To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga (18 page)

“Not so fast, my man!” she called coldly. “Not so fast. You are not riding in with me. But I shall tow you in.” Expertly, she threw the end of a nylon line to Grimes. Not so expertly he caught it in his gloved hand.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” he said as nastily as he dared.

* * *

The Port Control building, into which the girl finally led them, was deserted. She did not seem to be surprised. “After all,” she condescended to explain, “Henri set up the beacon for you and gave you preliminary instructions. He assumed, wrongly, as it turned out, that you were good enough spacemen to find your way in by yourselves. After all, he has better things to do than to sit in this office all day.”

“Such as?” asked Grimes. He added hastily, “Your Highness.”

“Polo, of course.”

“But, damn it all, we have to see
somebody.
We have to arrange for the landing and reception of the ship. We lost our uniforms when the boat went down, so we’d like a change of clothing. Spacesuits aren’t very comfortable wear. Your Highness.”

“Then take them off. I don’t mind.”

You wouldn’t,
thought Grimes.
The aristocrat naked before the serfs, the serfs naked before the aristocrat, what does it matter to the aristocrat?
He said, “The sun is down and it’s getting chilly.”

“Then keep them on.”

“Please, Your Highness . . .” Grimes hated having to beg. He would far sooner have shaken some sense into this infuriating minx. But he was in enough trouble already. He was not looking forward explaining to Captain Daintree the loss of the re-entry vehicle. “Please, Your Highness, can’t you help us?”

“Oh, all right. Although why you outworlders have to be so
helpless
is beyond me. Aren’t you used to servants on your planets? I suppose not.” She walked gracefully, her golden sandals faintly tapping on the polished floor, to what seemed to be, and was, a telephone booth. But there were neither dials nor buttons. She ordered, in her high, clear voice, “Get me the Comte de Messigny.”

There was a brief delay, and then the screen on the rear wall of the booth swirled into glowing, three dimensional life. The man looking out from it was tall, clad in white helmet, shirt, riding breeches, and highly polished black boots. He lifted a slim, brown hand to the peak of his headgear in salute. A dazzling grin split the darkly tanned face under the pencil line of the mustache.

“Marlene!”

“Henri. Sorry to trouble you, but I’ve two lost sheep of spacemen here. They came blundering down in some sort of fire-breathing monstrosity—a dynosoar, would it be?—and cracked up in the lake . . .”

“I did warn you, Marlene.”

“There was no risk to me, Henri, although it did cost me my two best watchbirds. But these offworlders, I suppose you’d better do something about them . . .”

“I suppose so. Put them on, please, Marlene.”

“Stand where I was standing,” the girl said to Grimes. Then, in a voice utterly devoid of interest, “Good evening to you.” Then she was gone.

Grimes was conscious of being examined by the unwinking, dark eyes of the man in the screen who, at last, demanded, “Well?”

“Lieutenant Grimes,” he replied, adding “sir” to be on the safe side. “Of
Aries,
and this is Surgeon Lieutenant Kravisky. We are the advance landing party . . .”

“You’ve landed, haven’t you?”

“Sir . . .” It hurt to bow and scrape to these civilians, with their absurd, unearned titles. “Sir, we wish to report our arrival. We wish to report, too, that we are in a condition of some distress. Our re-entry vehicle was wrecked and we were badly shaken up. We are unable to establish radio contact with
Aries
so that we may tell our Captain what has happened. Our uniforms were lost in the wreck. We request clothing and food and accommodations.”
And a good, stiff drink,
he thought.

“I shall inform your Captain that you are here,” said de Messigny. “Meanwhile, the automatic servitors in the hostel have been instructed to obey all reasonable orders. You will find that provisions have been made for your reception and comfort on the floor above the one where you are presently situated.”

“Thank you, sir. But when shall we make arrangements for the berthing and reception of
Aries?”

“Tomorrow, Lieutenant. I shall see you some time tomorrow. Good evening to you.”

The screen went blank.

Grimes looked at Kravisky, and Kravisky looked at Grimes. Then they looked around the huge, gleaming hall, beautifully proportioned, opulent in its fittings and furnishings; but, like this entire planet, cold, cold.

Chapter 6

If there were elevators
to the upper floors they must be, thought Grimes, very well concealed. Tiredly, acutely conscious of the discomfort of his clammy spacesuit, he trudged toward the ornamental spiral staircase that rose gracefully from the center of the iridescent, patterned floor. The Surgeon Lieutenant followed him, muttering something that sounded like, and probably was, “Inhospitable bastards!”

But the staircase was more than it seemed. As Grimes put his weight on the first of the treads, there was a subdued humming of machinery, almost inaudible, and he felt himself being lifted. The thing was, in fact, an escalator. For a few seconds Grimes’ exhausted brain tried to grapple with the engineering problems involved in the construction of a moving stairway of this design, then gave up. It worked, didn’t it? So what?

At the level of the next floor the treads flattened to a track, slid him gently on to the brightly colored mosaic of the landing. He waited there until he was joined by Kravisky. There was a sudden silence as the murmur of machinery ceased. The two men looked around. They were standing in a relatively small hallway, partly occupied by another staircase ascending to yet another level. The walls, covered with what looked like a silken fabric, were featureless. Suddenly a disembodied voice, cultured yet characterless, almost sexless yet male rather than female, spoke. “This way, please.”

A sliding door had opened. Beyond it was a room, plainly furnished but comfortable enough, with two beds, chairs and a table. Apart from its size it could have been a ship’s cabin. “Toilet facilities are on your right as you enter,” the voice said. “Please leave soiled clothing in the receptacle provided.”

“Perhaps a drink first . . .” suggested Kravisky.

“Toilet facilities are on your right as you enter. Please leave soiled clothing in the receptacle provided.”

“I never did like arguing with robots,” said Grimes. He walked slowly through the open doorway, then through the other door into the bathroom. As he turned, he saw that the main door had slid shut behind Kravisky. There did not seem to be any way of opening it from the inside, but, come to that, neither had there been any way of opening it from the outside. This should have seemed important, but right now the only matter of moment was shucking his stinking suit, clambering out of his sweat-soaked underwear. He pulled off his gloves, then clumsily fumbled with the fastenings of his armour. The protective clothing, fabric and metal with plastic and metal attachments, fell to the floor with an audible clank and rattle. He stepped out of the boots, peeled off his underpants. Kravisky, he saw, was managing quite well and would require no assistance. He started toward one of the two shower stalls.

“Please leave soiled clothing in the receptacle provided,” said the annoying voice.

Yes, there was a receptacle, but it had not been designed to accommodate such bulky accoutrements as spacesuits. The underpants went through the hinged flap easily enough, but it was obvious that a full suit of space armour would be beyond its capabilities. In any case, such items of equipment were supposed to be surrendered only to the ship’s Armourer for servicing.

“Please leave . . .”

“It won’t go in,” stated Grimes.

“Please . . .” There was a pause, and then a new voice issued from the concealed speaker. It was still a mechanical one but somehow possessed a definite personality. “Please dispose of your smaller articles of clothing and leave your suits on the floor. They will be collected for dehydration and deodorization later.”

By whom?
wondered Grimes.
Or by what?
But he could, at least, enjoy his shower now without being badgered. Naked, he stepped into the stall. Before he could raise a hand the curtain slid across the opening, before he could look for controls a fine spray of warm, soapy water came at him from all directions. This was succeeded, after a few minutes, by water with no added detergent and, finally, by a steady blast of hot air. When he was dry, the curtain slid back and, greatly refreshed, he walked out into the main bathroom. He noticed at once that the spacesuits were gone. He shrugged; after all, he had already lost a reentry vehicle. He noticed, too, that two plain, blue robes were hanging inside the door and under each of them, on the floor, was a pair of slippers. He pulled one of the garments on to his muscular body, slid his feet into the soft leather footwear. They fitted as though they had been made for him. He went through into the bed-sitting room, waited for Kravisky. The subtly annoying voice asked, “Would you care for a drink before dinner?”

“Yes,” answered Grimes. “We would. Two pink gins, please. Large. With ice.”

A faint clicking noise drew his attention. He saw that an aperture had appeared in the center of the polished table top, realized that the stout pillar that was the only support of the piece of furniture must be a supply chute. There was another click and the panel was back in place, and on it were two misted goblets.

“Gin!” complained Kravisky. “Are you mad, John? We could have that aboard the ship. Now’s our chance to live it up.” He added, “
I
would have ordered Manzanilla.”

“Sorry, Doc. I was forgetting that you have personal experience of how the filthy rich live. You can order dinner.”

He dropped into one of the chairs at the table, picked up and sipped his drink with appreciation. After all, it wasn’t bad gin.

“Please order your meal,” said the voice.

Grimes looked at the Surgeon Lieutenant over what remained of his second gin—obviously they were to be allowed no more—and said, “Go ahead, Doc.”

Kravisky licked his full lips a little too obviously. “Well . . .” he murmured. “Well . . .” He stared at the ceiling. “Of course, John, I’m a rather old-fashioned type. To my mind there’s nothing like good, Terran food, properly cooked, and Terran wines. On a Terraformed planet such as this it must be available.”

“Such as?” asked Grimes, knowing, from his own experience, that the foods indigenous to the overcrowded and urbanized home planet were among the most expensive in the Man-colonized Galaxy.

“Please order your meal,” said the voice.

“Now . . . Let me see . . . Caviar, I think. Beluga, of course. With
very
thin toast. And unsalted butter. And to follow? I think, John, that after the caviar we can skip a fish course, although Dover sole or blue trout would be good . . . Yes, blue trout. And then? Pheasant under glass, perhaps, with new potatoes and
petit pois.
Then Crepes Suzette. Then fruit—peaches and strawberries should do. Coffee, of course, with Napoleon brandy. And something
good
in the way of an Havana cigar apiece . . .”

“Rather shaky there, aren’t you?” commented Grimes.

“In the cruise ships the tucker was for free but the cigars weren’t, and even duty free they were rather expensive. But I haven’t finished yet. To drink
with
the meal . . . With the caviar, make it vodka. Wolfschmidt. Well chilled. And then a magnum of Pommery . . .”

“I hope that they don’t send the bill to Captain Daintree,” said Grimes.

The center panel of the table sank from sight. After a very brief delay it rose again. On it were two full plates, two glasses, a carafe of red wine, cutlery and disposable napkins.

“What . . . what’s
this?
”
almost shouted Kravisky, picking up his fork and prodding the meat on his plate with it. “Steak!” he complained.

“We were instructed to obey all
reasonable
orders,” said the mechanical voice coldly.

“But . . .”

“We were instructed to obey all reasonable orders.”

“Looks like it’s all we’re getting,” said Grimes philosophically. “Better start getting used to life in the servants’ hall, Doc.” He pulled his plate to him, cut off and sampled a piece of the meat. “And, after all, this is not at all bad.”

It was, in fact, far better than anything from
Aries’
tissue culture vats and, furthermore, had not been ruined in the cooking by the cruiser’s galley staff. Grimes, chewing stolidly, admitted that he was enjoying it more than he would have done the fancy meal that the Doctor had ordered.

Even so, their contemptuous treatment by the robot servitors, and by the robots’ masters, rankled.

Chapter 7

The two men
slept well in their comfortable beds, the quite sound brandy that had been served with their after-dinner coffee cancelling out the effects of nervous and physical overexhaustion and the strangeness of an environment from which all the noises, of human and mechanical origin, that are so much the manifestation of the life of a ship were missing. It seemed to Grimes that he had been asleep only for minutes when an annoyingly cheerful voice was chanting, “Rise and shine! Rise and shine!” Nonetheless, he was alert at once, opening his eyes to see that the soft, concealed lighting had come back on. He looked at his wrist watch, which he had set to the Zone Time of the spaceport, adjusting it at the same time to the mean rotation of Eldorado before leaving the cruiser. 0700 hours. It was high time that he was up and doing something about everything.

He slid out of the bed. Kravisky, in his own couch, was still huddled under the covers, moaning unhappily, the voice, louder now, was still chanting, “Rise and shine!”