Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (81 page)

“Observe,” intoned the commentator, “the shamelessness of these people, living in filth and squalor . . .”

(Grimes did not approve of people spitting chewed cuds all over the place but that village looked neither filthy nor squalid—and certainly that sun-tanned body looked clean enough.)

Other people were emerging from their huts—men, women, children of various ages, all innocent of clothing. There was an absence of anybody very old—but that, thought Grimes, could be attributable to the beneficial effects of their staple diet. All the men were heavily bearded. Each of them had a nibble of lotus leaf and then all of them strolled down to the slow flowing river, waded through the shallows and then swam lazily up and down. Grimes ignored the rantings of the commentator and did his best to enjoy the idyllic scene.

“That was
then
,” came the annoying voice. “This is
now
. During the few years that we have been on New Caroline we have made great strides. The naked have been clothed. The people have been aroused from their sinful indolence and now experience the benefits deriving from honest toil . . .”

There were shots of long, neat parallel rows of the artichoke-like plant between which overall-clad Lost Colonists, their clothing dark-stained with perspiration, were working—weeding, spraying fertilizer from backpack tanks, plucking tender young leaves and putting them into baskets. Strolling foremen—Grimes could not be sure, but these men had the appearance of Waldegrensians—supervised, at times seemed to speak harshly to the workers. (Apart from the commentary there was no sound track.)

“And after the day’s gainful employment there is the joy that only true religion can bring . . .”

There was an exterior shot of an ugly chapel constructed of sheet plastic. There was an interior shot of the same building—the pews with the worshippers, dowdily clad in what looked like cast-off clothing from a score of worlds in as many styles—although every woman’s dress was long, high-necked and with sleeves to the wrist. There was the pulpit where the black-robed priest was holding forth. There was a small organ at which a woman sat, hands on the keyboard, feet pedaling vigorously. Although an agnostic, Grimes had a weakness for certain hymns, especially those of the Moody and Sankey variety. But what this dispirited congregation was singing failed to turn him on. Not only were the words uninspired but the wheezy apology for a tune was not one to set the feet tapping or the hands clapping.

For many a year we lived in sin

And never knew the Lord;

But now we have been taken in

And glorify His Word . . .

Oh for a good, honest, Salvation Army band,
he thought,
with blaring brass and thumping drums and the lassies with their tambourines . . .

Grimes awoke with a start and realized that the film was over.

“ . . . noble work, Captain,” the Countess was saying. “And the contrast! Those poor sinners wallowing in squalor, and then the happy, industrious people at the finish . . .”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes, who did not feel like telling any lies.

“And now you must excuse me, Captain. I have my humble part to play.”

She got up from her chair, walked to the portable organ, the harmonium that had been wheeled in to below the now dark and empty screen. The pretty girls who had been helping to entertain the spacemen distributed hymn sheets. The Countess played. The girls waved
Sister Sue’s
people to their feet and started to sing. Reluctantly, hesitantly, the spacemen joined in. It was hard to say which was more dismal, the words or the music.

Sinners all, we beg for grace

And grovel at Thy feet,

And pray that even in this place

We find Thy Mercy Seat!

Holding that thick sheaf of printed matter in his hands Grimes feared that the ordeal would go on for hours. But the fourth sheet was not part of a hymnal; it was the beginning of a brochure.

THE HAPPY KANGAROO, Grimes read with some amazement.

MUSIC, DANCING AND GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS!

Meanwhile the portable organ had fallen silent and the Countess had risen to her feet.

“Thank you all for coming!” she cried. “I am glad that I was able to bring some happiness into your drab lives. The air car is waiting for you outside, but before you leave there will be a collection for the Mission. I am sure that you will all welcome this opportunity to contribute . . .”

One of the girls was circulating with a collecting bag. She grinned at Grimes and the others at his table.

“The party’s over, spaceman,” she whispered, “but if you come to Port Kane the entertainment will be more to your taste!”

Grimes made to put the hymn sheets and the other literature down on the table.

“Keep all the paper, Captain,” she said. “You may be needing it.” She laughed softly. “It’ll please old Florry no end if she thinks you’re holding revival meetings aboard your ship. And now . . .”

She shook the bag suggestively.

The smallest money that Grimes had on him was a fifty-credit bill. He sighed as he made his contribution to the good cause. He wondered who else had contributed, managed to peek inside the bag and saw that, apart from his note, it was empty.

The Countess stood at the door bidding her guests good night.

“Please come again . . .”

“Not bloody likely,”
was a too audible whisper from the Green Hornet.

“It was so nice having you.”

“That’s what you think.”
muttered somebody, Denning, Grimes thought.

“And you have seen, now, what good work we do among the disadvantaged, how we have raised a backward people to full civilization . . .”

“I’m crying for the Carolines,” Grimes could not resist saying.

“But there is no need for you to cry for them now, Captain. They have been saved,
saved
. Good night, good night, and bless you all!”

Grimes, at last tearing himself away to board the air car, was met by the hostile stares of his officers.

***

Back aboard the ship he told an amused and sympathetic Billy Williams what the evening had been like, enjoyed coffee and
real
sandwiches with him and Magda before going up to his quarters. Mayhew joined him there.

“Well,” growled Grimes, “what did
you
make of it?”

The telepath grinned. “The Countess is genuine enough, in her way. She’s not the first example of a too wealthy woman who’s tried to buy her way into heaven. Too, the missionaries have opened up New Caroline to exploitation—which has been a good thing for the El Dorado Corporation.”

“Those girls,” demanded Grimes. “And this bumf . . .”

He pulled the hymn sheets and the brochure from his pocket, threw the papers down on the coffee table.

“The girls,” said Mayhew, “were both spies and recruiting agents. They were circulating among the juniors, subtly sounding them out, not so subtly promising them a good time if the ship should come to Port Kane.” He picked up the brochure, leafed through it to the picture of a dancer. “Recognize her?”

“Mphm. She was the one carrying the collection bag around, wasn’t she? Who’d ever have thought that she was like that under the frumpish black dress?”

“Never judge a parcel by its wrapping,” said Mayhew philosophically.

“Clothes make the woman what she really isn’t,” countered Grimes. “That cuts both ways.”

“Too true. Anyhow, Captain, before long the boys will be asking why you can’t shift ship to Port Kane where there’s some real action. Too, I have the feeling that your old friend Commodore Kane will be calling around shortly, promising to expedite discharge if you agree to join his private navy. I suggest that you convey the impression that (a) you could use some money, preferably in great, coarse hunks . . .”

“You can say that again, Mr. Mayhew!”

“ . . . and (b) that you’re craving a spot of excitement.”

“Which I’m not.”

“Aren’t you, sir? And, in any case, I should not need to remind you that you are acting under Survey Service orders as much as Mr. Venner and myself are. Your job, for which you are being paid a four-ring captain’s salary and allowance . . .”

“I haven’t seen the money yet.”

“You—or your estate—will receive it as a lump sum when the mission has been brought to its conclusion. You are being paid, as I say, to infiltrate, and then to contrive an incident.”

“All right, all right. I have to take the plunge some time. I just don’t want to appear too eager.”

“Perhaps,” said Mayhew, “you should allow the Princess von Stolzberg to talk you around. That would be in character.”

“Would it?” demanded Grimes. “Would it? I think that you had better go now, Mr. Mayhew.”

Chapter 30

GRIMES WAS FINISHING
a late breakfast—almost always he took this meal in his own quarters—when the telephone buzzed. He thought that it would be one of his officers wishing to tell him something.

“Captain here,” he said, facing the instrument.

The little screen came alive. To his surprise it was the face of Drongo Kane looking out at him. He thought, at first, that the piratical commodore was aboard the ship, was calling from the mate’s or the purser’s office. That tin Port Captain had told him that it would not be possible for the ship’s telephones to be hooked up with the El Doradan planetary communications system. But the background scenery was wrong. None of the bulkheads in
Sister Sue’s
accommodation was covered with blue wallpaper on which, embossed in gold, was a floral design.

He said, “How did you get through to me? I was told that I could use the ship’s telephones only to talk to the port office.”

“We can make calls to you,” said Kane smugly. Then, “I hope that you and your merry crew enjoyed last night’s outing.”

“Ha!” growled Grimes. “Ha, bloody ha!”

“Your people,” Kane went on, “would be far happier at the spaceport that the corporation, in recognition of my services, named after me. And you’d be much happier too, knowing that your ship was earning money again. Once she’s on charter she gets paid, even when she’s sitting on her big, fat arse, at my spaceport, waiting for the balloon to go up.”

“I’m thinking about it,” said Grimes grudgingly.

“Just don’t be too long making your mind up, Grimesy-boy. Until you do there’ll be no cargo worked—and then only if you make your mind up the right way. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

The screen went blank.

Grimes poured a last cup of coffee, filled and lit his pipe. It was very fortunate, he thought, that Kane did not, as he did, have the services of a tame telepath. He had raised this point already with Mayhew, had been told that the El Doradans would not tolerate the presence on their world of anybody capable of prying into their precious minds.

The telephone buzzed again.

“Captain here,” he told it.

It was another outside call. It was the Princess Marlene.

“Good morning, John.” She laughed prettily. “I hear that you had a very boring time last night. I feel that I should offer some small compensation. Are you free today?”

“I am, M . . . Sorry. Your Highness.”

She smiled out at him. “Marlene would have been better. So you are free. Then I shall call for you at . . . 1100 hours? Will that be suitable? Good. Can you stay overnight at the Schloss? Excellent. Until eleven, then.”

She faded from the screen.

“Mphm?” grunted Grimes, recalling Mayhew’s advice. “Mphm.”

He called for Williams.

The chief officer, as soon as he set foot in Grimes’ cabin, started complaining.

“I’ve been on the blower to that so-called Port Captain,” he said. “He—or it—just couldn’t tell me when any more cargo would be worked. You’ve your contacts here, sir. Can’t you do anything?”

“Just be patient, Mr. Williams,” Grimes told him.

“Patient, sir? You should have heard the growls over the breakfast table. And the engineers were waving those pamphlets about—
you
know, the advertising for all the fancy facilities at Port Kane. I told them what it would mean if we did shift ship there, the privateering and all the rest of it. They got interested and wanted to know if there was any money in it. And
your
pet, the Green Hornet, said, ‘Forget it! Our saintly captain would never dirty his hands with piracy! All that he’s fit for is dragging us to prayer meetings, like last night!’”

“There have been pious pirates,” said Grimes. “One of my ancestors was one such. But tell me, what would your reaction be if I accepted Commodore Kane’s offer of employment?”

“I’d be with you, sir,” said the mate at last. “After all, privateering is not piracy. It’s legal. And there should be money in it. The way I understand it is that the people financing the venture—in this case the El Dorado Corporation—would be entitled to a large percentage of the take, the balance being divvied up among the crew, according to rank. Something like a salvage award . . .”

“Sound people out, will you?” Grimes looked at the bulkhead clock. “And now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have to get packed.”

“You’re leaving us, sir?”

“Only for a day. The Princess von Stolzberg will be picking me up at eleven. I shall be staying at the Schloss Stolzberg overnight. You’ll know where to find me if anything horrid happens.”

“Will do, Skipper. And so Her Highness has forgiven you for the swimming party . . . If you can’t be good, be careful.”

“I’ll try,” said Grimes.

***

He was waiting at the foot of the ramp when the Princess’s air car came in. It was not the gaily colored mechanical dragonfly in which he had ridden with her before, years ago. It was a far more sober vehicle, although conforming to the current El Doradan fad or fashion. “A Daimler . . .” whispered Williams reverently to his captain as the elegant black vehicle, its silver fittings gleaming in the late morning sun, came in to an almost noiseless landing.

“A bloody hearse,” muttered Ms. Connellan. “It’s even got vultures following it!”

But they were not, of course, vultures. The pair of watch-birds, circling alertly overhead, were more like ravens.