To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga (19 page)

There was a silver tea service on the table. Grimes went to it, poured himself a cup of tea, added milk and plenty of sugar. He sipped it appreciatively. He called to the Surgeon Lieutenant, “Show a leg, you lazy bastard. Come and have your tea while ithot.”

The doctor’s rumpled head emerged from under the sheet. “I
never
have tea first thing in the morning,” he complained. “I always have coffee.”

“You should have made your wishes known before you retired last night,” said the robot voice reprovingly.
At least,
thought Grimes,
this was a change from that irritating sing-song.

“Oh, all right.
All
right.” Kravisky got out of bed, pulled his robe about his thin body, joined Grimes at the table. He slopped tea from the pot into the thin, porcelain cup, slopping much of it into the saucer. He grimaced at the first mouthful. Then he asked, “What now, John?”

“Get ourselves cleaned up. The fleet’s in port, or soon will be, and not a whore in the house washed.”

“How can you be so bloody cheerful?”

“I always wake up this way.”

Grimes set down his empty cup, went through to the bathroom. On the shelf under the mirror were two new toothbrushes, toothpaste, a tube of depilatory cream.
Service,
he thought.
But, so far, without a smile.
By the time that he was in the shower the Surgeon Lieutenant was commencing his own ablutions, was still showering when Grimes walked back into the bedroom. The beds, he saw, had been remade. He had heard nothing, decided that they must have been removed and replaced in the same way that the table service operated. On each tautly spread coverlet was fresh clothing: underwear, a shirt, a pair of shorts, sandals. Very gay the apparel looked against the dark, matte blue of the bedspreads—the shirts an almost fluorescent orange, the shorts a rich emerald green.

He said aloud, “Uniform would have been better.”

The disembodied voice replied, “We have not the facilities.”

“You
won’t have to explain to the Old Man why you aren’t wearing the rig of the day,” remarked Grimes.

There was silence. Haughty? Hurt? But it was better than some mechanical wisecrack.

“Breakfast,” said Kravisky, who had come in from the bathroom.

It was standing there on the table—a coffeepot and cups, cream, sugar, two halves of grapefruit, toast, butter, honey and two covered plates. The Surgeon Lieutenant lifted one of the covers. “The spaceman’s delight,” he complained. “Ham and eggs.”

“What’s wrong with that? “

“Nothing. But I would have preferred kidneys and bacon.”

“We are not telepathic,” said the smug voice.

Breakfast over, the two men dressed. They looked at each other dubiously. “And do we have to face the Old Man like this?” asked Kravisky. “You should have let me save our uniforms, John.”

“There wasn’t time, Doc. It was all we could do to save ourselves.”

“Look. The door’s opening.”

“Take the escalator to the next upper floor,” ordered the robot voice. “You will find the Princess von Stolzberg and the Comte de Messigny awaiting you.”

“And wipe the egg off your face,” said Grimes to Kravisky.

There was an office on the next floor that, judging by the equipment along two of its walls, was also the spaceport control tower. In one of the big screens swam the image of
Aries,
a silvery, vaned spindle gleaming against the interstellar dark. It was the sight of his ship that first caught Grimes’ attention but did not hold it for long. Inevitably his regard shifted to the woman who stood to one side of the screen, the tall woman with her hair braided into a golden coronet, sparkling with jewels, clad in a flowing white tunic of some diaphanous material that barely concealed the lines of her body. He smiled at her but her blue eyes, as she looked back at him, were cold. To her right was the tall man to whom they had talked the previous evening. He was in uniform, black and gold, with four gold bands on the cuffs of his superbly tailored tunic, a stylized, winged rocket gleaming on the left breast. So appareled he was obviously a spaceman, although, as Grimes well knew, it takes far more than gold braid and brass buttons to make an astronaut.

“Henri,” said the girl quietly, “these are the two . . . gentlemen from the
Aries.
Mr. Grimes, this is Captain de Messigny.”

De Messigny extended his hand without enthusiasm. Grimes shook it. It was like handling a dead fish. Kravisky shook it. The Comte said in a bored voice, “Of course, I am, as it were, only the Acting Harbourmaster. As the senior Master of our own small merchant fleet I was requested to make the arrangements for the landing of your ship.” He waved a hand and a hitherto dull screen lit up, displaying what was obviously a plan of the spaceport. “But what is there to arrange? As you see, we can accommodate a squadron. Our own vessels are in their underground hangars, so the apron is absolutely clear. All that your Captain has to do is to set down
Aries
anywhere within the landing area.”

“If he’s as good a ship-handler as certain of his officers . . .” sneered the girl.

“Now, Marlene, that was quite uncalled for. You did make a small contribution to their crack-up, you know.” He waved his hand again, and a triangle of bright red flashing lights appeared on the plan. “Still, I have actuated the beacons. They will serve as a guide.”

“Has Captain Daintree been informed, sir?” asked Grimes.

“Of course.”

“Has he been informed of the . . . er . . . circumstances of our landing?”

De Messigny smiled. “Not yet, Lieutenant. I told him last night that you were unable to get into direct radio contact with your ship, but no more than that. It will be better if you make your own report on the loss of the re-entry vehicle.”

“Yes . . .” agreed Grimes unhappily.

“Very well, then.” The tall man made casual gestures with his right hand. Some sort of visual code? wondered Grimes. Or did the controls of this fantastic communications equipment possess built-in psionic capabilities? Anyhow, de Messigny waved his hand and another screen came alive. It depicted the familiar interior of the control room of
Aries
and, in the foreground, the face of the Senior Communications Officer. His eyes lit up with recognition; it was obvious that he could see as well as be seen.

“Captain Daintree,” snapped de Messigny. It was more of an order than a request.

“Yes, sir. In a moment.”

And then the Old Man was glaring out of the screen. “Mr. Grimes! Mr. Kravisky! Why are you not in uniform?”

“We . . . we lost our uniforms, sir.”

“You
lost
your uniforms?” Daintree’s voice dropped to a menacing growl. “I am well aware, Mr. Grimes, that things seem to happen to you that happen to no other officer in the ship but, even so . . . Perhaps you will be so good as to explain how you mislaid the not inexpensive clothing with which the Survey Service, in a moment of misguided altruism, saw fit to cover your repulsive nakedness.”

“We . . . we lost the re-entry vehicle, sir.”

There was a long silence, during which Grimes waited for his commanding officer to reach critical mass. But, surprisingly, when Daintree spoke, his voice was almost gentle.

“But you didn’t lose yourselves. Oh, no. That would be too much to hope for. But I shall have to make some sort of report to my Lords Commissioners, Mr. Grimes, and you may care to assist me in this duty by explaining. If you can.”

“Well, sir, we were coming in to a landing on the surface of Lake Bluewater. As instructed.”

“Yes. Go on.”

Grimes looked at the girl, thought that he was damned if he was going to hide behind a woman’s skirts. She returned his gaze coldly. He shrugged, no more than a twitch of his broad shoulders. He faced the screen again, saying, “I made an error of judgment, sir.”

“An expensive one, Mr. Grimes, both to the Service and to yourself.”

And then the Princess Marlene von Stolzberg was standing beside the Lieutenant. “Captain Daintree,” she said haughtily, “your officer was not responsible for the loss of your dynosoar. If anybody was, it was I.”

Daintree’s heavy eyebrows lifted. “
You,
Madam?”

“Yes. It was my hour for water-skiing on the lake, and I saw no reason to cancel my evening recreation because of the proposed landing. I did not think, of course, that any Captain in his right senses would send his advance party down to a planetary surface in such an archaic, unhandy contraption as a dynosoar. Your Mr. Grimes was obliged to take violent evasive action as soon as he saw me cutting across his path. Furthermore, my two watchbirds, seeing that I was in danger, attacked the re-entry vehicle which, in consequence, crashed.”

“Oh. Captain de Messigny, is this lady’s story true?”

“It is, Captain Daintree.”

“Thank you. And may I make a humble request, Captain?”

“You may, Captain.”

“Just refrain, if you can, from holding tennis tournaments on the landing field or from converting the apron into a rollerskating rink when I’m on
my
way
down. Over,” he concluded viciously, “and
out!”

Chapter 8

They watched
Aries
come in—de Messigny, the Princess and, a little to one side, Grimes and Kravisky. Grimes had thought it strange that the spaceport control tower should be left unmanned at this juncture, but the two El Doradans, coldly and amusedly, had informed him that the electronic intelligences housed therein were quite capable of handling any normal landing without any human interference. Grimes did not like the way that the Comte slightly stressed the word “normal.”

They stood there, the four of them, on the edge of the apron, well clear of the triangle of red lights. Above them, on gleaming wings, wheeled and hovered a quartet of flying things that looked like birds, that must be four of the watchbirds about which Grimes had already heard, which, in fact, he had already encountered.
(And,
he thought glumly,
there was still the enquiry into the loss of the re-entry vehicle to face.)

The two El Doradans ignored their mechanical guardians. The Lieutenant could not, wondering what would happen should he make some inadvertent move that would be construed by the electronic brains as an act of hostility. He started to edge a little further away from Marlene von Stolzberg and de Messigny, then, with an audible grunt, stood his ground.

They saw the ship before they heard her—at first a glittering speck in the cloudless, morning sky and then, after only a few seconds, a gleaming spindle. She was well in sight when there drifted down to them the odd, irregular throbbing of an inertial drive unit in operation, no more than an uneasy mutter to begin with but swelling to an ominous, intermittent thunder, the voice of the power that had hurled men out among the stars.

But this was all wrong. On any civilized world, or on any civilized world other than this, there would have been an honor guard, ranks of soldiers, in ceremonial uniform, drawn to rigid attention. There would have been antique cannon with black powder charges to fire a salute to the Captain of a major Terran war vessel. There would have been flags and ceremonial. But here, here there was only one man— and his uniform, after all, was a mercantile one—and one woman. A self-styled Princess, perhaps, but even so . . .
And,
thought Grimes,
there’s also Kravisky and myself, but dressed like beach boys.

Lower dropped the ship, and lower, the noise of her Drive deafening now, every protrusion, every mast, turret and sponson that broke the smooth lines of her hull visible to the naked eye. From a staff just abaft her sharp stem the ensign of the Survey Service—a golden S on a black field, with the green, blue and gold globe of Earth in the upper canton—was broken out, streamed vertically upwards. Grimes did not have to turn to see that there was no bunting displayed from the masts of the spaceport administration buildings. Perhaps, he thought, there were in the Universe aristocrats sufficiently courteous to put out more flags to celebrate the arrival of snotty-nosed ragamuffins from the wrong side of the tracks, but the only aristocratic quality to be found in abundance on El Dorado was arrogance.

She was down at last, a shining, metallic tower poised between the buttresses of her tripedal landing gear. She was down and until the moment that Captain Daintree cut the Drive, an egg trapped between one of the huge pads and the concrete of the apron would have remained unbroken. And then the sudden silence as the machinery slowed to a halt was broken by the almost inaudible hissings and creakings as the ship’s enormous mass adjusted itself to the gravitational field of the planet.

There were other soft noises behind the original reception party. Grimes turned. Three air cars of graceful, almost fragile design were coming in to a smooth landing, each attended by its pair of hovering watch-birds. From the first stepped a fat, bald, yellow-skinned man, his gross body draped in a dark blue robe. From the second emerged a tall, thin individual, black coated, gray trousered, wearing on his head a black hat of antique design. The occupant of the third car was a superbly made Negro, clad in a leopard skin flung carelessly about his body.

Grimes turned again, stiffening to attention, as he heard the bugles.
Aries
had her ramp out now, extending to the ground from the after airlock door. Stiffly, the two Marine buglers marched down it and as they set foot on the apron, raised their gleaming instruments to their lips and sounded another call. Twenty Marines came next, under their Major, and formed two ranks on either side of the foot of the ramp. Then Captain Daintree appeared in the circular doorway, all black and gold and starched white linen, his cocked hat on his head, his ceremonial sword at his side, his decorations gleaming on his breast. He was followed by Surgeon Commander Passifern, looking a little (but only a little) ill at ease in his full dress finery. Marlene von Stolzberg whispered something to her companions and giggled.