To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga (47 page)

“What’s so attractive about this tour?”

“Nevernever is the only unspoiled hunk of real estate on the planet. It has been settled along the coastal fringe by humans, but the Outback—which means the Inland and most of the country north of Capricorn—is practically still the way it was when Men first came here. Oh there’re sheep and cattle stations, and a bit of mining, but there won’t be any real development, with irrigation and all the rest, until population pressure forces it. And the aborigines—well, most of them—still live in the semi-desert the way they did before
Lode Jumbuk
came.” Lewin was warming up. “Think of it, Lieutenant, an opportunity to explore a primitive world whilst enjoying all mod. cons.!
You
might never get such a chance again.”

“I’ll think about it,” Grimes told him.

He thought about it. He discussed it with his officers. Mr. Beadle, the First Lieutenant, was not enthusiastic. In spite of his habitual lugubrious mien he had a passion for the bright lights, and made it quite clear that he had enjoyed of late so few opportunities to spend his pay that he could well afford a Gold Coast holiday. Von Tannenbaum, Navigator, Slovotny, Electronic Communications, and Vitelli, Engineer, sided with Beadle. Grimes did not try to persuade them—after all, he was getting no commission from the Olganan Tourist Bureau. Spooky Deane, the psionic communications officer, asked rather shyly if he could come along with the Captain. He was not the companion that Grimes would have chosen—but he was a telepath, and it was just possible that his gift would be useful.

Deane and Grimes took the rocket mail from Newer York to New Melbourne, and during the trip Grimes indulged in one of his favorite gripes, about the inability of the average colonist to come up with really original names for his cities. At New Melbournedrab, oversized village on the southern coast of Nevernever—they stayed at a hotel which, although recommended by Trans-Galactic Clippers, failed dismally to come up to Galactic standards, making no attempt whatsoever to cater for guests born and brought up on worlds with widely differing atmospheres, gravitational fields and dietary customs. Then there was a day’s shopping, during which the two spacemen purchased such items of personal equipment as they had been told would be necessary by the office of Nevernever Tours. The following morning, early, they took a cab from their hotel to the Never-Never Coach Terminus. It was still dark, and it was cold, and it was raining.

They sat with the other passengers, all of whom were, like themselves, roughly dressed, in the chilly waiting room, waiting for something to happen. To pass the time Grimes sized up the others. Some were obviously outworlders—there was a TG Clipper in at the spaceport. Some—their accent made it obvious—were Olganans, taking the opportunity of seeing something of their own planet. None of them, on this dismal morning, looked very attractive. Grimes admitted that the same could be said about Deane and himself; the telepath conveyed the impression of a blob of ectoplasm roughly wrapped in a too gaudy poncho.

A heavy engine growled outside, and bright lights stabbed through the big windows. Deane got unsteadily to his feet. “Look at that, Captain!” he exclaimed. “Wheels, yet! I expected an inertial drive vehicle, or at least a hoverbus!”

“You should have read the brochure, Spooky. The idea of this tour is to see the country the same way as the first explorers did, to get the
feel
of it.”

“I can get the feel of it as well from an aircraft as from that archaic contraption!”

“We aren’t all telepaths . . .”

Two porters had come in and were picking up suitcases, carrying them outside. The tourists, holding their overnight grips, followed, watched their baggage being stowed in a locker at the rear of the coach. From the p.a. system a voice was ordering, “All passengers will now embus! All passengers will now embus!”

The passengers embussed, and Grimes and Deane found themselves seated behind a young couple of obviously Terran origin, while across the aisle from them was a pair of youngish ladies who could be nothing other than schoolteachers. A fat, middle-aged man, dressed in a not very neat uniform of grey coveralls, eased himself into the driver’s seat. “All aboard?” he asked. “Anybody who’s not, sing out!” The coach lurched from the terminus on to the rain-wet street, was soon bowling north through the dreary suburbs of New Melbourne.

* * *

Northeast they ran at first, and then almost due north, following the coast. Here the land was rich, green, well-wooded, with apple orchards, vineyards, orange groves. Then there was sheep country, rolling downland speckled with the white shapes of the grazing animals. “It’s wrong,” Deane whispered to Grimes. “It’s all wrong . . .”

“What’s wrong, Spooky?”

“I can feel it—even if you can’t. The . . . the resentment . . .”

“The aborigines, you mean?”

“Yes. But even stronger, the native animals, driven from their own pastures, hunted and destroyed to make room for the outsiders from beyond the stars. And the plants—what’s left of the native flora in these parts. Weeds to be rooted out and burned, so that the grapes and grain and the oranges may flourish . . .”

“You must have felt the same on other colonized worlds, Spooky.”

“Not as strongly as here. I can almost put it into words . . .
The First Ones
let us alone.”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes. “Makes sense, I suppose. The original colonists, with only the resources of
Lode Jumbuk
to draw upon, couldn’t have made much of an impression. But when they had all the resources of the Federation to draw upon . . .”

“I don’t think it’s quite that way . . . “ murmured Deane doubtfully.

“Then what
do
you think?”

“I . . . I don’t know Captain . . .”

But they had little further opportunity for private talk. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, the coachload of assorted passengers was thawing out. The driver initiated this process—he was, Grimes realized, almost like the captain of a ship, responsible for the well-being, psychological as well as physical, of his personnel. Using a fixed microphone by his seat he delivered commentaries on the places of interest that they passed, and, when he judged that the time was ripe, had another microphone on a wandering lead passed among the passengers, the drill being that each would introduce himself by name, profession and place of residence.

Yes, they were a mixed bag, these tourists. About half of them were from Earth—they must be, thought Grimes, from the TG Clipper
Cutty Sark
presently berthed at the spaceport. Public Servants, lawyers, the inevitable Instructors from universities, both major and minor, improving their knowledge of the worlds of the Federation in a relatively inexpensive way. The Olganans were similarly diversified.

When it came to Grimes’s turn he said, “John Grimes, spaceman. Last place of permanent residence St. Helier, Channel Islands, Earth.”

Tanya Lancaster, the young and prettier of the two teachers across the aisle, turned to him. “I thought you were a Terry, John. You don’t mind my using your given name, do you? It’s supposed to be one of the rules on this tour . . .”

“I like it, Tanya.”

“That’s good. But you can’t be from the
Cutty Sark.
I should know all the officers, at least by sight, by this time.”

“And if I were one of
Cutty Sark’s
officers,” said Grimes gallantly (after all, this Tanya wench was not at all bad looking, with her chestnut hair, green eyes and thin, intelligent face), “I should have known you by this time.”

“Oh,” she said, “you must be from the Base.”

“Almost right.”

“You are making things awkward. Ah, I have it. You’re from that funny little destroyer or whatever it is that’s berthed at the Survey Service’s end of the spaceport.”

“She’s not a funny little destroyer,” Grimes told her stiffly. “She’s a Serpent Class Courier.”

The girl laughed. “And she’s
yours
. Yes, I overheard your friend calling you ‘Captain’ . . .”

“Yes. She’s mine . . .”

“And now, folks,” boomed the driver’s amplified voice, “how about a little singsong to liven things up? Any volunteers?”

The microphone was passed along to a group of young Olganan students. After a brief consultation they burst into song.

“When the jolly
Jumbuk
lifted from Port Woomera

Out and away for Altair Three

Glad were we all to kiss the tired old Earth good-bye—

Who’ll come a-sailing in
Jumbuk
with me?

Sailing in
Jumbuk,
sailing in
Jumbuk,

Who’ll come a-sailing in
Jumbuk
with me?

Glad were we all to kiss the tired old Earth good-bye—

You’ll come a-sailing
in Jumbuk
with me!

Then there was Storm, the Pile and all the engines dead—

Blown out to Hell and gone were we!

Lost in the Galaxy, falling free in sweet damn all—

Who’ll come a-sailing
Jumbuk
with me?

Sailing in
Jumbuk,
sailing in
Jumbuk,

Who’ll come a-sailing in
Jumbuk
with me?

Lost in the Galaxy, falling free in sweet damn all—

You’ll come a-sailing
in Jumbuk
with me!

Up jumped the Captain, shouted for his Engineer,

‘Start me the diesels, one, two, three!

Give me the power to feed into the Ehrenhafts—

You’ll come a-sailing in
Jumbuk
with me!’”

“But that’s
ours!
”
declared Tanya indignantly, her Australian accent suddenly very obvious. “It’s our
Waltzing Matilda!
”

“
Waltzing Matilda
never was yours,” Grimes told her. “The words—yes, but the tune, no. Like many another song it’s always having new verses tacked on to it.”

“I suppose you’re right. But these comic lyrics of theirs—what are they all about?”

“You’ve heard of the Ehrenhaft Drive, haven’t you?”

“The first FTL Drive, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose you could call it that. The Ehrenhaft generators converted the ship, the lodejammer, into what was, in effect, a huge magnetic particle. As long as she was on the right tramlines, the right line of magnetic force, she got to where she was supposed to get to in a relatively short time. But a magnetic storm, tangling the lines of force like a bowl of spaghetti, would throw her anywhere—or nowhere. And these storms also drained the micropile of all energy. In such circumstances, all that could be done was to start up the emergency diesel generators, to supply electric power to the Ehrenhaft generators. After this the ship would stooge along hopefully, trying to find a habitable planet before the fuel ran out . . .”

“H’m.” She grinned suddenly. “I suppose it’s more worthy of being immortalized in a song than our sheep-stealing Jolly Swagman. But I still prefer the original.” And then aided by her friend, Moira Stevens—a fat and cheerful young woman—she sang what she still claimed was the original version. Grimes allowed himself to wonder what the ghost of the Jolly Swagman—still, presumably, haunting that faraway billabong—would have made of it all. . . .

That night they reached the first of their camping sites, a clearing in the bush, on the banks of a river that was little more than a trickle, but with quite adequate toilet facilities in plastic huts. The coach crew—there was a cook as well as the driver—laid out the pneumatic pup tents in three neat rows, swiftly inflated them with a hose from the coach’s air compressor. Wood was collected for a fire, and folding grills laid across it. “The inevitable steak and billy tea,” muttered somebody who had been on the tour before. “It’s
always
steak and billy tea . . .”

But the food, although plain, was good, and the yarning around the fire was enjoyable and, finally, Grimes found that the air mattress in his tent was at least as comfortable as his bunk aboard
Adder.
He slept well, and awoke refreshed to the sound of the taped
Reveille.
He was among the first in the queue for the toilet facilities and, dressed and ready for what the day might bring, lined up for his eggs and bacon and mug of tea with a good appetite. Then there was the washing up, the deflation of mattresses and tents, the stowing away of these and the baggage—and, very shortly after the bright sun had appeared over the low hills to the eastward, the tour was on its way again.

On they drove, and on, through drought-stricken land that showed few signs of human occupancy, that was old, old long before the coming of Man. Through sun-parched plains they drove, where scrawny cattle foraged listlessly for scraps of sun-dried grass, where tumbleweed scurried across the roadway, where dust-devils raised their whirling columns of sand and light debris. But there was life, apart from the thirsty cattle, apart from the grey scrub that, with the first rains of the wet season, would put forth its brief, vivid greenery, its short-lived gaudy flowers. Once the coach stopped to let a herd of sausagekine across the track—low-slung, furry quadrupeds, wriggling like huge lizards on their almost rudimentary legs. There was a great clicking of cameras. “We’re lucky, folks,” said the driver. “These beasts are almost extinct. They were classed as pests until only a couple of years ago—now they’ve been reclassed as protected fauna . . .” They rolled past an aboriginal encampment where gaunt, black figures, looking arachnoid rather than humanoid, stood immobile about their cooking fires. “Bad bastards those,” announced the driver. “Most of the others will put on shows for us, will sell us curios—but not that tribe . . .”

Now and again there were other vehicles—diesel-engined tourist coaches like their own, large and small hovercraft and, in the cloudless sky, the occasional high-flying inertial drive aircraft. But, in the main, the land was empty, the long, straight road seeming to stretch to infinity ahead of them and behind them. The little settlements—pub, general store and a huddle of other buildings—were welcome every time that one was reached. There was a great consumption of cold beer at each stop, conversations with the locals, who gathered as though by magic, at each halt. There were the coach parks—concentration camps in the desert rather than oases, but with much appreciated hot showers and facilities for washing clothing.