To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga (30 page)

“Yet another solution,” put forward Grimes happily. “Build a passenger vessel, with accommodation for fifty or a hundred couples. Make a landing on a world with a well-topped-up reservoir and then breed like rabbits.”

“And do you think that we haven’t tried it?” the Comte asked. “The ship was half-way back to El Dorado when, inexplicably, her micro-pile went critical. I need not tell you that there were no survivors.”

“So,” asked Grimes, “where does the white goat come into it? Where do
I
come in?”

“We are a moral people,” said Lobenga

The Duchess snorted.

“We are a moral people,” he stated firmly. “It would have been relatively easy for us to have arranged an accident that would have destroyed your
Aries
and all her crew when she was coming in for a landing. But, apart from the question of morality, there would have been a full scale investigation by the Survey Service. In the same way, it would be possible to stage an accident that would wipe out one of the parties of sightseers from your ship presently touring our planet. But, once again, it would be a needless sacrifice of life and, furthermore, your Captain Daintree is no fool. Too, those of us who are practitioners of what are loosely called the Black Arts resorted to various methods or divination; even Her Grace is an expert manipulator of the Tarot pack. Each and every one of us came up with the same prognostication, the same conclusion. This was that the first offworlder to make a landing would be the bringer of new life to El Dorado. And that first offworlder was you.”

“It is expedient for one man to die for the good of the people,” quoted Grimes bitterly.

“Yes. And it would have been in an accident costing only one life, or, in the case of the crash-landing of your dynosoar, only two lives. There would have been no investigation.”

“But why can’t one of
you
prime the pump?” almost shouted Grimes. “You’re always saying what a wonderful world you have here. Hasn’t any one of you the guts to make a sacrifice for it? “

“Not
that
sacrifice. Mr. Grimes, I do not ask you for your sympathy, your pity, but I do ask for some measure of understanding. Only a man who has known great possessions knows how hard it is to give them up.”

“And so you’d cheerfully slaughter an innocent outsider just so that you can enjoy a few more years in your sterile Eden.”

“Not cheerfully, Mr. Grimes. Not cheerfully. And tell me, sir, have
you
ever slaughtered innocent outsiders?”

“No.”

“Not yet, you should have said. As an officer of the armed forces of the Federation you will inevitably do so. You
will,
I
said. Because, Mr. Grimes, you will live to take part in punitive expeditions, in raids upon commerce, in all the unsavory operations that are always fully justified by the historians of the winning side. We have reread the cards and the cups and the entrails, we have cast the bones. Your lifeline is a long one, but I shall not tell you the surprising turns that it will take.

“You have our word for it, Mr. Grimes. You are safe from us. Neither you nor anybody from your ship is destined to become the white goat, the goat without horns.”

“You have our word,” echoed the others solemnly.

He believed them. He almost said thank you, but why should he thank them for giving back to him what was not theirs to give, his life?

The Princess Marlene rose to her feet, and her guests followed suit. She said, “We are all tired, I suggest that we retire.”

Robot servitors led the humans to their quarters. Grimes, entering his bedroom, saw something small and dull gleaming in the center of the coverlet of his bed. It was his Minetti automatic pistol, and beside it was the carton of spare ammunition.

And now that I shan’t need it,
he thought,
they give it back to me.

Chapter 24

Nonetheless,
he was not sorry to have the deadly little weapon back in his own possession. If there were to be any more hunting of large and dangerous animals, he would prefer to have something with which he was familiar to defend himself with. His successful use of that absurd spear against the wild boar had been nothing but luck, and he knew it.

He slept well, with the pistol under his pillow. Lobenga and the others had given their words that he was safe insofar as they were concerned, but what if they were not the only parties involved in the scheme to set the normal cycle of death and birth running on El Dorado? That gun of his own, loaded and ready to hand, gave him a sense of security that otherwise would have been lacking.

He was called in the morning in the usual manner. After he had freshened up, he found that clothing similar to that which he had worn for the boar hunt had been laid out on the remade bed. The Minetti slipped easily into the right-hand side pocket of the breeches. He practiced drawing. He would never be the Fastest Gun in the West or anywhere else, but he was sure that he would be able to defend himself adequately given only a little warning.

He enjoyed his breakfast of beautifully grilled kidneys, bacon and sausages, skimmed through the morning paper. As before, it was mainly social news and gossip. He noted that the Duchess of Leckhampton, the Comte de Messigny, the Hereditary Chief Lobenga and the Lady Eulalia were guests of the Princess Von Stolzberg, as was, still, Lieutenant John Grimes. And Captain Daintree and Surgeon Commander Passifern, together with other officers, had been present at Count Vitelli’s wine tasting. Passifern, at least, would have enjoyed himself.

Karl entered silently, made a metallic cough to attract Grimes’ attention. “Lord, Her Highness awaits you in the gun room.”

The gun room?
It
took a second or so for Grimes’ mind to orient itself. Aboard a ship the gun room is to cadets and midshipmen (if such are carried) what the wardroom is to commissioned officers.
The gun room?
The robot must mean that paneled chamber with its racks of assorted weaponry.

“And what’s on today?” asked the spaceman through a mouthful of buttered toast dripping with honey. “Another wild boar hunt? Or are we going out for tigers or rogue elephants?”

“None of them, Lord.” (Robots are apt to be humorless.) “Today you are shooting Denebian fire pheasants.” There was a touch of envy in the mechanical voice. “I am told that they are very good eating, as well as affording excellent sport.”

“How so? Are they the size of corvettes, heavily armed and armoured, and vicious when aroused?”

“No, Lord. They are relatively small creatures, brilliantly plumaged, but when put up their flight is extremely fast and erratic.”

“Then they should be safe enough from me.”

“I was informed, Lord, that you are a gunnery specialist.”

“Shooting at large targets, Karl, with a shipful of electronic aids to do all the work for me.” He finished his coffee, patted his lips with the napkin (if the supercilious tin butler had not been watching, he would have wiped them) and followed the robot through the doorway.

Marlene was waiting in the gun room. With the Duchess, Lobenga and his wife, and the Comte de Messigny. Grimes noted that only the Princess was dressed for rough outdoor activities, the others were in light, comfortable attire, suitable for lounging about indoors or in the garden. They all seemed in a cheerful mood but for de Messigny whose handsome features were darkened by what was almost a scowl.

“Good morning, John,” the Princess greeted him. “It’s a fine day for a shoot.”

“I always think that it’s a pity,” said the Duchess, “to destroy those beautiful birds.”

“You enjoy them when they appear on the table,” Marlene told her.

“Yes, my dear. Yes. And you enjoy blasting them out of the sky, so each of us has her pleasures.”

“Blood sports,” said the Comte, “are primitive.” He permitted himself a sneer. “No doubt they are very much to the taste of a Survey Service gunnery officer, although he may find a shotgun a little small after the weapons that he is used to.”

“You are a spaceman yourself, Henri,” said Marlene.

“Yes. And a good one. But I’m a merchant spaceman, and before that I was a yachtsman.”

“And your ship, as you have said to me, packs the armament of a light cruiser.”

“Defensive, Marlene. Defensive. It is the right of any shipmaster or of any man to use any and every means available to defend his own ship, property or whatever.”

“I have never liked guns,” stated Lobenga, more or less changing the subject. “A hunt in which spears are
used—that is to my taste.”

“Not to mine,” said Grimes.

He took the weapon that Marlene handed him, examined it curiously. It was a shotgun, twin-barreled, light, but with just enough heft to it. Carefully keeping it pointed at the floor, he inspected the action, soon got the hang of it. “Two shots only,” he commented, “and then you reload. Wouldn’t an automatic weapon be better?”

“Yes,” said the Princess, “if all you want to do is kill things. But it would take away the necessity for real skill, would destroy any element of sport.”

“But I thought that the whole idea of hunting was to kill things.”

“You, John,” she told him, “are the sort of man who would use grenades in a trout stream.”

“However did you guess?” he countered.

“Mr. Grimes,” sneered de Messigny, “is obviously unacquainted with the
mystique
of huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’. But I have no doubt, Marlene, that under your expert tutelage he will acquire a smattering.”

“No doubt,” she agreed coldly. “Now, John, you have your gun. I shouldn’t need to tell you about safety catches, pointing it at people and all the rest of it. Here’s your bag of cartridges.” Grimes took it, slung it over his shoulder. “A miniwagon will accompany us to bring in the game we shoot and will also carry our refreshments. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he said.

He followed her out of the gun room.

“Good huntin’!” called the Duchess ironically.

As before, it was a beautiful morning. They strode out over the dew-spangled grass, the sunlight warm on their faces, the grim pile of the castle behind them. To one side and a little back trundled the miniwagon, a vehicle little more than a rectangular box on balloon tired wheels. No doubt it possessed a rudimentary intelligence as well as hidden capabilities. Overhead soared the watchbirds, and ahead, trotting sedately, was a pair of beautiful dogs, red- rather than brown-coated, their plumed tails upraised and waving.

They left the relatively short grass of the fields for rougher ground, gently undulating, with outcroppings of chalky rock (but limestone, thought Grimes, could not exist on this planet), with clumps of golden-blossoming gorse, of purple-flowered heather. The warm air was full of spicy scent, and the stridulation of unseen insects was a pleasant monotone.

Suddenly the Princess stopped, broke her gun, snapped two cartridges into the breech, clicked the weapon into a state of readiness. A little clumsily, Grimes followed suit. Then Marlene gave an order in a language with which Grimes was not familiar, and both dogs yelped softly in acknowledgment. They were away then, running between the boulders and the gorse clumps, tails in a rigid line with their bodies. They were away, something almost serpentine in their smooth, fluid motion, vanishing up the hillside.

There was an outburst of yapping, a surprisingly loud clatter of wings. Two gaudy birds rocketed up, levelled off and flew toward Grimes and the Princess. They were fast, fantastically fast, and their line of flight was unpredictable. The butt of Marlene’s gun was to her shoulder and the twin barrels twitched gently as she lined up, leading the birds. There was a report, dull rather than sharp, and, a microsecond later, another one. Two bundles of ruined feathers fell to the ground. The miniwagon rolled toward them, extended a long, thin tentacle, picked up the bodies and dropped them into a receptacle at its rear.

“Nice shooting,” said Grimes. He felt that it was expected of him.

“Yes,” she agreed, without false modesty. “With the next pair we shall see how you can do.”

Again the dogs gave voice, and again a couple of fire pheasants took to the air. Grimes was used to taking snapshots with a pistol, but never with a weapon like the one that he was holding now. But it was so well designed and balanced that it was almost part of him. He let go with his left barrel, felt the satisfaction of seeing a little explosion of scarlet and orange feathers as the shot struck home. But he was too slow with his right, and the surviving bird was darting away and clear before he could pull the trigger.

But it was coming back, flying straight toward him, steadily this time. Grimes fired, was sure that he had scored a hit, but the thing still came on steadily. Hastily, but without fumbling, he ejected and reloaded, fired again, both barrels in quick succession.

Damn it!
he thought,
the brute must be armour-plated!

Again the ejection and the reloading but before he could bring the gun up to his shoulder, the Princess put out a hand to stop him.

“What the hell are you playing at?” she blazed. “First you smash my watchbirds with your bloody dynosoar, and now you try to shoot them!”

“A . . . a watchbird?”

“What else?”

Yes, it was one of the watchbirds; now that he was no longer looking into the sun Grimes could see that. It circled them, its machinery humming, a few feet above their heads, then hovered there. From it came a voice, and some humorist had endowed the thing with a psittacoid squawk.

“Your Highness,” it began.

“Yes. What is it?”

“Danger, Your Highness. The Monitor has informed me that a new model of protective avian, still in the experimental stage, has gotten out of control and is heading this way. It is liable to kill any human being on sight.”

The Princess laughed. “Yes: I have heard of this new model. A fire pheasant’s brain has been incorporated and with it, perhaps, a certain resentment toward ourselves. But it will not be long before it is rounded up and destroyed.”