coming to life. The resilient material was depressed under the weight of his body as the transport lifted. He sensed a turn, then forward motion. He settled down to endure what he hoped would be only a short voyage. He sorely missed his pipe but it, with other possessions, had been confiscated. He was uncomfortably aware of the fullness of his bladder. He looked in some desperation around the cell. At last, by the dim illumination of the overhead light, he found a panel in the deck covering that lifted up and away. There was a drainhole under it.