To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga (27 page)

“I think,” said Grimes, “that I’m going to be sick.”

“Karl will escort you to your quarters,” said Marlene.

As he walked unsteadily through the doorway of the Monitor Vault he looked back. The girl was still staring raptly into the screen.

Chapter 19

Not surprisingly
he dreamed that night, when at last he fell into an uneasy sleep.

There was the nightmare in which naked women and huge white goats, erect on their hind legs, danced to the music of Ravel’s
Waltz Dream,
while across the mirror floor, scattering the dancers, stalked Baron Samedi.

There was that other dream, even more frightening.

It seemed that he half woke up but was unable to stir a muscle, to open his eyes more than the merest slit. There was a strange, acridly sweet smell in the air. There were low voices of a man and a woman. He could just see them, standing there by his bed. He thought that, in spite of the darkness, he could recognize them.

“Are you sure?” asked the woman.

“I am sure,” replied the man. Although there was now no trace of accent, that deep, rolling baritone was unmistakable. “The white goat.”

“The goat without horns.” Then, “But I do not like it.”

“It must be done.”

“Then do it now. Get it over with.”

“No. The . . . conditions must be right. You do not know enough about these matters.”

“After what I watched on the Monitor, I am not sure that I want to know any more than I know already.”

“But you watched.”

“Yes. I watched.”

“Did he?”

“Some of it.”

“Come.” The larger of the two figures was already out of range of Grimes’ vision.

“All right.”

And then both of them were gone, and Grimes slept deeply until morning.

Chapter 20

He was awakened
by the inevitable disembodied voice calling softly at first, then louder, “Lord, it is time to arise . . .”

It took a considerable effort to force his gummy eyelids open. His head was fuzzy, his mouth dry and stale-tasting. The uneasy memory of that last nightmare persisted.

There was a condensation-clouded glass on the table beside his bed. He picked it up in a rather shaky hand, drained it gratefully. The chilled, unidentifiable fruit juice was tart and refreshing. After it he began to feel a little better.

“And what’s on today, I wonder?” he muttered, more to himself than to any possible listener.

“You will perform your ablutions, Lord,” replied the irritating unseen speaker. “Then you will partake of breakfast. And then you will join Her Highness at the hunt.” There was a pause. “And would you care to place your order for the meal now?”

“What’s on?” asked Grimes, feeling faint stirrings of appetite.

“Anything that you may desire, Lord.”

“No stipulations about ‘reasonable orders’?”

“Of course not, Lord.” The voice was mildly reproachful. “As a guest of Schloss Stolzberg you may command what you will.”

“As a Lord, acting, temporary, unpaid, you mean. It was a different story when I was a mere spaceman. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

There was the suggestion of a smirk in the reply. “Lord, to the Monitor all things are known.”

“Are you part of the Monitor, then?”

“I am not permitted to answer that question, Lord.”

“Oh, all right. Skip it. Now, breakfast. A pot of coffee, black, hot and strong. Sugar, but no milk or cream. Two four-minute eggs. Hens’ eggs, that is. Plenty of toast. Butter. Honey.”

“It will be awaiting you, Lord.”

Grimes went through to the bathroom, performed his morning ritual. When he came out, in his dressing gown, he noted that clothing had been laid out on the already made bed. He looked at it curiously; it was nothing that he had brought with him, but he had no doubt that it would prove a perfect fit. His breakfast was waiting on the table in the bedroom, and with it a crisp newspaper. THE ELDORADO CHRONICLE he read as he picked it up. Curious, he skimmed through it over his first cup of coffee. It contained little more than social gossip, although its editor had condescended to notice the presence of
Aries
at the spaceport, and there were even some photographs of the ship’s personnel. Grimes chuckled over one of Captain Daintree and Surgeon Commander Passifern at the Duchess of Leckhampton’s masked ball, at another one that showed a conducted party of the ship’s ratings, looking acutely uncomfortable in their uniforms, at an ocean beach on which the rig of the day was the only sensible one for swimming, and sunbathing. He found a brief item which informed anybody who might be interested that Lieutenant Grimes was the house guest of the Princess Marlene von Stolzberg. On the back page there was Galactic news, but most of it was financial.

Grimes put the paper down and applied himself to his breakfast, which was excellent. After one last cup of coffee he went back to the bedroom and examined curiously the heavy shirt, the tough breeches, the thick stockings and the heavy boots before putting them on. A tweed cap completed the ensemble. He was admiring himself in the mirror when, unannounced, Marlene came in. He removed his hat, turned to look at her. She was dressed as he was, but on her the rough clothing looked extremely feminine.

He said, “Good morning, Marlene.”

She said, “Good morning, John.” Then, “I trust that you slept well.”

“Yes,” he lied.

“Good.” Her mood seemed to be that of a small girl setting out on a long-promised outing. “Then shall we make a start? The woods are so much better in the morning.”

“Your tin butler said something about a hunt.”

“Yes. There is a boar, a great, cunning brute that I have promised myself the pleasure of despatching for many a day.”

“I don’t know anything about hunting.”

“But you must. As an officer of an armed service you must, at times, have been a hunter—and, at times, the hunted.”

“That’s not quite the same.”

“No. I suppose it’s not. Didn’t somebody say once that Man is the most dangerous game of all?”

“But I’m not sure that I approve of blood sports.”

She was amusedly contemptuous. “John, John, you typical Terran petty bourgeois! You approved of that roast of wild boar at dinner last night. And that animal was killed by
me,
not in some sterile, allegedly humane abattoir. There is a big difference between killing for sport and mere butchering.”

“You could be right.”

“Of course I’m right. But come.”

She led the way out of Grimes’ quarters. He supposed that, given six months or so, he would eventually learn to find his way about this castle, but this morning he certainly needed a guide. At last, several corridors and a couple of escalators later, he followed her into a panelled room at ground level, against the walls of which were stacks of weapons: light and heavy firearms, longbows and, even, spears.

One of these latter she selected, a seven-foot shaft of some dull-gleaming timber, tipped with a wickedly sharp metal head. She tested the point of it on the ball of her thumb, said, “This will do. Select yours.”

“A
spear?”
demanded Grimes, incredulous.

“Yes, a spear. What did you expect? A laser cannon? A guided missile with a fusion warhead? Wars were fought with these things, John, once upon a time. Fought and won.”

“And fought and lost when the other side came up with bows and arrows.”

“The boar only has his tusks. And hooves.”

“And he knows how to use them.” Grimes deliberately handled his spear clumsily, making it obvious that this was one weapon that
he
did not know how to use.

“Just stay with me,” she told him. “You’ll be quite safe.”

Grimes flushed but said nothing, walked with her out of the castle into the open air.

It was a fine morning, the sun rising in a cloudless sky, the last of the dew still on the grass, the merest suggestion of a pleasantly cool breeze. Grimes found himself remembering the possibly mythical upper-class Englishman who was supposed to have said, “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s go out and kill something.” So it was a beautiful day for killing wild boars, and last night (that memory suddenly flooded back) had been a beautiful night for killing white goats. He shivered a little. A boar hunt would be clean, wholesome by comparison. And, he had to admit, there was a certain glamor about sport of this kind, cruel though some might consider it.

He looked at the hounds, their pelts boldly patterned in ruddy brown and white, streaming ahead of them in a loose pack. They were silent now, although they had belled lustily when released from their kennels. They were part of the countryside, part of this kind of life. And so was Marlene, striding mannishly (but not too mannishly) beside him. Even the two humanoid robots, tricked out in some sort of forester’s livery, each carrying a bundle of spears and one of those bell-mouthed net-throwing pistols, were more part of the picture than he, Grimes, was. Even the inevitable pair of watchbirds, hovering and soaring overhead, looked like real birds, fitted in.

There was no need for a path over the grass, something had kept it cropped short. But as they approached the woods Grimes saw that there was a track through the trees, made either by human agency or by wild animals. But the hounds ignored it, split up, each making its own way into the green dimness. They gave voice again, a cacophonous baying that, thought Grimes uneasily, must surely infuriate rather than frighten any large and dangerous animal. But they seemed to know what they were doing, which was more than he did.

He remarked, “Intelligent animals, aren’t they?”

“Within their limitations,” she replied. “They have been told to find a wild boar,
the
wild boar, rather, and drive him toward us. And they have enough brains to keep out of trouble themselves.”

“Which is more than I have.”

“You can say that again. Hold your spear at the ready, like this. The way you’re handling it he could be on you, ripping your guts out, before you got the point anywhere near him.”

“If your watchbirds let him.”

“They can’t operate in a forest, John.” She grinned. “But Fritz and Fredrik”—she made a slight gesture towards the robot foresters—“have very fast reactions.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.”

They were well into the woods now, on either side of them the ancient oaks (artificially aged? imported as full-grown trees?) and overhead the branches and thick foliage that shut out the blue of the sky. Things rustled in the underbrush. Something burst from the bushes and ran across their path. Instinctively, Grimes raised his spear, lowered it when he saw that the animal was only a rabbit.

“For
them,
John,” remarked the Princess chidingly, “we have shotguns.”

The baying of the hounds was distant now, muffled by the trees. Perhaps they wouldn’t find the boar or, old and cunning as he was, he would not allow himself to be chivvied into the open. Grimes found himself sympathizing with the animal. As Marlene had surmised, he had been in his time both hunter and hunted. He knew (as she did not) what it was like to be at the receiving end.

The baying of the hounds was still distant but, it seemed, a little closer. “Stop,” ordered the girl. “Wait here. Let him come to us.”

I’d sooner not wait,
thought Grimes.
I’d sooner get out of this blasted forest as though I had a Mark XIV missile up my tail.

“Not long now,” said the girl. The tip of her pink tongue moistened her scarlet lips. She looked happy. Grimes knew that he did not. He glanced at the foresters. They were standing there stolidly just behind the humans. They had not bothered to unholster their net-throwing guns. The spaceman muttered something about brass bastards too tired to pull a pistol. “Don’t
worry
so, John,” the Princess told him. “Relax.”

The clamor of the pack was louder and growing louder all the time. It was the only sound in the forest. All the little disturbing rustlings and squeakings and twitterings had ceased. Then there was a new noise, or combination of noises. It was like a medium tank crashing through the undergrowth, squealing as it came. And there was no fear in that high-pitched, nasal screaming, only rage.

“Open up,” ordered the Princess. “Give him a choice of targets. It will confuse him.”

There was room for them to spread themselves out in the clearing in which they were standing. Marlene, on his right, moved away from him. He could hear, behind him, the feet of the robots shuffling over the dead leaves and coarse grass. He stayed where he was. A shift to the left would bring him too close to the bushes, out of which the enraged animal might emerge at any moment. He thought,
What am I doing here?
He was no stranger to action, but a fire fight at relatively long range is impersonal. This was getting to be too personal for comfort.

And then, ahead of them, the wild boar exploded into the clearing. He stood there for what seemed a long time (it could have been only a second, if that) glaring at them out of his little red eyes. Here was no fat and lazy piglet leading a contented life (but a short one) in the very shadow of the bacon factory. Here was a wild animal, a dangerous animal, one of those animals that are said to be wicked because they defend themselves. The tusks on him, transposed to the upper jaw, would not have been a discredit to a sabre-toothed tiger.

He made his decision, charged at the Princess like a runaway rocket torpedo. She stood her ground, spear extended and ready and then, with a motion as graceful as it was horrible, with the sharp point deftly flicked out the brute’s left eye. He was blinded on that side and she had skipped away and clear. He was blind on that side, but his right eye was good, and he could see Grimes and, furthermore, another spear licked out, wielded by one of the robots, not to kill but with the intention of turning him toward the new pain, toward the spaceman.

Grimes wanted to run but knew that he would never be fast enough. (The girl could look after herself, or, if she could not, her faithful automatic servitors would protect her.) He wanted to run, but stubbornness more than any other quality made him remain rooted to the spot. And then—he never knew why—he
threw
his spear. It was not a javelin, was not designed to be used in this manner but, miraculously, sped straight and true, hitting the boar in the left shoulder, missing the bones, plunging through into the fiercely beating heart.