To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga (41 page)

Grimes sighed audibly. Although a certain Dr. Margaret Lazenby was his senior in rank he was beginning to get on well with her.

“As soon as repairs and routine maintenance are completed, Mr. Grimes, you will get the hell off this planet.”

“What about my officers, sir? Mr. Beadle is overdue for Leave . . .”

“My heart fair bleeds for him.”

“And Mr. McCloud is in hospital . . .”

“Ensign Vitelli, your new Engineering Officer, was ordered to report to your vessel as soon as possible, if not before. The work of fitting a replacement computer to
Adder
is already well in hand.” The Commodore looked at his watch. “It is now 1435. At 1800 hours you will lift ship.”

“My Orders, sir . . .”

“Oh, yes, Grimes. Your Orders. A matter of minor importance, actually. As long as you get out of
my
hair that’s all that matters to me. But I suppose I have to put you in the picture. The Shaara are passing through a phase of being nice to humans, and we, of the Federation, are reciprocating. There’s a small parcel of
very
important cargo to be lifted from Droomoor to Brooum, and for some reason or other our arthropedal allies haven’t a fast ship of their own handy. Lindisfarne Base is only a week from Droomoor by Serpent Class Courier. So . . .”

So Viper, Asp
and
Cobra
have all been in port for weeks,
thought Grimes bitterly,
but
I
get the job.

The Commodore had his telepathic moments. He smiled again, and this time there was a hint of sympathy. He said, “I want you off Lindisfarne, young Grimes, before there’s too much of a stink raised over this Mr. Adam affair. You’re too honest. I can bend the truth better than you can.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Grimes, meaning it.

“Off you go, now. Don’t forget these.” Grimes took the heavily sealed envelope. “And try not to make too much of a balls of this assignment.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

Grimes saluted, marched smartly out of the Commodore’s office, strode across the apron to where his “flying darning needle,” not yet shifted to a lay-up berth (not that she would be now), was awaiting him.

Mr. Beadle met him at the airlock. He rarely smiled—but he did so, rather smugly, when he saw the Orders in Grimes’ hand. He asked casually, “Any word of my relief, Captain?”

“Yes. You’re not getting it, Number One,” Grimes told him, rather hating himself for the pleasure he derived from being the bearer of bad tidings. “And we’re to lift off at 1800 hours. Is the new engineer aboard yet?”

Beadle’s face had resumed its normal lugubrious case. “Yes,” he said. “But stores, Captain . . . Repairs . . . Maintenance . . .”

“Are they in hand?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Then if we aren’t ready for space, it won’t be our fault.” But Grimes knew—and it made him feel as unhappy as his first lieutenant looked—that the ship would be ready.

Adder
lifted at precisely 1800 hours. Grimes, sulking hard—he had not been able to see Maggie Lazenby—did not employ his customary, spectacular getting-upstairs-in-a-hurry technique, kept his fingers off the auxiliary reaction drive controls. The ship drifted up and out under inertial drive only, seemingly sharing the reluctance to part of her officer. Beadle was slumped gloomily in his chair, von Tannenbaum, the navigator, stared at his instruments with an elaborate lack of interest, Slovotny, the electronic communications officer, snarled every time that he had occasion to hold converse with Aerospace Control.

And yet, once the vessel was clear of the atmosphere, Grimes began to feel almost happy.
Growl you may,
he thought,
but go you must.
He had gone. He was on his way. He was back in what he regarded as his natural element. Quite cheerfully he went through the motions of lining
Adder
up on the target star, was pleased to note that von Tannenbaum was cooperating in his usual highly efficient manner. And then, once trajectory had been set, the Mannschenn Drive was put into operation and the little ship was falling at a fantastic speed through the warped Continuum, with yet another mission to be accomplished.

The captain made the usual minor ritual of lighting his pipe. He said, “Normal Deep Space routine, Number One.”

“Normal Deep Space routine, sir.”

“Who has the watch?”

“Mr. von Tannenbaum, Captain.”

“Good. Then come to see me as soon as you’re free.”

When Beadle knocked at his door Grimes had the envelope of instructions open. He motioned the first lieutenant to a chair, said, “Fix us drinks, Number One, while I see what’s in this bumf . . .” He extended a hand for the glass that the officer put into it, sipped the pink gin, continued reading. “Mphm. Well, we’re bound for Droomoor, as you know . . .”

“As well I know.” Beadle then muttered something about communistic bumblebees.

“Come, come, Mr. Beadle. The Shaara are our brave allies. And they aren’t at all bad when you get to know them.”

“I don’t want to get to know them. If I couldn’t have my leave I could have been sent on a mission to a world with real human girls and a few bright lights . . .”

“Mr. Beadle, you shock me. By your xenophobia as well as by your low tastes. However, as I was saying, we are to proceed to Droomoor at maximum velocity consistent with safety. There we are to pick up a small parcel of very important cargo, the loading of which is to be strictly supervised by the local authorities. As soon as possible thereafter we are to proceed to Brooum at maximum velocity etc. etc.”

“Just delivery boys,” grumbled Beadle. “That’s us.”

“Oh, well,” Grimes told him philosophically, “it’s a change from being coach drivers. And after the trouble we’ve had with passengers of late it should be a welcome one.”

Droomoor is an Earth-type planet, with the usual seas, continents, polar icecaps and all the rest of it. Evolution did not produce any life-forms deviating to any marked degree from the standard pattern; neither did it come up with any fire-making, tool-using animals. If human beings had been the first to discover it, it would have become a Terran colony. But it was a Shaara ship that made the first landing, so it was colonized by the Shaara, as was Brooum, a very similar world.

Grimes brought
Adder
in to Port Sherr with his usual competence, receiving the usual cooperation from the Shaara version of Aerospace Control. Apart from that, things were not so usual. He and his officers were interested to note that the aerial traffic which they sighted during their passage through the atmosphere consisted of semirigid airships rather than heavier-than-air machines. And the buildings surrounding the landing apron at the spaceport were featureless, mud-colored domes rather than angular constructions of glass and metal. Beadle mumbled something about a huddle of bloody beehives, but Grimes paid no attention. As a reasonably efficient captain he was interested in the lay-out of the port, was trying to form some idea of what facilities were available. A ship is a ship is a ship, no matter by whom built or by whom manned—but a mammal is a mammal and an arthroped is an arthroped, and each has its own separate requirements.

“Looks like the Port Officials on their way out to us,” remarked von Tannenbaum.

A party of Shaara had emerged from a circular opening near the top of the nearer dome. They flew slowly towards the ship, their gauzy wings almost invisible in the sunlight. Grimes focused his binoculars on them. In the lead was a Princess, larger than the others, her body more slender, glittering with the jeweled insignia of her rank. She was followed by two drones, so hung about with precious stones and metal that it was a wonder that they were able to stay airborne. Four upper caste workers, less gaudily caparisoned than the drones, but with sufficient ornamentation to differentiate them from the common herd, completed the party.

“Number One,” said Grimes, “attend the airlock, please. I shall receive the boarding party in my day cabin.”

He went down from the control room to his quarters, got out the whisky—three bottles, he decided, should be sufficient, although the Shaara drones were notorious for their capacity.

The Princess was hard, businesslike. She refused to take a drink herself, and under her glittering, many-faceted eyes the workers dared not accept Grimes’s hospitality, and even the drones limited themselves to a single small glass apiece. She stood there like a gleaming, metallic piece of abstract statuary, motionless, and the voice that issued from the box strapped to her thorax was that of a machine rather than of a living being.

She said, “This is an important mission, Captain. You will come with me, at once, to the Queen Mother, for instructions.”

Grimes didn’t like being ordered around, especially aboard his own ship, but was well aware that it is foolish to antagonize planetary rulers. He said:

“Certainly, Your Highness. But first I must give instructions to my officers. And before I can do so I must have some information. To begin with, how long a stay do we have on your world?”

“You will lift ship as soon as the consignment has been loaded.” She consulted the jeweled watch that she wore strapped to a forelimb. “The underworkers will be on their way out to your vessel now.” She pointed towards the four upper caste working Shaara. “These will supervise stowage. Please inform your officers of the arrangements.”

Grimes called Beadle on the intercom, asked him to come up to his cabin. Then, as soon as the First Lieutenant put in an appearance, he told him that he was to place himself at the disposal of the supervisors and to ensure that
Adder
was in readiness for instant departure. He then went through into his bedroom to change into a dress uniform, was pulling off his shirt when he realized that the Princess had followed him.

“What are you doing?” she asked coldly.

“Putting on something more suitable, Your Highness,” he told her.

“That will not be necessary, Captain.
You
will be the only human in the presence of Her Majesty, and everybody will know who and what you are.”

Resignedly Grimes shrugged himself back into his uniform shirt, unadorned save for shoulder boards. He felt that he should be allowed to make more of a showing, especially among beings all dressed up like Christmas trees themselves, but his orders had been to cooperate fully with the Shaara authorities. And, in any case, shorts and shirt were far more comfortable than long trousers, frock coat, collar and tie, fore-and-aft hat and that ridiculous ceremonial sword. He hung his personal communicator over his shoulder, put on his cap and said, “I’m ready, Your Highness.”

“What is that?” she asked suspiciously. “A weapon?”

“No, Your Highness! A radio transceiver. I must remain in touch with my ship at all times.”

“I suppose it’s all right,” she said grudgingly.

When Grimes walked down the ramp, following the princess and her escorting drones, he saw that a wheeled truck had drawn up alongside
Adder
and that a winch mounted on the vehicle was reeling in a small airship, a bloated gasbag from which was slung a flimsy car, at the after end of which a huge, two-bladed propeller was still lazily turning. Workers were scurrying about on the ground and buzzing between the blimp and the truck.

“Your cargo,” said the Princess. “And your transport from the spaceport to the palace.”

The car of the airship was now only a foot above the winch. From it the workers lifted carefully a white cylinder, apparently made from some plastic, about four feet long and one foot in diameter. Set into its smooth surface were dials, and an indicator light that glowed vividly green even in the bright sunlight. An insulated lead ran from it to the airship’s engine compartment where, thought Grimes, there must be either a battery or a generator. Yes, a battery it was. Two workers, their wings a shimmering transparency, brought it out and set it down on the concrete beside the cylinder.

“You will embark,” the princess stated.

Grimes stood back and assessed the situation. It would be easy enough to get on to the truck, to clamber on top of the winch and from there into the car—but it would be impossible to do so without getting his white shorts, shirt and stockings filthy. Insofar as machinery was concerned the Shaara believed in lubrication, and plenty of it.

“I am waiting,” said the Princess.

“Yes, Your Highness, but . . .”

Grimes did not hear the order given—the Shaara communicated among themselves telepathically—so was somewhat taken aback when two of the workers approached him, buzzing loudly. He flinched when their claws penetrated the thin fabric of his clothing and scratched his skin. He managed to refrain from crying out when he was lifted from the ground, carried the short distance to the airship and dumped, sprawling, on to the deck of the open car. The main hurt was to his dignity. Looking up at his own vessel he could see the grinning faces of von Tannenbaum and Slovotny at the control room viewports.

He scrambled somehow to his feet, wondering if the fragile decking would stand his weight. And then the Princess was with him, and the escorting drones, and the upper caste worker in command of the blimp had taken her place at the simple controls and the frail contraption was ballooning swiftly upwards as the winch brake was released. Grimes, looking down, saw the end of the cable whip off the barrel. He wondered what would happen if the dangling wire fouled something on the ground below, then decided that it was none of his business. These people had been playing around with airships for quite some years and must know what they were about.

The Princess was not in a communicative mood, and obviously the drones and the workers talked only when talked to—by her—although all of them wore voice boxes. Grimes was quite content with the way that things were. He had decided that the Shaaran was a bossy female, and he did not like bossy females, mammalian, arthropedal or whatever. He settled down to enjoy the trip, appreciating the leisurely—by his standards—flight over the lush countryside. There were the green, rolling hills, the great banks of flowering shrubs, huge splashes of color that were vivid without being gaudy. Thousands of workers were busily employed about the enormous blossoms. There was almost no machinery in evidence—but in a culture such as this there would be little need for the machine, workers of the lower grades being no more than flesh-and-blood robots.